The Star-Bear

Zerimov, like so many artists, is vulnerable to praise.

  • Excerpt

    Zerimov wrote in the same café every day for, like most writers, he was superstitious about his craft and feared a new venue would stop him dead. The tables inside were crowded together and the windows steamed and sweated beads of water so that the people outside were vague in outline and shifted oddly as they passed.

    Somebody scraped up a chair.

    “Pardon, comrade poet. May I join you?” Without waiting for a reply, the bear sat.

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