Read Online Blinding Light by Paul Theroux - Free Book Online Page B

lukewarm pools were just below, surrounded by reeds, the water tumbling into them over a moss-covered spillway.
    By the time Steadman and Ava had changed, the Hacklers and the Wilmutts were already sitting in the largest pool, up to their chins in the water, their heads wreathed in vapor.
    â€œPlenty of room for you guys,” Wood said.
    â€œAin’t half hot!” Janey called out.
    Steadman and Ava stepped into the steaming water and slipped down, seating themselves on the stone shelf, until only their heads were visible in the vapor. Four other heads watched them from the far side of the pool. A sulfurous odor hung in the mist over the bubbly gray water.
    â€œWhere’s our German friend and his big book?” Hack said.
    Janey cursed her phone and tapped the keypad irritably.
    â€œI was promised roaming here.”
    Steadman noticed that a copy of
Trespassing—
it had to have been Sabra’s, she carried it everywhere—lay on the wall next to the pool.
    â€œHow sweet it is,” Wood said, thrashing like a child.
    â€œThe man of leisure,” Hack said.
    â€œI wish,” Wood said. “I want to do another book.”
    â€œYou’re really a writer?” Ava said. She hadn’t meant to say anything, but she was so surprised by “I want to do another book,” it slipped out. She became self-conscious. “You mentioned your company?”
    â€œOne of my companies.”
    â€œHe buys companies,” Hack said.
    â€œWriter, book packager, pretty much the same thing.”
    Steadman just stared at the man who was stirring the tip of his stubbly chin in the steaming water.
    â€œThe Heights of Fame—
that’s mine,” Wood said. “One of mine.” “Full disclosure, the only one,” Hack said.
    â€œOne of those is all you need,” Wood said.
    Ava smiled in surprise, for she had actually heard of the book—was it a book? Ava remembered it as a chart. She wondered if perhaps someone had given them a copy as a present—for a long time it was a gift item. It was regarded as a publishing phenomenon, widely publicized, reprinted many times, and unexpectedly and hugely profitable.
    Wood said, “It was a great idea, but the worst part for me was its simplicity. So everyone copied it.”
    The idea had occurred to him, he said, while he had been reading a biography of Joseph Conrad. Conrad’s height was given as just five feet.
    â€œI had thought of Conrad as a giant—bearded, broad-shouldered, a big Polack sea captain. He was tiny!”
    Wood read more biographies, he said, looking for the one fact. Diminutive writers seemed to be the rule. Alexander Pope had been four six; Lawrence Durrell gave his height as five four, but in fact he was just a little over five feet tall. Wood searched further. Keats had been five feet tall, Balzac five one, T. E. Lawrence five five—the same height as Marilyn Monroe. Dylan Thomas was five six, Thoreau five seven, and Robert Louis Stevenson five ten.
    Wood said, “Melville was a munchkin! Henry James was a dwarf! Faulkner was a peewee! Melville was just over five feet. You think of him as a powerful whaler, wielding a harpoon, but no, he was a borderline midget, like most other writers.”
    Ava said, “Thomas Wolfe wasn’t a midget.”
    â€œHe’s on the chart. He was six four.”
    Now she remembered: a foldout chart was included in the book. It was in the form of an enhanced tape measure, giving the name and height of each writer mentioned. This was to be tacked to a wall, and there was room on the elongated chart for you to write your own names on it. So your mother might be as tall as Conrad, your child the size of Alexander Pope, your basketball-playing nephew the physical equal of Thomas Wolfe.
    â€œGraham Greene and George Orwell were both way over six feet,” Wood said.
    â€œListen, want to hear something totally awesome?” Hack said to the