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

Richard Cantling moved slowly into the room, staring at the young man sprawled in his recliner. It was no
actor. It was Dunnahoo, the kid from his book, the face from the portrait. Cantling settled into a high,
overstuffed armchair, still staring. "This makes no sense," he said. "This is like something out of Dickens."

Dunnahoo laughed. "This ain't no fucking Christmas Carol, old man, and I sure ain't no ghost of
Christmas past."

Cantling frowned; whoever he was, that line was out of character. "That's wrong," he snapped.
"Dunnahoo didn't read Dickens. Batman and Robin, yes, but not Dickens."

"I saw the movie, Dad," Dunnahoo said. He raised the beer bottle to his lips and had a swallow.

"Why do you keep calling me Dad?" Cantling said. "That's wrong too. Anachronistic. Dunnahoo was a
street kid, not a beatnik."

"You're telling me? Like I don't know or something?" He laughed. "Shit man, what the hell else should I
call you?" He ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it back out of his eyes. "After all, I'm still your
fuckin' first-born."

She wanted to name it Edward, if it turned out to be a boy. "Don't be ridiculous, Helen," he told her.

"I thought you liked the name Edward," she said.

He didn't know what she was doing in his office anyway. He was working, or trying to work. He'd told
her never to come into his office when he was at the type-writer. When they were first married, Helen
was very good about that, but there had been no dealing with her since she'd gotten pregnant. "I do like
the name Edward," he told her, trying hard to keep his voice calm. He hated being interrupted. "I like the
name Edward a lot. I love the goddamned name Edward. That's why I'm using it for my protagonist.
Edward, that's his name. Edward Donohue. So we can't use it for the baby because I've already used it.
How many times do I have to explain that?"

"But you never call him Edward in the book," Helen protested.

Cantling frowned. "Have you been reading the book again? Damn it, Helen, I told you I don't want you
messing around with the manuscript until it's done."

She refused to be distracted. "You never call him Edward," she repeated.

"No," he said. "That's right. I never call him Edward. I call him Dunnahoo, because he's a street kid, and
because that's his street name, and he doesn't like to be called Edward. Only it's still his name, you see.
Edward is his name. He doesn't like it, but it's his fucking name, and at the end he tells someone that his
name is Edward, and that's real damned important. So we can't name the kid Edward, because he's
named Edward, and I'm tired of this discussion. If it's a boy, we can name it Lawrence, after my
grandfather."

"But I don't want to name him Lawrence," she whined. "It's so old-fashioned, and then people will call
him Larry, and I hate the name Larry. Why can't you call the character in your book Lawrence?"

"Because his name is Edward."