The greatest artist of our time.

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That morning was too ordinary, too obvious, to simply believe that the day wouldn't bring some incredible experiences. J., as every day, awoke furious, cursing the entire world and everything that had been granted the dubious honor of existence in this vale of tears and torment. He cursed one of the mechanical dwarfs, who seemed to have forgotten his duty and failed to include the necessary cigarettes with his pre-prepared breakfast. What a lack of organization! J. even briefly considered destroying this hopeless specimen, as he could easily secure a newer model, but pity for his old, faithful servant seized him, and he abandoned his criminal plans. Seeing his fiery gaze, the dwarf immediately understood what was going on, and, glancing nervously at the shelves groaning under the weight of various volumes of "The Builder of Ruins," he rushed into the other room in search of the object of his master's desire. A moment later, he reappeared, clattering with a poorly screwed-in screw, and without raising his head for fear of appearing too familiar, he handed his master the cigarettes. J. inhaled deeply and felt the smoke slowly fill his lungs, a blissful peace enveloping his entire being. He knew that at that very moment, the nicotine was entering his bloodstream, which seemed to circulate more quickly, finally bringing a certain sensory stimulation that enabled him to function normally. His morning cigarette was the only thing that could get him back on his feet and motivate him to perform his routine. Without it, he was as helpless as a baby. He knew perfectly well that such a course of action was not good for his already overworked liver and battered stomach, but he used to say that he was simply committing suicide in installments, as he was too much of a coward to handle things immediately, like a man. He had read this somewhere and accepted it as his own. He always did this, and as a result, his worldview was a rather inconsistent and incoherent amalgam of aphorisms, truisms, and wisdom delivered by the greats of this world. J., of course, considered this a huge advantage, as he could back up every opinion with some authority, making any polemics practically impossible for an ordinary mortal. Unless, of course, that mortal was also erudite and could invoke a mind of similar caliber to force an opposing view. This, however, rarely happened, as J. avoided people more well-read and eloquent than himself—such contacts disturbed his inner peace. And since the fact that his views were not truly his own was never the subject of any deeper reflection, J.'s sense of well-being, stemming from his confidence in his own intellectual abilities, remained undiminished.

Having finished his nicotine rituals, he decided it was high time for breakfast. He looked at the slightly burnt scrambled eggs with distaste, but decided he couldn't afford another fit of rage, as the dwarves were taking it increasingly hard, and soon he'd be spending his entire fortune on their maintenance, renovations, and psychotherapy. So he consumed these delicacies with the determined air of a man struggling with the largest windmill in Europe, sipping cold coffee and slurping mercilessly.

He generally exchanged his worn-out dwarves for new ones every quarter, or maybe every six months, as a bookseller he knew regularly supplied him with copies of Rosendorfer's work, acquired through various means, not always legally. However, J. had become particularly attached to his current assistants, as they were from the latest Polish edition, which carried a considerable emotional charge. J. was a staunch patriot, and he also had considerable difficulty learning foreign languages, always finding it difficult and unbearably slow to communicate with someone from a foreign language edition. And these familiar, Polish-speaking dwarves, despite their long service life, still proved remarkably helpful, performing most of the household chores, allowing their owner to focus on his work. It was a truly fantastic arrangement. J. once wanted to carve one of these dwarves for his sister, who lived alone, and even bought a brand new copy of the work especially for the occasion. However, Róża led a strictly spiritual life, so she refused, insulting him in the process, completely unmoved by his altruism.

After finishing his meal, J. decided it was time to do something constructive. While still chewing his hard scrambled eggs, he composed a captivating dialogue in his head, which he planned to put into the mouths of the characters in his latest novel. He used the phrase "latest novel" very often and successfully, as few people knew that this yet unborn work was also to be his first work of fiction.

