Look at that by - (best sales books of all time .txt) 📕

resembled a dish made out of different kinds of left-overs that would be a sin to throw away. A dish that on top of everything else, want to or not, you had to eat up till the end.

From a quantitative point of view now, this time last year, go figure, his coming to the village, the abun-dance of stimuli, the fresh air, the nature, the iodine of the sea, the swimming, the carefreeness of holi-daymaking had all unexpectedly doped him up, so much that within a week he had written as much as it had taken him more than a month to do in the city. So, at night, he would forthwith go to bed with a text on his side that he never would have imagined when he had got up that very morning. This year, conversely, his departure from the city, the scarcity of inputs in the village, the swimming, the summer sluggishness, the comings and goings, the iodine of the sea that seemed to almost drug him, had unex-pectedly slowed him down, so much that his entire harvest up until that morning did not exceed even one fourth of all that in the city he would churn out in the space of a quarter of an hour. Therefore, the following text – not even half a page long – would be on his bedside when he woke up in the morning and went to bed at night: