My friend the anarchist
From our US edition
Few prospects fill the auctorial amygdala with as much dread as that of a book signing. The crest falls in anticipation thereof. Imagine: the forlorn author, sitting disconsolately behind a table stacked with untouched copies of his or her pride and joy, as embarrassed bookstore patrons avert their eyes or detour down distant aisles, while those with weaker humiliation antennae – the sort who rubberneck at grisly accidents – stop at the table, scan the title and perhaps back-cover description and blurbs, then replace the book in its stack, at most offering the barest hint of a smile and nod. It calls to mind the time I was persuaded to serve as the sitting duck in a carnival dunk-tank. Get me outta here!
