We did not sober up, casting off our blindness, until my father was served up in a dish. He lay in it, large and distended from cooking, in a pale grayish aspic, while we sat there as silent as fish. Bruno Schulz “I wonder if I should confess that today I actually felt a twinge of impatience to see you. I wasn’t late this time either, did you notice?” “Of course.” “Of course ... of course ... I needn’t have asked. Here I am, I suppose you must be thinking, caught more and more in your net, corked in your test tube, pigeonholed in your file cabinet ... and yet, if I may comment in a brief parenthesis, your optimism is premature. How long is it now that I’ve been coming to you? Two or three months ... and each time I’ve said to myself, well, this is the last: it’s time to end the game, pay the bill and say goodbye. And apropos the bill, by the way, I haven’t asked you yet what you charge for the right to blabber away here ... and for the honor, of course...” “One thousand five hundred.”
