INTRODUCTION TO THIS EDITION

      Writing Through the Narrow Gate proved to be a watershed for me that was, in its way, every bit as important as those crucial years in the convent. I had decided to write the book because I was becoming uncomfortably aware that a period of my life that had been extremely significant was becoming trivialized. Friends would beg me to tell them about the convent, and I would usually respond by recounting some funny story (and, indeed, a lot of amusing things did happen) because it was easier than exposing memories that were still raw and painful. Yet I knew that I would have to discover what those years had meant for me before the memories disappeared beyond recall.

      In fact, the process of writing redeemed the past for me, in ways that I could not have imagined. I have written several books since, but none has proved as difficult as Through the Narrow Gate, with the possible exception of its sequel, Beginning the World. Autobiography must be one of the most challenging genres because it becomes impossible to keep humiliating glimpses of one’s former self at bay. Not surprisingly, I tried to avoid this but was prevented from doing so by June Hall, whom I had met at a dinner party and who had agreed to act as my literary agent.

      The first draft of the book was very black and angry. June read it, said that it was probably publishable but that she couldn’t help wondering why, if things had been that bad, I had stayed in the religious life for seven whole years. I could see that she had a point, and I started all over again. During the next two drafts, I began to remember the things that had made me stay so long—things that I no longer wanted to recall because I thought that I had lost them forever: the beauty of the liturgy, the belief that every single moment of the day had eternal significance, and, above all, the sense of a spiritual quest for meaning that would make my life wholly significant. I had gone into the convent searching for Something that remained tantalizingly elusive but that, with the optimism of youth, I felt certain I would one day find.

      I did not find that Something (which, for want of a better word, we call “God”) in the convent. These pages explain why. The 1960s were a difficult time for religious orders, and I must have been one of the last people to be trained before the Second Vatican Council reforms were implemented. At that time, it had unfortunately become customary to train young nuns by making them excruciatingly aware of their failings. This meant that most of us lived in a state of such acute anxiety and preoccupation with ourselves that a positive religious experience could become well nigh impossible. After all, the great masters of the spiritual life insist that the true spiritual path leads us away from the ego. Guilt and an undue concentration on one’s own performance can only further embed the struggling soul in the self that it is trying to transcend. There were certainly nuns in my order who were well aware of this problem, but as a mere teenager I lacked the maturity