I can not stand most people can not stand any more, humans give me a sort of existential hives, an itching in the blood. It 'also possible that I have become sociopathic or not, it is not me but they have become sociopathic, people, all of them have become sociopaths in my respect, you can not!
Way fast, and my footsteps echo on the cobbles of the street deserted, my leather soles pointy leather shoes of some inhabitant of some desert reptiles make my walk even more aggressive. Light emitting diodes
clock pharmacy mark the twenty-one hours and thirty-seven: are delayed by Time thirty-seven minutes of the meeting in writing to the publisher. And I'm never late.
brisk walk in the orange glow of street lamps of the old town, my shoes are aggressive knock knock knock. Crossing a girl who walks in, if possible, even more aggressive than me, his eyes traveling down, to understand the height of the tips of his boots high heel stiletto tic tic tic toc toc toc against mine. I am leaving behind Unrestricted a good aromatic, with citrus and honey and something else I do not recognize, but inviting and sensual.
I stop, look at the girl from behind, high and waving, from the pocket of my jacket and dark brown extract a packet of Gitanes. I opened the package, I extract a cigarette, I stuck it between his lips a bit 'cracked, take lighter, an old Ronson, on the other pocket and I light a cigarette. I put in my pocket and lighter package. Allotment.
So, I have sociopath or are they not important, the editorial meeting I would not go for nothing. These five meetings to decide which books to publish and what not not stand it any more: If I had my way I will not publish anything, I do not remember when was the last time I read a manuscript that was worth something: my sociopathy, if possible, is spreading to the books, or those who may become such, and their authors. And the other editors have questionable taste, no, questionable, Let's face it, they taste horrible, they do not understand a fucking emeritus of fiction, as Valeria that the other week I spent a huge manuscript (something like seven hundred pages) and tells me:
"This is the new Piperno,
" Why, one is not enough? "I asked myself.
"Come on, read it, and then tell me," said Valeria.
Well, 'I read it, all and the pages were settecentottantatre and settecentottantatre pages were unnecessary, a bad hole in a forest some dick (which I, in fact, forests even I do not give anything, it's just to say what they all say my fellow editor ecologists peace blah blah blah).
And tonight you should just decide whether or not to publish the hole in the forest, and since the decisions we take in the majority, and four others liked the book, I'm not going to the meeting: we going to do. And then the author is a friend or friend of a friend of George, one of the editors, one that can change the destiny of another Italian writer, turning a few court-clerk-accountant-gas station-baker-surgeon-architect- Hydraulic in writer.
Way increasingly sent toc toc toc puffing smoke from his nose like an old locomotive.
The other four editors are all writers (published, more or less), I do not, editors should not be writers, it is as if the priests were also sinners (I know, there are, but there should be no point) each should have its role, or do one thing or another they do, it's a bit 'as literary critics: the literary critics should not even be writers, should be forbidden to the critic to the writer, should you choose to be kind or here or there, not a foot in both camps, there should be laws, but laws really applied, with severe sanctions, corporal punishment, forced labor. Here is how it should be.
Way increasingly sent toc toc toc, telescoping front of the building where the headquarters of the publishing house that gives me something to eat. I do not stop and knock knock knock I hate being walked as if I had a really precise destination, as if you'll really get somewhere, as if there was someone who really can not wait to see me. But I do not want to see more none none none, without distinction.
Toc toc toc.
Way fast, and my footsteps echo on the cobbles of the street deserted, my leather soles pointy leather shoes of some inhabitant of some desert reptiles make my walk even more aggressive. Light emitting diodes
clock pharmacy mark the twenty-one hours and thirty-seven: are delayed by Time thirty-seven minutes of the meeting in writing to the publisher. And I'm never late.
brisk walk in the orange glow of street lamps of the old town, my shoes are aggressive knock knock knock. Crossing a girl who walks in, if possible, even more aggressive than me, his eyes traveling down, to understand the height of the tips of his boots high heel stiletto tic tic tic toc toc toc against mine. I am leaving behind Unrestricted a good aromatic, with citrus and honey and something else I do not recognize, but inviting and sensual.
I stop, look at the girl from behind, high and waving, from the pocket of my jacket and dark brown extract a packet of Gitanes. I opened the package, I extract a cigarette, I stuck it between his lips a bit 'cracked, take lighter, an old Ronson, on the other pocket and I light a cigarette. I put in my pocket and lighter package. Allotment.
So, I have sociopath or are they not important, the editorial meeting I would not go for nothing. These five meetings to decide which books to publish and what not not stand it any more: If I had my way I will not publish anything, I do not remember when was the last time I read a manuscript that was worth something: my sociopathy, if possible, is spreading to the books, or those who may become such, and their authors. And the other editors have questionable taste, no, questionable, Let's face it, they taste horrible, they do not understand a fucking emeritus of fiction, as Valeria that the other week I spent a huge manuscript (something like seven hundred pages) and tells me:
"This is the new Piperno,
" Why, one is not enough? "I asked myself.
"Come on, read it, and then tell me," said Valeria.
Well, 'I read it, all and the pages were settecentottantatre and settecentottantatre pages were unnecessary, a bad hole in a forest some dick (which I, in fact, forests even I do not give anything, it's just to say what they all say my fellow editor ecologists peace blah blah blah).
And tonight you should just decide whether or not to publish the hole in the forest, and since the decisions we take in the majority, and four others liked the book, I'm not going to the meeting: we going to do. And then the author is a friend or friend of a friend of George, one of the editors, one that can change the destiny of another Italian writer, turning a few court-clerk-accountant-gas station-baker-surgeon-architect- Hydraulic in writer.
Way increasingly sent toc toc toc puffing smoke from his nose like an old locomotive.
The other four editors are all writers (published, more or less), I do not, editors should not be writers, it is as if the priests were also sinners (I know, there are, but there should be no point) each should have its role, or do one thing or another they do, it's a bit 'as literary critics: the literary critics should not even be writers, should be forbidden to the critic to the writer, should you choose to be kind or here or there, not a foot in both camps, there should be laws, but laws really applied, with severe sanctions, corporal punishment, forced labor. Here is how it should be.
Way increasingly sent toc toc toc, telescoping front of the building where the headquarters of the publishing house that gives me something to eat. I do not stop and knock knock knock I hate being walked as if I had a really precise destination, as if you'll really get somewhere, as if there was someone who really can not wait to see me. But I do not want to see more none none none, without distinction.
Toc toc toc.
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