I wanted everything I could get and went after it. When she withheld her approval—or when I thought she did or might or would—I resented her. After a time even her esteem alienated me; I didn’t want to have the qualities she praised me for possessing. Anger fired revenge, and the revenge was always a woman who liked me for what Molly disapproved of. I would seem perfect to the newcomer and I’d enjoy that and contrast it to the critical stance of my wife. But since I was the same man, the others soon developed the same reservations about me that Molly had. For a time they’d be reticent about expressing their criticism; there’s always a mini-honeymoon in these affairs. Then the same relationship would recur—with a different person.

All that sounds sick, and it was. But there was a true side to the struggle, which I cannot discount. People make fun of the male crisis at forty-five. I had that crisis all my life. I knew there was more to life than I was getting, and I didn’t want to miss out on anything. People forget that we only live once; I knew it from the day I was born. Every new girl was an adventure and an education, a friend in need, someone from whom I benefited in many ways. I even believed that my infidelities were an effort to continue with my wife, to “save the marriage.” It was the only way I could go on with her. As I say, I should not have married. But I wanted that too.