From childhood, J. felt destined for a great career, but he initially didn't know in which field he would realize this unidentified, yet certainly unusual, potential. His range of interests had always been exceptionally broad, making it difficult to choose, as he resented limiting himself in any way. His greatest passion, however, remained literature. It began innocently enough, with children's books and his first cut-out friend – Winnie the Pooh. Over time, more and more appeared. The Little Prince appeared, then Thumbelina. Then came Hansel and Gretel, but unfortunately, they proved to be less than gracious playmates, making a terrible mess in his room, for which J. received a severe reprimand from his mother. This crazy duo had countless extraordinary ideas and persistently pursued each one. Playfully reenacting the French Revolution, they guillotined two pairs of J.'s mother's expensive Italian shoes and his father's beloved hammer, a keen handyman. Then, the blue-blooded Małgosia surrendered herself to the revolutionary Jaś on the resulting mound of corpses, saving what remained of her possessions, and incidentally, her head. Such a far-reaching invention must have had a tragic ending in the spontaneous reaction of little J.'s parents, who disregarded the principles of so-called stress-free upbringing and, in keeping with their own pedagogical norms, treated their child to a week-long ban from going to the circus. This was a painful experience, as J. loved the circus more than anything else in the world. His brother supplemented his pocket money as a tightrope walker, allowing the entire family free tickets to all the shows. Hansel and Gretel were cremated that same day, and their remains were unceremoniously flushed down the toilet.

Physics then emerged as a rival field to literature. Chaos theory, the Big Bang, Maxwell's Demon—that was something! J. constructed models, calculated, invested all his accumulated money in ever-faster computers, and felt his wings growing. All of this ended the moment he decided to carve a black hole out of a certain scientific journal. He was very enthusiastic about the idea, but Captain Nemo, who accompanied him on his scientific escapades, issued a firm veto, explaining that they would all be crushed by condensing matter; such an action therefore made no sense whatsoever, and, what's more, was inhumane, as there was no telling how large this phenomenon, once set in motion, could reach. J. felt a wave of bitterness and disappointment wash over him, for he had already predicted hundreds, even millions, of years of life on the outskirts of said black hole. He even packed a backpack with all the essentials. After such a harsh disappointment, he could no longer truly cherish physics, and he returned, remorseful, to the fold of literature, where he intended to achieve great and unforgettable things.

The moment he realized that the art of the written word was to be the material for realizing his desires and ambitions, he found himself at a crossroads, as it were. He had no idea how to approach things professionally or what paths to follow to reach unknown and fascinating lands, the exploration of which would bring him the recognition, honors, and wealth he longed for.

After several extraordinary successes, such as an excellent grade for his essay on the school's patron saint and a distinction in the so-called Polish language Olympiad, young J. fell into a creative stagnation. Yet he constantly projected himself as a mad artist, wandering around somewhat melancholic and pensive, clutching each new literary masterpiece under his arm—the lesser-known, the better. Beneath this mask of decadence and intellectual reverie, he carefully concealed the bitterness of failure, a mental emptiness, and creative impotence. Occasionally, a fantastic idea would strike him, but these were always merely formal discoveries, for no more enlightened reflection that might be deemed valuable by multitudes of potential readers would ever arise in his mind. Thus, since the so-called art of pure form was not to his liking, he remained a sterile creator, which began to drive him mad.

