In the late 1970s, he also had begun to suffer from attacks of what he called otherness. He would be breaking an egg for breakfast and suddenly feel he was in a hotel room in Kiev, or standing in his mother’s kitchen in Wollaston. A smell or a sound could transport him out of time into a terrifying, unknown, other dimension. His brain missed a beat and he could not remember his name or where he was. “I do not know who I am or where I am,” he wrote after one such lapse. “This is easily corrected with movement — I efficiently plant a row of broccoli, but I think it should be observed should it
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