has now reached that kind of fame as the author's name is written in very biggest title of the novel. Yet it continues to go around dressed like Ahmadinejad, his face grim and beard of a week, a Clint Eastwood aged badly.
I make way through the crowds behind and join him at the banquet autographs. Do not be surprised to see me, but in his eyes is a recognition by no means a foregone conclusion.
"You did it," he says. "Give me ten minutes?"
"I can not believe you can not even to give up your style for an evening like this." It looks at the
waterproof jacket, casually tapping the hinge rod with your fingers. "It's not my style," he says, "is how I dress."
"You dress like a nerd."
"The way I dress does not concern you, of course. But it has its advantages, if you care: For example, I avoid all those trying discussions with the Africans who try to sell you books of poetry or bad to be able to provide the coffee. With nerds will not even try. You know I hate dover inventare palle per dissuaderli... Se fossi crostretto, piuttosto, li manderei a quel paese. Sarebbe meno ipocrita."
"Papà, loro ci vengono , da quel paese."
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