Finally, intoxicated by the beautiful visions of the Romantics, he decided that the remedy for his artistic stagnation would undoubtedly be unhappy love. Nothing could be easier, one might think, recalling his first unrequited fascinations with the opposite sex. However, fate was not too kind to J. in this matter either. Perhaps our hero searched too persistently, even desperately, for some object of desire, hence his heart remained unmoved. He did not yet understand that an effort of will would be of no use. He observed his surroundings with growing resentment, for it seemed that everyone except himself was falling prey to Cupid. This eruption of erotic fantasies, first kisses, and the suicide attempts of unfulfilled lovers made the atmosphere around him stifling and unbearable, all the more the more energy he expended in trying to bring himself to a similar state. He searched for his Julia with unwavering zeal, but none of those fickle, pimply girls with greasy hair and raging hormones were suitable for the role. Another thing is that previously, driven by a youthful lust for erotic adventures, he had clipped a charming, leggy blonde with ample breasts from a certain "men's magazine." In this context, his criticism of his peers was fully justified, for which of these underage girls, riddled with insecurities, could compete with such a star? However, his affection for this all-too-subtle beauty died almost immediately after the consummation of this less-than-consensual relationship, as all traces of his immoral activities had to be quickly erased for fear of retaliation from his parents. So the blonde went first to cousin J. (our hero always tried to help his family members in need), then to his cousin's friend, then to that friend's friend, and so on, passing from hand to hand until it was completely worn out. The last user finally gave it, already somewhat crumpled and frayed at the edges, to the wastepaper yard, utterly disappointed that the meager pennies he received for it weren't even enough for a bottle of beer from the nearby grocery store. J. wasn't even interested in the fate of his first woman; his only connection to her was that, albeit rather unsuccessful, erotic adventure. No deeper feelings seemed to exist in this arrangement. So he continued searching, slowly losing heart at the utter lack of results. When his patience finally reached its end, a small miracle occurred.

A fleeting encounter, her intelligent eyes that briefly met his in an intoxicating gaze that expressed everything that a glance should convey in such instances, her fair complexion and golden hair—all this made J. finally lose his head for the woman, abandon himself to Cupid's arms, feel the mint, in short—fall in love. What a wonderful day it was! Our previously unfulfilled artist finally felt a sudden surge of inspiration, and various extraordinary metaphors, epithets, and poetic images began to form in his mind, forming inspired paeans to this phenomenal beauty. He feverishly began conducting a short background survey to learn as much as possible about his beloved. It turned out that the girl was charmingly named Jagoda and was a true water nymph. J. also learned that she had previously lived in the Bieszczady Mountains, but, constantly harassed by young highlanders, she had decided to move to a large city where, in her opinion (oh, holy naivety!), it was easier to protect her virginal honor. This information left the author somewhat embarrassed, as comparing a real nymph to an imagined, idealized nymph, from whom the former is essentially indistinguishable, and which constituted the focus of his newly born texts, seemed to be a rather unoriginal approach. On the other hand, however, he was aware that such an object of desire was something no poet would be ashamed of, so he felt somewhat favored by fate, or rather, even more so—he interpreted it as a sign, unquestionably confirming his literary calling. Initial euphoria quickly gave way to bitter disappointment, however, as Jagoda, this ethereal figure previously inaccessible and hostile to ordinary mortals, displayed a virtually zero level of so-called assertiveness towards our literary master. She accepted the first invitation, to the cinema. And the second, for coffee. And she accepted all subsequent proposals for meetings, cruel! It soon became clear that the nymph was madly in love with J., and there was no way to dissuade her from her plan to seduce the poor man. The unfortunate man thrashed terribly, inviting her to the worst films he had ever seen, trying to be boring and unattractive, bringing her home volumes of the most indigestible literature ever written, with strict orders to quickly delve into these questionable masterpieces. But nothing worked; she remained stubbornly captivated. This earned J. a reputation as a consummate seducer and Casanova, completely destroying the barely lingering remnants of his artist image. He eventually abandoned her, unable to bear the immense happiness she brought him—because who had ever seen a happy artist? Initially, she even considered killing herself, but over time, she abandoned the idea in favor of endless drinking binges with willing men.He resolved never to engage with another woman or seek a muse. He trusted his own creative impulses, limiting all outside influences to a minimum.

Thus, J. found himself once again in an intellectually and spiritually barren space, with no idea what to do with it all. He slowly began to become irritated. His image in the eyes of the public had completely lost its mystique, the aura he had painstakingly cultivated for years had vanished. In short, he no longer had anything, not even an image. It was simply that guys often invited him for a beer or to parties; he seemed the perfect companion for a drink and a pick-me-up. Depression was fast approaching, and he had to act quickly and efficiently. He spent sleepless nights reflecting and reading numerous works, but the only effect of this less-than-healthy lifestyle was that the next day he looked like someone who had been through a lot, or to put it simply, it seemed the poor guy had a severe hangover. Consequently, people began to treat him with a certain hostility, because it was, after all, not very polite not to inform your friends about the best parties in town.

