otional power as it moves across the grasslands of its narrator's imagination--from Szolnok County on the great plains of Hungary where a man writes in the library of his manor house, to the Institute of Prairie Studies in Tripp County, South Dakota, where the editor of the journal Hinterland receives his writing, to the narrator's own native district in Melbourne County, between Moonee Ponds and the Merri, where he recalls the constant displacements of his childhood. "No thing in the world is one thing," he declares; "some places are many more than one place." These overlapping worlds are bound by recurring motifs--fish pond, fig-tree, child-woman, the colours white, red and green--and by deep feelings of intimacy and betrayal, which are brought to full expression as the book moves to its close.