I lay and continued to wait for signs of inner turbulence. There were a great many birds singing outside. I wondered peacefully whether they were feasting on the caterpillars. In my most noble voice I proclaimed, “I wish you joy of the worm!” and chuckled softly. I felt fine. A little tired. My eyes and upper lip burned a little from overuse, but the sources of all my tribulations seemed swabbed away, forgotten already because I would not have to face them anymore. I began thinking tenderly of those who would grieve for me. I decided it would be kind to leave a note for my mother assuring her that my death in no way implied a failure on her part.

I sat up and wrote a long, loving letter to my mother in which I reminisced at length and ended by thanking her for what I swore had been a rich and vivid panoply of experience, despite the fact that I simply couldn’t bear the thought of another day of it. The letter was six pages long, closely written in my most minute hand. I folded it and put it under the pillow.

Then I wrote a letter of loving encouragement to my epileptic younger brother, and a gush of fond reminiscence to my older brother. Soon after that I decided a friendly and philosophical farewell to Joe would be in keeping. That was only four pages. By this time I was sitting vigorously forward, scribbling with great industry. The bed was littered with inky paper. I wrote a very witty apology to Raymond for being unable to repay his kind loan, since my earning power would be sadly curtailed at any moment. This was followed by increasingly ribald final greetings to several friends.

Finally, in the middle of a sentimental effusion to a history professor whose eyebrows I had always found enchanting (I was claiming adamantly that if anything could have provided me with the courage to face the next day it would have been his annual lecture on the Quattrocento) I began to feel very tired. I lay down abruptly without bothering to order my letters. They crackled and slid off onto the floor when I stretched my legs out. My neck seemed to have no muscles. My head flopped to the side. I could see the curtains being lifted by the air that moved behind them. In this new position my belly suddenly found itself in distress. The thin, bitter taste crept up the back of my throat. A mean spasm twisted my gut. “Uh-oh,” I muttered, afraid to lose any of my potion.