I did not tell him that I spent most days in the library because it quieted my nerves to be lost in a book. I did not say that I had begun to read more systematically, that I would select an author and make my way through their entire work. I did not say anything about the mania of my progress. Nor that there were moments, fleeting and abstract but as vivid as existence, when everything I was and everything that had happened vanished, and I found myself lost inside an imaginary life.
