A writer named Probkin came to a certain country and was so amazed that he sat down on a stone and stayed there until evening. The country was very good. The mountains stood where they should, the rivers ran down and not up, and people poured wine without asking your surname.

“I must write about this,” thought Probkin, and wrote a book. Then he thought some more and wrote a second. Then he stopped thinking and wrote a third.

And so that as many people as possible would learn about this wonderful country, Probkin sold his coat, his watch and his bicycle, and spent all the money printing a great many books. So many that there was nowhere left to lie down in his room, and Probkin slept standing up.

He took the books and carried them to a bookshop.

“Oh!” said the shop’s director, Amalia Karlovna. “Of course! We’ll gladly take them! Every day people ask us for a book about our country. Yesterday eleven times, today already fourteen, and one citizen even cried.”
“That’s good,” said Probkin.
“Very good,” said Amalia Karlovna. “Now show me the permission.”
“What permission?”
“The usual one. From the country. For writing about it the way you like.”
“I don’t have a permission,” said Probkin. “I liked it so much. All by myself.”

Amalia Karlovna looked out of the window, then at Probkin, then out of the window again.

“Yes,” she said. “A year ago anyone could like the country, however they pleased. But now it’s not allowed without permission. I won’t take the book.”
“And where do they give out permission?”
“Nobody knows that,” said Amalia Karlovna, and went off to drink tea.

Probkin went out into the street. He felt so sad that a button came undone on its own.

“Well, all right,” thought Probkin. “Next time I’ll spend my time differently. I’ll sit down and not write a book. Then I’ll rest and not write a second one. And the third I won’t write quite easily, out of habit.”

And that is what he did. He sat down on the same stone and wrote nothing. And at once everything was fine. Nobody asked him for permission. Nobody went off to drink tea. The mountains stood, the rivers ran down, and a policeman passing by even saluted Probkin, because a man was sitting there doing nothing, and that is always pleasant to see.

Since then Probkin has not written some forty books, and with not one of them has there been any unpleasantness.

As for the printed ones, they are still lying in his room. Probkin now sleeps on them, lying down. He says it’s comfortable.

That’s all.