Café Le Dog [antikvár]

With An Introduction By The Author. It was a hot summer night, and through the open window of his study the author could hear cats howling like a chorus of flatulent critics waiting for his next mistake. He looked at the sentence he had just written. It was terrible. Also, it was bound to get him into trouble with the press, a sin his publisher always warned him about -among others. Why was he writing it? he asked himself, not for the first time. Of course he knew the answer. (He always knew the answer). He tore the page out of his typewriter and inserted a new piece of blank paper. Not for the first time he wished he had been the one to invent the idea of blank paper. Talk about arranging your own funeral! "People are interested in what you think about your own stories," the editor had said. The author brushed a few flecks of imaginary dust from the special writing suit his mother had given him for Chanuka thirty-six years ago and loosened his tie. He put his feet on the desk and imagined himself lighting a cigar. Then he imagined himself throwing his Panama hat - the one he had used to protect himself while saving orphans from piranhas (but that is another story) - on the floor. Then he imagined himself imagining a knock at the door. "Hello?" "Greetings." A beautiful woman entered the room. She had dark hair falling to her shoulders, burning eyes,