Not that it was beautiful, but that, in the end, there was a certain sense of order there; something worth learning in that narrow diary of my mind, in the commonplaces of the asylum where the cracked mirror or my own selfish death outstared me . . . I tapped my own head; it was glass, an inverted bowl. It's small thing to rage inside your own bowl. At first it was private. Then it was more than myself.