About two weeks before he died of a stroke Vittoria’s husband Jack was moody, distracted, distant. One evening after dinner she saw him at the big computer in the den, rapidly typing, as he looked at the lines of poetry in an open book. She came up behind him, put her hands on his shoulders, and asked him what he was doing.
“I’m rewriting T.S. Eliot,” Jack said. “Don’t laugh. I’m convinced the chain-smoking old bastard surely would admit that a simple shift from the plural to the singular would make 'The Hollow Men' an entirely more powerful thing.”
“Of course. We all die ALONE, don’t we?”
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