Several weeks ago, when I posted my blog story about meeting
John Irving, my wife thought that Mr. Irving himself might enjoy story, and she
suggested that I send him a copy. So I mailed a hard copy with a two-sentence cover
letter to his agent in Vermont, and never expected a reply. Last week, I
received the following letter:
“Dear Mr. Weisel: My wife, who is also my literary agent,
showed me your letter to her of August 12, 2012, together with your account of
meeting me at the Boston Ritz-Carlton in ’78. I remember the snotty way the
dress code was enforced there. One of my children was not allowed to have
dinner because he was wearing white athletic socks. He was wearing a suit and
tie, but with white socks. I had to go out and buy him some dress socks on
Newbury Street. I enjoyed your account, and I’m glad I behaved myself. It is
nice to get a letter not asking me for anything; I enjoyed hearing from you.
Yours truly, John Irving.”
I’ve long thought that John Irving is one of the best
American novelists of the last 40 years. Now I also think that, even with the
success and fame that he has earned, he has somehow managed to remain very much
the same genuine, down-to-earth man whom I first met in 1978.
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