Ruhm. Ein Roman in neun Geschichten

On the way home from the bank the other afternoon, I decided, after some hesitation, to stop by the small bookstore specializing in books on post-modern culture and usually full of cigarette smoke. (It was there that I found a book of personal narratives from South Koreans who went to Germany in the 1960s and 70s to work as nurses, and stayed. The book was called "Zu Hause" ("At Home")). I had hesitated because their literature section, which consisted of only about 5 shelves about a meter and a half wide, was usually uninteresting. But, after about two and a half steps in a divergent direction, I remembered being told that all the workers there aren't paid and decided to go after all. Besides, I had about forty-five minutes to kill. I also considered that, because the peron working there sits partially hidden at a desk on a mezzanine behind a wall, one doesn't feel obliged to say hello upon entering, or even goodbye upon leaving, which suits my New Yorker's fundamental preference for anonymity. As I was glancing at the books on the display table in the middle of the small room on the ground floor, however, one of the workers came down and said hello, giving me a smile. Then he went back upstairs, and I turned around toward the literature section where I saw a new novel by Daniel Kehlmann and thought, "my God, he's written another one already," or actually, "Mann! Der hat schon wieder eins geschrieben." All five hardcover copies were wrapped in plastic. After looking at the cover and reading the title, Ruhm, ein Roman in neun Geshichten (or more exactly, "ruhm ein roman in neun geschichten"), I turned it over to see the price. It was more than I'm usually willing to spend for a book, but then I remembered being told by a running friend of mine for whom I'd been thinking of getting a late birthday present that he thought another book by the same author was good. The fact that it was to be a gift seemed to justify an exception to my general reluctance to buy hardcovers. I also remembered once reading that authors earn money only from the sales of hardcovers, although now I wonder how this could be true. Somehow the relatively quick but nonetheless reasoned decision to buy the book made the decision to buy another for myself self-evident. When I went upstairs to pay for the books with the lady sitting at the desk, the man who had come down to say hello asked if I wanted to have a look inside the books, and I said no, I wanted to buy them. He took the books from me and went behind the desk, commenting that the books were quickly becoming their new bestsellers. He said just that week one or two had been bought, and now two at once. I explained that one was for me and one was to be a gift. Then, after wondering whether I should say anything at all, I said, "It's amazing how much he's written," or, more exactly, "Es ist erstaunlich, was er alles geschrieben hat." The woman said something like, some people just have it in them. Then the man said that his father was certainly some professor and his mother something-or-other which I didn't understand. The woman then said that her mother was also a something-or-other, and the man said, "No! Really?" Having nothing to say myself, I looked at the books on the shelf to the left of me. They were the kind of books about post-modern theory that, like some exquisitely beautiful but utterly useless object found in the gift shop of a conteporary art museum, I have to make an effort to resist purchasing. After the man returned my bank card to me, he gave me back the books with a smile, I thanked him with a smile, he asked me if I needed a small bag, I said no, "es geht so," said goodbye, and left. On the way home, I thought of Daniel Kehlmann, as well as the man at the bookstore.