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snipes at anything that might tarnish the mirror in which he contemplates himself and the world.
There is something about A’s tone, however, that makes B wary, as if there were a message to be read between the lines, as if the famous writer were saying to him, Don’t think you’ve fooled me; I know you put me in your book; I know you made fun of me. He’s praising my book to the skies, thinks B, so he can let it plummet back to earth later on. Or he’s praising my book to make sure no one will identify him with Medina Mena. Or he hasn’t even realized, and it was a case of genuine appreciation, a simple meeting of minds. None of these possibilities seems to bode well. B doesn’t believe that
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Paranoia
They talked about how a man’s life consists of learning, working, and dying.
Anne thought this was because the lives or the youths of any two individuals would always be fundamentally alike, in spite of the obvious or even glaring differences. I preferred to think that somehow she and I had both explored the same map, fought the same doomed campaigns, received a common sentimental education.
This is where the story should end, but life is not as kind as literature.
It was a striking change of scene. Before we had been rubbing shoulders with professional people, public servants, and businessmen, now we were surrounded by laborers, the unemployed, and beggars.
As the conversation develops, perhaps the changing scenery is to hint to a much more grim truth to be revealed
