Thursday, May 8

Portrait of the Author as a Successful Man

ON A DISMAL DAY, I take a walk, during my lunch break, to the bookshop and upon being attracted by a nice hardback I take a look to study the author on the inner-sleeve. The author is not so different from I: born the same year, the same city. Only, he has many awards and many published books. His work has been translated into ten languages by young women, who, like me, go for walks during their lunch breaks. His portrait is staring at me. He is handsome, most certainly, and he is me is not me. Overwhelmed, I put the book down and curse aloud. It is too much to bear, so I sit down on the floor of the bookshop and spit at the first clerk who asks—‘May I help you?’ I hurry back to work, eventually—after picking up some ham and spinach—and this is a story that I wrote. In one language.

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