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While Marc was cutting cocaine, Curt showed me pictures of Hawaii and the sappy “deep” books he’d given Rikki to read; they were by Hugh Prather and the guy who wrote Jonathan Livingston Seagull.

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Saul Bellow was being besieged by fans and photographers. Sitting on the couch, he was nattily dressed in a tan suit, blue Oxford shirt, and navy bow tie. Alice and I forced our way through the crowd and paid our respects.

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Babies have this nothing-can-harm-me and nothing-can-touch-me attitude towards the world. Ernest Hemingway felt this way for some time. I think it’s a bit ridiculous.