Quote:“The Stones of Summer,” Dow Mossman: If 20th-century America produced a book of “Moby Dick” stature, it’s probably this one… but don’t let that stop you, or even slow you down. All I mean is that like Melville’s fish story, this is one whale of a tale that has somehow found an audience in spite of mind-boggling hurdles, including going out of print (Bobbs-Merrill quit doing fiction not long after it published “The Stones of Summer” in 1972) and only a smattering of reviews. Nor was the author exactly up to a PR tour; when his only book was published, Mossman was still recovering from a nervous breakdown he suffered after finishing his 10-year labor of love/hate.

The novel is difficult to get into — the first 30 pages read like an extended set of Bob Dylan liner notes from 1965. But then pure narration takes over, and readers are treated to a magical mystery tour of adolescent life in America’s heartland during the ’60s. Because Mossman is a poet as well as a crack storyteller, the result is both lyrical and gripping: Think Jim Morrison crossed with J.D. Salinger. Oh, and sometimes it’s fall-on-the-floor funny, too.

Once you’ve read the book — which takes some doing — treat yourself to Mark Moskowitz’s documentary “Stone Reader,” which played a pivotal role in bringing this forgotten book back into the cultural mainstream. Reader (available on DVD) chronicles Moskowitz’s search for Mossman, who dropped from view 30 years ago. It’s also a love sonnet to books and reading.

— Stephen King on books he recommends

   

Quote:An hour later he roused himself, washed in the stream, and dressed. Soon he was riding along the deserted highway toward Venice. In the distant flat fields of the Veneto under the pale blue sky little dark figures were already toiling away, scraping their meager living from the land, hauling nets from the strands of the Po. To think that he might have been doing just that in flat, featureless East Anglia filled Eric Random with sickened contempt. There was more to life than that, he was sure. He had not found it yet, but at least the restless search was exciting. He did not mind that his many boys left no lasting impression on him; the constant need for more kept him too busy to worry. Neither did he care that his warrior’s profession was so destructive, after all only fools thought anything could be built to be secure and lasting in this evil mortal coil. Life was an adventure, fleeting and always new. One had to grasp it as it came, and when one became old—but he never ventured to imagine old age… Eric Random never expected to make old bones in his profession.
A hundred yards ahead on the dusty road he spied a carriage, stationary and surrounded by horses and dismounted riders. They seemed to be having trouble with the vehicle, perhaps a broken axle. In spite of the numbers, they appeared to pose no threat in their evident distress and he decided to ask if they needed aid. Carriages usually meant wealthy worthies, and at this point on the road Venice had to be their only destination. They might prove a useful contact in his search for employment.
As Eric drew near he made out four lightly armed men, little more than set dressing, garbed in yellow and black livery, helping two sturdy servants from the same household who were working on one of the wheels. The carriage was of heavy build, its wooden frame ostentatiously trimmed with red leather panels and brass studs. Strong as the four horses between its traces looked, they would no doubt need to rest every five miles pulling such a ponderous weight. By the cut of their apparel, the carriage’s two passengers stood in the shade of a withered tree, one thin and toady looking, the other mean and square jawed, both obviously annoyed at the delay.
With them, though slightly apart, stood a boy who couldn’t own more than eighteen years. He was slim and blond, and poorly dressed.
A gentle pull on Duke’s reins and the horse came to a halt as Eric offered assistance. The square-jawed fellow just managed a hint of politeness in his gruff refusal. But Eric had no time to get angry at the discourteous response. It was the boy who attracted his attention. And the lad looked back as intently. For several heartbeats Eric became lost in that penetrating gaze. Dizziness almost overcame him. He didn’t really take in any of the youth’s features, all he could see were the eyes in his perfectly formed face. Blue, limpid, beautiful. They engulfed him.
With a start, and before he had realized, Eric spurred on his horse and rode off with the fleeting sensation that he had not been in control. Normally he could outstare any man or boy, so why had he ridden off so quickly? He still felt the eyes burning through his mind. Odd. He thought he’d felt a pang of intense sadness emanating from the cerulean orbs that penetrated to his very soul.
The gelding’s slight stumble on a jutting stone in the track brought Eric back to himself from the strange, dreamlike world he’d inhabited for… how long? Within a dozen heartbeats Eric Random had no recollection of these thoughts. He was back to his usual self, anticipating Venice, money, and new boys to lay.

