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97 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 2007
The writer begins typing cautiously. He has a short story to write. Recently, people have been talking about the virtues of short fiction, but, if he were to be frank, he would confess that he detests stories in general and short ones in particular. Nonetheless, to keep in the swim, he has been forced to join the band of fakers pretending to be passionate about brevity. Consequently, he is terrified by how lightly his fingers run across the keys, one word flowing after another, and another, and then another, finally shaping into a line behind which another—and another!—are already forming, yet still he can't focus on a theme, because he is trained for long distances: he sometimes needs a hundred pages before he gets a glimpse of what he is going to write about, and at others not even two hundred suffice. He has never once worried about length. The longer, the better: blessed be each new line, because, one after the other, they reveal the size and splendor of his work, and consequently, even though two or fifty lines add nothing to the story he is telling, at the end of the day, he never axes a single one. Conversely, to write this story he would almost need to take a tape measure and measure it. It is absurd. It's like asking a marathon runner to run a hundred meters with dignity. In a story, each new line isn't one more line, but one less, and in this case, specifically, one line less up to thirty, because the rubric is: "between one and thirty lines," in the voice of the old fellow who called him from a newspaper's Sunday supplement to ask him for a story. The writer reluctantly lifts his fingers off the keys and counts the lines he has written so far: twenty-three. He has only seven to go to reach thirty. But, after he has registered that insight—plus this one—even less remain: six. Good God! He is incapable of having a thought and not typing it, so each new one eats up a new line and that means by line twenty-six he realizes he is only four lines from the end and he hasn't succeeded in focusing on the story, perhaps because—and he has suspected this for a long time—he has nothing to say, and although he usually manages to hide the fact by dint of writing pages and yet more pages, this damned short story makes it quite clear, and explains why he sighs when he reaches line twenty-nine and, with a not entirely justified feeling of failure, puts the final full-stop on the thirtieth.
come to my blog!["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>["br"]>hang up, if you want, i don't care, because the only thing i'm interested in now is looking out of the window and shutting myself off from the rest of the universe. all this time i've been looking out of the window, i've not thought about work, the family, or any of the problems that keep me awake at night. i've not thought, say, about the life i normally lead, or about how i spend my day pondering how things should be rather than savoring them as they come along. i do all i can to put reality in the right frame and to foresee everything so that, if i can avoid any surprises, tomorrow will be all the more tolerable. but foreseeing everything creates such boundless disquiet that things pass me by like a breath of air and i enjoy nothing. i only enjoy a kiss when it is over and done with; then i remember it with pleasure. i don't enjoy it at the time because, beyond the tenderness, i see the darkness, the horrific possibilities lurking behind all that is pleasant.