He wanted to put his head down on the desk, lie still and rest, only the form ofrest he needed did not exist, greater than sleep, greater than death, the restof having never lived. The wish was like a secret taunt against himself, becausehe knew that the splitting pressure in his skull meant the opposite, an urge toaction, so strong that he felt paralyzed. He fumbled for some sheets of cleanpaper, forgetting where he kept them. He had to write the editorial that wouldexplain and counteract. He had to hurry. He felt no right to any minute thatpassed with the thing unwritten.The pressure disappeared with the first word he put on paper. He thought--whilehis hand moved rapidly--what a power there was in words; later, for those whoheard them, but first for the one who found them; a healing power, a solution,like the breaking of a barrier. He thought, perhaps the basic secret thescientists have never discovered, the first fount of life, is that which happenswhen a thought takes shape in words.He heard the rumble, the vibration in the walls of his office, in the floor. Thepresses were running off his afternoon paper, a small tabloid, the Clarion. Hesmiled at the sound. His hand went faster, as if the sound were energy pumpedinto his fingers.He had dropped his usual editorial "we." He wrote: "...And if my readers or myenemies wish to laugh at me over this incident, I shall accept it and considerit the payment of a debt incurred. I have deserved it."He thought: It’s the heart of this building, beating--what time is it?--do Ireally hear it or is it my own heart?--once, a doctor put the ends of hisstethoscope into my ears and let me hear my own heartbeats--it sounded just likethis--he said I was a healthy animal and good for many years--formany...years...