Genius

Might want

to read this one.

Please tell me

it's double-spaced.

No such luck.

Where'd you get it?

A woman named aline Bernstein,

the stage designer?

The author's her protege.

Every other publisher in town

has already turned it down.

Is it any good?

Good?

No.

But it's unique.

A quick look.

Thanks, Max.

I'm in your debt.

602 to new canaan,

last call!

Good evening, Pete.

All aboard, Mr. Perkins.

A stone, a leaf,

an unfound door

of a stone, a leaf, a door.

And of all

the forgotten faces.

Which of us has

known his brother?

Which of us has looked

into his father's heart?

Which of us has not remained

forever prison-pent?

Which of us is not

forever a stranger

and alone?

Remembering, speechlessly

we seek the great

forgotten language,

the lost Lane-end

into heaven,

a stone, a leaf,

an unfound door.

Where? When?

O lost,

and by the wind grieved,

ghost, come back again.

A destiny that leads

the English to the Dutch

is strange enough

but one that leads

from epsom into Pennsylvania

and thence into the hills

that shut in altamont

over the proud

coral cry of the cock

and the soft stone

smile of an angel

is touched by

that dark miracle

of chance.

Hello, daddy!

Hello, ducks.

More rehearsal.

He didn't even notice us.

"Fear no more

the heat o' the sun.

"Nor the furious

winter's rages.

"Thou thy

worldly task hast done.

"Home art gone,

and ta'en thy wages.

"Golden lads and girls..."

Jimmy, I told you already.

I don't like the movies.

I read books.

You're not listening to me.

Subtract

us into nakedness

and night again

and you shall

see begin in crete

4,000 years ago,

the love that ended

yesterday in Texas.

Hello, daddy.

How do I look?

Just beautiful.

It's

the prom next week.

Already? You're so old

and not married yet.

O death in life

that turns our men to stone!

O change that

levels down our gods!

Hello, Mr. Perkins?

Your father doesn't approve

of my drama club.

Daddy, why don't you

want mama to be

an actress again?

Because limelight

is not becoming to a woman

of your mother's years.

Oh, you rat!

Oh, boo!

Oh, yes, you save

the whirlwind life

of glamour for yourself.

Book signings and

parties and the like,

while we languish here

in the wilderness.

Do we live

in the wilderness?

How thrilling!

We should get knives!

Yes, we should!

Guess who will be

the head pirate?

Cecil, did you ever

pick up a girl before?

- Did you?

- No.

Oh, goodness.

You're the funniest person

I've ever seen.

Hold it.

What's the matter, Cecil?

I don't know.

What's that, Cecil?

Don't wait up.

Ten.

Eleven.

Ten.

Swine.

He had

listened attentively

to a sermon in chapel

by a sophomore

with false whiskers.

He had prepared studiously

for an examination

on the contents

of the college catalog.

Ten.

That's

a very long paragraph.

It started

four pages ago.

Poor Maxwell.

You're too

young to be in love.

How old

do you have to be?

Forty.

Or, I should say,

he was like a man

who stands upon a hill

above the town he has left,

yet does not say

"the town is near"

but turns his eyes

upon the distant

soaring ranges.

The end.

Mighty books.

Mighty books.

May I help you?

God damn.

Look at all these books.

Do you ever stop to consider

the pure man-sweat

that went into

each and every line?

Little testaments of faith,

screamed out in

the dark night,

in the cold, dark night

when the wind's

blowing alpine,

in the vain hope

that someone will read

and hear and understand.

You must be Thomas wolfe.

Are all these your authors?

Not tolstoy.

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