Genius

Might want

to read this one.

Please tell me

it's double-spaced.

No such luck.

Where'd you get it?

A woman named aline Bernstein,

the stage designer?

The author's her protege.

Every other publisher in town

has already turned it down.

Is it any good?

Good?

No.

But it's unique.

A quick look.

Thanks, Max.

I'm in your debt.

602 to new canaan,

last call!

Good evening, Pete.

All aboard, Mr. Perkins.

A stone, a leaf,

an unfound door

of a stone, a leaf, a door.

And of all

the forgotten faces.

Which of us has

known his brother?

Which of us has looked

into his father's heart?

Which of us has not remained

forever prison-pent?

Which of us is not

forever a stranger

and alone?

Remembering, speechlessly

we seek the great

forgotten language,

the lost Lane-end

into heaven,

a stone, a leaf,

an unfound door.

Where? When?

O lost,

and by the wind grieved,

ghost, come back again.

A destiny that leads

the English to the Dutch

is strange enough

but one that leads

from epsom into Pennsylvania

and thence into the hills

that shut in altamont

over the proud

coral cry of the cock

and the soft stone

smile of an angel

is touched by

that dark miracle

of chance.

Hello, daddy!

Hello, ducks.

More rehearsal.

He didn't even notice us.

"Fear no more

the heat o' the sun.

"Nor the furious

winter's rages.

"Thou thy

worldly task hast done.

"Home art gone,

and ta'en thy wages.

"Golden lads and girls..."

Jimmy, I told you already.

I don't like the movies.

I read books.

You're not listening to me.

Subtract

us into nakedness

and night again

and you shall

see begin in crete

4,000 years ago,

the love that ended

yesterday in Texas.

Hello, daddy.

How do I look?

Just beautiful.

It's

the prom next week.

Already? You're so old

and not married yet.

O death in life

that turns our men to stone!

O change that

levels down our gods!

Hello, Mr. Perkins?

Your father doesn't approve

of my drama club.

Daddy, why don't you

want mama to be

an actress again?

Because limelight

is not becoming to a woman

of your mother's years.

Oh, you rat!

Oh, boo!

Oh, yes, you save

the whirlwind life

of glamour for yourself.

Book signings and

parties and the like,

while we languish here

in the wilderness.

Do we live

in the wilderness?

How thrilling!

We should get knives!

Yes, we should!

Guess who will be

the head pirate?

Cecil, did you ever

pick up a girl before?

- Did you?

- No.

Oh, goodness.

You're the funniest person

I've ever seen.

Hold it.

What's the matter, Cecil?

I don't know.

What's that, Cecil?

Don't wait up.

Ten.

Eleven.

Ten.

Swine.

He had

listened attentively

to a sermon in chapel

by a sophomore

with false whiskers.

He had prepared studiously

for an examination

on the contents

of the college catalog.

Ten.

That's

a very long paragraph.

It started

four pages ago.

Poor Maxwell.

You're too

young to be in love.

How old

do you have to be?

Forty.

Or, I should say,

he was like a man

who stands upon a hill

above the town he has left,

yet does not say

"the town is near"

but turns his eyes

upon the distant

soaring ranges.

The end.

Mighty books.

Mighty books.

May I help you?

God damn.

Look at all these books.

Do you ever stop to consider

the pure man-sweat

that went into

each and every line?

Little testaments of faith,

screamed out in

the dark night,

in the cold, dark night

when the wind's

blowing alpine,

in the vain hope

that someone will read

and hear and understand.

You must be Thomas wolfe.

Are all these your authors?

Not tolstoy.

Mr. Perkins.

Please, sit down.

I wasn't even gonna come.

Prefer to get my

rejections in the mail.

There's something

surgically antiseptic

about those familiar words,

"we regret to inform you..."

But I wanted to meet you.

The man who first read

Mr. f. Scott Fitzgerald

and said,

"yes! The world needs poets.

"My god!

Someone publish

this bastard,

"'cause the world

needs poets.

"Or why even live?"

So I'm looking

at that man now.

Well, congratulations.

On finding one genius.

Two, if you count Hemingway.

As for this one,

he'll persevere.

You can't kill the deep roots

by cutting off

a few top branches.

And the roots go deep,

Mr. Perkins.

And they are unassailable.

Mr. wolfe,

we intend to

publish your book.

If that's acceptable

to you.

Now, I'd like to do

some work with you.

In its current state,

o lost is simply too long

for one volume.

I think you could afford

to shape it a bit,

cut off a few of

the "top branches".

Mr. Perkins.

I know you're not

fooling with me.

You don't look the type.

But my god,

this is too much for me.

You don't know.

You don't know.

You don't know.

Every son-of-a-b*tch

publisher in New York

hates my book.

Mr. wolfe,

if you could sit down.

Tom.

Tom.

Tom, please.

Tom.

I take it your book

is autobiographical

in nature.

No other way to write,

is there?

Eugene gant is me!

And my mama is Eliza,

and my papa is w.O. Gant.

We'll get into all that.

I know it's too long.

I know it's too long.

My lord, you don't

know how I struggled

to cut the gorgon down.

You don't know how

i fought with her.

But I'll cut

anything you say.

You just give me

the word.

Tom,

the book belongs to you.

All I want to do

is to bring your

work to the public

in its best possible form.

My job, my only job,

is to put good books

into the hands of readers.

Thank you, Mr. Perkins.

Now, scribner's has agreed

to give you our standard

advance against royalties.

If this is satisfactory,

we can proceed at whatever

pace is comfortable for you.

$500?

No one ever

thought my writing

was worth a dime.

Oh, lord!

Do you mind if

we start tomorrow?

Of course.

I promise to work hard.

Yeah!

Oh, lord!

I can barely...

Oh, mighty. Oh, indeedy.

"Mr. wolfe,

we intend to

publish your book."

No!

Tom!

Oh, my angel, thank you.

Thank you.

Thank you,

my lover, my love.

I'm so...

I'm so happy

for you. Oh!

How much you figure

we have to cut?

I'm guessing

around 300 pages.

It's not the page count

that's important,

it's telling the story.

There it is.

Four years of my life.

My heart bleeds

to see any of it go.

But I guess it's die dog

or eat the hatchet.

You took the words

right out of my mouth.

The last few weeks

working on the book

have been the most

thunderingly thrilling

of my entire woebegone life.

Glad I could amuse you.

You spend your lifetime

in the pages of books,

as we do,

and those characters emerge

that speak to you deep,

to the marrow.

They are your mirrors.

In my time,

I aspired to Sydney carton.

Or Pierre

from the tolstoy.

But I know

that's not who I am,

much as I would have it so.

We are not those characters

we want to be.

We're those characters

we are.

I'm caliban.

That island creature,

monstrous and deformed.

Caliban.

So ugly.

So alien.

Hurt and shunned

into poetry.

What is Manhattan

but an isle full of noises?

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