ABSTRACT
I had a friend, who was dying in his prime, and managing the thing well, with distinction. He who had always been an outlaw, “irresponsible,” a true villionard, drunk, content, at home in the bohemian slum, took a job at an upcountry university so as—I guess—to provide an environment for his last days that would be supportive to him, to his young wife, to their infant child. In those final months he had “all he ever wanted,” the shelves stocked with fancy liquor, food, books. Those who loved him—they were many—cared for him and for those he loved, who needed the care, which was neither obtrusive nor scanted.
