Henry called that evening.
He said he'd really like me to write the book, but he wasn't sure he was still going to be around in late June. He explained that he'd been diagnosed with cancer, and asked whether I could come earlier. I was in New York six days later. Henry had lost a lot of weight, and lacked the energy I was used to seeing in him. His life expectancy was a matter of months. Death seemed to be stalking him. The most remarkable thing about Henry, though, was the total absence of any sign of depression. Life had been good, he said, refusing to hear my sympathy and condolences. He said he'd done what he wanted to do and enjoyed it a lot. Why should he be depressed? Henry's life did not terminate in the time his doctors predicted.