Most of what Neruda has to say about Rangoon in his Memoirs, published posthumously in Spanish in 1974 and in English in 1977, is picked up by his diligent biographer Feinstein. But a couple of passing remarks are left on the page.

This is how Neruda describes his arrival (p.75): “From the deck, as the ship drew into Rangoon, I saw looming ahead the gold funnel of the great pagoda, Shwe Dagon. A multitude of strange costumes clashed their vibrant colors on the pier. A broad dirty river’s mouth emptied there, into the Gulf of Martaban. This river has the most beautiful name of all the rivers in the world: Irrawaddy.”

This is another take on colonial life (p.86): “These two worlds never touched. The natives were not allowed in the places reserved for the English, and the English lived away from the throbbing pulse of the country.” British friends gave kindly advice when Neruda crossed the divide – and expected him to take it. “These were final warnings. After that, they stopped greeting me.”

There’s also more on Neruda’s “troubled home life” (p.87). But I have no need to say anything further about Josie Bliss.