But the satisfactions of compensation are notoriously fleeting. There is no saving grace in being confined to an iron suit, cold and unforgiving. The pleasures of mental agility are much overstated, inevitably—as it now appears to me—by those not exclusively dependent upon them. Much the same can be said of well-meaning encouragements to find nonphysical compensations for physical inadequacy. That way lies futility. Loss is loss, and nothing is gained by calling it by a nicer name. My nights are intriguing; but I could do without them.

And into the darkness I said, “What happened?” and a woman’s voice said, “It was a car bomb,” and I collapsed into darkness again, but with a sense of euphoria. I’d survived.

If you really want to make a difference, whether it’s in helping other people, or whether it’s in fighting for your country, or whether it’s in the political arena, or journalism, or physics, you’ve got to persevere. You’ve got to understand that there are going to be some enormous bumps in the road.

When Milton's Satan stood in the pit of hell and raged at heaven, he was merely a trifle miffed compared to how I felt on that day. I felt totally alone, with the world receding away from me in every direction, and you could have used my anger to weld steel. Only my family and the fact I had fans in the medical profession, who were able to give me useful advice, got me through that moment.

It’s just a devotion to the greater beautiful thing that allows us all to be here. It sounds a little “woo-woo,” but basically, it’s manifested in me because I’m a writer. I get up every morning, and I write. I sit. As Paul knows, I sit. I have my notebook. I’m scribbling. “Don’t talk to me right now, honey. I’m writing.” That’s my thing. That’s how I manifest it. Someone who runs the hurdles, or a tennis player, would manifest it daily, going out there and hitting balls or whatever they do.

Right. And let’s put Michelangelo in quotes, ’cause was he really the one who actually said that? But, anyway, the idea still holds. I feel that whatever I’m writing exists already. Maybe that’s because of a glitch in the space-time continuum and when I write I’m actually putting my living self behind the present moment in time. Like I’m following something through the woods. Eyes open. Ears open. Heart open. And I’m following a path that is sometimes behind me.