I remember shaving off my beard in the bathroom on the eve of the camp, with Mahalia Jackson singing rousing spirituals from the living room. Afterwards my chin was strangely smooth, and seemed to have shrunk. I remember that from the Springbok Grounds, where the army has its administrative offices, you could see a whisky ad on a billboard with a moustachioed gentleman suggesting: "Don't be vague, ask for Haig". I remember our arrival at camp, in a roaring truck with wooden plank benches that fetched s from the station. There were many trucks parked or driving along an endless esplanade with their headlights forked into the night. Dust and diesel fumes. People running. Uniforms. Hoarse orders in Afrikaans. I remember 'roer jou gat!", "jou gat", "se gat", "bakgat", "slapgat", "gates", and "don't gooi me grief, hey!" We walk straight so you better get out of the way is author's new book of personal and public memories of growing up in South Africa. Once again he delves deeply into sense memories, making the reader hum long-forgotten tunes, summoning up familiar pictures through his delicate and finely-tuned phrasing. In this title the author deals with the army years, the Grateful Dead years, the loss of his father to prison years and the losing himself to Paris years.