The character in the story wanted to write a book but gave up, since the title he intended to use was already taken.

TIPO “A” – TARDE PÁGINA 3/15

Text to answer questions 42 and 43.

1 No matter where I was posted, whether abroad or
back in Ottawa, I usually managed to spend a brief
summer vacation in France. There I dispensed with
4 women altogether, caught up on my reading, and tried to
write a book. I meant it to be a summary of recent times,
with my experiences and judgment used tactfully, never
7 intrusively, as a binding thread. I would have called it
“My Century,” but the title had already been employed by
a celebrated Polish poet. Every year at high summer, I was
10 driven to unpack my Hermes, set it on the marble table in
the shadiest part of the terrace, roll in a sheet of Extra
Strong, and type “Chapter 1.” I could see a tamed and
13 orderly design of streams and rivulets (early youth,
intellectual awakening) feeding a tranquil river that
debouched into a limpid sea. Unfortunately, it wanted only
16 a few minutes for the sea to churn up and disgorge a ton of
dead fish. Most people considered great were in reality
only average; middling masters I held in contempt; as for
19 amateurs in any field, I saw no reason why they should not
be airlifted to Mongolia and left to forage. Obviously, this
was of no interest to anyone except cranks; yet I felt no
22 spite, no disappointment, no envy of younger men. I had
done nearly everything I wanted, and had been as
successful as my aunt had hoped.

25 After half an hour I would push the typewriter aside,
open a thick notebook, uncap the gold Parker I was given
years ago for having passed, unexpectedly well, an
28 examination in political science, and write, “Chapter 1.”
Then I would cap the pen and stare at the Mediterranean,
wondering if the wisp of darkness on the horizon could be
31 a mirage projection of Corsica.

Apart from this activity I ate breakfast and lunch at
home, went down for a swim early, when no one was
34 around, played some tennis at a court up near the railway
station, and dined with elderly neighbors. At the end of a
few weeks I bolted the window shutters, disconnected and
37 locked up the telephone (so that burglars would not be
tempted to make long-distance calls), and returned to the
39 wrack and low tide of my profession.

GALLANT, Mavis. Let it Pass. In: Montreal Stories. Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 2004. (adapted)