The consensus among the literary establishment is that author Thomas Pynchon is one of the foremost novelists of our time. His books –- Gravity’s Rainbow, V, The Crying of Lot 49 -- are considered by many to be modern classics.

He is also a recluse. Nobody -- with the possible exception of his agent -- knows where he is at any given time. He never goes on book tours and never signs autographs. He makes J.D. Salinger look like a party animal.

So it is particularly odd that I am in possession of his medical records.

In 1973, while employed by Esquire Magazine, I was also working on the Great American Novel which never saw the light of day, because it was -- to put it as delicately as possible -- a stinking, noxious pile of steaming horse shit. In other words, it was not dissimilar to the oevre of Dan Brown.

That same year, Pynchon’s novel Gravity’s Rainbow was published and featured on the cover of The New York Times Sunday Literary Section. Later, it received the National Book Award.

At the time, my father was an internist with an unthriving practice in my hometown, Middletown, New York, a small town which was well-known for nothing. One day, a new patient came to my father’s office complaining of a cough. My father ordered a chest X-ray.

Before the examination, the patient was required to fill out the usual form, which asked for his name, address, profession and previous illnesses. When he was finished, my father sat him down in his office and went over the form.

“So you’re a writer?” my father asked. The patient nodded. My father snickered. He was well aware that many people called themselves writers, but had never had anything published. He had developed that opinion from observing me and my numerous feeble attempts at writing fiction. “Never heard of you,” my father said. His new patient merely shrugged.

When the tests came back, my father informed him that he had a bad cold, but asked him to return in a week to see if his condition had improved.

A few days later, my father called me. After the usual litany of advice –- wash your hands, never eat undercooked shrimp --- he asked me if I had ever heard of a writer named Thomas Pynchon. I said yes, informed him of Pynchon’s fame and asked him why he wanted to know. “He’s one of my patients,” my father said blandly. “He has a cold.”

I was thunderstruck. “Is he coming back to your office?” I asked enthusiastically. “Yes,” my father said. “For follow-up.” I gave it a moment’s thought. If I could get an interview with Thomas Pynchon, my publishing career would actually become a publishing career.

“Can you hide a tape recorder in your office when he comes back and ask him some questions about his writing?” I inquired. My father paused. “Absolutely not,” he said. “What goes on in a doctor’s office is confidential. “

I felt deflated. “Can you at least get him to autograph a copy of his book?” I asked. My father said he could do that.

After my father’s last meeting with Thomas Pynchon, I came to town to visit. My father handed me the autographed copy of Gravity’s Rainbow. On the title page, Pynchon had written “Dr. Blumenthal: 10 Pages q-i-d for Mesopolitosis.” Signed, “Thomas Pynchon”. I have no idea what Mesopolitosis is. I assume he made it up.

As I was putting this rare autographed novel in my suitcase, a piece of paper fell out. At the top, it said, “X-Ray Consultation. Patient: Thomas Pynchon. Address: Middletown. NY, Chest X-ray. Findings: Free of disease. Impression: Normal chest.” It is signed by the radiologist.

Having a book signed by Thomas Pynchon was rare enough. But to have his medical records! Utterly priceless.