Finders Keepers (Bill Hodges Trilogy, #2)

by Stephen King

read dozens of critical essays on John Rothstein. Many of them judged Rothstein to be one of the greatest American writers of the twentieth century, right up there with Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Faulkner, and Roth. There were others—a minority, but a vocal one—who asserted that his work was second-rate and hollow. Pete had read a piece in Salon where the writer had called Rothstein “king of the wisecrack and the patron saint of fools.” King talking about himself.

Time mercilessly culls away the is-stupid from the not-stupid. It is a natural, Darwinian process. It is why the novels of Graham Greene are available in every good bookstore, and the novels of Somerset Maugham are not—those novels still exist, of course, but you must order them, and you would only do that if you knew about them. Most modern readers do not. Raise your hand if you have ever heard of Somerset Maugham. And I’ll spell that for you.” No hands went up. Mr. Ricker nodded. Rather grimly, it seemed to Pete. “Time has decreed that Mr. Greene is not-stupid while Mr. Maugham is… well, not exactly stupid but forgettable. He wrote some very fine novels, in my opinion—The Moon and Sixpence is remarkable, my young ladies and gentlemen, remarkable—and he also wrote a great deal of excellent short fiction, but none is included in your textbook.