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 I can neither file nor forget. Nor will certain ideas forget me; they keep filing away at my lethargy, my...