Arnold was in psychoanalysis at the time, as were most of his comrades—lapsed communists with successful fur businesses, screenwriters who yearned to write novels, and admen who wished they were artists. These were the days before pharmacological fixes, so no one had any choice but to talk and talk and talk until the demons got bored and left on their own. Therapy, like communism, was an evangelical passion, and Arnold was no exception. Since I couldn’t afford psychoanalysis, he became my de facto therapist.