It is an extremely common mistake. People think the writer's imagination is always at...

[first lines] Author: It is an extremely common mistake. People think the writer's imagination is always at work, that he's constantly inventing an endless supply of incidents and episodes; that he simply dreams up his stories out of thin air. In point of fact, the opposite is true. Once the public knows you're a writer, they bring the characters and events to you. And as long as you maintain your ability to look, and to carefully listen, these stories will continue to... Author's Grandson: [shooting at him with a pellet gun] Author: Stop it! Stop it! Don't! Don't do it!... Uh, will continue to seek you out, uh, over your lifetime. To him, who has often told the tales of others, many tales will be told. Author's Grandson: Sorry. Author: It's all right. The incidents that follow were described to me exactly as I present them here, and in a wholly unexpected way.

It is an extremely common mistake, people think the writer's imagination is always at work, that he's constantly inventing an endless supply of incidents and episodes, that he simply dreams up his stories out of thin air. In point of fact, the opposite is true. Once the public knows you're a writer, they bring the characters and events to you and as long as you maintain your ability to look and to carefully listen, these stories will continue to... Stop it. Stop it! Don't! Don't do it! Will continue to seek you out over your lifetime. To him who has often told the tales of others, many tales will be told. - Sorry. - 'S alright. The incidents that follow were described to me exactly as I present them here and in a wholly unexpected way. A number of years ago, while suffering from a mild case of "Scribe's Fever", a form of neurasthenia common among the intelligentsia of that time, I decided to spend the month of August in the spa town of Nebelsbad below the Alpine Sudetenwaltz, and had taken up rooms in The Grand Budapest, a picturesque, elaborate, and once widely celebrated establishment. I expect some of you will know it. It was off season and, by that time, decidedly out of fashion, and it had already begun its descent into shabbiness and eventual demolition. What few guests we were had quickly come to recognize one another by sight as the only living souls residing in the vast establishment, although I do not believe any acquaintance among our number had proceeded beyond the polite nods we exchanged as we passed in the Palm Court, in the Arabian baths, and on board the Colonnade Funicular. We were a very reserved group, it seemed, and, without exception, solitary. Perhaps as a result of this general silence, I had established a casual and bantering familiarity with the hotel's concierge, a West-continental