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Illustration by Jorge F. Hernández.

I suppose that not a few writers, editors and printers can use the symptoms of unexpectedly sweating ink to cope with life. Despite the fact that the expression was boxed as synonymous with hard work or the ravages of an enormous effort, sweating the fat drop of pure ink sounds to me like a worthy decoration of refined prose or the trace of having curdled verses perspired over low heat. Perhaps we forgot the painful end of Gustav Aschencach in the sands of Venice, on the verge of death that gives the title to the novel starring Dirk Bogard, where the mess …