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104 pages, Hardcover
First published March 31, 2021
One of the problems with being dishonest is that you’re forced to spend much of your life in the company of very bad people. This isn’t as negative as it sounds until you reach the point when you have no choice but totrust them. And then, surprise surprise, they let you down.
All I know for sure is that from time to time I’ve found myself in dire straits, penniless and on the run, always because of something I did in the last country, or the one before that, and under those oppressive circumstances I’ve been forced to do things—steal things—that a flawlessly honest man would’ve left alone. It didn’t help that I’m so smart, and honest people are, in comparison, so very stupid.
All I had to do was choose a plot from some masterpiece I admired by somebody dead, beat it a bit out of shape so that the theft wasn’t immediately obvious, decide who the characters were going to be, get to know them, and write down what they wanted to say to each other. That’s all there is to it. Anybody who tries to tell you that writing plays constitutes work is lying to you. Essentially all you’re doing is eavesdropping on your imaginary friends, pausing now and then to refill your inkwell.