![]() "Kick butt in your 'race' today!" wrote one fan before doctors removed a mechanical aid from Parker's heart and it began to beat again on its own. While Parker was in critical condition at Brigham and Women's Hospital in Boston, a nation of runners sent up prayers and dispatched e-mail with a fury ordinarily reserved for the bell lap. And so the happy news that the book had finally arrived was tempered by the shock of its author's illness. Then, in the space of one week, he gave a reading of his new novel and ran a 5-K in Charleston, West Virginia, felt fluish, dispatched some final changes to his publisher, began coughing up, in his words, "raspberry jelly," and ended up in the hospital with myocarditis, an inflammation of the heart. ![]() ![]() He continued to tinker with the manuscript until early September. Parker wrote the closing of Again to Carthage this spring-the lines written longhand while sitting in a canvas chair outside his Florida bungalow, his winter home. And among runners, of course, there's Pheidippides. Dreading "the curse of the ninth," Mahler was afraid to complete his Ninth Symphony. Ulysses Grant died shortly after writing the last line of his memoir. An artist's crowning achievement is often fatal. ![]() finished the endlessly awaited sequel to his beloved first novel, Once a Runner. ![]()
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