Mario Puzo - Fools die

Listen to me. I will tell you the truth about a mans life. I will tell you the truth about his love for women. That he never hates them. Already you think Im on the wrong track. Stay with me. Really-Im a master of magic.

Do you believe a man can truly love a woman and constantly betray her? Never mind physically, but betray her in his mind, in the very poetry of his soul. Well, its not easy, but men do it all the time.

Do you want to know how women can love you, feed you that love deliberately to poison your body and mind simply to destroy you? And out of passionate love choose not to love you anymore? And at the same time dizzy you with an idiots ecstasy? Impossible? Thats the easy part.

But dont run away. This is not a love story.

I will make you feel the painful beauty of a child, the animal hominess of the adolescent male, the yearning suicidal moodiness of the young female. And then (heres the hard part) show you how time turns man and woman around full circle, exchanged in body and soul.

And then of course there is TRUE LOVE. Dont go away! It exists or I will make it exist. Im not a master of magic for nothing. Is it worth what it cost? And how about sexual fidelity? Does it work? Is it love? Is it even human, that perverse passion to be with only one person? And if it doesnt work, do you still get a bonus for trying? Can it work both ways? Of course not, thats easy. And yet -

Life is a comical business, and there is nothing funnier than love traveling through time. But a true master of magic can make his audience laugh and cry at the same time. Death is another story. I will never make a joke about death. It is beyond my powers.

I am always alert for death. He doesnt fool me. I spot him right away. He loves to come in his country-bumpkin disguise; a comical wart that suddenly grows and grows; the dark, hairy mole that sends its roots to the very bone; or hiding behind a pretty little fever blush. Then suddenly that grinning skull appears to take the victim by surprise. But never me. Im waiting for him. I take my precautions.

Parallel to death, love is a tiresome, childish business, though men believe more in love than death. Women are another story. They have a powerful secret. They dont take love seriously and never have.

But again, dont go away. Again; this is not a love story. Forget about love. I will show you all the stretches of power. First the life of a poor struggling writer. Sensitive. Talented. Maybe even some genius. I will show you the artist getting the shit kicked out of him for the sake of his art. And why he so richly deserves it. Then I will show him as a cunning criminal and having the time of his life. Ah, what joy the true artist feels when he finally becomes a crook. Its out in the open now, his essential nature. No more kidding around about his honor. The son of a bitch is a hustler. A conniver. An enemy of society right out in the clear instead of hiding behind his whores cunt of art. What a relief. What pleasure. Such sly delight. And then how he becomes an honest man again. Its an awful strain being a crook.

But it helps you to accept society and forgive your fellow-man. Once thats done no person should be a crook unless he really needs the money.

Then on to one of the most amazing success stories in the history of literature. The intimate lives of the giants of our culture. One crazy bastard especially. The classy world. So now we have the poor struggling genius world, the crooked world and the classy literary world. All this laced with plenty of sex, some complicated ideas you wont be hit over the head with and may even find interesting. And finally onto a full-blast ending in Hollywood with our hero gobbling up all its rewards, money, fame, beautiful women. And dont go away-dont go away-how it all turns to ashes.

Thats not enough? Youve heard it all before? But remember Im a master of magic. I can bring all these people truly alive. I can show you what they truly think and feel. Youll weep for them, all of them, I promise you that. Or maybe just laugh. Anyway, were going to have a lot of fun. And learn something about life. Which is really no help.

Ah, I know what youre thinking. That conning bastard trying to make us turn the page. But wait, its only a tale I want to tell. Whats the harm? Even if I take it seriously, you dont have to. Just have a good time.

I want to tell you a story, I have no other vanity. I dont desire success or fame or money. But thats easy, most men, most women dont, not really. Even better, I dont want love. When I was young, some women told me they loved me for my long eyelashes. I accepted. Later it was for my wit. Then for my power and money. Then for my talent. Then for my mind-deep. OK, I can handle all of it. The only woman who scares me is the one who loves me for myself alone. I have plans for her. I have poisons and daggers and dark grave sin caves to hide her head. She cant be allowed to live. Especially if she is sexually faithful and never lies and always puts me ahead of everything and everyone.

There will be a lot about love in this book, but its not a love book. Its a war book. The old war between men who are true friends. The great new war between men and women. Sure its an old story, but its out in the open now. The Womens Liberation warriors think they have something new, but its just their armies coming out of their guerrilla hills. Sweet women ambushed men always: at their cradles, in the kitchen, the bedroom. And at the graves of their children, the best place not to hear a plea for mercy.

Ah, well, you think I have a grievance against women. But I never hated them. And theyll come out better people than men, youll see. But the truth is that only women have been able to make me unhappy, and they have done so from the cradle on. But most men can say that. And theres nothing to be done.

What a target Ive given here. I know-I know-how irresistible it seems. But be careful. Im a tricky storyteller, not just one of your vulnerable sensitive artists. Ive taken my precautions. Ive still got a few surprises left.

But enough. Let me get to work. Let me begin and let me end.

On the luckiest day of Jordan Hawleys life he betrayed his three best friends. But yet unknowing, he wandered through the dice pit of the huge gambling casino in the Hotel Xanadu, wondering what game to try next. Still early afternoon, he was a ten-thousand-dollar winner. But he was tired of the glittering red dice skittering across green felt.

He moved out of the pit, the purple carpet sinking beneath his feet, and moved toward the hissing wheel of a roulette table, pretty with red and black boxes, punishing green zero and double zero. He made some foolhardy bets, lost and moved into the blackjack pit.

The small horseshoe blackjack tables ran down in double rows. He walked between them like a captive through an Indian gauntlet. Blue-backed cards flashed on either side. He made it through safely and came to the huge glass doors that led out into the streets of the city of Las Vegas. From here he could see down the Strip sentineled by luxury hotels.

Under the blazing Nevada sun, a dozen Xanadus glittered with million-watt neon signs. The hotels seemed to be melting down into a steely golden haze, a reachable mirage. Jordan Hawley was trapped inside the air-conditioned casino with his winnings. It would be madness to go out to where only other casinos awaited him, with their strange unknown fortunes. Here he was a winner, and soon he would see his friends. Here he was shielded from the burning yellow desert.

Jordan Hawley turned away from the glass door and sat down at the nearest blackjack table. Black hundred-dollar chips, tiny cindered suns, rattled in his hands. He watched a dealer sliding cards from his freshly made shoe, the oblong wooden box that held the cards.