The surgeon said his brain was filled with tumors. A myriad of tumors. That’s the word he used, “myriad”. I think Tom would like that. There’s nothing they can do, you see. The doctor said it was a matter of weeks. Might regain consciousness, most likely not.
No, you stay with Nancy. You stay with Nancy. You should, you know, prepare her. She always loved Tom the most. The plural of “myriad” is “myriads”, by the way.
God help anyone who loves you, Tom. Because for all your talk and all your millions of beautiful words, you haven’t the slightest idea of what it means to be alive. To look into another person’s eyes and ache for him. I hope someday you will. And then maybe all your words will be worth five of Scott’s.
Imagine you’re a reader. You’re wandering through a bookstore and lots of books, and you see a book titled “Trimalchio in West Egg” and you see one titled The “Great Gatsby.”Which are you going to pick up?
That’s why Scott changed his original title. He knew it needed a bit more meat.
Suicide seems a bit extreme and killing Tom won’t help much, so I suppose that leaves me.
