This is how the lit/publishing establishment viewed the discovery of David Eggers:
Always everywhere there was this narcissistically sad visage, wherever they stepped.
BOARD MEETING: "Yes, harumph, har, we, er, at Simonized Shoe Polish Books have to, er," (frowning) "get this outfit out of its doldrums. Otherwise THEY" (thinking of the bottom-line conglom that owned them) "will, er, shut us down!" (Frowns throughout the oak-panelled room.)
As they hadn't discovered a successful author in decades, they had their work cut out for them. But always everywhere was this narcissistically sad visage, wherever they stepped.
They explained it afterward to themselves, in the Simonized Shoe Polish boardroom, as little different from browsing at an upscale pet store, harumph har, studying hangdog expressions, and selecting a likely candidate.
"One's really the same as another, they admitted to themselves. "Just have to make sure it's housebroken, you know."
(To be continued.)
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