FICTION
Amos Oz·
THE AUTHOR ENCOUNTERS
HIS READING PUBLIC
These are the principal questions : Why do you write.
What is your driving urge. And why do you write the way you do.
What is the function of your writing and what does it achieve. Why
do you concentrate so much on the negative aspects and why are
your stories always so gloomy. What are you really trying to say.
Why did you come along here this evening.
There are polite answers and there are clever answers, but there
is no simple, straightforward answer.
Consequently the author lingers in a dingy side street cafe, and
tries to concentrate for a little while on these questions .
In
vain a
waitress in a grubby overall tries to wipe the tabletop clean for him:
the surface remains sticky. Meanwhile the writer is assailed by the
smell of her sweat, a smell of weary womanhood. She notices him
eyeing her breasts , her hips , her legs , and gives a snort of naked dis–
gust. Like a cry of despair : A thousand times you've all looked at me
like that and a thousand times I've said to you, that's enough, what's
the matter with you, a thousand times you've done this and this and
this to me and still you haven't had enough, but I can't stand it any–
more leave me alone for once let me be you're crazy I've had enough
I'm sick and tired of it I tell you .
Politely therefore the writer averts his gaze. He orders an ome–
lette , a roll and a cup of coffee. He extracts a cigarette from his
pocket and holds it secreted in his left hand which is propping up his
cheek: a thoughtful expression hinting at secret ruminations .
At a nearby table two men are sitting unhurriedly, both about
fifty . The principal man is heavily built, tough-looking, and totally
·The following four stories were translated from the Hebrew by Nicholas de Lange .
