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the fl oor. Herm could have made a good living writing
penny dreadfuls, but he was after more than a living. He
was about that elusive dream of literature as apotheosis.
He was himself pursuing a white whale of artistic vision.
God love him.
By the way, that term mere fiction comes from an essay
by the late John Gardner, the noted novelist, teacher and
essayist. I like the term, because there is too little time
for anyone to be settling for mere fi ction.
While heeding the profit of my counsel, avail
yourself also of any helpful circumstances over
and beyond the ordinary rules.
—Sun Tzu
So I was roundly castigated in the group for daring
to enjoy Moby-Dick. This went on for some time.
I had to laugh, then, when a couple of days after
what I now call “The Great Moby Dustup,” I picked up
my copy of ’Salem’s Lot by Stephen King. I’d read it years
ago, but my son got me the new, illustrated hardback
edition for Christmas. And it had a new introduction
by the author.
At this point in his career, King was still an unpub-
lished novelist. Carrie had yet to come out. But he had
this vision for a vampire book that was breathtaking in
its grandiosity, especially for a twenty-three-year-old
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