"You know, Johann," said Hemingway [to Goethe, as they walked in the alleys of the other world], "I can't escape their constant accusations. Instead of reading my books, they write books about me. They say that I didn't love my wives. That I didn't pay enough attention to my son. That I broke a critic's nose. That I wasn't honest. That I was arrogant. That I was a misogynist. That I boasted about having 230 war wounds when I only had 206. That I masturbated. That I was cruel to my mother."

"That's immortality for you, what do you expect," said Goethe. "Immortality is an eternal trial."

"If it's an eternal trial, it needs a real judge! Not a village schoolteacher with a whip in her hand."

"Well, that's the eternal trial: the whip in the hand of a village schoolteacher! What did you expect, Ernest?"

"I didn't expect anything. I just hoped that, after my death, I would live a little peacefully."

"You did everything to become immortal."

"Nonsense. I wrote books, that's all."

"Exactly!" Goethe burst into laughter.

"No objection if my books are immortal. I wrote them in a way that no one can change a single word. That they can withstand storms. But as a human being, as Ernest Hemingway, I don't give a damn about immortality!"

"I understand you. But you should have been more measured while you were alive. Now it's probably too late."