The Trouble With Eden - Lawrence Block [60]
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“The World War Two novel.”
“I’m not really interested in World War Two.” She looked up from the book and made her expression as unpleasant as she knew how. “It’s one of the things that bore me. There are other things.”
He seemed immune to insult. “In that case I’ll tell you a secret. One If by Land is even worse than the rest of his swill. The critics are just denser than the reading public, that’s all. You’re lucky you never read it. Have the sense to stay away from it”
And he left.
He returned the next day about the same time, wearing the same jacket and carrying what looked like the same pipe. She was within twenty pages of the end of Caleb’s House when he popped in.
“I see you’re still wasting your time with the same mind rot,” he said. “At least it’s a library copy, and you’re not contributing to his royalties.”
She raised her eyes and gazea benevolently at him. “I think you’re making a mistake,” she said.
“How so?”
“Confusing the author with his books.”
“Oh, I’m willing to concede he may be a decent enough fellow. That’s neither here—”
“No, it’s the other way around.”
“Oh?”
“I think so,” she said, thoughtfully. “After what you said yesterday I read the rest of the book more carefully. With the idea of trying to figure out the man who wrote it.”
“And what did you figure out?”
“That his books are a great deal better than he is. And that what might seem to be flaws or weaknesses in his writing are just the flaws of his own personality coming out.”
“How so?”
“Oh, I don’t know where to start. His whole concept of women, for example.”
“The standard Male Chauvinist Pig?”
“No, I’m not talking about that kind of crap. But this total inability to relate to women stands out on page. He needs women but he’s afraid of them. He believe they’re really people. Every female character his is either too good or too bad. They come alive anyway because of his craft as a writer but he puts impossible speeches in their mouths and impossible ideas in their heads. I’ll bet he’s never really loved a woman in his life. He may make a fool of himself over a woman now and then but never knows her enough to love her on an adult level.”
He stroked his beard. “Interesting,” he said. “As a man, I’m less apt to pick up on that sort of thing. What else have you doped out about him?”
“Oh, it’s not fair to play detective like this,” she said, smiling. “But other things seem fairly obvious.”
“For example?”
“The usual latent homosexuality. Narcissism. And his emphasis on communal roots—I’d guess he lacks roots himself and has never gotten over the fact. Of course that would have to be the case or he wouldn’t have wound up in Bucks County.”
“You don’t think he has roots here? It seems to me he’s been here forever.”
“Not deep roots. Transplants never do, do they?”
“Interesting,” he said. He took his pipe apart and blew through the stem. “And yet you read his books.”
“They’re interesting. He’s interesting, as far as that goes, even if he’s not admirable.”
“Uh-huh. Anything else you don’t like about him?”
“Definitely.”
“Such as?”
Now she did look away from him. “His beard needs trimming,” she said, “and the patch is coming off the left sleeve of his jacket.”
When she dared to look up at him he had turned slightly to the left and was looking at the juncture of ceiling and wall. Without looking at her he said, “I’ll bet you’ve handed out a lot of coronaries in your young life.”
“You did ask for it, you know.”
“Indeed I did. But you certainly pushed enough of the right buttons. I can’t tell you how relieved I am it was a put-on, not that that will keep me from brooding for weeks about what you said.”
“Oh, I was just being a little rotten, that’s all.”
“That’s what I’ll tell myself. When did you—”
“Yesterday.”
“Before or after I left?”
“After, I’m afraid. While you were here all I knew about you was that you were the most godawful pest so far this week. Then something made me turn the book over. Why don’t you wear your glasses for photographs?”
“I think people should be