As has been obvious to many in literary circles, I’ve never been able to buy into the mythos surrounding Wilson Harris and I probably never will. That personal belief, or perhaps incapacity, has never been enough however to diminish the core, the essential value of his oeuvre, not even in my own mind. I have few regrets. One great one is to have never engaged in some sort of direct dialogue with Harris, particularly about the nature and purpose of his work. His passing is a great loss, the consolation being that his passage left us with much that still abides.