Cold Sternburg

By R.

From Laszlo Krasznahorkai's The Last Wolf and Herman:

...the taste of cold Sternburg in the cold bottle, the usual thing and the Hungarian barman, who, he felt, was his most intimate companion, one who nevertheless never once succeeded in putting the glass gently down before him, a failure that exacerbated his already terrible nervous state, a state that was hard to explain, but he would happily have smashed the bastard's face in, because why go slamming it down on the table every time, with the sky so overcast outside, a leaden sky yielding little light, the drug dealers leaning against the wall, the sidewalks sticky with spittle and that bitter taste in his mouth of futility and scorn...