It seeks me out that sometime did me flee

I do not want to be melodramatic. I have a white terror of melodrama. But on the other hand, I know that I must serve as a public witness. What little talent that I have probably assigns me such responsibility.

At all events, my cancer has returned. No need to plunge into the concrete particulars of my case. Suffice it to say that, when I was initially diagnosed, my doctors gave me one to three years to live, although there was also a ten percent chance that I would live ten years. Anatole Broyard, who contracted the disease before me, got just fourteen months. My friend Denis Dutton persisted for two years with it. So far I have survived three-and-a-half years. (And don’t ever let anyone tell you there is no such thing as survivor guilt.) My doctors now say that my odds of living another five years are fifty percent. Or, in other words, I have a half-and-half shot being among the ten percent who live ten years.

Not bad. If I write somewhat more than usual about death and dying, though, you’ll understand why. And forgive me, I hope.