That would still leave a thousand. He started to read the reviews and found that he had drunk the vermouth without ever noticing it. He ordered another and returned the pencil to the waiter. It is very possible that I couldn't get started, he thought, and it probably is sound to not think about it at all and just enjoy what we have. When I have to work I will.
Nothing can stop that.
The last book is good and I must make a better one now. He sat on a stool at the bar and ordered a marismeno and opened and read his letters while he ate the garlic-flavored olives from the saucer the bartender had placed before him with his glass. One of the letters had two cuttings of reviews of his novel from monthly magazines and he read them with no feeling that they dealt with him or with anything that he had written. He put the cuttings back in the envelope. They had been understanding and perceptive reviews but to him they had meant nothing.