There was a bank statement.
There were four publicity releases from business concerns which keep
sending me their bilge even though I took the pains, almost a year ago,
to write them that I'd quit doing a newspaper column and had no way of
airing their propaganda even if I felt the urge.
There were three letters from people who liked my books.
There was a letter from the assistant to the dean of a small college in
Illinois:
Dear Wylie:
Just how does one go about getting so swellheaded and self-righteous
that he thinks he can tell off everybody on earth? I would like to
know, because it must be a wonderful sensation to balloon around so
gassily. Look out for pins, though!
Please reply.
Sincerely,
John F. Casselberry.
I put the letter between my big toe and the next one, held it out at
body length, and reflected.
There is nothing unusual about this letter; I get a version of it every
few days, sometimes running into thousands of derogatory words. And, of
course, it is true.
Of course, of course, of course.
Authorship is the supreme act of ego.
Whether it is good or evil, as an act, depends, I suppose not so much
on what's written, as how the writing is.
Most authors conceal the egoistic aspect of the business under the nom
de plumes of their characters.
But exactly as every man is all that he thinks and does--and dreams,
too--so is an author all he writes.
A mystery writer is a murderer in his head and he sets down his gory
lore for an audience of murderers.
What does that make you, Wylie? You first-person author!
Did I use it to take the blame and the guilt--to take the
responsibility--and to tear down the artifice of the third person?
And was it true (as I felt) that, since my purpose was to turn the
thoughts of better authors into a vernacular more popular than their
own, my I was the mere agent--and not the excreted vanity which it
so constantly deplored? Or was the whole affair a secret exercise in
look-ma-I'm-dancing?
God knows, some part of it had to be.