I believe I am a witness to the Invisible Man, because I saw nothing. I’m just as reliable—and unreliable—as Helen Keller.

I could hardly get to sleep for dreaming of revenge.

All my life I had been looking for something, and everywhere I turned someone tried to tell me what it was.

So why do I write, torturing myself to put it down? Because in spite of myself I’ve learned some things. Without the possibility of action, all knowledge comes to one labeled “file and forget,” and...