dilluns, 24 d’octubre de 2016

Who are those men?

I grew up thinking that writer and secretary were the same except that a writer usually smelled of cocktails and came more often to meals. They were spoken of the same way when they were not around –except for a species called playwrights who came from the East. These were treated with respect if they did not stay long –if they did they sank with the others into the white collar class.
Rose's office was in the "old writers' building." There was one on every lot, a row of iron maidens left over from silent days and still resounding the dull moans of cloistered hacks and bums. There was the story of the new producer who had gone down the line one day and then reported excitedly to the head office.
"Who are those men?"
"They're supposed to be writers."
"I thought so. Well, I watched them for ten minutes and there were two of them that didn't write a line".

Francis Scott Fitzgerald, The Love of the Last Tycoon.

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