Finishing a book is a bit like dying, as many must have quipped already. Book by book, one gets worried a little, for one never knows how such mysterious things add up. Or for how long. Bit by bit, the droll quip becomes ominous, if not outright scary, as well. Not because of dying, one feels like boasting, but because starting a book is so much more awesome than finishing it. So much more dazzling. It is a bit like being born again. As books add up, it is like bringing oneself to life ever anew. Miraculously. And ever more miraculously. So, will there be another one? And what will it be about? Not about Motovun, for crying out loud! Not again!