Blink!

...

The first thing you should know is that I am a whore. Prostitution is steady work. I open my legs. And then I close them. It beats working in an office. After leaving university, I applied for a number of jobs that I never got and watched my savings steadily dwindle. So when a friend gave me the phone number of a madam, I decided to become a call girl. Like you do. And that's really all there is to me, but since I've been overpaid to write a book I'd better witter on.

A scientist dies in Paris after having sex with a mysterious stranger. A supplier of mining equipment is also killed in Canada. Nobody - least of all the reader - pays any attention. Except Kenner, the MIT-educated, special-forces-trained lone wolf. "Hmm," he smiled grimly to himself. "The environmental activists are on the move."

People told me what my lyrics meant. It was news to me. One album was supposedly intensely autobiographical. Let them think so. I knew it was based on a bunch of Chekhov short stories. I just wanted to escape with my wife and raise my kids like any other American.

Pruebas para el jurado de que el Digested Reading del Guardian (via MeFi) hace que los libros suenen mucho más interesantes que lo que seguramente son. Sin traducir, como las obras originales, resúmenes en 400 palabras del libro de Belle de Jour, la última de Michael Crichton y el primer volumen de las memorias de Bob Dylan.

Y con esto iniciamos un (otro) maratón en Elástico. Aunque ahora me voy a la cama.