They wash you with cotton batting and they comb your hairfor you.

Shit, I know all that. Maybe I'd be lucky and not die at all. Maybe I'd becrippled all my life maybe I'd be paralyzed and have to sit in a wheelchair. Bu then I'dbe taken care of just the same even if I had no more money. If you're an invalid a real one they don't let you starve. And you get a clean bed to lie in and they change the towels every day. This way nobody gives a fuck about you, especially if you have ajob. They think a man should be happy if he's got a job. What would you rather do bea cripple all your life, or have a job or marry a rich cunt? You'd rather marry a richcunt, I can see that. You only think about food. But supposing you married her and thenyou couldn't get a hard on any more that happens sometimes what would you dothen? You'd be at her mercy. You'd have to eat out of her hand, like a little poodle dog.You'd like that, would you? Or maybe you don't think of those things? I think of everything. I think of the suits I'd pick out and the places I'd like to go to, but I also think of the other thing. That's the important thing. What good are the fancy ties and thefine suits if you can't get a hard on any more? You couldn't even betray her becauseshe'd be on your heels all the time. No, the best thing would be to marry her and thenget a disease right away. Only not syphilis. Cholera, let's say, or yellow fever. So that ifa miracle did happen and your life was spared you'd be a cripple for the rest of yourdays. Then you wouldn't have to worry about fucking her any more, and you wouldn'thave to worry about the rent either. She'd probably buy you a fine wheelchair withrubber tires and all sorts of levers and what not. You might even be able to use yourhands I mean enough to be able to write. Or you could have a secretary, for thatmatter. That's it that's the best solution for a writer. What does a guy want with hisarms and legs? He doesn't need arms and legs to write with. He needs securitypeace protection. All those heroes who parade in wheelchairs it's too bad they're notwriters. If you could only be sure, when you go to war, that you'd have only your legsblown off if you could be sure of that I'd say let's have a war tomorrow. I wouldn'tgive a fuck about the medals they could keep the medals. All I'd want is a goodwheelchair and three meals a day. Then I'd give them something to read, those pricks." The following day, at one-thirty, I call on Van Norden. It's his day off, or rather his night off. He has left word with Carl that I am to help him move today. I find him in a state of unusual depression. He hasn't slept a wink all night, he tellsme. There's something on his mind, something that's eating him up. It isn't long before Idiscover what it is; he's been waiting impatiently for me to arrive in order to spill it. "That guy," he begins, meaning Carl, "that guy's an artist. He described every detailminutely. He told it to me with such accuracy that I know it's all a goddamned lie butI can't dismiss it from my mind. You know how my mind works!" He interrupts himself to inquire if Carl has told me the whole story. There isn't