The idea that there was someone who could not write his pleasure, and even wanted to delete it from a hypothetical register as a writer had never, not even remotely touched the brain. The idea itself was ridiculous. How could anyone think of a capacity to eradicate a human being.
He had dreamed of literary cafes in which to discuss the great masters, surrounded by the best Italian and foreign writers. Invitations, galas, ceremonies, awards and considerations. Academic awards, a primary role in the Italian culture. The great pioneer of the new Italian. In the limit use the fantastic as a Trojan horse.
But, other than literary cafes, was meeting with other colleagues in a cold room with no windows around a round table. A discussion be taken against the counter-Luana and his acolytes. A search for some sort of protection from potted letters arrived at his address.
"The situation got out of hand. We are doing the ass "Frank broke the silence of the room. "The situation is crazy. We are competing with a neurotic schoolteacher and exalted, who spends his time looking for a pen with red blood all our mistakes. "
"Speak for yourself Francesco. I do not make mistakes. I follow my own style. "
"Yeah, right, Andrea," Mark put down his glass of whiskey on the table. He ran his tongue between his lips thin. "Let's face it, is telling us exactly the truth. Many of us consider the plot a goddess and supreme style and technique ... "
" Mark, you are diverting the main issue. All of us are aware of our limitations. This is not the problem. "
"So, enlighten us of immense Andrea!" Mark smiled, taking his glass of whiskey.
Andrea got up and ran his hand trembling on thinning hair. He took from his jeans pocket a slip of paper and unfolded it. He watched all of these before starting to read in low tone and hard.
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