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Sometime in the summer of 1929, York approached me with the usual query.
He realized he needed a literary agent and asked if I had any interest in representing him. Unfortunately, his novellas were the usual, predictable gothic tales of the supernatural. They were certainly marketable but not remarkable. What was apparent, however, was that York had talent.
I won't bore you with further details of those early years but as you know the works of Perceival York became the cornerstone of my publishing company and his name synonymous with the macabre. He was a publisher's dream, obsessively disciplined and enviously prolific. If he said a story would be ready in a month’s time, then without a doubt, it would be finished within a fortnight. Years would pass without him ever deviating from that practice until he began keeping company with certain notorious married woman. It was the autumn of 1935 just before his move to Vermont that he began to miss deadlines. What he did submit had become a trickle of disjointed thoughts and half finished mediocre outlines of stories that never materialized. A troubling situation for me as Percy customarily received sizable advances on his publications. The root of his problem was of course common knowledge as are most illicit affairs. York's relationship with the woman had ended abruptly with her leaving him for a younger protégé. It was an old story; unrequited love, inability to focus beyond his genitals, his energy and money squandered trying to buy the affections of woman he could never possess. Naturally, York was depressed and once again I was called upon to act  as mentor and advisor. The lady (I use the term loosely) was his first love. I realized his ego had been wounded but weeks passed after the affair had ended and still I hadn’t heard a word from him. He hadn't returned my messages and as far I knew hadn’t been seen by any of his usual contacts.
His rooms were inconveniently located in the most unfashionable part of town so as you can imagine calling round to his apartment was a last resort. I was shocked when he finally opened the door. It was noon, Percy was still in his pajama's and appallingly dishevelled. Unusual for a man usually so meticulous about his appearance. Oblivious to his appearance he gestured for me to come in then without waiting for me to take a seat began talking feverishly for what seemed like hours. Nevertheless, I listened without complaint or interruption to a lengthy monologue that amounted to nothing more than an excuse, the old standby, writer's block.

 

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