Sometimes he even thought he had an idea. He feverishly wrote down all these golden thoughts, sketched out the characters and the setting, established the plot, and finally fell asleep relatively peacefully. However, in the morning, all his nocturnal achievements seemed to him like a picture of terrible intellectual misery, and he fell back into a stupor, if not despair.

Finally, however, a revelation came. J. decided he would write a novel about himself—an artist in his youth. A captivating work about childhood and adolescence, about the dilemmas and perplexities inherent in that period, about powerful emotions, first erotic experiences, moral conflicts, and profound disappointments—in short, about the shaping of a writer's personality. He even came up with a rather poetic title—"The Landscape of My Youth." Everything was going well until he inadvertently boasted about his project to a friend. Unfortunately, this man was not a delicate man, and he quickly deprived the aspiring writer of the grace of ignorance. He disappeared for a few hours, and upon returning, he carelessly tossed onto his desk several seminal works from the broadly defined literary classics, identical not only in subject matter but often even in titles. All portraits of the artist from his youth! A layman might even get the impression that by putting it all together, stripping each of these works of superfluous detail, one could create a universal scenario of every writer's youth.

This was too much. Irritated beyond belief, J. passed his final exams and enrolled in law school.

For a while, he even found it amusing. Overzealous and overly ambitious as usual, he began pursuing law-breaking criminals on his own. He started modestly, with car thieves, burglars, and rapists. Then he managed to eliminate two or three serial killers, maniacs who had escaped from a nearby mental institution. Rumors of a mysterious vigilante began to swirl around town, and for a time, even Batman was suspected, though he persistently denied it. Soon after, however, a bored J. got involved in a rather large-scale espionage scandal, thus abandoning his previous work for the common citizen. From then on, the inhabitants of the urban jungle were once again left to their own devices, and Batman was stripped of his keys to the city and his honorary citizenship, and his posters were ritually burned.

And so, our hero spent his third and fourth years of college, partly poring over books, partly chasing and eliminating terrorists from around the world. Eventually, however, he grew tired of this practice. Something was still missing, he felt unfulfilled despite the numerous decorations and medals he received as a reward for his impeccable and exceptionally effective service to humanity. He realized he had to return to literature.

Since he was still a writer, after graduating, he decided to seek his fortune in journalism. His lighthearted style was quickly appreciated, and he was commissioned to write columns for a popular weekly. At first, he considered this an ideal option, as he believed the column was the most literary form possible in the profession, but over time, he began to realize he wasn't the right man for the job. His writing wasn't scathing enough, as the editor deigned to point out. Indeed, J. couldn't spew venom as accurately as all those professional right-wingers and zealous supporters of the left's agenda, professional sexists, chauvinists, and New Age environmentalists, or even more professional feminists, avowed atheists, and new Church Fathers... Nothing worked out as it should, no matter how hard he tried. He was still too gentle, too unbiased, too bland. He quickly earned a reputation within the editorial office as a terrible coward and conformist.

Finally, he was sent to the sports department, where he began editing the column "Our Juniors." This work was less demanding, allowing our artist to focus on more important issues and continue his relentless creative pursuits.

One day, while leafing through books on literary theory, he came across something that would soon completely transform his view of the art of the written word. It was the idea of ​​an eternal correspondence between texts and thoughts, drawing on each other across the centuries. Intertextuality. A magic word, a magical spell that opened entirely new worlds for the writer. With renewed enthusiasm, he began delving into the writings of theorists. It was truly captivating! He suddenly realized that in his work he could utilize a multitude of incredibly rich motifs and symbols, forged in the forges of the greatest minds. And best of all, this didn't reflect poorly on such an artist; on the contrary, it added splendor to his work. The more diverse themes, topoi, and tropes, the better. And the reader, after all, must possess the appropriate cultural and intellectual competence to delve into the content and discover the full depth of the message. From this came the certainty that it wouldn't be read by just any commoner.

