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473 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1938
The letters from his editor have become increasingly insistent, he needs to finish. So much to do. He picks up the stack of typescript on his left, selects a page at random, shakes his head. Has he gone too far? Is humour appropriate at a moment like this? But then, is humour ever appropriate? It is humour precisely because it is inappropriate, something his people know very well. He rereads chapter XXXV, the banquet at the Ritz, his comically exaggerated country bumpkin Jews, arrived in cosmopolitan Geneva, hungry for food, money and attention, an object of derision for the Swiss, but still somehow lovable.
Are they lovable or just grotesque? He isn't sure himself, feels ashamed that maybe he is betraying his family by turning them into a circus sideshow. But surely they will understand when they see how he has portrayed the Christians. How he loathes their disgusting hypocrisy, the way they pervert the simple teachings of Jesus, another poor misunderstood Jew, how they talk about the Kingdom of God while they treat their employees like slaves and eagerly invest in companies that manufacture artillery shells and poison gas. He knows what is coming, as do his hapless coreligionists. But they are not yet aware that they know and make pitiful jokes about Hitler and Mussolini, while he is fully conscious of the horror soon to be unleashed on the world.
What to do? Kill himself? Ah, not yet, there will be time later. For now, find another beautiful woman to seduce. It is too easy, they are all dazzled by his looks, his charm, his effortless command of the French language, they do not even put up token resistance. Still, better than the alternative. Tomorrow he will arrange another encounter with his idiot colleague's wife.
He returns to his writing.