No. 183. Ideas. Well, the fact is, he had too many of them. They silted themselves into shoals of indigestible possibility. They coagulated into a bristling reef of notes-to-himself, a reef upon which he was more likely to run aground than to sail into some exotic port of achievement. His ideas were making him old. They came to him now as taunts rather than escape hatches or--as they used to be--intimations of mastery..