I didn’t come to any conscious decisions that night in the suite just below Al Capone’s—or on any other night of the four weeks I enjoyed the favors of the “boys” in Chicago’s South Side. I didn’t see Constance for many weeks, but when I returned to New York City I did call her. So, in effect, I had made a decision, though it was not a conscious decision. What I accepted was that my life was going to be in constant turmoil from then on. I was ready to allow whatever came to happen, rather than choking it down. I would not resist my desires and impulses, no matter what resulted. I would not confine myself further for practical, professional, emotional, or moral reasons.

I admitted what most people have to admit at some point in their lives—that life is insoluble, that there are problems one is never able to solve, that every question doesn’t have an answer.

What I decided, without knowing it, was that I would live in conflict and confusion. I knew what that would mean; I’d have to sneak, cheat, lie, fake, dissemble—all shameful, all humiliating, all necessary if you want to have what I’ve called “both.” I’d decided to take that step. But if I’d told this to myself in so many words that night in Chicago, I wouldn’t have admitted it was true. I would have denied it. I’d have said, “Nothing happened. Life just goes on.”