The Plant

April 2, 1981

Dear God. Oh my dear God. I feel like someone who has dipped his fishing line into a little country brook and has managed to hook Moby Dick. I had actually dialed the first five digits of Roger Wade's number before realizing that it's two o'clock in the fucking morning. It'll have to wait, but I don't know how I can wait. I feel like I'm going to explode. Names and book-titles keep dancing through my head. The Naked and the Dead, by Norman Mailer. Raintree County, by Ross Lockridge. Peyton Place, by Grace Metalious. The Godfather, by Mario Puzo. The Exorcist, by William Peter Blatty. Jaws, by Peter Benchley. Different kinds of books, different kinds of writers, some good, some only competent, but all of them creating a kind of bottled lightning, stories that millions of people simply had to read. Saltworthy's Last Survivor fits very neatly into this group. No goddam doubt about it. I don't think I've found a Masterpiece, but I know I've found The Next Big Thing.

If we let this get away, I'll shoot myself.

No.

I'll walk into Riddley's closet and tell Zenith to strangle me.

My God, what an incredible book. What an incredible story.