The unnamed narrator of “Spy of the First Person,” the final work by the playwright Sam Shepard, suffers from a degenerative disease that leaves him immobile, disconnected from his own body but keenly, painfully aware of his surroundings and his meandering consciousness.
“Nothing seems to be working now. Hands. Arms. Legs. Nothing. I just lie here,” he writes. “Waiting for someone to find me. I just look up at the sky.”
A second narrator watches the ailing man, with curious detachment, as he struggles to win control over his unruly limbs: “He eats cheese and crackers all day. Iced tea. He sips on that. But he has particular trouble with his hands and arms, I've noticed. His hands and arms don't work much. He uses his legs, his knees, his thighs, to bring his arms and hands to his face in order to be able to eat his cheese and crackers.”
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