Expose him to light

The visit is meant to distract him. A change in scene. Perhaps a chat with an acquaintance. Having fun with a stranger? Maybe a book that inspires him. And if all goes well, a cup of coffee and a sandwich in the restaurant would be a nice reward.

But now that the writer is strolling past the second-hand clothes, past the discarded furniture, lampshades, carpets, toys, LPs and crockery, it is as if the feeling of being superfluous, of being written off, worn out, is being injected into his body like formaldehyde. With every step he feels more tense, more rigid.

This morning, he had gone to work full of optimism. How many words had he not written? Two thousand? It would be a productive day. A breakthrough. The novel he had been trying to write for forty years was taking shape. It was a matter of weeks, days.

Until the Muse decided that it was enough. Did she have better things to do? A visit to her sick sister? A day at the opera out with her mother who had just met a new boyfriend?

The author will never find out. The result, however, was that he spent hours staring at the screen of his Apple MacBook. And had no idea where the story should go. Inspiration seemed most like the potato peelings he had thrown in the bin that evening.

And the questions came naturally. Who did he think he was? A writer, a novelist, a man of letters? And why? Because he had published a book a long time ago? And how many had been sold? How many people had read it? How often had it been discussed?

A few weeks after its publication, the book had already been forgotten. Swallowed up by the wild waves of new publications, films, TV series. Crushed by the teeth of time.

He had continued to write. As an insignificant person. In his insignificant space. He had tried other jobs. He made attempts to other professions. Taxi driver, house painter, assistant pastor, gardener, curtain seller, plumber, blood-spatter analyst.

It had always ended in failure. The stories kept coming in his head. And he had to commit them to paper. Whether he wanted to or not. Hence the accidents with the taxi, the messing around with the painting, the cursing as a minister, his bankruptcy as a plumber.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” A woman interrupts his thoughts. She sits down opposite him at the oval oak table. And starts reading a yellowed book. Behind her are the rows of books. Everything is arranged by subject. Nature, art, literature, well-being, science, religion, biographies, the royal family, politics. The owners of the thrift shop have done their best to make it a cozy space. Armchairs, posters of famous writers, piano music, oriental rug.

Is it better to stop writing, the author thinks. As he looks at the rows of discarded novels. How much time, energy, creativity, frustration have the artist not put into it. Did they ever dream of that? To end up as a cast-off in a second-hand shop? Next to worn-out clothes, furniture? The lampshades, carpets, toys, LPs?

The woman bursts out laughing spontaneously. She is apparently reading something funny. She apologizes. But she can’t help but mumble to herself. “This is so well written! Why isn’t this book much better known? What humour, what wisdom.”

The writer stares at the space with the thrown away CD players. But inevitably his eyes slide to the woman. Is he jealous? Because she is so genuinely cheerful, so full of life, so animated? Or does it hurt him that there are writers who are read? That there are books that touch people. That matter. That have a right to exist.

Then she stands up. She pushes the book towards him. “Go ahead, read this,” she says. “This is the best thing I’ve read in years. And I just found it among all those other second-hand books here.”

He looks at the booklet like it were a package that has been delivered by mistake. Then he frowns. Does he know the publication? Hasn’t he seen it before? He picks up the novel from the table and reads the title. With his name above it.