Fools die by Mario Puzo

Author:Mario Puzo [Puzo, Mario]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: General, Fiction, Language Arts & Disciplines, Juvenile Fiction, Performing Arts, Publishing, Motion picture industry - Fiction, Political, Publishers and publishing - Fiction, Siblings, Gambling, History & Criticism, Brothers, Motion picture industry, Gamblers - Fiction, Brothers - Fiction, Games, Gamblers, Didactic fiction, Film & Video, Family, Publishers and publishing
ISBN: 9780399122446
Publisher: Putnam
Published: 1978-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 25

The sexy poodle didn’t die, so the lady didn’t press charges. She didn’t seem to mind getting her face smashed or it wasn’t important to her or to her husband. She might even have enjoyed it. She sent Osano a friendly note, leaving the door open for them to get together. Osano gave a funny little growl and tossed the note into the wastepaper basket. “Why don’t you give her a try?” I said. “She might be interesting.”

“I don’t like hitting women,” Osano said. “That bitch wants me to use her as a punching bag.”

“She could be another Wendy,” I said. I knew Wendy always had some sort of fascination for him despite their being divorced all these years and despite all the aggravation she caused him.

“Jesus,” Osano said. “That’s all I need.” But he smiled. He knew what I meant. That maybe beating women didn’t displease him that much. But he wanted to show me I was Wrong.

“Wendy was the only wife I had that made me hit her,” he said. “All my other wives, they fucked my best friends, they stole my money, they beat me for alimony, they lied about me, but I never hit them, I never disliked them. I’m good friends with all my other wives. But that fucking Wendy is some piece of work. A class by herself. If I’d stayed married to her, I’d have killed her.”

But the poodle strangling had got around in the literary circles of New York. Osano worried about his chances of getting the Nobel Prize. “Those fucking Scandinavians love dogs,” he said. He fired up his active campaign for the Nobel by writing letters to all his friends and professional acquaintances. He also kept publishing articles and reviews on the most important critical works to appear in the review. Plus essays on literature which I always thought were full of shit. Many times when I went into his office he would be working on his novel, filling yellow lined sheets. His great novel, because it was the only thing he wrote in longhand. The rest of his stuff he banged out with two fingers on the typewriter he could swivel to from his executive desk piled with books. He was the fastest typist I have ever seen even with just two fingers. He sounded like a machine gun literally. And with that machine-gun typing he wrote the definition of what the great American novel should be, explained why England no longer produced great fiction, except in the spy genre, took apart the latest works and sometimes the body of work of guys like Faulkner, Mailer, Styron, Jones, anybody who could give him competition for the Nobel. He was so brilliant, the language so charged, that he convinced you. By publishing all that crap, he demolished his opponents and left the field clear for himself. The only trouble was that when you went to his own work, he had only his first two novels published twenty years ago that could give him serious claim to a literary reputation.

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