put in “enormously,” and for “very enjoyable” substituted “delightful.” That was better. It would have to do. He was rather pleased with that acid comment about those ridiculous people’s reading matter and hoped it would get back to them.
During the weekend, particularly during those hours in his room on Saturday afternoon, he had gone carefully through the two paperbacks he had bought at Dillon’s. Lucy Grieves, the author of
Cottoning On,
had meticulously passed on to her publishers all the errors he had pointed out to her when the novel appeared in hardcover, down to “on to” instead of “onto.” Ribbon felt satisfied. He was pleased with Lucy Grieves, though not to the extent of writing to congratulate her. The second letter he wrote was to Channon Scott Smith, the paperback version of whose novel
Carol Conway
contained precisely the same mistakes and literary howlers as it had in hardcover. That completed, a scathing paean of contempt if ever there was one, Ribbon sat back in his chair and thought long and hard.
Was there some way he could write to Kingston Marle and
make things
all right
without groveling, without apologizing? God forbid that he should apologize for boldly telling truths that needed to be told. But could he compose something, without saying he was sorry, that would mollify Marle—better still, that would make him understand? He had a notion that he would feel easier in his mind if he wrote to Marle, would sleep better at night. The two nights he had passed at Frank’s had been very wretched, the second one almost sleepless.
What was he afraid of? Afraid of writing and afraid of not writing? Just afraid? Marle couldn’t do anything to him. Ribbon acknowledged to himself that he had no absurd fears of Marle’s setting some hit man on him or stalking him or even attempting to sue him for libel. It wasn’t that. What was it then? The cliché came into his head unbidden, the definition of what he felt: a nameless dread. If only Mummy were here to advise him! Suddenly he longed for her, and tears pricked the backs of his eyes. Yet he knew what she would have said. She would have said what she had that last time.
That
Encyclopaedia Britannica
volume 8 had been lying on the table. He had just shown Mummy the letter he had written to Desmond Erb, apologizing for correcting him when he wrote about “the quinone structure.” Of course he should have looked the word up, but he hadn’t. He had been so sure it should have been “quinine.” Erb had been justifiably indignant, as writers tended to be, when he corrected an error in their work that was in fact not an error at all. He would never forget Mummy’s anger, nor anything of that quarrel, come to that; how, almost of their own volition, his hands had crept across the desk toward the black, blue, and gold volume ...
She was not here now to stop him, and after a while he wrote:
Dear Mr. Marle,
With reference to my letter of June 4th, in which I pointed out certain errors of fact and of grammar and spelling in your recent novel, I fear I may inadvertently have caused you pain. This was far from my intention. If I have hurt your feelings I must tell you that I very much regret this. I hope you will overlook it and forgive me.
Yours sincerely,
Reading this over, Ribbon found he very much disliked the bit about overlooking and forgiving. “Regret” wasn’t right either. Also he hadn’t actually named the book. He ought to have put in its title but, strangely, he found himself reluctant to type the word
Demogorgon.
It was as if, by putting it into cold print, he would set something in train, spark off some reaction. Of course, this was mad. He must be getting tired. Nevertheless, he composed a second letter.
Dear Mr. Marle,
With reference to my letter to yourself of June 4th, in which I pointed out certain errors in your recent and highly acclaimed novel, I fear I may inadvertently have hurt your feelings. It was not my
During the weekend, particularly during those hours in his room on Saturday afternoon, he had gone carefully through the two paperbacks he had bought at Dillon’s. Lucy Grieves, the author of
Cottoning On,
had meticulously passed on to her publishers all the errors he had pointed out to her when the novel appeared in hardcover, down to “on to” instead of “onto.” Ribbon felt satisfied. He was pleased with Lucy Grieves, though not to the extent of writing to congratulate her. The second letter he wrote was to Channon Scott Smith, the paperback version of whose novel
Carol Conway
contained precisely the same mistakes and literary howlers as it had in hardcover. That completed, a scathing paean of contempt if ever there was one, Ribbon sat back in his chair and thought long and hard.
Was there some way he could write to Kingston Marle and
make things
all right
without groveling, without apologizing? God forbid that he should apologize for boldly telling truths that needed to be told. But could he compose something, without saying he was sorry, that would mollify Marle—better still, that would make him understand? He had a notion that he would feel easier in his mind if he wrote to Marle, would sleep better at night. The two nights he had passed at Frank’s had been very wretched, the second one almost sleepless.
What was he afraid of? Afraid of writing and afraid of not writing? Just afraid? Marle couldn’t do anything to him. Ribbon acknowledged to himself that he had no absurd fears of Marle’s setting some hit man on him or stalking him or even attempting to sue him for libel. It wasn’t that. What was it then? The cliché came into his head unbidden, the definition of what he felt: a nameless dread. If only Mummy were here to advise him! Suddenly he longed for her, and tears pricked the backs of his eyes. Yet he knew what she would have said. She would have said what she had that last time.
That
Encyclopaedia Britannica
volume 8 had been lying on the table. He had just shown Mummy the letter he had written to Desmond Erb, apologizing for correcting him when he wrote about “the quinone structure.” Of course he should have looked the word up, but he hadn’t. He had been so sure it should have been “quinine.” Erb had been justifiably indignant, as writers tended to be, when he corrected an error in their work that was in fact not an error at all. He would never forget Mummy’s anger, nor anything of that quarrel, come to that; how, almost of their own volition, his hands had crept across the desk toward the black, blue, and gold volume ...
She was not here now to stop him, and after a while he wrote:
Dear Mr. Marle,
With reference to my letter of June 4th, in which I pointed out certain errors of fact and of grammar and spelling in your recent novel, I fear I may inadvertently have caused you pain. This was far from my intention. If I have hurt your feelings I must tell you that I very much regret this. I hope you will overlook it and forgive me.
Yours sincerely,
Reading this over, Ribbon found he very much disliked the bit about overlooking and forgiving. “Regret” wasn’t right either. Also he hadn’t actually named the book. He ought to have put in its title but, strangely, he found himself reluctant to type the word
Demogorgon.
It was as if, by putting it into cold print, he would set something in train, spark off some reaction. Of course, this was mad. He must be getting tired. Nevertheless, he composed a second letter.
Dear Mr. Marle,
With reference to my letter to yourself of June 4th, in which I pointed out certain errors in your recent and highly acclaimed novel, I fear I may inadvertently have hurt your feelings. It was not my
Similar Books
