Favourite story

I finally read the end of that Patterson play. Charles Wallace handed the last few pages of the script to me, and said, "I can't fix that."
"Why not?"
"You haven't read it, Sandra. It can't be fixed. He can type that stuff but you can't speak it." It sounded like a challenge, so I told Charles Wallace to come into my room with a cup of coffee and a red pen. I then went in and settled in at my desk with the play.
The little twerp was right. I can only hope that it was a dream sequence: Michael Patterson grows up, and then becomes the first Prime Minister to get the Nobel Prize for Literature while simultaneously editing Macleans, Portrait, and The National Globe Star Sun. Then, the University of Western Ontario spontaneously changes its name to Patterson U. Charles Wallace came back with the coffee and then started puttering around in my books. He pulled one out, looked at a few pages, then said,
"Maybe this would work. You've got neat stuff in here." He had my copy of Poems Twice Told in his hands. Maybe he'd discover literature in all this and become normal. He started reading from one poem. "last, to him descend the/Murdering angels.' Cool!"
"You're right--that might work, although he'd probably notice if he died at the end of his own play."
"Don't the heroes always die in the stuff you read? Hamlet died, you said, and Macbeth, and in Lord of the Rings Frodo died," he said. There's hope for him yet, I thought.