I’m such a man. I’ve always felt in danger. I’ve never felt totally secure, even when I was most successful and every author wanted me to direct his new play. I’ve thought affluence uncertain and praise temporary. I am obsessively aware that money in the bank leaks, that it shrinks. I don’t trust the state—whichever state. Do you? Really? I fear authority. I don’t believe that those who exercise it will continue to be friendly. I trust authority—to be unfriendly. I feel I will be apprehended as much for my thoughts as for past deeds and omissions. I’ve done nothing for which I might be arrested, but that doesn’t seem to make any difference.

Even today, when I’m modestly affluent and recognized as a man of some achievement, I will be driving along or walking the streets or sitting at dinner, and suddenly I’ll find myself in the grip of a fantasy in which I am defending myself—actually speaking the words, trying to wash myself of guilt. The police have me! I protest my innocence. I contest their accusations. The actors I’m working with are questioning my directions. I slam into them, challenging them with my reasons. My wife, the present one, who loves me entirely, or the one before her, who loved me less, is accusing me of some marital misdemeanor. True or false? Either way, I fight off the accusation. It seems I am constantly defending myself against an accusation of one kind or another. And I’ve been doing it all my life.