I wrote this novel, which is a fictionalized autobiography, to give a picture of what being schizophrenic feels like and what can be accomplished with a trusting relationship between a gifted therapist and a willing patient. It is not a case history or study. I like to think it is a hymn to reality.
I don’t usually go sniffing around my memories like a CSI on TV after DNA, but every so offers one comes up out of the swamp in a bubble. It was 1938, New York City in spring, when people come out to smell the flowers