Palm Sunday [antikvár]

INTRODUCTION This is a very great book by an American genius. I have worked so hard on this masterpiece for the past six years. I have groaned and banged my head on radiators. I have walked through every hotel lobby in New York, thinJk-ing about this book and weeping, and driving my fist into the guts of grandfather clocks. It is a marvellous new literary form. This book combines the tidal power of a major novel with the bone-rattling immediacy of front-line journalism - which is old stuff now, God knows, God knows. But I have also intertwined the flashy enthusiasms of musical theatre, the lethal left jab of the short story, the sachet of personal letters, the oompah of American history, and oratory in the bow-wow style. This book is so broad and deep that it reminds me of my brother Bernard's early experiments with radio. He built a transmitter of his own invention, and he hooked it up to a telegraph key, and he turned it on. He called up our cousin Richard, about two miles away, and he told Richard to listen to his radio, to tune it back and forth across the band, to see if he could pick up my brother's signals anywhere. They were both about fifteen. My brother tapped out an easily recognizable message, sending it again and again and again. It was 'SOS.' This was in Indianapolis, the world's largest city not on a navigable waterway. Cousin Richard telephoned back. He was thrilled. He said that Bernard's signals were loud and clear simply everywhere on the radio band, drowning out music or news or drama, or whatever the commercial stations were putting out at the time. ? ? * 13