Well, first of all, I'd like to say
that I'm really delighted to be here tonight
and equally delighted to be coming, as we say in New
Hampshire, out to Arizona.
Next fall--
[DISTORTED AUDIO]
And my reading experience, you'll find
is a little limited, because this is my first reading,
so I hope you'll bear with me through it.
Going Gently, is essentially the story of two men both of whom
are 67 years old, and both of whom
are dying of cancer in a small rural hospital on the sea
coast of New Hampshire.
For all intents and purposes, there's
absolutely no medicine in the book to speak of.
The action takes place--
almost I sound say 99% in the one room
that these two men share.
You can see what I was holding in my hand is
a perilously thin book.
I think you can see why it necessarily had to be small.
One of my purposes and I suspect the real purpose of the book,
was to show that as the world around these men
pretty much shuts them out and writes them all,
they come to have an increasing interdependence, one
upon the other.
The two men, one is Mr. Miller who is a college professor,
and the other is a man by the name
of Mr. Flood who is a semi-retired traveling
salesman.
Mr. Miller is also retired, as will become apparent
in the first scene I'm going to read.
The men don't like each other very much as you might
imagine from their backgrounds.
Also Mr. Flood has never been in a hospital before.
But Mr. Miller, the college English professor,
has had two previous cancer operations
and he knows well the ins and outs of both the disease,
and the hospital staff, and the routine.
The first thing I want to read concerns itself
with part of Mr. Flood's and Mr. Miller's first evening
together.
Mr. Miller knows obviously from what I
said that he does have cancer.
Mr. Flood has yet to be operated on
and he has yet to realize that he
doesn't have very long to live.
And I think you'll realize that their antipathy, one
towards the other, is immediately apparent.
"During their preoperative dinners,
the two men sat on the edges of their high hospital
beds locked in a kind of elderly stare down.
Had they been dressed and not in a hospital,
a first class bar room brawl would have
been a foregone conclusion.
But they sat immobile both only in gowns
that barely covered their groins,
their legs weak and veining hanging down towards the floor.
The color of Mr. Flood's face indicated
that he was fast approaching cardiac arrest,
while Mr. Miller's eyes kept sweeping Mr. Flood's body as
if he had just been offered a chance to buy it
at a wholly reasonable price.
So you're a salesman?
Mr. Miller said with contempt.
Only part-time, Mr. Flood answered
slowly feeling his way I'm semi-retired what do you sell?
Mr. Miller asked.
It don't make no difference, Mr. Flood said,
if you want something moved, I'll move it.
I've handled everything from notions,
to fiberglass, speedboats.
Bully for you, Mr. Miller said.
And he poured some whiskey into his cup of clear broth.
You work?
Mr. Flood asked.
No came the controlled response.
Two years ago I was retired by the teaching profession
to reflect upon 37 years of largely repeating myself--
do you drink?
Doctors orders, Mr. Flood said.
He flashed a baby soft palm in rejection.
There was a long pause between the two men
while Mr. Flood matched his saltines in his broth,
and Mr. Miller picked his cup from the tray
and drank the mixture that was now at least 90% whiskey.
Finally, he said to Mr. Flood, and what
do the wizards of the knife have in store for you?
I'm going to have an exploratory operation, Mr. Flood said.
Fun Mr. Miller said.
How do you know?
Mr. Flood said his voice firmer.
Without a word, Mr. Miller dropped his gown to the waist
to reveal two large crescent-shaped scars.
One was delish red and nearly healed,
the other was a curled purple rope,
the puckered suture wound surrounding it
like a perverse floral arrangement.
Tomorrow they are going to make it a triumvirate,
Mr. Miller said.
With visible effort he retimed the gown
at the back of his neck.
Jesus, damn, Mr. Flood Burke said his big eyes
stuck to Mr. Miller's gown.
I have cancer, Mr. Miller volunteered indifferently.
He patiently watched Mr. Flood shift uncomfortably
on the edge of his bed.
You got it bad?
Mr. Flood said as if he was spitting out pebbles.
I shall put it this way, Mr. Miller said
and he took his whiskey glass and drank from it.
I have no intention of succumbing to cirrhosis.
Jesus Mr. Flood said.
I have though what you might call the good kind of cancer,
Mr. Miller went right on.
If that is there's any such thing.
I've been told it's slowly spreading from organ to organ.
From the evenness of his voice, it
was obvious that he had said the same thing many times before.
Those signatures on my belly are from two abortive attempts
to find my primary tumor.
If they could get that, he went on
they say there's a chance they can radiate me,
but I'm afraid it all comes down to the simple fact
that I'm going to die.
Say now you shouldn't go thinking that way,
Mr. Flood said, a guy like you got to be positive.
You'll never get anywhere thinking like that.
Shut up Mr. Flood, you know nothing about it
Mr. Miller said.
What's wrong with you anyhow?
Mr. Flood said his eyes narrowing.
I'm afraid I don't follow Mr. Miller answered.
He was surprised by Mr. Flood's tongue.
You've been on my back ever since you came in here,
Mr. Flood said.
Obviously, we cannot avoid our room assignments, Mr.
Miller said.
You're about the most rudest guy I ever met,
Mr. Flood said flatly.
And apparently, you cannot distinguish between sarcasm
and irony, Mr. Miller said.
That's just the kind of crap I'm talking about,
don't you ever say nothing right out?
I mean, without all that professor lingo?
If you find my mode of expression irritating,
there's little I can do Mr. Miller said.
Listen Mr. Flood said the anger sliding from his voice,
if we got to share this room, we've got to try and get along.
I have spoken this way for my entire adult life,
Mr. Miller answered, and I shall continue
to do so for whatever is left of it.
I don't care how a guy says something,
it's what he's saying that counts,
Mr. Flood said, and I don't see nothing
behind anything you say.
And whose fault might that be?
Mr. Miller said.
I don't know, Mr. Flood said, maybe the both of us."