When I was twenty-six or twenty-seven I thought there was not much time left before it would be too late, before I would die from the deep dissatisfaction of my life. I had always done things well. I had achieved what I set out to do in television. I had been praised for it but felt consumed …consumed by the men and chasing the mechanical bunny…finally seeing the bunny for what it was…mechanical.

Later, when I was pure again, had purged myself of evil, had stopped drinking too much, lying and cheating. Then I could leave the men—could refuse to let anyone suck the hard-won goodness from me. But this was much, much later, after years of work and finally seeing a shrink, after twenty years I was good again. I think I will remain that way. I don’t think anything could pull me down again into that mire of pain.

You’ll be alone, people warned me. Won’t you be lonely?

I’ve never been lonely in my life, I answered. But I’ve been afraid.

What is the thing that passes between two lovers that is not words, that carves below the words and ignites them. FIRE. I pity lovers, caught in that consumption. From the word “consume”. When nature takes us back, which we call love. At fifty years of age I will not be consumed in any unholy fire.