I’m doing final proofing on a story I drafted two years ago, I think, which requires reading it again, and every once in a while, I run across a bit and think — oh, that’s rather good. I like that. I suppose one of the benefits of a terrible memory is that you can be pleasantly surprised by your own work.
“I cannot say at what point in the next two hours I lost my scarf, my shoes, my socks, my sweater, and the last remnants of my sang-froid. I cannot even pinpoint the moment when the rules of the games changed, and rather than simply drinking, stripping and drinking became the rule of the day. “