Setting: A corner of a pub in Dublin. Winter. Very dark. Bar talk and a bit of music. A lot of smoking. A lot of very dark beer. They are all drunk, but not dunk as monkeys yet. They are drunk in that “I’m saying important things god-damn it” way. They are sort of on the verge of arguing. They are generally isolated in a corner, since they are most definitely American artists in Ireland. It is June 10.
Someone has just said: “Nobody reads. Reading is obsolete. It’s become ridiculous. Novels? Idle airport chatter. Neighborhood book clubs.”
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