I need other paintings. And conversations
At the end of last year, I accidentally ran into a prominent writer of the older generation on the street. I said hello. And I heard a brief but enviably energetic invective. Something like this. As far as I know (I myself, of course, don’t look at your newspaper, but they told me), you spoke badly about my latest novel. So? (I nod, it was the case.) You probably didn’t read it... (I try to object. In vain)... I don’t know, I don’t know, if you had read it, they wouldn’t have written this.