I felt him as President, if not in 2000 then four years later. But merely making the prediction wasn't enough. I played with Quinn's presidency the way a little boy plays with himself, exciting myself with the idea, manipulating pleasure for myself out of it, getting off on it.
Privately, secretly — for I felt abashed at such premature scheming; I didn't want cold-eyed pros like Mardikian and Lombroso to know I was already enmeshed in misty masturba-tory fantasies of our hero's distant glowing future, though I suppose they must have been thinking similar thoughts themselves by then...
Nobody genuinely and fully believes he's going to die, whatever he may think he thinks. You may accept it up here on top, but you don't accept it on the cellular level, down on the level of metabolism and mitosis. Your heart hasn't missed a beat in thirty-odd years and it knows it never will. Your body goes merrily along like a three-shift factory manufacturing corpuscles, lymph, semen, saliva, round the clock, and so far as your body knows it always will. And your brain, it perceives itself as the centre of a great drama whose star is Lew Nichols, the whole universe just a giant collection of props, everything that happens happening around you, in relation to you, with you as the pivot and fulcrum, and if you go to somebody's wedding the name of that scene isn't Dick and Judy Get Married, no, it's Lew Goes to Somebody's Wedding, and if a politician gets elected it isn't Paul Quinn Becomes President, it's Lew Experiences Paul Quinn Becoming President, and if a star explodes the headline isn't Betelgeuse Goes Nova but Lew's Universe Loses a Star, and so on, the same for everyone, everyone the hero of the great drama of existence, Dick and Judy each in starring roles in their own heads, Paul Quinn, maybe even Betelgeuse, and each of you knows that if you were to die the whole universe would have to wink out like a switched-off light, and that isn't possible, so therefore you aren't going to die. You know you're the one exception.