The Ghost Writer [antikvár]

1MaestroIt was the last daylight hour of a December afternoon more than twenty years agoI was twenty-three, writing and publishing my first short stories, and like many a Bildungs-roman hero before me, already contemplating my own massive Bildungsromanwhen I arrived at his hideaway to meet the great man. The clapboard farmhouse was at the end of an unpaved road twelve hundred feet up in the Berkshires, yet the figure who emerged from the study to bestow a ceremonious greeting wore a gabardine suit, a9*