When I was twenty-six, my first novel, The Temple of Gold, was published by Alfred A. Knopf. (Which is now part of Random House which is now part of R.C.A. which is just part of what's wrong with publishing in America today which is not part of this story.)
The more I flipped on, the more I knew: Morgenstern wasn't writing any children's book; he was writing a kind of satiric history of his country and the decline of the monarchy in Western civilization.
But my father only read me the action stuff, the good parts. He never bothered with the serious side at all.
I know I don't expect this to change anybody else's life the way it altered mine.
[...]
Anyway, here's the “good parts” version. S. Morgenstern wrote it. And my father read it to me. And now I give it to you. What you do with it will be of more than passing interest to us all.
Either Morgenstern meant them seriously or he didn't. Or maybe he meant some of them seriously and some others he didn't. But he never said which were the seriously ones. Or maybe it was just the author's way of telling the reader stylistically that 'this isn't real; it never happened.' That's what I think, in spite of the fact that if you read back into Florinese history, it did happen. The facts, anyway; no one can say about the actual motivations. All I can suggest to you is, if the parentheses bug you, don't read them.
When this version comes out, I expect every Florinese scholar alive to slaughter me. (Columbia University has not only the leading Florinese experts in America, but also direct ties to the New York Times Book Review. I can't help that, and I only hope they understand my intentions here are in no way meant to be destructive of Morgenstern's vision.)
“I just feel better when I know what's going on, that's all,” the Turk mumbled. “People are always thinking I'm so stupid because I'm big and strong and sometimes drool a little when I get excited.”
“The reason people think you're so stupid,” the Sicilian said, “is because you are so stupid. It has nothing to do with your drooling.”
“I can feel him,” Fezzik said. “His body weight on the rope.”
“He'll never catch up!” the Sicilian cried. “Inconceivable!”
“You keep using that word!” the Spaniard snapped. “I don't think it means what you think it does.”
Inigo lay flat, staring down, trying to pierce the moonlight and find the climber's secret. For a long while, Inigo did not move. He was a good learner, but not a particularly fast one, so he had to study.
He might also have whispered heavable thievable weavable but that was as far as he got before the Sicilian started talking again, and that always meant he had to pay very strict attention. Nothing angered the hunchback as quickly as catching Fezzik thinking. Since he barely imagined someone like Fezzik capable of thought, he never asked what was on his mind, because he couldn't have cared less.
This was just like any other hunt. He made himself think about the quarry. It did not matter if you were after an antelope or a bride-to-be; the procedures held. You gathered evidence. Then you acted. You studied, then you performed. If you studied too little, the chances were strong that your actions would also be too late.
If you're going to abridge a book in the author's own words, you can't go around sticking your own in. That was Hiram's point, and we really went round and round [...] But I got Hiram to agree that Harcourt would at least print up my scene [...] So please, if you have the least interest at all or even if you don't, write in for my reunion scene. You don't have to read it—I'm not asking that—but I would love to cost these publishing geniuses a few dollars, because, let's face it, they're not spending much on advertising my books.
It's one of my biggest memories of my father reading. I had pneumonia, remember, but I was a little better now, and madly caught up in the book, and one thing you know when you're ten is that, no matter what, there's gonna be a happy ending. They can sweat all they want to scare you, the authors, but back of it all you know, you just have no doubt, that in the long run justice is going to win out.
And that's what I think this book's about. All those Columbia experts can spiel all they want about the delicious satire; they're crazy. This book says 'life isn't fair' and I'm telling you, one and all, you better believe it.
“I'm very interested in pain,” the Count said, “as I'm sure you've gathered these past months. In an intellectual way, actually. I've written, of course, for the more learned journals on the subject. Articles mostly. At the present I'm engaged in writing a book. My book. The book, I hope. The definitive work on pain, at least as we know it now.”
“I understand everything,” he said.
“You understand nothing, but it really doesn't matter, since what you mean is, you're glad to see me, just as I'm glad to see you because no more loneliness.”
“That's what I mean,” said Fezzik.
“Westley dies,” my father said.
I said, “What do you mean, ‘Westley dies’? You mean dies?”
My father nodded. “Prince Humperdinck kills him.”
“He's only faking thought, right?”
My father shook his head, closed the book all the way.
“Aw shit” I said and I started to cry.
“I'm sorry,” my father said. “I'll leave you alone,” and he left.
“Who gets Humperdinck?” I screamed after him.
He stopped in the hall. “I don't understand.”
“Who kills Prince Humperdinck? At the end, somebody's got to get him. Is it Fezzik? Who?”
“Nobody kills him. He lives.”
“You mean he wins, Daddy? Jesus, what did you read me this thing for?”
“Down is our direction, Fezzik, but I can tell you're a bit edgy about all this, so, out of the goodness of my heart, I will let you walk down not behind me, and not in front of me, but right next to me, on the same step, stride for stride, and you put an arm around my shoulder, because that will probably make you feel better, and I, so as to not make you feel foolish, will put an arm around your shoulder, and thus, safe, protected, together, we will descend.”
“I wish I could remember what it was like when I was dead,” the man in black said. “I'd write it all down. I could make a fortune on a book like that. I can't move my legs either.”
“Fezzik, I need you,” Inigo screamed.
“I'll only be a minute,” Fezzik said, because there were some things you did, no matter what, and when a friend needed help, you helped him.
I felt all this, exciting and moving as a lot of it is, to be off the spine of the story. I went with true love and high adventure and I think I was right to do that. And I think the results have proved that. Morgenstern never had any audience for his book—except in Florin, of course. I brought it to people everywhere and, with the movie, to a wider audience still. So, sure, I abridged it.
But, I'm sorry, I shaped it. I also brought it to life. I don't know what you want to call that, but whatever I did, it's sure something.
We've traveled a long way, you and I, from when Buttercup was only among the twenty most beautiful women on earth (because of her potential), riding Horse and taunting the Farm Boy, and Inigo and Fezzik were brought in to kill her. You've written letters, kept in touch, you'll never know how much I appreciate that. I was on the beach at Malibu once, years back, and I saw this young guy with his arm around his girl and they were both wearing T-shirts that said WESTLEY NEVER DIES.
Loved that.
