The story goes like this. There were two monks in the old country who once took vows of chastity and silence. Sometime later, a big flood came to the land and the monks happened upon a weeping woman trapped by the raging river. One monk unhesitatingly picked up the woman and carried her across a narrow footbridge to safety. She said, “Thank you, kind sir,” and the monk answered, “God bless you.”
Many years passed and the monks were old men and the order relaxed the vows a bit for monks who grew very old. So one day one monk said to the other, “I still remember that day you broke both your vows. You vowed not to speak and not to touch a woman, yet you picked that weeping woman up and carried her across the bridge. I can’t believe you carried her across that bridge.”
“I can’t believe,” said the other monk, “that you’re still carrying her.”
Every time I think of Zarah, I think of this story. Sometimes it works.
About the Author
What can you say about an author like Kinky Friedman? That he’s a columnist for Texas Monthly magazine? That he’s overfucked and overfed and never worked a day in his life? That he’s a descendent of Richard, the Ninth Earl of Buttwind? That he divides his time between Martha’s Vineyard and the gas chamber? Why do these pretentious bastards always divide their time anyway? There ain’t that much time left. One of these nights you might see Jesus doing a dog food commercial. But enough about Jesus. What can you say about an author like Kinky Friedman? He doesn’t divide his time. Doesn’t live in any city. Doesn’t have a wife. Doesn’t have two kids named Winston and Kool. Doesn’t have a job. Doesn’t have a hobby. Doesn’t wear underwear. He’s an extremely generous Indian giver. He’s one of the greatest living writers who ain’t dead.
Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank my editor, Chuck Adams. He’s a fine editor, a true author’s editor who works in the trenches with writers and manuscripts. He’s been with Simon & Schuster for fourteen years, ten of which I’ve had the privilege of working with him. Without a talented, loyal, experienced, dedicated editor like Chuck, no publishing house can hope to grow or be great. Because that’s where it all really starts, an editor finding a manuscript he believes in, shaping it, developing it, and guiding it through the often torturous publishing process.
Over the years Chuck has edited scores of notable authors including Joseph Heller, Mary Higgins Clark, Joe McGinniss, Sandra Brown, Barbara Delinsky, Susan Cheever, and James Lee Burke to name only a few.
Last December, in a supposed “corporate downsizing” move, the powers that be, perhaps in some distant boardroom, let Chuck Adams go, along with his gifted assistant Cheryl Weinstein. Many authors, editors, and agents seemed shocked and angry at this sudden turn of events, but it’s really not all that surprising. Corporate thinkers rarely have a notion of who made them what they are or how they got there in the first place. Geniuses like these put Mozart in the gutter, Van Gogh in the cornfield, and Rosa Parks in the back of the bus. Down through history they’ve turned their backs on everybody from Peter Rabbit to Jesus Christ. Why should anyone be surprised that they fired one of their very best?
Thank you, Chuck. I’m a better writer because of you.
The Prisoner of Vandam Street Page 17