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He was the most remarkable personality of his generation. He lived as if the world around him did not exist. He wrote about what he did not know and so poorly that it was already becoming interesting to read. Critics eagerly awaited each new book of his by cannibals who wanted to feast on a fresh delicacy: everyone was curious if he would be able to surpass his former self and write something even worse. He did not notice his enemies and envious people, which drove them to extreme fury: not on purpose, but simply because he did not know that they existed. An amazing disregard for the reader has always been credited to him. Readers paid him the same. His prose among them enjoyed constant success as kindling for stoves and fireplaces. They joked about her: “Literature with a twinkle.” He claimed that he created our world at lunch, between soup and meatballs. It took him about seven hundredths of a millisecond to do everything about everything. As an indisputable proof of his authorship, he cites an irrefutable argument: the world is too imperfect to be the work of someone else – there are extremely many inconsistencies in it. At first he did not attach much importance to this, and then he began to be burdened by it. There were too many extra people around. He despised them, considering them the fruits of his imagination, but they pestered him like flies or horseflies on a summer afternoon. And as a result, he disappeared. Could not resist. He vanished into thin air in front of everyone. Just between soup and meatballs. And now we have to clear up all this porridge that he brewed, but did not manage to properly cook. Don’t start something if you don’t know how to finish it. Especially such troublesome business as the creation of the world.