Elsbeth

"His student

"in the short skirt... couldn't remember her name...

"appeared during office hours

"that afternoon.

"'You looked up my skirt, ' she said.

"'What are we gonna do about it?'

"How dare she?

"He was a distinguished member of the faculty,

"for God's sakes.

"And this Lisa... yes, that's it...

"would not be satisfied until he was...

"...dismembered.

"How had he arrived here,

"from walking home from school

"to his mother's embrace

"and a tuna fish sandwich

"on perfectly toasted toast...

"...to this horror?

"Well, of course

"he had looked up her skirt.

"But, you know, was that a choice?

"In that moment, he knew

"she had complete power over him.

"And he knew that he was,

"maddeningly,

"absurdly...

...in love with her."

Sixteen books

in 18 years.

Well, that includes, uh, a collection of my essays.

Oh, such modesty.

A new novel by Elliott Pope is a major event,

especially in our mutual hometown

of Massapequa, which has featured prominently

in many of your books.

I'm sure that's just a coincidence.

You ever go back?

Only in my work.

Well, everyone there is very proud,

even if they're afraid that you're going to write

your next "metafiction roman à clef" about them.

You know, I never write about anyone in particular.

I write what I write.

And it has worked out for you.

After those early, smutty bestsellers,

you have become an institution,

winning prizes and raves from everyone

except me,

but that is because I have recused myself.

I don't read reviews, Barney, but it is nice to know

that if I did,

I wouldn't even have the option to read yours.

Well, that's probably for the best.

Back through here.

My God.

I know, it's gotten out of hand,

but I know where everything is.

Oh, hey, would you like to sign some books?

- I'm not in the mood. - Ah.

Oh. Is that a rat?

Oh, Templeton.

Smart little guy, can't catch him.

Bev keeps threatening to call the health department.

Hey, tonight was great.

It was an honor just being on

that stage with you.

Then, um,

why did you have to spew all that, uh,

"metafiction roman à clef" garbage?

It diminishes my work. It's saying,

uh, I don't make things up.

Don't be so touchy.

What's wrong... is the writing not going well?

- Uh... - What are you working on?

That's none of your business.

Oh, come on. Are you stuck?

You know, I could be helpful. I'm not a total idiot.

Barney, you're a critic.

Who doesn't review your books.

Let me read what you're working on. Please, as a fan.

- It's not ready. - Well, maybe not for the world,

but for me?

Come on. It would give me so much joy.

To be the first person to read a new Elliott Pope?

Wow.

You're laying it on a little thick.

It's true. Elliott,

I'm begging you.

It would mean so much that you trusted me.

Well... it's still in longhand.

So, if you lose the manuscript,

I will kill you.

Edgar Bishop walked up Madison,

past the fresh-faced girls

leaving the Dalton School, as was his habit.

His thoughts kept returning to the little man in the bookstore.

Two months and still not a word.

Not one word.

Oh, uh...

Let me get you a bag.

There you go.

Thank you.

Yes, I'm sure they'll just fly off the shelves

- when they're arranged like this. - Yeah.

I'm glad you're here. I want to show you something.

I took this out of my

safe deposit box today.

I have to sell it to

cover some debt.

Rent went up again.

This is tough stuff for Forster.

Not effeminate like the others.

That's a first edition Howards End

from Henry James' private library.

Well, we think so.

The proof is iffy.

Let me get you a drink.

I hate to part with it, but if I don't,

I'll have to let Bev in on the state of our finances.

Oh.

Oh, uh, yeah, I, uh,

sensed some awkwardness,

and I assume it's because

I... I never called you

about your manuscript.

I read it.

I mean, how much do you want me to say?

I don't want you to say anything.

I didn't even want you to read it in the first place.

Y... I don't care

what you think at all.

Oh, thank you. Thank you.

Why are you thanking me?

For not making me give you my notes.

I'm so tired of the sound of

my own voice, pompously pointing out

flaws in people's work.

Flaws. What...

Come on. What flaws?

I thought you didn't want to know.

Okay, well, now I'm interested, so go ahead.

- Come on, tell me. - You sure?

W... Well, uh,

where to start?

Uh, you know, it's just another

sad, masturbatory exercise,

steeped in misogyny

and casual cruelty. Once again,

you have strip-mined the lives

of the good people of Massapequa...

I recognized every one of them...

for filthy lucre.

And all but your sainted mother

and her tuna sandwiches

are subjected to your snide disapproval.

Honestly, every

impeccably-crafted sentence

made me want to vomit.

Hmm.

Well...

thank you, Barney.

I value your opinion.

The way I would

value the opinion

of a loser want-to-be

of no literary importance.

A man who sells and criticizes

books he wished he had written,

but all the while knowing he is incapable

of holding anyone's interest

because his life, like his mind,

is completely worthless.

- Ah... - Maybe so,

my old friend,

- maybe so. - I'm sorry. You know,

it's-it's the people who know us best

whose bad opinions hurt the most, so forgive me.

Oh, I deserve every bit of it.

Oh...

You still want me to sign some books?

Of course.

Oh!

Elliott!

Elliott, please.

Help. Help.

Elliott,

doesn't our friendship mean anything to you?

How much do you want me to say?

No!

No, no, no!

No, Elliott.

"Edgar Bishop knew

"his life wouldn't change much

"after the death of his friend.

"Was that even the word?

"Acquaintance? More like

"a mirror.

"For Marty Roper could always show him

"who he really was.

He would miss the son of a bitch."