The Great American Novel Read Free

waste words with w’s in them, fans. And likewise through the alphabet.
    The alphabet! That dear old friend! Is there a one of the Big Twenty-Six that does not carry with it a thousand keen memories for an archaic and humorous, outmoded and out-dated and oblivion-bound sports-scribe like me? To hell with the waste! Tomorrow’s a holiday anyway—Election Day at the Hall of F. Off to Cooperstown to try yet again. My heart may give out by nightfall, but then a’ course the fingers will get their rest, won’t they? So what do you say, fans, a trip with Smitty down Memory Lane?
    aA
    bB
    cC
    dD
    eE
    fF
    gG
    hH
    iI
    jJ
    kK
    lL
    mM
    nN
    oO
    pP
    qQ
    rR
    sS
    tT
    uU
    vV
    wW
    xX
    yY
    zZ
    O thank God there are only twenty-six! Imagine a hundred! Why, it is already like drowning to go beyond capital F! G as in Gofannon! M as in Mundy! P as in Patriot! And what about I as in I? O for those golden days of mine and yore! O why must there be d for deceased! Deceit, defeat, decay, deterioration, bad enough—but d as in dead? It’s too damn tragic, this dying business! I tell you, I’d go without daiquiris, daisies, damsels, Danish, deck chairs, Decoration Day double-headers, decorum, delicatessen, Demerol, democratic processes, deodorants, Derbys, desire, desserts, dial telephones, dictionaries, dignity, discounts, disinfectants, distilleries, ditto marks, doubletalk, dreams, drive-ins, dry cleaning, duck an montmorency, a dwelling I could call my own—why, I would go without daylight, if only I did not have to die. O fans, it is so horrible just being defunct, imagine, as I do, day in and day out
    D  E  A  T  H
    Ten days have elapsed, four in an oxygen tent, where I awoke from unconsciousness believing I was a premature infant again. Not only a whole life ahead of me, but two months thrown in for good measure! I imagined momentarily that it was four score and seven years ago, that I had just been brought forth from my mother; but no—instead of being a premature babe I am practically a posthumous unpublished novelist, ten days of my remaining God only knows how few gone, and not a word written.
    And worse, our philistine physician has issued an injunction: give up alliteration if you want to live to be four score and eight.
    â€œSmitty, it’s as simple as this—you cannot continue to write like a boy and expect to get away with it.”
    â€œBut it’s all I’ve got left! I refuse!”
    â€œCome now, no tears. It’s not the end of the world. You still have your lists, after all, you still have your balance—”
    Between sobs I say, “But you don’t understand! Alliteration is at the foundation of English literature. Any primer will tell you that much. It goes back to the very beginnings of written language. I’ve made a study of it—it’s true! There would have been no poetry without it! No human speech as we know it!”
    â€œWell, they don’t teach us the fundamentals of poetry in medical school, I admit, but they do manage to get something through our heads having to do with the care of the sick and the aged. Alliteration may be very pretty to the ear, and fun to use, I’m sure, but it is simply too much of a stimulant and a strain for an eighty-seven-year-old man, and you are going to have either to control yourself, or take the consequences. Now blow your nose—”
    â€œBut I can’t give it up! No one can! Not even you, who is a literary ignoramus by his own admission. ‘Stimulant and strain.’ ‘To control yourself or take the consequences.’ Don’t you see, if it’s in every other sentence even you utter, how can I possibly abstain? You’ve got to take away something else!”
    The doctor looks at me as if to say, “Gladly, only what else is left?” Yes, it is my last real pleasure, he is right …
    â€œSmitty, it’s simply a matter of not being