“Asking anything of a stranger excites the nerves. You’ve got to dial him, introduce yourself, tell him what you’re after, and hope, in the end, that you haven’t offended his ego by requesting that he use his precious time on the likes of you. But knowing Dr. Collier affirmed the written word did take some of the pressure off.
I called him on a Tuesday evening in late July. Dr. Collier said he was pleased I’d called. His voice was warm, instantly soothing, and before I could say much of anything about my intentions, Doctor Collier was discussing Thomas Mann, Emerson, the Marquis de Sade, and Warren Buffet. Books written by these men, it seemed, made up his summer reading. Mann, he told me, was for the strengthening of his mind; Emerson, his heart; Sade, his loins; and Buffet, his wallet.
“‘Well chosen,’ I said, trying flattery.
“‘A person should want to know everything. I do and always have. I’m an older man now, almost seventy, and I tell you a powerful curiosity will keep you living.’
“He had so many questions—on my writing, yes, but also about my lineage, upbringing, schooling, health. Dr. Collier told me he was semiretired, a sometimes painter and poet, a golfer, a swimmer. His wife was a schoolteacher. His daughter lived in Maine. She, too, was a teacher. There were grandchildren.
“Eventually, I interrupted him—he would have talked all night otherwise—and began to speak to the doctor of my novel. I told him how much I’d appreciate his looking through the medical parts and making sure my facts were correct.
“‘I’ll do you one better, Julian; I’ll read the entire book.’
“‘Well, that would be great.’
“‘Mail it to me, I’ll read it, and we’ll speak after Labor Day.’
“‘Perfect.’
“What relief I felt; he had been so kind and easygoing. Sure, he yammered on a little long. But as far as its medical facts went, Balls would know what it was talking about. The doctor would take care of everything. My anxiety was gone. Collier had cured me.”