ABSTRACT
WHEN the body has been sick we realize that it takes a time for it to recover, for bones to knit, organs to readjust themselves, tissue to heal. But we are apt to be less tolerant of a sickness of the soul, for recovery lacks the old familiar landmarks. I do not know when the healing process began in mine, for it was so very gradual that the symptoms were only those familiar to me. However, after months of sheer animal existence—eating, sleeping, walking the streets, going to the movies, and drinking—something began to stir in me.
