Author: W. C. Heinz
Publisher:: Da Capo Press, 2001
Edition: Reprint
Format: Trade Paperback
Pages: 352 pages
Foreword by Elmore Leonard
The way I remember it, I read The Professional when it came out in January 1958, and for the first time in my life wrote to author to tell him how much I liked his book.
I must have taken months to work up the nerve, because the reply from Bill Heinz, which came within a few days, was dated October 11, 1958, my birthday. He wrote:
You are only the second person, outside my circle of friends and acquaintances, who has felt impelled to comment to me or the publisher about The Professional. The first was Ernest Hemingway, who cabled his compliments to Harper’s about six days after the book came out. You are a writer, however, and understand, as does, of course Papa, and that is what gives you letter added importance to me.
In my letter I told Bill that I’d bought the book or got it from the library - I’m not sure now which it was - after reading a review in Time. In his letter, Bill said it must have been Newsweek, because “Time blasted it and me.”
But I’m positive it was the Time review and still recall it being extremely unkind to both the work and Bill’s style.
I got hold of the review again recently to see why it prompted me to read the book. It appeared in the magazine’s February 13, 1958, issue and it was brutal: an opinion laden with showoff references - the British critic Cyral Connolly, for God’s sake - the reviewer pontificating on his belief that sportswriters should stick to sportswriting and not “tangle with the elusive opponent, literature.” It was acceptable, though, to wax literary in writing to review, despairing that “you cannot write novels about boxing without boxing gloves.” Read that again. I think he meant wearing the gloves when writing, but who knows? It belongs in that filler The New Yorker used to run called “Block That Metaphor.”
Reading the review I must have been thinking, The man doesn’t get it. He admits the story is a wonderful example of tough prose, but still doesn’t get it. He says. “It’s about the fight game, see.” Which is what reviewers do, end sentences with the word “see” to indicate that anyone can write tough prose. All you do is imagine Cagney, or Edward G. Robinson, talking out the side of their mouth.
Since there is no byline, I asked Bill recently if he knew who wrote the review. He said, “No, they used to shoot from the woods in those days.”
Perhaps the review irritated to the point where I had to read the book. I did, I ate it up, and told Bill as well as I could why I liked it.