Rain pours down. Lightning. A huge roll of thunder. He’s telling me about his famous friend in England and his ‘flat-chested, pug-nosed, short-sighted wife, a real sweetheart. She serves him.’ I want to say, ‘Does your wife serve you?’—not meanly, but because I need to know. I’m afraid that if she does, that this is what he needs and will continue to need so he can work. And before long he’s saying, ‘Do you think two writers can ever live together?’ I hardly know what load this question is carrying.