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thought that, all in all, the book was extraordinarily brilliant. Mrs.
Morgenstern was rarely anything but supportive to her husband, unlike some
wives I could mention (sorry about that, Helen), but here's the thing: I got
rid of almost all the intrusions when he told us what she thought. I didn't
think the device added a whole lot, and, besides, he was always complimenting
himself through her and today we know that hyping something too much does more
harm than good, as any defeated political candidate will tell you when he pays
his television bills. The thing of it is, I left this particular reference in
because, for once, I totally happen to agree with Mrs.
Morgenstern. I think it was unfair not to show the reunion. So I wrote one of
my own, what I
felt Buttercup and Westley might have said, but Hiram, my editor, felt that
made me just as unfair as Morgenstern here. If you're going to abridge a book
in the author's own words, you can't go around sticking your own in. That was
Hiram's point, and we really went round and round, arguing over, I guess, a
period of a month, in person, through letters, on the phone. Finally we
compromised to this extent: this, what you're reading in the black print, is
strict Morgenstern. Verbatim. Cut, yes; changed, no. But I got Hiram to agree
that
Harcourt would at least print up my scene it's all of three pages; big
deal and if any of you want to see what it came out like, drop a note or
postcard to Hiram Haydn at Harcourt
Brace Jovanovich, 757 Third Avenue, New York City, and just mention you'd like
the reunion scene.
Don't forget to include your return address; you 'd be stunned at how many
people send in for things and don't put their return address down. Harcourt
agreed to spring for the postage costs, so your total expense is the note or
card or whatever. It would really upset me if I turned out to be the only
modem American writer who gave the impression that he was with a generous
publishing house (they all stink sorry about that, Mr. Jovanovich), so let me
just add here that the reason they are so generous in paying this giant
postage bill is because they fully expect nobody to write in. So please, if
you have the least interest at all or even if you don't, write in for my
reunion scene. You don't have to read it I'm not asking that but I would love
to cost those publishing geniuses a few dollars, because, let's face it,
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ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
they're not spending much on advertising my books. Let me just repeat the
address for you, ZIP code and all:
Hiram Haydn
Harcourt Brace Jovanovich
757 Third Avenue
New York, New York 10017
and just ask for your copy of the reunion scene. This has gone on longer than
I planned, so I'm going to repeat the Morgenstern paragraph I interrupted;
it'll read better. Over and out.
(At this point in the story, my wife wants it known that she feels violently
cheated, not
being allowed the scene of reconciliation on the ravine floor between the
lovers. My reply to her is simply this: (a) each of God's beings, from the
lowliest on up, is entitled to at least a few moments of genuine privacy. (b)
What actually was spoken, while moving enough to those involved at the actual
time, flattens like toothpaste when transferred to paper for later reading:
"my dove," "my only," "bliss, bliss," et cetera. (c) Nothing of importance in
an expository way was related, because every time Buttercup began "Tell me
about yourself,"
Westley quickly cut her off with "Later, beloved; now is not the time."
However, it should be noted, in fairness to all, that (1) he did weep; (2) her
eyes did not remain precisely dry; (3)
there was more than one embrace; and (4) both parties admitted that, without
any qualifications whatsoever, they were more than a little glad to see each
other. Besides, (5)
within a quarter of an hour, they were arguing. It began quite innocently, the
two of them kneeling, facing each other, Westley holding her perfect face in
his quick hands. "When I left you," he whispered, "you were already more
beautiful than anything I dared to dream. In our years apart, my imaginings
did their best to improve on your perfection. At night, your face was forever
behind my eyes. And now I see that that vision who kept me company in my
loneliness was a hag compared to the beauty now before me."
"Enough about my beauty," Buttercup said. "Everybody always talks about how
beautiful I am. I've got a mind, Westley. Talk about that."
"Throughout eternity I shall do that very thing," he told her. "But now we
haven't time." He made it to his feet. The ravine fall had shaken and battered
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