“I said, I’ve done some damage to others. I’ve asked their forgiveness, and sometimes received it. I made the best amends I could, took apart my brain and rebuilt it to make sure I would not be greedy or selfish. Along the way, I came to hate my body, and felt my soul was corrupt, and made myself into a kind of emotional martyr, a false one. I said, I don’t wish to be penitent any more. So I dedicate myself to something outside of myself, whether writing, or work, or the relief of suffering, and give you my heart. I will find a new one. I gave my worn heart to the East River; I leaned over the railing and threw it. The deep black waters opened up as it fell, catching it without a splash.”
