Westley/Farm Boy/The Man in Black Character Analysis

When I was twenty-six, my first novel, The Temple of Gold, was published by Alfred A. Knopf. (Which is now part of Random House which is now part of R.C.A. which is just part of what's wrong with publishing in America today which is not part of this story.)

“I can feel him,” Fezzik said. “His body weight on the rope.”

“He'll never catch up!” the Sicilian cried. “Inconceivable!”

“You keep using that word!” the Spaniard snapped. “I don't think it means what you think it does.”

Inigo lay flat, staring down, trying to pierce the moonlight and find the climber's secret. For a long while, Inigo did not move. He was a good learner, but not a particularly fast one, so he had to study.

If you're going to abridge a book in the author's own words, you can't go around sticking your own in. That was Hiram's point, and we really went round and round [...] But I got Hiram to agree that Harcourt would at least print up my scene [...] So please, if you have the least interest at all or even if you don't, write in for my reunion scene. You don't have to read it—I'm not asking that—but I would love to cost these publishing geniuses a few dollars, because, let's face it, they're not spending much on advertising my books.

It's one of my biggest memories of my father reading. I had pneumonia, remember, but I was a little better now, and madly caught up in the book, and one thing you know when you're ten is that, no matter what, there's gonna be a happy ending. They can sweat all they want to scare you, the authors, but back of it all you know, you just have no doubt, that in the long run justice is going to win out.

“I'm very interested in pain,” the Count said, “as I'm sure you've gathered these past months. In an intellectual way, actually. I've written, of course, for the more learned journals on the subject. Articles mostly. At the present I'm engaged in writing a book. My book. The book, I hope. The definitive work on pain, at least as we know it now.”

“I understand everything,” he said.

“You understand nothing, but it really doesn't matter, since what you mean is, you're glad to see me, just as I'm glad to see you because no more loneliness.”

“That's what I mean,” said Fezzik.

“Westley dies,” my father said.

I said, “What do you mean, ‘Westley dies’? You mean dies?”

My father nodded. “Prince Humperdinck kills him.”

“He's only faking thought, right?”

My father shook his head, closed the book all the way.

“Aw shit” I said and I started to cry.

“I'm sorry,” my father said. “I'll leave you alone,” and he left.

“Who gets Humperdinck?” I screamed after him.

He stopped in the hall. “I don't understand.”

“Who kills Prince Humperdinck? At the end, somebody's got to get him. Is it Fezzik? Who?”

“Nobody kills him. He lives.”

“You mean he wins, Daddy? Jesus, what did you read me this thing for?”

“I wish I could remember what it was like when I was dead,” the man in black said. “I'd write it all down. I could make a fortune on a book like that. I can't move my legs either.”

We've traveled a long way, you and I, from when Buttercup was only among the twenty most beautiful women on earth (because of her potential), riding Horse and taunting the Farm Boy, and Inigo and Fezzik were brought in to kill her. You've written letters, kept in touch, you'll never know how much I appreciate that. I was on the beach at Malibu once, years back, and I saw this young guy with his arm around his girl and they were both wearing T-shirts that said WESTLEY NEVER DIES.

Loved that.

When I was twenty-six, my first novel, The Temple of Gold, was published by Alfred A. Knopf. (Which is now part of Random House which is now part of R.C.A. which is just part of what's wrong with publishing in America today which is not part of this story.)

“I can feel him,” Fezzik said. “His body weight on the rope.”

“He'll never catch up!” the Sicilian cried. “Inconceivable!”

“You keep using that word!” the Spaniard snapped. “I don't think it means what you think it does.”

Inigo lay flat, staring down, trying to pierce the moonlight and find the climber's secret. For a long while, Inigo did not move. He was a good learner, but not a particularly fast one, so he had to study.

If you're going to abridge a book in the author's own words, you can't go around sticking your own in. That was Hiram's point, and we really went round and round [...] But I got Hiram to agree that Harcourt would at least print up my scene [...] So please, if you have the least interest at all or even if you don't, write in for my reunion scene. You don't have to read it—I'm not asking that—but I would love to cost these publishing geniuses a few dollars, because, let's face it, they're not spending much on advertising my books.

It's one of my biggest memories of my father reading. I had pneumonia, remember, but I was a little better now, and madly caught up in the book, and one thing you know when you're ten is that, no matter what, there's gonna be a happy ending. They can sweat all they want to scare you, the authors, but back of it all you know, you just have no doubt, that in the long run justice is going to win out.

“I'm very interested in pain,” the Count said, “as I'm sure you've gathered these past months. In an intellectual way, actually. I've written, of course, for the more learned journals on the subject. Articles mostly. At the present I'm engaged in writing a book. My book. The book, I hope. The definitive work on pain, at least as we know it now.”

“I understand everything,” he said.

“You understand nothing, but it really doesn't matter, since what you mean is, you're glad to see me, just as I'm glad to see you because no more loneliness.”

“That's what I mean,” said Fezzik.

“Westley dies,” my father said.

I said, “What do you mean, ‘Westley dies’? You mean dies?”

My father nodded. “Prince Humperdinck kills him.”

“He's only faking thought, right?”

My father shook his head, closed the book all the way.

“Aw shit” I said and I started to cry.

“I'm sorry,” my father said. “I'll leave you alone,” and he left.

“Who gets Humperdinck?” I screamed after him.

He stopped in the hall. “I don't understand.”

“Who kills Prince Humperdinck? At the end, somebody's got to get him. Is it Fezzik? Who?”

“Nobody kills him. He lives.”

“You mean he wins, Daddy? Jesus, what did you read me this thing for?”

“I wish I could remember what it was like when I was dead,” the man in black said. “I'd write it all down. I could make a fortune on a book like that. I can't move my legs either.”

We've traveled a long way, you and I, from when Buttercup was only among the twenty most beautiful women on earth (because of her potential), riding Horse and taunting the Farm Boy, and Inigo and Fezzik were brought in to kill her. You've written letters, kept in touch, you'll never know how much I appreciate that. I was on the beach at Malibu once, years back, and I saw this young guy with his arm around his girl and they were both wearing T-shirts that said WESTLEY NEVER DIES.

Loved that.