The plant - By Stephen King Page 0,23
class and have practically put down roots in the library karel where I should be studying for a Transformational Grammar prelim. But to hell with Noam Chomsky and deep structure! And although you may not believe this either, each word of the letter you're reading has been like a lash across my heart.
If you want to talk to me, John-I'd understand if you didn't but you may-you could call me in a week... after you've had a chance to think all this over and get it into some kind of perspective. I am so used to your sweetness and charm and kindness, and so afraid you'll be angry and accusatory-but that is up to you and I'll just have to "take you as you are," I suppose. But you need that time to cool off and settle down, and I need some time, too. You should receive this on the eleventh. I'll be in my apartment from seven to nine-thirty on the nights of the eighteenth through the twenty-second, both expecting your call and dreading it. I won't want to speak to you before then, and I hope you understand-and I think maybe you will, you who were always the most understanding of men in spite of your constant self-deprecation.
One other thing-both Toby and I are in agreement about this: don't take it in your head to just suddenly jump on a plane and "wing your way into the golden west"-I wouldn't see you if you did. I'm not ready to see you face to face, John-my feelings are still too much in flux and my self-image too much in a state of transition. We will meet again, yes. And dare I say that I even hope you will come to our wedding? I must dare, as I see I have written it down!
Oh, John, I do love you, and I hope this letter has not caused you too much pain-I even hope God has been good and you may have found your own "somebody" in the last couple of weeks-in the meantime, please know that you will always (always!) be somebody to me.
My love,
Ruth
PS-And although it is trite, it is also true: I hope we can always be friends.
interoffice memo TO: Roger Wade FROM: John Kenton RE: Resignation
I've been a trifle formal here because this really is a letter of resignation, Roger, memo form or no. I'll be leaving at the end of the day-will, in fact, begin cleaning out my desk as soon as I've finished this. I'd rather not go into my reasonsthey are personal. I realize, of course, that leaving with no prior notice is very bad form. Should you choose to take the matter up with the Apex Corporation, I would be happy to pay a reasonable assessment. I'm sorry about this, Roger. I like and respect you a great deal, but this simply has to be.
From John Kenton's diary March 16, 1981
I haven't tried to keep a diary since I was eleven years old, when my Aunt Susan-dead lo these many years-gave me a small pocket diary for my birthday. It was just a cheap little thing; like Aunt Susan herself, now that I think about it. I kept that diary, off and on (mostly off) for almost three weeks. I might not get even that far this time, but it doesn't really matter. This was Roger's idea, and Roger's ideas are sometimes good.
I've junked the novel-oh, don't think I did anything melodramatic like casting it into the fire to commemorate the spontaneous combustion of My First Serious Love; I'm actually writing this first (and maybe last) entry in my diary on the backs of the manuscript pages. But junking a novel doesn't have anything to do with the actual pages, anyway; what's on the pages is just so much dead skin. The novel actually falls apart inside your head, it seems, like the parson's wonderful one-hoss shay. Maybe the only good thing about Ruth's cataclysmic letter is that it's put paid to my grandiose literary aspirations. Maymonth, by John Edward Kenton, sucked that fabled hairy bird.
Does one need to begin a diary with background information? This was not a question which crossed my mind when I was eleven-at least not that I recall. And in spite of the great shitload of English courses I've taken in my time, I don't recall ever attending one which covered the Protocol of Journals. Footnotes, synopses, outlines, the proper placement of modifiers, the correct form of the