"A couple weeks after I said goodbye to him in Maine, he called me one night after midnight. It was unusual, but it turned out he was somewhat in extremis. He’d lost his keys, couldn’t get into his apartment and had lost his phone, too. It was storming heavily in New York. I could hear the periodic thunder over the phone as a kind of static. He was calling from the apartment of a friend, who’d taken him in and given him some soup and a bath. He said he had a story to tell. He had intended to say something about it in Maine but felt uncomfortable. Now, though, he decided that motives were irrelevant if the story needed telling."
Donald Antrim and the Art of Anxiety