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One night when Constance and I were making love, I suddenly thought of that damned analyst. I’d told this man about our lovemaking to make him see how perfect and precious it was, told him that we would often raise the top sheet up and over our heads so we’d be in a world where there was no one els…

NOW, forty-five years after the production of The Skin of Our Teeth and my adventures with it, perhaps I see who and what I was—and am—more clearly. For instance, now I can freely acknowledge that I’ve always wanted a secure domestic life and, at the same time, the freedom of the bachelor’s existen…

Constance had one sure defense; she’d “see” (that all-purpose girl word) another man. Don’t forget, I told myself, how quickly she found Capa when you were on the road with Golden Boy. And just now, a weekend with Jack Houseman. And some others for sure. The back seat of a Pontiac, for chris-sake! …

In the morning she asked me to put her car in the barn; it looked as if it was going to rain. Looking through her bag for the car keys, I found a little notebook. Across the cover, she’d written “Mr. and Mrs. Elia Kazan.” It contained her plans for the decoration of the house we’d bought. On one …

BACK at the Belvedere by midnight, I wrote in my diary:

Constance was not at the restaurant at eight when I said. I should have understood this because I’d given her only a few hours notice and she might have left home before my wire arrived. I then called her home; no one answered. I had anot…