…Pomperipossa’s countenance grew darker and darker. She now understood that it was something dirty and shameful to write books, since it was punished so severely. How is it in other lands? she pondered. Well, she knew something about that, for she had just met a kind little Russian, and he was an author. His books were selling off the shelves, and he paid 13% in taxes. (Pomperipossa told him about her 102%, and then he fell off his chair. But as soon as he got off the floor he took a beeline home to tell everybody about this in his land.) Pomperipossa had also heard that in Ireland they cherished their authors very much, so much so that they didn’t take any tax at all from the income from their books. But that must be a lie, Pomperipossa thought.