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guarded -- and daring me to storm it anyway.

Keith Thompson:  As your books  have made a  character named
Carlos  world-famous,   the  author  called   Castaneda  has
retreated further  and further from public  view. There have
been  more  confirmed  sightings  of  Elvis  than  of Carlos
Castaneda in recent years. Legend has you committing suicide
on at least three occasions; there's the persistent story of
your death  in a Mexican bus  crash two decades ago;  and my
search for a confirmed photo  and audio tapes was fruitless.
How  can I  be sure  that you're  truly Castaneda  and not a
Carlos   impersonator   from   Vegas?   Have   you  got  any
distinguishing birthmarks?

Carlos Castaneda: None! Just my agent vouches for me. That's
his job. But you are free to ask me your questions and shine
a bright light in my eyes and keep me here all night -- like
in the old movies.

You're known for being unknown.  Why have you agreed to talk
now, after declining interviews for so many years?

Because I'm at the end of the trail that started over thirty
years  ago.  As  a  young  anthropologist,  I  went  to  the
Southwest  to collect  information, to  do fieldwork  on the
medicinal plants used by the Indians of the area. I intended
to  write an  article, go  on to  graduate school,  become a
professional in my field. I hadn't the slightest interest in
meeting a weird man like don Juan.

How exactly did your paths cross?

I was  waiting  for  the  bus  at  the  Greyhound station in
Nogales,  Arizona, talking  with an  anthropologist who  had
been my guide  and helper in my survey.  My colleague leaned
over  and pointed  to a  white-haired old  Indian across the
room -- "Psst, over there, don't let him see you looking" --
and said he was an expert about peyote and medicinal plants.

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