Genius Monologues

A chronicle of Max Perkins's time as the book editor at Scribner, where he oversaw works by Thomas Wolfe, Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald and others.

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.

Some books are supposed to be long, you know! Thank god Tolstoy never met you. We'd have that great novel "War and Nothing".

Who better to talk to? The man who created something immortal. More and more I trouble myself with that. "The legacy." Will anyone care about Thomas Wolfe in 100 years? Ten years? When I was young, I asked myself that question every day.

Dear Max, I've got a hunch, and I wanted to write these words to you. I've made a long voyage and been to a strange country, and I've seen the dark man very close. And I don't think I was too much afraid of him. But I want most desperately to live. I want to see you again. For there is such an impossible anguish and regret for all I can never say to you, for all the work I have to do. I feel as if a great window has been opened on life. And if I come through this, I hope to God I am a better man and can live up to you. But most of all, I wanted to tell you, no matter what happens, I shall always feel about you the way I did that November day when you met me at the boat and we went on top of the building and all the strangeness and the glory and the power of life were below. Yours always, Tom.

I'm sorry I'm not decent enough for your fine dinner parties and your fine friends, but before you drag me out to the wood shed, I think you ought to look at who is giving the lesson. Am I supposed to grow up like you?

To hell with Flaubert and Henry James.

Well, I'm sorry I'm not decent enough for your fine dinner parties and your fine friends. But before you drag me out to the woodshed, I think you ought to look at who's giving the lesson. Am I supposed to grow up like you?

The last time I saw my father, I was standing as a train window, when I went north to college. He just got smaller and smaller as we pulled away, until I couldn't see him anymore. That train carried me to my life; beyond the hills and over the rivers. And always the rivers run. Sometimes they flow away from my father, and sometimes they flow back to his door. I have to prove I can do it by myself.

Scott! I know it was a while ago but I'm sorry. I was a damn brute. I wouldn't blame you for slamming the door in my face. You don't know how sorry I am for talking to you and Zelda like that. Please, say you forgive me.