marți, 7 iulie 2015

Full moon

When I showed my latest poems
to the editor, he told
me in a patronizing voice:

‘Why on Earth do you
write in English
when we live in fucking Romania?’

‘Well’, I told him, ‘everybody
in this country understands English.
Hell, Romanians have the tendency
to speak it better than
their mother tongue.
All Europeans speak and understand
English fluently, except our
Hungarian brothers,
but who cares about them?’

‘Well, tough luck, smart ass! I have a
Hungarian great-grandfather and
I don’t speak English and thus cannot
evaluate your book! How can I
publish something
I don’t actually understand?’

‘Quite simple, sir. You have to trust
your instinct. I assure you this is
a fairly decent book,
not for the masses, but for
the refined reader.’

‘Well, that is a solid argument
not to publish it.
I need manuscripts that sell,
not subtleties. I published
your previous manuscript and nobody
bought it. I have a strong feeling
that the poems you are now
burdening me with
will not resist ‘til the next full moon.’

‘I disagree, sir. It all depends
on the marketing. If you want you can
advertise my new book
on the day of the next full moon and
publish my manuscript in blood ink
and tell the public
that I am a dead writer
who returned to this world as a zombie
in order to write
the memoirs of his lost love affair.’

‘Get out of here before I zombify you
myself!’, he shouted and threw the
manuscript towards me.

‘Well, fuck you, sir!’, I answered
and left.

Niciun comentariu:

Trimiteți un comentariu