The Boston Globe, June 20th, 1991
If my psychiatrist hadn't been an old friend as well as a man who suffers fools gladly, I probably never would have called his office for an appointment. My symptoms, as I recited them, seemed more silly than deranged: a recurring dream in which I keep repeating, "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn"; the scent of wisteria flooding my nostrils; frequent lapses in mid-conversation with friends and colleagues into languid Southern locutions; and a compulsion to refer to my humble eight-room house as Tara. My psychiatrist-friend, an eclectic reader, quickly diagnosed my malady. "It's a simple c...
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