What came out of me was a sequence of tableaux somewhere between Bosch and Lichtenstein, branded at the time by a canny Englishwoman with a shop near Fortnum & Mason as "the Nuclear Prophecies." In Ethiopia, as much as anywhere else, we lived in the shadow of the hydrogen bomb, the more so perhaps as we didn’t have one and didn’t want to be involved in the private theological differences of Washington and Moscow—but would be involved anyway if the war came, bringing first unnatural fire and then endless winter to our wide green land.