Looking through the mirror

The CIA insists with me to write in English. I don’t want to do it anymore. The critics really hate me, you can’t even imagine. The public from abroad continues to read my books, but if people from here don’t like them anymore, it doesn’t make any sense at all. I feel like I’m a kind of a prize: the writer who doesn’t remember his own native tongue anymore. A sculpture of my head is on a wall in the Pentagon, like a real embalmed moose head above the fireside of a hunter.