A very small man came shyly into th

A very small man came shyly into the room. He stood before me looking very uncomfortable. "My name," he said, "is Forester. C. S. Forester.*" I nearly fell out of my chair. "Are you joking?" I said. "No," he said, smiling. "That's me."
And it was. It was the great writer himself, the inventor of Captain Hornblower and the best teller of tales about the sea.
"Look," he said. "I'm too old for the war. The only thing I can do to help is to write things about Britain for the American papers and magazines. A magazine called The Saturday Evening Post will publish any story I write. I have contract with them. And I have come to you because I think you might have a good story to tell about flying." "What do you want me to do?" I asked.
"Come and have lunch with me," he said. "And while we're eating, you can tell me about your most exciting adventures and I'll write it up for The Saturday Evening Post." I was thrilled. I had read all the Hornblowers and just about everything else he had written. I had, and still have, a great love for books about the sea. And now here I was about to have lunch with somebody who, to my mind, was terrific. He took me to a small French restaurant near the Mayflower Hotel in Washington. I tried to tell him about the most exciting or dangerous things that happened to me when I was flying fighter planes. While we tried to eat our lunch, I was trying to talk and Forester was trying to take notes. Things weren't going well. More than that, I have never been much good at telling stories aloud.
"Look," I said. "If you like I'll try to write down on paper what happened and send it to you. Wouldn't that be easier? I could do it tonight."
That, though I didn't know it at the time, was the moment that changed my life. "A splendid idea," Forester said. "Then I can put this silly notebook away and we can enjoy our lunch." He gave me an address where I could send the story, and then we forgot all about it and finished our lunch.
That night I sat down and wrote my story. I started at about seven o'clock and fin¬ished at midnight. The story seemed to be telling itself. Just for fun, when it was fin¬ished, I gave it a title. I called it A Piece of Cake.* The next day I sent it off to Mr Forester. Two weeks later, I received a reply from the great man. It said:

Dear RD,
Your piece is marvellous, it is the work of a gifted writer. I didn't touch a word of it. I sent it at once under your name to my agent. Harold Matson, asking him to offer it to The Saturday Evening Post with my recommendation. The Post accepted it. They have paid nine hundred dollars. It's all yours. The Post is asking if you will write more stories for them. I do hope you will. Did you know you were a writer? With my very best wishes and congratulations, C. S. Forester.

Результаты (английский) 1:

A very small man shyly came into the room. He stood before me looking very uncomfortable. "My name," he said, "is Forester. C. s. Forester. * "I nearly fell out of my chair. "Are you joking?" I said. "No," he said, smiling. "That's me." And it was. It was the great writer himself, the inventor of Captain Hornblower and the best teller of tales about the sea. "Look," he said. "I'm too old for the war. The only thing I can do to help is to write things about Britain for the American papers and magazines. A magazine called The Saturday Evening Post will publish any story I write. I have a contract with them. And I have come to you because I think you might have a good story to tell about flying. " "What do you want me to do?" I asked. "Come and have lunch with me," he said. "And while we're eating, you can tell me about your most exciting adventures and I'll write it up for The Saturday Evening Post." I was thrilled. I had read all the Hornblowers and just about everything else he had written. I had, and still have a great love for books about the sea. And now here I was about to have lunch with somebody who, to my mind, was terrific. He took me to a small French restaurant near the Mayflower Hotel in Washington. I tried to tell him about the most exciting or dangerous things that happened to me when I was flying fighter planes. While we tried to eat our lunch, I was trying to talk and Forester was trying to take notes. Things weren't going well. More than that, I have never been much good at telling stories aloud. "Look," I said. "If you like I'll try to write down on paper what happened and send it to you. Wouldn't that be easier? I could do it tonight. " That, though I didn't know it at the time, was the moment that changed my life. "A splendid idea," Forester said. "Then I can put this silly notebook away and we can enjoy our lunch." He gave me an address where I could send the story, and then we forgot all about it and finished our lunch. That night I sat down and wrote my story. I started at about seven o'clock and fin ished ¬ at midnight. The story seemed to be telling itself. Just for fun, when it was a fin ished ¬, I gave it a title. I called it A Piece of Cake. * The next day I sent it off to Mr Forester. Two weeks later, I received a reply from the great man. It said: Dear RD, Your piece is marvellous, it is the work of a gifted writer. I didn't touch a word of it. I sent it at once under your name to my agent. Harold Matson, asking him to offer it to The Saturday Evening Post with my recommendation. The Post accepted it. They have paid nine hundred dollars. It's all yours. The Post is asking if you will write more stories for them. I do hope you will. Did you know you were a writer? With my very best wishes and congratulations, c. s. Forester.

Результаты (английский) 2:

A very small man came shyly into the room. He stood before me looking very uncomfortable. "My name," he said, "is Forester. CS Forester. *" I nearly fell out of my chair. "Are you joking?" I said. "No," he said, smiling. "That's me."
And it was. Was the great It writer himself, the inventor of Captain Hornblower and the best teller of tales about the sea.
"Look," he said. "I'm too old for the war. The only thing I can do to help is to write things about Britain for the American papers and magazines. A magazine called The Saturday Evening Post will publish any story I write. I have contract with them . And I have come to you because I think you might have a good story to tell about flying. " "What do you want me to do?" Asked I.
"Come and have lunch with me," he said. "And while we're eating, you can tell me about your most exciting adventures and I'll write it up for The Saturday Evening Post." I was thrilled. I had read all the Hornblowers and just about everything else he had written. I had, and still have, a great love for books about the sea. And now here I was about to have lunch with somebody who, to my mind, was terrific. He took me to a small French restaurant near the Mayflower Hotel in Washington. I tried to tell him about the most exciting or dangerous things that happened to me when I was flying fighter planes. While we tried to eat our lunch, I was trying to talk and Forester was trying to take notes. Things were not going well. Than that More, I have never been much good at telling stories aloud.
"Look," I said. "If you like I'll try to write down on paper what happened and send it to you. Would not that be easier? I could do it tonight."
That, though I did not know it at the time, was the moment that changed my life. "A splendid idea," Forester said. "Then I can put this silly notebook away and we can enjoy our lunch." He gave me an He address where I could send the story, and then we forgot all about it and finished our lunch.
That night I sat down and wrote my story. I started at about seven o'clock and fin¬ished at midnight. The story seemed to be telling itself. Just for fun, when it was fin¬ished, I gave it a title. I called it A Piece of Cake. * The next day I sent it off to Mr Forester. Two weeks later, I received a reply from the great man. It said It: Dear RD, Your piece is marvellous, it is the work of a gifted writer. I did not touch a word of it. I sent it at once under your name to my agent. Harold Matson, asking him to offer it to The Saturday Evening Post with my recommendation. The Post accepted it. They have paid nine hundred dollars. It's all yours. The Post is asking if you will write more stories for them. I do hope you will. Did you know you were a writer? With my very best wishes and congratulations, CS Forester.

Результаты (английский) 3:

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