J. was well aware of his vast general knowledge and high level of reading, so he happily decided that in such a setting, he would quickly feel at home. And since, as we all know, fish love to swim, he immediately began to eagerly celebrate his future successes. When, a few days later, he finally managed to return to the bosom of society, his complexion was nobly pale, with a slight tinge of purple under his gleaming eyes, and his notebook was full of fantastic puns and literary riddles, paraphrases, and allusions.

Now only one small problem remained to be solved: the subject matter of the work. After all, he had to skillfully weave these gems into a story... All that was necessary was an idea for a good story; he just had to find the right concept, and everything would be a piece of cake! J. already knew he would create the work he had dreamed of, that he would write a novel that would astonish the entire world. For now, he continued collecting his unique literary associations, transforming and reinterpreting old myths, poring over tales and legends, dissecting literary masterpieces, and waiting. He waited for illumination, full of hope and faith in future success. After a few years, he possessed a considerable collection of thick notebooks, filled with meticulous, minute handwriting, in which he gathered the results of all his explorations and research. He could certainly have easily created a small encyclopedia of myths and cultural traditions from these, but ideas for a plot, for a problem of importance to humanity, still hadn't come, and J.'s spirits began to decline.

Finally, the day came when his depression and discouragement reached their peak, and this was the moment when our good reader had the opportunity to meet this extraordinary hero for the first time.

So on that fateful day, after finishing breakfast, J. sat down at his computer with the firm resolve to finally get his great, still largely unfinished novel off the ground. He lit a cigarette, fired up his text editor, and sank into a reverie. He was desperate. He wrote a few lines, examined them critically, and then immediately deleted them with a heavy sigh. This situation repeated itself several more times. Time marched on, and J. still couldn't write a single page.

At a certain point, he felt that things simply couldn't go on like this. He began to recall all the years he had devoted exclusively to literature, pondering all his sacrifices, his unfulfilled dreams, his dashed ambitions, and his growing frustration. He remembered Jagoda, his first and only love, whom he had abandoned in the name of art, in the name of a repulsive, greedy muse who had never compensated him for his loss. He felt tears of despair welling up in his eyes. He cried for himself, for Jagoda, for all those he had harmed in his pursuit of his highest desires. In that moment, he felt utterly defeated. He decided: either he would manage to begin this long-awaited, epoch-making work today, or he would simply end it all, for there was no point in toiling and deceiving himself any longer. With such motivation, his greatness as a writer must emerge. If it didn't, it would mean that, quite simply, it hadn't been his lot.

He decided the best solution would be to head to the market square, sit comfortably there, and wait for a surge of inspiration. The people there should be sufficient inspiration; after all, he would write for them and about them. After all, it is humanity, with its pains, questions, and doubts, that forms the problematic axis of literary texts. Yes, it was a truly brilliant idea. Perhaps all these street musicians, vendors, ordinary passers-by and the sophisticated company of café slackers will be the impetus for writing.

J. now had to prepare himself accordingly. He considered taking his laptop on this unique artistic journey, but decided against it after a moment, realizing that technology had already displaced symbolic culture to such an extent that he should have a hand in this shameful yet inevitable process at such an important and sublime moment. Now considering all the tragic consequences of technological evolution, J. was even inclined to blame this unfortunate machine for all his failures. However, he quickly came to his senses, because everyone should be the master of their own fate and choices, and it would be humiliating to say that their fate had always rested in the hands of a mindless machine. Instead, he decided to use an old typewriter that had served his grandfather, which he kept in the basement as a family relic, for it was with its help that his progenitor had created his first three-act costume drama, which, incidentally, later turned out to be a terrible mess.

