Last weekend, Sunday, Sept. 22, I walked through the Brooklyn BookFest and promised myself I wouldn't buy any books. Or take totes or other swag that I had no room for in my bag. I got one tote, and I bought one book. Not bad, given that many of my favorite publishers had booths. I met someone I know at the Harvard Review and someone from the NYSL recognized my BA bag. A couple others recognized the bag. At the Melville House booth, I couldn't resist looking at something with Berlin in the title. (I hadn't promised myself not to look.) The seller mentioned it was hot off the presses, not even on the website yet. Short stories about modern Berlin colliding with the past--or dead Berlin bursting into the new hipster reality--how could I resist that paperback? I started it on the train home to Boston the next day. Rudolph Herzog is Werner Herzog's son. Have I ever seen a WH movie? I don't think so. The stories kept my interest, and of course I loved the local references that had me looking at map. The last story gives as good a reason as any for the new airport's extensive delays. Rudolph Herzog's short stories show insight into Berlin, at least for this Außenseiter.