That’s cheesy,” he said. “I’m sorry.” “No,” I said. “No. Don’t apologize.”
But it doesn’t end.” “Yeah,” I said. “Torture. I totally get it, like, I get that she died or whatever.”
“Right, I assume so,” I said. “And okay, fair enough, but there is this unwritten contract between author and reader
and I think not ending your book kind of violates that contract.”
“I don’t know,” I said, feeling defensive of Peter Van Houten. “That’s part of what I like about the book in some ways. It portrays death truthfully.
You die in the middle of your life, in the middle of a sentence.
But I do—God, I do really want to know what happens to everyone else. That’s what I asked him in my letters. But he, yeah, he never answers.
“Right. You said he is a recluse?” “Correct.” “Impossible to track down.” “Correct.”
Utterly unreachable,” Augustus said. “Unfortunately so,” I said.
“‘Dear Mr. Waters,’” he answered. “‘I am writing to thank you for your electronic correspondence, received via Ms. Vliegenthart this sixth of April,
from the United States of America, insofar as geography can be said to exist in our triumphantly digitized contemporaneity.’”
Augustus, what the hell?” “He has an assistant,” Augustus said. “Lidewij Vliegenthart. I found her. I emailed her.
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