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BOOKS BY HERMAN WOUK
NOVELS
Aurora Dawn
City Boy
The Caine Mutiny
Marjorie Morningstar
Youngblood Hawke
Dont Stop the Carnival
The Winds of War
War and Remembrance
Inside, Outside
The Hope
The Glory
A Hole in Texas
The Lawgiver
PLAYS
The Traitor
The Caine Mutiny Court-Martial
Natures Way
NONFICTON
This Is My God
The Will to Live On
The Language God Talks
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Copyright 2016 by Herman Wouk
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Simon & Schuster Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
First Simon & Schuster hardcover edition January 2016
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Interior design by Joy OMeara
Jacket design by Alison Forner
Author photo Stephanie Diani
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Wouk, Herman, 1915
Title: Sailor and fiddler : reflections of a 100-year-old author / Herman Wouk.
Description: New York : Simon & Schuster, 2016.
Identifier: LCCN 2015037994
Subjects: LCSH: Wouk, Herman, 1915 | Authors, American20th centuryBiography. | BISAC: BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Literary. | BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Military. | BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Religious. Classification: LCC PS3545.O98 Z46 2016 | DDC 813/.54dc23 LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015037994
ISBN 978-1-5011-2854-7
ISBN 978-1-5011-2856-1 (ebook)
The Wreck Of The Old 97
Words and Music by Henry Whitter, Charles Noell and Fred Lewey
Copyright 1939 Shapiro, Bernstein & Co., Inc., New York
Copyright Renewed
International Copyright Secured All Rights Reserved
Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard Corporation
To the memory of
David Mickey Marcus,
Colonel, United States Army,
volunteered and fell
in Israels War of Independence 1948,
interred in West Point Military Cemetery
Ilan Ramon,
fighter pilot,
Colonel, Israel Defense Forces,
volunteer astronaut,
United States Space Program,
killed in crash of space shuttle Columbia 2003
this book of my literary life and work
is humbly dedicated.
Herman Wouk
CONTENTS
AUTHORS NOTE
[Written in 2012]
Well they gave him his orders in Munroe, Virginia
Saying Steve, youre way behind time
Its not 38, this is Old 97
You must bring her to Spencer on time.
...
He was goin down the grade doing 90 miles an hour
When the whistle broke into a scream
He was found in the wreck with his hand on the throttle
He was scalded to death by the steam...
THE WRECK OF OLD 97
GENTLE READER, THAT RAILROAD folk tune is sure haunting your durable storyteller, aged ninety-seven.
When I passed my ninetieth milestone going hell-for-leather down the nonagenarian grade, I figured I had better cobble up what was left to write while I could. A short book called A Childs Garden of God waited its turn, a simple essay on faith and science, so I thought, and I took it on. Next thing I knew four years had whistled by, I had in hand two bank boxes crammed with thirty-odd work journals, and a slim book of 40,000 words, The Language God Talks. That is a phrase Richard Feynman tossed off when we first met, urging me to learn calculus (which I never did). Years later at the Aspen Institute in Colorado, he and I got into science and faith and much besides, in long rambles on the hiking paths. I thought of calling the book God and Dick Feynman, for it does turn on those colloquies; but the great physicist was talking with me, after all, not God, so I dropped that notion.
Well, next on my agenda down the steepening grade was The Lawgiver, a novel about Moses, just a few notes filed away for half a century; the impossible novel, I called it, because it seemed so far beyond my powers. At the moment, hot off the press, The Lawgiver lies on my desk, for ignoring the odds, I took heart and wrote it anyway. Good fortune attend it! I ventured out on the old game just for the love of it. Now theres Sailor and Fiddler to write, offering my view of this strange life from the vantage of ninety-seven years.
On Old 97 the air brakes failed unhappy Steve, hence the wreck. Lord grant that my air brakes hold while I get done all I can, roll into Spencer on time, and hand in my orders.
PART ONE
THE SAILOR
CHAPTER ONE
No Autobiography, and Why Not
YEARS AND YEARS AGO the late British philosopher Isaiah Berlin floored me by saying, You should write your autobiography.Why me? Im nobody.No, no, youve traveled, youve known many people, you have interesting ideas, it would do a lot of good.
I was meeting him at the Athenaeum Club in London on my way home from Auschwitz, where scenes of the War and Remembrance miniseries were being filmed. The poisoned cloud of the Chernobyl nuclear explosion still drifted over Eastern Europe, but the gargantuan American TV project, minus some fainthearted cast members, was soldiering on. I had started a new novel about Israels wars, and Sir Isaiah Berlin was a stalwart Zionist, hence my stopover in London. Our friendship had begun years earlier, when he came to our Georgetown home for a seder. He was delivering the Mellon lectures at the National Gallery of Art during the Passover, and I made bold to invite him to our holiday table. Breaking matzoh with a man is not a bad way to get to know him. We stayed in touch after that, and at this meeting he offered an astute prcis, as a British Jew and a world-class thinker, of Israels achievements and perils. He walked out of the Athenaeum with me, and there on Pall Mall he gave me his blessing on the book, and a parting grandfatherly kiss.
On the homeward flight I got to musing about the autobiography. Why not, after all? Biographies of writers were then much in fashion, confessional books by or about Jewish authors all shook up with angst. I was not one of those, and might that not be a piquant novelty? Soon after coming home I mentioned Sir Isaiahs idea to my wife, also my agent. She was on me like a cougar. Dear, she responded with a cold clear eye for a writers dodge, youre not that interesting a person. What is it that you dont want to write? I had read her my start on the Israel novel, and she had said, Youve got me interested, so I had pushed on, trying to bring to life an invented TV journalist assigned to cover Israel, so as to put American eyes into the story. The last I remember, this journalist was standing on his head in a room full of books, I no longer know why. My wife wanted to know more about the upside-down fellow, but I did not, he was a lifeless puppet. Now I told her as much. Well, then, says she with great good cheer, pull up your socks and start over. So I did. End of autobiography brain wave.
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