She said kissing me was like licking an ashtray, and I knew I had to quit smoking. But with a 40-a-day habit, it was no easy task ...
I
n 1970, as an 18-year-old college freshman in Boston, living away from home for the first time, I started to smoke cigarettes. A pack a day grew in short order to two packs a day, or a cigarette about every 30 minutes.
I choreographed my life around my smokes, puffing away after every meal, taking a drag with a drink and blowing smoke rings as I wrote, usually late into the night. I needed no pretext for smoking, but found plenty; every occasion fit the bill.
Oh, I loved smoking all right. I loved the cedar taste of tobacco, the earthy smell, the whole elaborate ritual. But most of all, I savoured the sights: the flash of flame to kindle my cigarette, the amber glow at the tip, the tendrils of vapour coiling under a reading light like some primordial fog. It was like self-hypnosis.
