But I do think the aphorism should be discarded. Certainly the coward dies a thousand times. So, too, however, does the man of imagination. It is the manner of the thousand deaths that is important. And bravery--our poor, human bravery--is not necessarily consonant with faulty imagination or none at all, as this dumbbell's apothegm implies. I finally caught my animal--a real beast and not a dream. I ordered coffee and stepped into the sitting room. It was after nine. The morning papers had been put at my door. There was mail. A letter from Ricky. I ripped it open and read it hungrily. Dear: Would you please, if you get a chance, go to the Lingerie Department at Saks and ask for Miss Drewson? Tell her I'd like to have three more slips like the blue satin ones I got last July when we were in town. I could order them by mail, but I want to be sure to get the same kind and she will know. Size twelve, which I guess I needn't tell you. We miss you--everything is just the same, which is dandy--and have fun. I love you very much. Ricky I had a second little beast to chase, then. There was a bank statement. There were four publicity releases from business concerns which keep sending me their bilge even though I took the pains, almost a year ago, to write them that I'd quit doing a newspaper column and had no way of airing their propaganda even if I felt the urge. There were three letters from people who liked my books. There was a letter from the assistant to the dean of a small college in Illinois: Dear Wylie: Just how does one go about getting so swellheaded and self-righteous that he thinks he can tell off everybody on earth? I would like to know, because it must be a wonderful sensation to balloon around so gassily. Look out for pins, though! Please reply. Sincerely, John F. Casselberry. I put the letter between my big toe and the next one, held it out at body length, and reflected. There is nothing unusual about this letter; I get a version of it every few days, sometimes running into thousands of derogatory words. And, of course, it is true. Of course, of course, of course. Authorship is the supreme act of ego. Whether it is good or evil, as an act, depends, I suppose not so much on what's written, as how the writing is. Most authors conceal the egoistic aspect of the business under the nom de plumes of their characters. But exactly as every man is all that he thinks and does--and dreams, too--so is an author all he writes. A mystery writer is a murderer in his head and he sets down his gory lore for an audience of murderers. What does that make you, Wylie? You first-person author!