NOTHING LASTS FOREVER
by Roderick Thorpe
I wish I’d written this ...
... because it got made into the best action movie ever!
DIE HARD is one of my all-time favourite movies. Its structure is sheer genius, and Bruce Willis was the right actor for the role, turning it into a classic that, in my household and in many others, gets played every xmas. Here’s the thing: I never knew it was based on a novel, so NOTHING LASTS FOREVER was a great discovery. I was surprised at how closely the film adhered to the book. All the key scenes in the movie had their origin here. The main difference is that in the novel the entire story is told from the protagonist’s point of view (he’s named Joe Leland rather than John McClane) and we get a lot more background information about him. Also, it’s his daughter among the hostages, not his wife. All of this adds a dimension not found in the movie. Now, I have to confess, for the first third or so I thought there was too much telling and not enough showing, which kept everything at an annoying arm’s length. I was starting to feel miserable. I really wanted to feel more engaged. Then, suddenly, the action got dialled up to ten and I couldn’t put the book down. It got really, really good. Also, it got phenomenally brutal. Leland is put through the mill WAY more than Willis’s McClane, and by the last page I was feeling thoroughly bruised and breathless. All the misgivings I felt at the start were blown away by the finish. I loved this book!
From the publisher
High atop a Los Angeles skyscraper, an office Christmas party turns into a deadly cage-match between a lone New York City cop and a gang of international terrorists. Every action fan knows it could only be the explosive big-screen blockbuster Die Hard. But before Bruce Willis blew away audiences as unstoppable hero John McClane, author Roderick Thorp knocked out thriller readers with the bestseller that started it all.
A dozen heavily armed terrorists have taken hostages, issued demands, and promised bloodshed all according to plan. But they haven't counted on a death-defying, one-man cavalry with no shoes, no backup, and no intention of going down easily. As hot-headed cops swarm outside, and cold-blooded killers wield machine guns and rocket launchers inside, the stage is set for the ultimate showdown between anti-hero and uber-villains. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good fight to the death. Ho ho ho!
The first page
"What I don't understand," the taxi driver shouted over the whacking of the windshield wipers, "is what goes through a person's mind when he mutilates somebody like that."
As he glanced over his shoulder in conversational emphasis, the white station wagon thirty feet in front suddenly braked, skidding in the accumulating slush, its massive back end rising like a sounding whale. The passenger in the taxi, Joseph Leland, who had been wondering about something else entirely, perplexed, threw up his hands; the driver reacted, banging his foot on the brake pedal and twisting the wheel. The taxi pitched forward, rotating slowly on its vertical axis, and slammed sideways into the wagon. The right side of Leland's forehead struck the doorpost, drawing blood. He braced for another collision with the car behind, but none came.
"Shit!" the driver cried, punching the steering wheel. "Shit!"
"Are you all right?" Leland asked.
"Yeah." He saw Leland. "Ah, damn. Damn!"
"Don't worry about it." On Leland's handkerchief was a jagged stain of blood the size of a postage stamp.
The driver was black, young, with high cheekbones and almond eyes. He and Leland had been discussing atrocities in Africa. The falling snow had made the ride from the hotel near the huge, stainless steel Gateway downtown a long one; Leland had learned that the driver had come to St. Louis from Birmingham as a single man in the late fifties, and that his son was now an all-city third baseman for his high school team.
In the bumper-to-bumper traffic near the airport, the conversation turned to violence. As he wheeled the taxi from the Interstate to the airport approach road, the driver brought up the recent sexual maimings in black Africa. Lambert Yield, Leland realized, with the driver talking about severed penises. Not Lindbergh, in spite of the St. Louis connection. Lindbergh, a dangerous airport, was in San Diego. Leland had been in and out of St. Louis a dozen times in the past five years, and this was not the first time he had made the mistake.
Now he was bleeding: for a lot of people, a mature man with a cut on his brow was a falling-down drunk. In spite of that unnerving prospect, Leland was neither upset nor angry. It was not really a bad cut. Because of the accident, he had lost track of something else that had crossed his mind. It began to nag at him. He worked up a new blot on the handkerchief.
"I'm sorry, man. I'm really sorry."
