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fiction. 'Get real,' was Timothys advice.
Well, I'm interested. It's quite true, after all, that I knew Stan,
had known him over many years  besides which, I had also
known Saskia, knew Hope, knew Stan's brother and son, as well
as many of his colleagues. Timothy might be right that I am
uniquely qualified for the task. All I have on my desk at the
moment are three false starts on three different novels, miscarriages
all. It might be useful to strike out in a different direction, plant
my seed, so to speak, in a different womb. But to write a biog-
raphy for a television audience, a biography that presumably
would attempt to show the stages in a man's life that led him
ineluctably from an unremarkable childhood in Brooklyn to aca-
demic honours and thence to the murder of his wife and his
subsequent suicide, hoc opus, hie labor est. Perhaps I could shape a
Hfe for Stan more appealing than his own. Perhaps not.
I promised Timothy that I would call him back soon, and I
shall, perhaps this evening, perhaps tomorrow morning. To be
honest for just a moment, I admit that I'm tempted.
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