Our hero then went to the basement in search of all the equipment he needed, embarking on a sentimental journey of sorts. While sifting through piles of junk, he stumbled upon, among other things, a scooter he'd once used to run over a neighbor's dog. Among the dusty pile of items with indecipherable purposes were other family heirlooms, such as the rubber watch of Uncle Zenon, an avid scuba diver; the false teeth of his beloved crocodile, who died tragically; and, finally, a literary rarity – the erotic diaries of his great-grandmother, who, for reasons beyond her control, had once engaged in prostitution. J. was astonished by this fascinating collection, having never imagined that such wonders could be found in these catacombs, forgotten by God and mankind. Now, of course, he didn't have much time to contemplate all these exhibits, but he resolved to return later that day, in case good fortune should grant him inspiration and spare his life. Meanwhile, he found a typewriter. From the large box, he also dug out a pistol – a modest trinket salvaged from his agent days. He also took a silencer, just in case. With a nostalgic glance, he surveyed his own collection of orders and medals, a weapon he hadn't used in years, and a collection of tiny spy cameras. Then he headed back to his apartment to complete all his preparations.

He packed his backpack and drank a cup of hot, invigorating tea. Then he had one last sexual encounter with a bored Madame Bovary, culminating in her murder. He didn't want to, but he had no other choice; he couldn't leave her in that empty apartment completely unattended. So, with a heavy heart, he tore it up and threw it into the fireplace, where she winked at him in farewell. He had the unpleasant impression that she was relieved.

The most difficult moment arrived – he had to destroy both mechanical dwarves, his most faithful friends. He called them over, embraced them tenderly, and wept bitterly. It was a truly moving scene. Finally, he opened his toolbox and began dismantling his irreplaceable servants. He knew they understood, that they held no grudges, and somehow that lifted his spirits. The dwarves screamed at the top of their voices, and blood gushed forth in torrents. Then the screams faded to a quiet, piercing moan, until finally everything fell silent, leaving only two mounds of screws, a few pipes, and scraps of sheet metal. J. wiped the sweat from his brow and lit a cigarette. He picked up his heavy backpack from the floor and looked around the room. He was ready.

The old market square was swarming with people, as it usually was at this hour. J. felt a moment of apprehension, but he quickly calmed down and began looking for a suitable place to settle down. He wanted the best possible view of everything going on here. He finally managed to find a quiet corner in one of the so-called open-air cafés, which at this time of year had some tables outside so guests could breathe in the fresh air during long coffee sessions. He ordered a glass of whiskey, adjusted his battered typewriter, placed a blank, glaringly white sheet of paper inside, and began to nervously glance around. He observed young people on their first dates and long-term couples still in love. He watched underage but already weary florists wander from table to table with their meager offerings. He listened to the music of a street musician, the wistful song of a violin that, strangely enough, blended beautifully with the street music and the cooing of the ubiquitous pigeons. He fell into a reverie. He tried to understand what secret humanity held within itself that made it such an inscrutable phenomenon. His mind raced, and images flashed before his eyes, sometimes beautiful and moving, sometimes terrifying and grotesque. He tried to grasp something in common, to grasp something, to distill the great problem that would become the foundation of his work. Eventually, however, he realized that these were merely mere quotations and poetic images from others.

Time passed, and the blank page remained blank. The elderly slowly departed for their homes, and their place was gradually taken by cheerful and boisterous young people who came to have fun over a glass of beer. A certain pimply youth spoke with verve about academic painting, clearly striving to dominate the chaotic chatter of the company. Unfortunately, his decidedly theatrical gesticulations caused the golden drink of the drunken gods to spill onto his equally theatrical attire, reducing the seriousness of the discourse to dust. Young pseudo-artists often attempted to recreate the atmosphere of café gatherings of the intelligentsia, but it always ended in drunken brawls and quick, clumsy interactions in the doorways of nineteenth-century tenement houses.

For a time, J. watched with interest the artificially amused, overly well-groomed young women seated comfortably two tables away, sipping wine and seemingly immersed in casual conversation, trying to detect any signs of interest from the intoxicated members of the opposite sex. It was all so natural, so vivid... So why couldn't he translate these observations into literature? What exactly was he looking for? Oh, damn all the Joyces and Prousts of the world!

