Without the enthusiasm of Jonathan Burnham of Talk Miramax Books there would be a manuscript but no book; the extent of that debt speaks for itself.
I am grateful for permission to use copyright material from the following: The Biographical Dictionary of Film, by David Thomson, The Eskimo Book of Knowledge, by George Binney, by permission of the Hudson’s Bay Company; Theory of Harmony, by Arnold Schoenberg, translated by Roy E. Carter (English translation ©1983 Faber and Faber Ltd); interview with John Denver, Melody Maker 27/3/76, p. 11, © Chris Charlesworth/Melody Maker/IPC Syndication; Foundations of Aerodynamics: Bases of Aerodynamics Design, by Arnold M. Kuethe and Chuen-Yen Chow, ©1986, reprinted by permission of John W. Wiley & Sons, Inc.; Half Mile Down, by William Beebe (Bodley Head); The Films of Akira Kurosawa, by Donald Richie (University of California Press), ©1984 The Regents of the University of California; The Solid State, by H.M. Rosenberg (©1988 Oxford University Press) by permission of Oxford University Press; Gesenius’ Hebrew Grammar edited and enlarged by E. Kautzsch, second English edition by A.E. Cowley (1910), by permission of Oxford University Press; Njal’s Saga (extracts from pages 244-246), translated by Magnus Magnusson and Herman Pálsson (London, 1960) © 1960 Magnus Magnusson and Herman Pálsson, reproduced by permission of Penguin Books Ltd. I would like to thank Kurosawa Production K. K. for permission to reprint material from the screenplay Seven Samurai (Shichinin no Samurai).
Prologue
My father’s father was a Methodist minister. He was a tall, handsome, noble-looking man; he had a deep, beautiful voice. My father was an ardent atheist and admirer of Clarence Darrow. He skipped grades the way other boys skip class, he lectured my grandfather’s flock on carbon 14 and the origin of species, and he won a full scholarship to Harvard at the age of 15.
He took the letter from Harvard to his father.
Something looked through my grandfather’s beautiful eyes. Something spoke with his beautiful voice, and it said: It’s only fair to give the other side a chance.
My father said: What do you mean?
What it meant was that my father should not reject God for secularism just because he won arguments with uneducated people. He should go to a theological college and give the other side a fair chance; if he was still of the same mind at the end he would still be only 19, a perfectly good age to start college.
My father, being an atheist and a Darwinist, had a very delicate sense of honor, and he could not resist this appeal. He applied to various theological seminaries, and all but three rejected him out of hand because he was too young. Three asked him to come for an interview.
The first was a seminary with a fine reputation, and my father because of his youth was interviewed by the head.
The man said: You’re very young. Is it possible that you want to be a minister because of your father?
My father said he did not want to be a minister, but he wanted to give the other side a fair chance, and he explained about carbon 14.
The man said: The ministry is a vocation and the training we offer is designed for people who feel called to it. I doubt very much that you would benefit from it.
He said: This offer from Harvard is a remarkable opportunity. Couldn’t you give the other side a fair chance by taking a course in theology? I believe the college started out, after all, as a College of Divinity, and I imagine they must still teach the subject.
The man smiled at my father kindly and he offered to give him a list of books to read if he would like to do any more in the way of giving the other side a fair chance. My father drove home (they were living in Sioux City at the time) and all the way he thought that this might give the other side a fair chance.
He spoke to his father. The point was made that one course in theology in a strongly secular environment would probably not make a very considerable impact, but all the same my father must decide for himself.
My father went to the second seminary, which had a good reputation. He was interviewed by the Dean.
The Dean asked him why he wanted to become a minister, and my father explained that he did not want to become a minister, and he explained about carbon 14.
The Dean said he respected my father’s intentions, but still there was something whimsical about it, and he pointed out that my father was very young. He recommended that my father go to Harvard first and then if he still wanted to give the other side a fair chance he would be delighted to consider his application.
My father returned to his father. The beautiful voice pointed out that a man with a degree from Harvard would find it hard to resist the temptation of going instantly into a career, but it said that of course my father must decide for himself.
My father drove to the third seminary, which was small and obscure. My father was interviewed by a Deputy Dean. It was a hot day, and though a small fan was blowing the Deputy Dean, a red fat man, was sweating hard. The Deputy Dean asked why my father wanted to be a minister and my father explained about the fair chance and about carbon 14.
The Deputy Dean said that the church paid the fees of the seminarians who planned to become ministers. He said that as my father did not plan to become a minister they would have to charge $1,500 a year.
My father returned to his father, who said that he supposed my father could earn $750 over the summer at one of the gas stations, and that he would then give him the rest.
So my father went to a theological college. When I say that he went to a theological college I mean that he enrolled at a theological college & went every Saturday to synagogue out of interest because there was no rule to say you couldn’t, and spent most of the rest of the time shooting pool at Helene’s, the only bar in town that would serve a 16-year-old.
He waited for my grandfather to ask how he was finding it, but my grandfather never asked.
At the synagogue my father met someone ten years older who ran the services and did most of the readings. He looked a lot like Buddy Holly, and in fact people called him Buddy (he preferred it to Werner). At first my father thought this was the rabbi, but the town was too small to support a rabbi: The services were run by local volunteers. Buddy had wanted to be an opera singer, but his father had insisted he train as an accountant, and he had come from Philadelphia to take up a job as an accountant. He too spent a lot of time shooting pool at Helene’s.
By the end of three years my father was very good at shooting pool. He had saved up about $500 from his winnings, and he played carelessly so as not to win too much or too often. He could beat everyone in the bar, but one night a stranger came in.
By some accident the stranger played everyone else first. He played with smooth, economical movements, and it was obvious he was in a different class from anyone my father had played so far. My father wanted to play him; Buddy kept trying to warn him off. He thought there was something not quite right about the stranger; either he would win more than my father could afford to lose, or he would lose and pull a gun. My father thought this was ridiculous, but then the stranger’s jacket rode up as he bent over and they saw a gun strapped to his waist.