The City of Dreaming Books by Walter Moers Page A

square. Aware that many a writer with a brilliant past had been stranded there, I did my utmost not to look down, but it was almost impossible. I glanced to left and right. Smirking youngsters were scattering sand on the poor fellows’ heads. A tipsy tourist had tumbled into one of the holes and was being helped out by his friends, who were roaring with laughter. Meanwhile, a dog was cocking its leg on the edge of the pit. Its occupant, who took no notice of these goings-on, continued to jot down a poem on a scrap of cardboard.
    And then the worst happened: I recognised a member of my own kind! Languishing in one of the graves was Ovidios Versewhetter, a boyhood idol of mine. I had sat at his feet during his well-attended readings in Lindworm Castle. Later he had left to become a famous big-city writer, but little had been heard of him thereafter.
    Versewhetter had just composed a sonnet for some tourists and was now reciting it in a hoarse voice. They giggled and tossed him a few coppers, whereupon he thanked them effusively, baring his neglected teeth. Then, catching sight of me, he likewise recognised one of his own kind and his eyes filled with tears.
    I turned away and fled from the appalling place. How terrible to have sunk so low! In our profession we were always threatened with an uncertain future - success and failure were two sides of the same coin. I strode off - no, I broke into a run - and left the Graveyard of Forgotten Writers behind me as quickly as possible.
    When I finally came to a halt I was in a seedy little side street. I had evidently left the tourist quarter, because there wasn’t a single bookshop in sight, just a row of shabby, ramshackle buildings with the most noxious smells issuing from them and muffled figures lounging in the doorways.
    One of these hissed an invitation as I went by: ‘Hey, want someone panned?’
    Oh, my goodness, I’d strayed into Poison Alley ! This was no tourist attraction; it was one of the places in Bookholm to be shunned on principle by anyone with a vestige of common sense and decency. Poison Alley, the notorious haunt of reviewers who plied for hire! Here dwelt the true dregs of Bookholm, the self-appointed literary critics who wrote vitriolic reviews for money. This was where anyone unscrupulous enough to employ such methods could hire venomous hacks and unleash them on fellow writers he disliked. They would then pursue his bêtes noires until their careers and reputations were utterly ruined.
    ‘Sure you don’t want a thorough hatchet job?’ the hack whispered.
    ‘No thanks!’ I retorted. I only just resisted the urge to fly at his throat, but I couldn’t refrain from passing a remark. I came to a halt.
    ‘You guttersnipe!’ I snarled. ‘How dare you drag the work of honest writers in the mire where you yourself belong?’
    The muffled figure blew a disgusting raspberry.
    ‘And who are you to insult me like that?’ he growled back.
    ‘I’m Optimus Yarnspinner,’ I replied proudly.
    ‘Yarnspinner, eh?’ he muttered. He produced a pad and pencil from his cloak and jotted something down. ‘You haven’t published anything yet or I’d know it - I keep a close check on contemporary Zamonian literature - but coming from Lindworm Castle you’re bound to sooner or later. You goddamned lizards can’t hold your ink.’
    I walked off. What had possessed me to bandy words with such scum!
    ‘I’m Laptantidel Latuda!’ he called after me. ‘No need to make a note of my name, you’ll be hearing from me in due course!’ 4

    Two Bookhunters were standing in a gloomy doorway, loudly haggling over some black market wares. Poison Alley was a dead end, of course, so I had to turn and walk all the way back past those ramshackle buildings and that muckraker, who bleated with laughter as I went by. I shook myself like a wet dog when I finally left him and his rat’s nest behind.
    I traversed the compositors’ quarter, where the buildings were faced with