the angels game

"Señor Corelli, I'm an author of penny dreadfuls that don't even carry my name. My publishers, whom you seem to know, are a couple of second rate fraudsters who are not worth their weight in manure, and my readers don't even know I exist.
I've spent years earning my living in this trade and I have yet to write a single page that satisfies me. The woman I love thinks I'm wasting my life, and she's right. She also thinks I have no right to desire her because we're a pair of insignificant souls whose only reason for existence is the debt of gratitude we owe to a man who pulled us both out of poverty, and perhaps she's right about that too. It doesn't matter. Before I know it, I'll be thirty and I'll realise that every day I look less like the person I wanted to be when I was fifteen. If i reach thirty, that is, because recently my health has been as consistent as my work.
Right now I'm satisfied if I manage one or two decent sentences in an hour. That's the sort of author and the sort of man I am. Not the sort who receives visits from Parisian publishers with blank cheques for writing a book that will change his life and make all his dreams come true."

Corelli observed me with a serious expression, carefully weighing every word.

"I thing you judge yourself too severely, a quality that always distinguishes people of true worth. Believe me when I say that throughout my professional life I've come across hundreds of characters for whom you wouldn't have given a toss and who had an extremely high opinion of themselves. But I want you to know that, even if you don't believe me, I know exactly what kind of author and what sort of man you are. (...)
I dare say I know you better that you know yourself. Which is why I'm sure that in the end you will accept my offer."

"What else do you know?"

"I know we have something, or a great deal, in common. (...)
I know that you feel lonely, and believe me when I tell you that this is a feeling i have also experienced. I know that in your heart you harbour great expectations, none of which has come true, and that, although you're not aware of it, this is slowly killing you with every passing day."

"You know a lot of things, Señor Corelli."

"Enough to think that I would like to be better acquainted with you and become your friend. I don't suppose you have many friends. Neither do I. I don't trust people who say they have a lot of friends. It's a sure sign that they don't really know anyone"

"But you're not looking for a friend, you're looking for an employee."

"(...)I'm looking for you."

"You seem very sure of yourself."

"It's a fault I was born with. Another is my gift to see into the future. That's why I realise that perhaps it's still too soon: hearing the truth from my lips is not enough for you yet. You need to see it with your own eyes. Feel it in your flesh. And believe me. You'll feel it."

The Angels Game-Carlos Ruiz Zafón
s. 73-74.