"George R. R. Martin - Portraits of His Children" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R R)

Cissy.

He hung her portrait next to Dunnahoo.

Dead Flowers was Cantling's title for the book. His editor changed it to Black Roses; more evocative,
he said, more romantic, more upbeat. Cantling fought the change on artistic grounds, and lost.
Afterwards, when the novel made the bestseller lists, he managed to work up the grace to admit that he'd
been wrong. He sent Brian a bottle of his favorite wine.

It was his fourth novel, and his last chance. Hangin' Out had gotten excellent reviews and had sold
decently, but his next two books had been panned by the critics and ignored by the readers. He had to
do something different, and he did. Black Roses turned out to be highly controversial. Some reviewers
loved it, some loathed it. But it sold and sold and sold, and the paperback sale and the film option (they
never made the movie) relieved him of financial worries for the first time in his life. They were finally able
to afford a down payment on a house, transfer Michelle to a private school and get her those braces; the
rest of the money Cantling invested as shrewdly as he was able. He was proud of Black Roses and
pleased by its success. It made his reputation.

Helen hated the book with a passion. On the day the novel finally fell off the last of the lists, she couldn't
quite conceal her satisfaction. "I knew it wouldn't last forever," she said.

Cantling slapped down the newspaper angrily. "It lasted long enough. What the hell's wrong with you?
You didn't like it before, when we were barely scraping by. The kid needs braces, the kid needs a better
school, the kid shouldn't have to eat goddamn peanut butter and jelly sandwiches every day. Well, that's
all behind us. And you're more pissed off than ever. Give me a little credit. Did you like being married to
a failure?"

"I don't like being married to a pornographer," Helen snapped at him.

"Fuck you," Cantling said.
She gave him a nasty smile. "When? You haven't touched me in weeks. You'd rather be fucking your
Cissy." Cantling stared at her. "Are you crazy, or what? She's a character in a book I wrote. That's all."

"Oh, go to hell," Helen said furiously. "You treat me like I'm a goddamned idiot. You think I can't read?
You think I don't know? I read your shitty book. I'm not stupid. The wife, Marsha, dull ignorant boring
Marsha, cud-chewing mousy Marsha, that cow, that nag, that royal pain-in-the-ass, that's me. You think
I can't tell? I can tell, and so can my friends. They're all very sorry for me. You love me as much as
Richardson loved Marsha. Cissy's just a character, right, like hell, like bloody hell." She was crying now.
"You're in love with her, damn you. She's your own little wet dream. If she walked in the door right now
you'd dump me as fast as Richardson dumps good old Marsha. Deny it. Go on, deny it, I dare you!"

Cantling regarded his wife incredulously. "I don't believe you. You're jealous of a character in my book.
You're jealous of someone who doesn't exist."

"She exists in your head, and that's the only place that matters with you. Of course your damned book
was a big seller. You think it was because of your writing? It was on account of the sex, on account of
her!"

"Sex is an important part of life," Cantling said defensively. "It's a perfectly legitimate subject for art. You