   

Quote:“I tried a Budweiser once.”

“Like it?”

“Nope, not much. It had a sting in its tail. This is nicer.”

“And a hell of a lot stronger, so let’s go easy, hey?”

Zeke was suspicious of Harry’s bubbly mood. The Ames Brothers’ song communicated both happiness and, for his sudden pining to be back in Jimmy’s company, sadness.

You, you, you

There’s no one like you, you, you

You could make my dreams come true

If you say you love me too.

The agent’s next words made for an instant transformation.

“I had a call from Karl Flemyng.”

The name rang no bells, but Zeke was touched at the boyish enthusiasm radiating from Harry. He looked like he was bursting to tell, and had held back to make the news all the tastier.

“Producer on Guns in the Badlands? He, Lew Collins, and Buck reviewed the dailies and were so impressed with your scene and subsequent shots, they decided to make some script changes to expand your role.”

His heart stilled and for a moment he thought the floor had tilted. “Wow…” When his heartbeat restarted he put the cocktail down and steadied himself against the bar top, speechless.

“Yeah, wow. You’re to report to the studio first thing Monday morning!”

Millson closed in, picked up Zeke’s Gibson and put it back into his hand before fondling his crotch in congratulations. In his astonishment, Zeke only grinned idiotically and made no attempt to move away from Millson’s touch.

Do, do, do

What you oughta do, do, do

Take me in you arms, please do

Let me cling to you, you, you

You could make my dreams come true

If you say you love me too.

Things might have taken a steamier turn if at that moment a whirlwind had not burst through the door above and a hunky crewcut, blond guy splatted bare-footed down the steps, apparently showerfresh and wearing nothing but a towel about his waist.

“Gee that was—“ He skidded to a stop on rounding the base of the steps. “Oh, I didn’t…”

Zeke pulled hastily away from Millson’s grasp. The blocky newcomer blushed becomingly and instinctively tightened his grip on the towel, which went a long way to tightening up the definition of his muscular body and emphasized the outline of his cock and balls.

“Joey, meet Zeke Candy. Zeke, this near-naked bucko is Joey.”

“Er, hi,” Joey said uncertainly. Awkwardly, he switched hand grips on the towel to shake Zeke’s hand in a damp grip.

“Hiya.” Zeke turned back to Millson with a questioning look.

“Joey’s fresh in town.” He gave Zeke a sly, conspiratorial wink. “He wants to be in pictures, don’t you, Joey, and he does show promise.” Millson smiled encouragingly; the one Zeke had seen before while riding in the Riviera, the one that matched the Buick’s grill, only wider and more shark-like.

More blushes bloomed on the object of the agent’s attention.

“Joey, why don’t you go and put some clothes on. I think a slap-up meal is in order for the two of you.

“I ran into him at Union Station. You’d be amazed how many Hollywood hopefuls roll into town on the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railway. He’d just gotten off the Super Chief service from Chicago, though from what I gathered on the drive over Joey Kowalski comes from Milwaukee.”

“Kowalski?” The face Zeke pulled wasn’t entirely down to the sour taste of his Gibson.

Millson gave vent to another of his short, barking laughs. “Oh sure! That’s gotta change. But I don’t expect Joey to be difficult about that. I get the impression that he’s very willing to be led in all things.” He seemed to switch subjects abruptly. “I get the idea that you got real talent, Zekey-baby, so I suppose we’ll just have to work with that.”

Sounds like a disadvantage…

“While Joey… well, he’s the build of a small version of Buck Hanson, or a Tab Hunter when he started out. Very buff. The ladies will adore him when he gets half his clothes off in a scene. That’s if he can hold a line to begin with. But I’ll bet my last dollar there are many producers and tail-shakers out there will go a bundle on that bod of his, so if he’s not so good at the lines I’m sure he’ll be able to sleep his way to the top… well, some way up, anyway.”