Anyway, when this girl I barely knew got wind of the situation, she immediately and without hesitation stole a considerable amount of paper from the office where she worked and sent it to me. Admirable sensitivity; an incredible capacity for understanding. (If she’d sent money, my weak flesh would have made me buy food, pay the rent or something like that. Perhaps she couldn’t send money, and was only able to help me with what she had to hand, even though it wasn’t hers. But I’m sure anyone but her would have done anything but that, which was the best possible thing to do. Because those sheets of paper went far beyond just meeting a need: they made me feel that my writing was more important than I am myself, which, independently of the objective value of my writing, is true. Because whether it’s good, average or bad, it transcends me.)