Read Online A Closed Book by Gilbert Adair - Free Book Online Page B

organs of sight.”’
    *
    â€˜Sorry to be a bore, John, but I want to add something. Directly following “I
have
to see, whether such is my active intention or not”, I want to add – in brackets – something along the lines of “Let the reader close his eyes and verify for himself that, even then, even with his eyes closed, he continues to see” – inverted commas around “see” – “even if what he sees is nothing at all” – close brackets.’
    â€˜You want me to add that now?’
    â€˜Yes, I do.’
    â€˜Very well. Can you dictate it again? More slowly this time.’
    â€˜â€œLet the reader close his eyes –”’
    â€˜Hold on, I’ve got to find the place.’
    *
    â€˜Right. Fire away.’
    â€˜â€œLet the reader close his eyes –”’
    â€˜Sorry.’
    â€˜What is it now?’
    â€˜You don’t want to say, “Let the reader close his or her eyes”?’
    â€˜Lord, no! I told you once before I won’t be a slave to that PC poppycock. It becomes so infernally awkward. “Let the reader close his
or her
eyes and verify for himself
or herself
–”’
    â€˜Okay, okay. “And verify for
him
self –” Go on.’
    â€˜â€œAnd verify for himself that, even then, even with his eyes tightly closed, he continues to see” – ICs – “even if what he sees is nothing at all.”’
    â€˜Close brackets?’
    â€˜Close brackets. Shit, I’ve suddenly realized. Three “evens” in the same sentence. And I shudder to think how you spelt
Sacre du Printemps
. Never mind, we’ll have another look at it all after we’ve had our break. I wonder how long it is. Offhand, I’d say just under eight hundred words. Seven hundred and – oh, fifty.’
    â€˜Give me a sec and I’ll have the exact figure for you.’
    â€˜What? Don’t tell me you’re some kind of mathematical prodigy? What do they call them? Idiot savants?’
    â€˜No, of course not. I’m getting the Mac to give me a word count.’
    â€˜Curiouser and curiouser. Is there anything it can’t do?’
    â€˜Not much. Here you are. Seven hundred and seventy-five words. Not counting the title and date, seven hundred and seventy.’
    â€˜Seven hundred and seventy, eh?’
    â€˜I must say, you made a very impressive guess.’
    â€˜When you’ve been around words for as long as I have, you get an instinct for these things.’
    *
    â€˜So, Paul? Pleased with it?’
    â€˜I don’t know what I think. This afternoon I may decide to cut the whole passage.’
    â€˜What!’
    â€˜Just kidding, John, just kidding. But be warned nevertheless. Somewhere along the line, and more than once, that’s exactly what
will
happen. If the reader skips any of the pages of a book, it’s almost always because the author himself should have skipped. That witticism – whose was it? Oscar Wilde’s? Flaubert’s? – the one about spending an entire morning putting a comma in and an entire afternoon taking it out again is no joke. You’ll just have to learn to live with it, as I have.’
    â€˜I’m sure I’ll take it in my stride. Meanwhile, what about coffee? Unless you’d prefer something stronger. A glass of wine, maybe?’
    â€˜No, no, no. Coffee it’s got to be. A writer never drinks and writes. It’s as dangerous as drinking and driving.’
    â€˜Really? What about Hemingway? What about Charles Bukowski?’
    â€˜Bukowski’s rubbish.’
    â€˜And Hemingway?’
    â€˜Is he the sort of writer you think I am, John? Gutsy? Hard-boiled? Whisky-swigging?’
    â€˜I’ll make the coffee.’

 
    Â 
    â€˜Well?’
    â€˜Well?’
    â€˜God, this is a roomy wardrobe. You could actually step inside it.’
    â€˜I’m aware of