Genius Page #7

Thank you.

I'm still a bit

of a washout

as a screenwriter.

I just can't make

the grade as a hack.

Even that

requires a certain

practiced excellence.

I'm mighty glad

to see you, Scott.

I've been rambling around

for months now.

Haven't had anybody

to talk to about work.

Ah. Work.

I mean,

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.

Now, I ask myself,

"can I write one

good sentence?"

How can you say that?

Don't you want

to be remembered?

This side of paradise

was just put out of print,

for the first time

in 18 years.

Gatsby will go next.

That'll never happen.

You know how much

i made in royalties

on gatsby last year?

Two dollars and 13 cents.

But I don't mind.

I'm working now.

My next-door neighbor

is a radio actress.

She periodically rehearses

her screams and laughter.

That's a little

disquieting.

Oh, the laughing's worse.

Trust me.

You spoken to Max lately?

Oh, don't talk about Max.

Why not, tom?

I know he's your friend,

but you have no idea.

He crippled me.

He deformed my work.

He as much admitted it.

And then he tried

to take all the credit

for my success.

He did no such thing.

Do you know how

much you hurt him?

We hurt each other.

Don't be glib

with me, tom.

You don't know

what he did to me.

What he did to you?

Uh-huh.

What did he do?

He made all your

dreams come true.

He gave you a career.

A life!

There.

The scribner party line.

I expected more from you.

That decent man

believed in you

when nobody else would.

He poured all his hopes

and dreams into you.

All the things he would

never do, all the books

he would never write.

And now you repay him

with ugly accusations

and brutality.

You ought to be

ashamed of yourself!

That man has a genius

for friendship

and you've squandered it.

There will come a day

when you're not

the success you are now.

It's a long road

then, believe me.

Why hurt the one man

who will walk on

that road with you?

Daddy?

Hello, puppet.

Why doesn't tom

come around anymore?

Oh, Nancy.

Tom needs some

time for himself.

Is he coming back?

I don't think so.

See, tom's the kind of

fellow who needs to make

his own way through life.

Is he mad at us?

No, honey.

No, sometimes

people just go away.

They have to grow up,

leave home.

It'll happen

to you, too.

Poor daddy.

I miss him, too.

Tell you what,

get me his book.

"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

"which makes new magic

in a dusty world.

"Each moment is the fruit

of 40,000 years.

"The minute-winning days,

like flies, buzz home to death

"and every moment

is a window on all time.

"And like a man

who is perishing

in the polar night,

"he thought of

the rich meadows

of his youth,

"the corn,

"the plum tree...

"...and ripe grain.

"Why here?

"O lost!"

Mr. Perkins,

you have a call.

From tom's mother.

Mrs. wolfe?

Who even heard

of such a thing?

Tuberculosis

of the brain.

Doesn't even

seem real.

To be brought low by such

a strange and sudden thing?

They're doing

everything they can.

Who would credit it?

Who would credit it, now?

What's that?

That he should

end up here,

of all places.

When tom collapsed

out west,

they brought him back here

for the surgery.

Best place for it, they said.

Right here in Baltimore.

His father died in

this very hospital,

just along the hall.

It's like tom's whole life

is leading him,

like a river,

back to his father.

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 should,

you know, prepare her.

She always

loved tom the most.

The plural of

"myriad" is "myriads",

by the way.

Mr. wolfe?

Pencil.

Oh, no, Mr. wolfe,

I'm sorry,

you just lie still.

I'll get the doctor.

Pencil.

Afternoon,

Mr. Perkins.

Afternoon, James.

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

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.

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