In a doorstoop on Sarphatistraat, beyond the curve of the Prinsengracht and two short blocks from the Amstel, a young man bellows.

His [Sufi mystic Shams’] stern but gentle manner and his preachings of love arouse strong reactions, ranging from murderous hostility on the part of Islamic zealots to almost total identification by Rumi, from respect and devotion by outcasts whom he has consoled and aided to the one kind of love he cannot allow himself, the passionate, carnal kind.