When I first read this book thirty years ago, Levi’s story was about something distant and foreign and as such, awesomely fictional. Like Borges or Kafka. I didn’t understand that he was telling the truth. Because thirty years ago, any failure of mind, body or humanity was what happened to and by others. It could never happen to me. I couldn’t comprehend death, real death. But life does end. And when it does, complete anonymity arrives and smothers each one of us.

January 6, 2006

Kirkus and some of the national press have weighed in on my new book, A Gentle Death. Not particulary enthusiastic. One review was absolutely hateful, as if I have devoted years to writing a novel for the sole purpose of irritating the reviewer’s delicate sensibilities. Doesn’t matter. Fuck him. Fuck all of them. All that matters is that the book be read. By someone, anyone.

I’m no good in the city. Can’t write, can’t think, can’t sleep. Every day I grow more disconsolate. Sarah suggested a drive up to the country house. I made her promise not to touch me.

January 7, 2006

Sarah and I are in the country. Recuperating from heart surgery makes more sense here. Sarah mothers me to the best of her capacity. It’s not her thing. She can’t cook, she can’t give a good massage, she can’t even change the dressing on the wound. Her most comforting aspect is her ample bosom. Large breasts generate calm. This morning, as she leaned over me to adjust my bedcovers, a breast brushed against my cheek and I was an infant all over again. Maybe I have a mother fixation because Mom died so young. Was she young? She died when she was my age.

Later, I stood before the mirror, contemplating my naked, saggy self. The wound improves my appearance. Such a beautiful scar. Diligently stitched up, red slice/black thread. Obviously, something important happened there. This wound signifies survival. If a mugger’s knife had made it, I’d be dead. It’s like a badass tattoo, but better because it is authentic. Sarah wanted to kiss it, but I warned her off. Last thing I needed was an infection.

We ventured out to the Old Mill for lunch. Brilliant sunshine, bitter cold. We ordered brook trout, wild rice and zucchini. The waitress was peppy and bright-eyed. I now divide the world into those with problem-free hearts and those living on borrowed time, like myself. The waitress trotted back to the kitchen and the werewolf in me rose up. I wanted to grab her from behind, tear her chest open and taste her pulsing blood. I had to content myself with the trout and zucchini. I enjoyed the food, but waves of depression continued to ripple through me and wear me down. I was crushed with fatigue. Couldn’t lift my fork. The meal, like every meal now, was accompanied by a cocktail of pills which only served to remind me how fragile I was. Sarah and I exited the restaurant, me creeping like a retiree. The waitress waved to Sarah as we left, mouthing “Bye now!” I realized she thought Sarah was a dutiful daughter taking her old dad out for an airing.