I’ve been having throbbing headaches too, frightening because I don’t know what brings them on. So I’ve been beginning to feel the cold wind Time makes as it rushes by. Heeding those warnings, I’ve determined to live what is left of my life on the precipice—that is, recklessly. The word “reckless” can be defined as “without concern for the consequences.” I believe writing this book this way is reckless. Since I don’t ask for your forgiveness or even your understanding, I will not try to explain or excuse certain features of my conduct that are coming up. Here are only the facts.

I’ve had several times in my life, usually in the spring of the year, that I recall as perfect. One was the night in May of 1932 when I first came together with Molly. It was in a field along the edge of a lake, under a lopsided moon, and it was close to midnight. I can never forget that night and how, in a few minutes, it changed my life. Another such time was in the coldest weeks of winter, when I was first with my present wife, Frances; I used to walk from my house on West Sixty-eighth Street near the park to her apartment on Ninetieth Street and Riverside Drive. The wind off the North River cut me like a knife, but I didn’t mind. In the morning I’d walk back—it was even colder—and I remember saying to myself as I returned home from our hours together, “I’m in heaven!” If “heaven” has a meaning, that is it.