I would see my mother in tears almost every night. And it became her. She was never so fully herself as when run down. It was of course distressing for me, but as she sat bent over an occasional table, her forehead in her hands, weeping, I could sense, even then, that this was the natural posture of her soul. She ached for disappointment, the one emotion whose charms had been fully revealed to her, and she knew how to run with it.