A certain writer ("past sixty, enjoying 'a certain renown'")
strolls through the old book market in a Buenos Aires park: "My
Sunday walk through the market, repeated over so many years, was
part of my general fantasizing about books." Unfortunately, he is
suffering from writer's block. However, that proves to be the least
of our hero's problems. In the market, he fails to avoid the
insufferable boor Ovando-"a complete loser" but a "man supremely
full of himself: Conceit was never less justified." And yet, is
Ovando a master magician? Can he turn sugar cubes into pure gold?
And can our protagonist decline the offer Ovando proposes granting
him absolute power if the writer never in his life reads another
book? And is his publisher also a great magician? And the writer's
wife? Only Cesar Aira could have cooked up this witch's potion (and
only he would plop in phantom Mont Blanc pens as well as fearsome
crocodiles from the banks of the Nile)-a brew bubbling over with
the question: where does literature end and magic begin?
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