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Letters & Stories . . .
To the extent that you “don’t like talking about yourself,” I love talking about myself. I’m a born egomaniac. Fortunately, I’ve learned to curb my voracious appetite to take over and subdue an entire dinner table with my tales and wanton arrogance, with an attentive ear. But, alas, most people would, in the end, prefer to hear my ridiculous yarns and bombast over the grayed-out tales of their own lackluster lives. You don’t seem like you’re much of a talker at all, really. I can understand that, with your looks and intelligence a sure bet every time. Me, I just went berserk, long ago and far away, with making myself smart. Sure, it got me into some interesting spots in Budapest & Saint Petersburg & Prague, but it never got me home. That was just dumb luck.