My heroes are all either dead or dying, especially me. I am much older now than I was before. Somewhere within me are memories of past bravery inspired by my American flag marching in parade, flanked by a band's martial music; more important to me now is the fear I feel—despite my intelligence—of the noise of a roaring subway train through a lonely station at night.

In my past there were a few mornings—a very few and never close together—when, upon awakening, a nagging, inconsiderate conscience pestered me to consider if I truly knew anything at all about all the things I thought I knew. Now I have those kinds of mornings every day, all day, and late into the night.