The World According to Garp Page #5

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- Yeah, a real writer.

- Like Joyce?

- Maybe.

He never made any money.

He worked as a clerk to support his family.

You've read him?

Did you know

he had a beautiful tenor voice?

No, I didn't.

He was 21 when he entered

the Feis Ceoil in Dublin.

- The what?

- The Feis Ceoil.

It's a Gaelic musical competition.

He was runner-up in the tenor category.

- Do you know who the winner was?

- No.

- John McCormack.

- Really?

- Do you always wear a sweat suit?

- Don't you like it?

Yes, I just wonder what you'd be like

without it. I mean, in a dress.

I spend a lot of time imagining things.

Part of my training as a writer.

All real writers imagine.

Good night, Garp!

Oh, my God.

Garp! You've no right to write this!

If you're going to write about me

and my personal life, wait till I'm dead.

While I'm alive, the subject belongs to me.

I might want to write about myself.

- Nothing's happened to me yet, Mom.

- Well, too bad.

Make up something then. Good night, son.

Good night, Mom.

- Sleep well.

- You too.

So, how do you know

you're going to be a writer?

It's just something you know.

What are you going to write about?

My life, once I've experienced enough.

You'll write, and you'll marry Helen,

and she'll read.

- Is that what you want?

- Maybe.

I guess I'd better give you something

to write about.

It's stuck.

- Is this your first time?

- No.

I thought so.

- Where's your thing?

- Where's what?

- Your thing.

- My thing? Don't you have a hold of it?

- No, your glove.

- My glove?

Look, I don't want babies.

No glove, no love.

You mean rubbers.

Pooh?

Poor Garp, you're about to burst.

Helen!

I'm gaining on you, Helen.

What's the matter?

- Watch where you're running.

- Sorry.

My short story!

It's my first short story.

I wrote it for you.

- You wrote it for me.

- Yeah.

What'd Cushie think of it?

Cushie?

Cushie.

She's not the type

to appreciate serious literature.

I don't know.

From what I saw of her, she seemed to

have a pretty good head on her shoulders.

Oh, boy!

We haven't got much time.

Men die young in my family!

I'm leaving! I'm going to New York

to become a real writer!

Oh, God.

Bonkers.

Bonkie, come on now.

Give me the paper.

Bonkers, give me that paper,

you hairy son of a b*tch!

Bonkers, you chicken sh*t!

If I were a dog, you'd be dead!

What happened?

I had a fight with Helen.

With Helen?

And Bonkers, too.

I want to get out of here.

I want to go to New York,

become a real writer.

All right.

I've been thinking we ought to leave,

myself.

We've been here long enough.

Are you going to come?

I think it's a good idea.

Maybe I could write there, too.

- What's this?

- Bonkers' ear.

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