A small room above a bay window. A single bed, a table and chair, and a sink. I could manage something larger, with more conveniences, but I could never match the view.

At the head of the bed, a stack of books, on top of which sits a second-hand copy of Sherwood Anderson's Winesberg, Ohio (1919), the top corner of the third page ("The Book of the Grotesque") turned down.

Someone (Samuel Beckett?) underlined these lines:

"It was his notion that the moment one of the people took one of the truths to himself, called it his truth, and tried to live his life by it, he became a grotesque and the truth he embraced became a falsehood."