Let me tell you about my day. I get up at 8 o'clock in the morning. At 8:30 am, I leave the house and I arrive at my office at 8:37. I stay in the office until 2 o'clock in the afternoon. I get in my Porsche and I'm home at 2:03 because the one-way streets make it faster for me to drive. And between 8:36 am and 2 pm, I'm doing one of three things: I'm writing. I'm staring out the window. Or I'm writhing on the floor.

When Will Graham could open his right eye, he saw the clock and knew where he was- an intensive-care unit. He knew to watch the clock. Its movement assured him that this was passing, would pass. That's what it was there for.

Back at his chair he cannot remember what he was reading. He feels the books beside him to find the one that is warm.

The worm that destroys you is the temptation to agree with your critics, to get their approval.

How seldom we recognize the sound when the bolt of our fate slides home.

You would think such a day would tremble to begin . . .

Life's too slippery for books, Clarice; anger appears as lust, lupus presents as hives.