Death of a Writer by Michael Collins

Author:Michael Collins
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781596917477
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
Published: 2019-11-24T00:00:00+00:00

Superman has reached a state of being where he is no longer affected by "pity, suffering, tolerance of the weak, the power of the soul over the body, the belief in an afterlife. . . ."

Horowitz said, "Chilling, brilliant stuff . . . an iconoclast in a priest-ridden age of saints. I suppose you haven't read Nietzsche in German? . . ." He raised his hand. "No, of course you wouldn't have. . . . But go on, please."

Ryder did. "What I find troubling in Nietzsche is this intolerance of the weak."

Horowitz raised his index finger, seemingly enjoying engaging Ryder in a discipline he knew Ryder knew nothing about. "Actually, I'm not sure that is necessarily what Nietzsche was saying, Jon. I'm afraid that might be simply the translation. Nietzsche is probably the most misunderstood of all philosophers. You see, men of ideas are not necessarily poets, and sometimes they are arcane not just for the sake of being arcane, but because the subject matter of the metaphysical is complicated."

Ryder went toe to toe with Horowitz, countering, "That is interesting . . . the notion of misinterpretation. Maybe you could give me an assessment of Leopold and Loeb's interpretation of Nietzsche?"

Horowitz waited.

"Let me jog your memory. Two Jewish teenage geniuses from Chicago committed a murder, similar to Pendleton's alleged crime, back in 1924, an indiscriminate, cold-blooded murder, for what they called 'philosophical reasons.'"

Horowitz shrugged in a noncommittal way. "Yes, well, 1924 . . . that was a long time ago, before I was even born."

"We recovered a book about Leopold and Loeb above Pendleton's desk containing not only Pendleton's but also Wiltshire's prints throughout the book."

Horowitz rolled his eyes. "Please, not fingerprints, not that old standby. Frankly, between you and me, Jon, advances in DNA forensics evidence is where the future of crime fiction lies. Let's not solve something on the banality of plain old fingerprints. It wouldn't wash with a reading public, believe me. I'm all about reader expectations!"

Ryder said, "Okay, let's set the fingerprints aside, then, but this brings me to a more fundamental and interesting question: the nature of your relationship with Wiltshire."

He set a stack of paper on the desk. "I've bank receipts here from Wiltshire's account totaling over a hundred and twenty thousand dollars sent to her in the last year alone."

Horowitz answered, "On Pendleton's behalf! It was easier to wire Adi the money than to try to have her gain power of attorney and manage the money." But he had lost his smug affability. "My involvement, my decision to help Bob, had nothing to do with Wiltshire. She was merely an intermediary. Bob and I go back a long way. That was the point of connection, our past."

Horowitz stopped abruptly. His mood had changed.

"I suppose you are aware that Bob attempted suicide the night I arrived at Bannockburn? There's your answer to why I gave him the money. . . atonement, or whatever you want to call it. I saw something very sad in Bob's eyes that night, regret, failure.

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