J. understood that the moment had come when he had to accept defeat. He felt no fear; he was too tired and resigned for that. He no longer even dwelled on his lost life, and why would he? He understood everything all too well now. He saw too clearly, too acutely. He no longer felt the urge to reopen those wounds.

Calmly and quietly, he took his pistol from his backpack, so that no one would notice. He didn't want to incite panic. He had mastered such maneuvers to perfection, anyway. For a moment, he considered using a silencer, but decided against it, fearing his death might go unnoticed for too long. In this large, noisy city, no one paid any attention to anyone else, and many extravagances evoked no emotion in passersby. He feared he would be mistaken for a drunken vagrant or mentally ill, lying there breathless, soulless, until the waitresses began clearing the tables and trying to usher him out. The prospect of a death too quiet, too imperceptible, amidst a crowd of tipsy young men and cheerful young women, in a haze of smoke and the stench of alcohol, terrified him. Oh well, he'd ruin his fellow citizens' evening; there was no other way.

He lit a final, symbolic cigarette and glanced at that unfortunate white card, a sign of his weakness, proof of his failure. It seemed to mock him. He took a deep breath and typed: "Everything has already been said. Everything has already been written. There is no room for me. There is no room for new literature." He looked at the text with genuine satisfaction. He defiled the unbearable whiteness.

He stubbed out his cigarette, imperceptibly placed the gun to his temple, and fired.

The case quickly gained notoriety; after all, it's not every day that someone commits such a spectacular suicide. The sound of a gunshot and a sea of ​​blood, on the tables, on the floor, everywhere. After such an experience, witnesses would long recover in the comfort of warm psychologists' offices. One of the guests, a retired painter, heard the gunshot and died of a heart attack. One woman had a miscarriage. The establishment would never regain its clientele, and the owner was threatened with bankruptcy. It's astonishing how much power we possess after death.

Interestingly, the event attracted the attention of not only the tabloid press and the police, but also... literary critics. All hell broke loose. An academic conference was called at a nearby university, and papers, speeches, treatises, and essays poured forth. The various interpretations were endless. The issue was dominated by a magnificent and all-powerful scholarly discourse. Someone considered J.'s act a manifestation of symbolic violence. His opponent deigned to note that the act was a bit too literal to be considered symbolic. A critic argued that it was a kind of peculiar happening, drawing on the Dadaist tradition of resistance. A philosopher also weighed in, stating that the artist was undoubtedly a rebel, seeking to seize complete control over his existence.

And so, the scholarly debates and disputes would have been endless had it not been for the intervention of a widely respected professor of literature, who, trained by years of experience, approached the matter more professionally. Through tortuous routes known only to prominent citizens, he gained access to the deceased's apartment and thoroughly searched it. He found an entire collection of notebooks in which our hero had written down various myths, motifs, symbols, and literary connotations. The wise professor quickly connected this discovery with the author's farewell letter and skillfully pieced everything together into a coherent and meaningful whole. Now he eagerly explained to the audience that J. knew literature like few others, having delved into, described, and cataloged all its secrets. Having completed his work, he understood that the human mind could no longer achieve anything new in this field, a fact unequivocally evident from his last text. But since he was a born writer and a great artist, he could not simply surrender to history, and so he created the greatest and most magnificent work that a human being could achieve in conditions so unfavorable to any creativity. He killed himself, his greatest discovery, signing it with his own blood. His work—these notebooks, and this page containing a mere four sentences, his eventual death—these, ladies and gentlemen, unequivocally indicate that we are dealing with THE GREATEST ARTIST OF OUR TIMES!

Some of those gathered clearly didn't like this idea, and the entire hall immediately filled with excited voices and indignant whispers. Ultimately, however, it was decided that the great professor's theory was the only correct one. Long live the professor, long live the prophet! Of course, long live he!

J. awoke in hell, where he met the Devil. They went for a little black coffee, and J. learned the posthumous fate of his "work." He desperately wanted to faint from the shock, but somehow he couldn't; apparently, it's impossible in the afterlife. The Devil was laughing his ass off.