Sure, text as follows:
A restored edition of Ernest Hemingway's <em>A Moveable Feast</em> was produced in 2009. In this substantially <a href="http://www.newstatesman.com/non-fiction/2010/07/hemingway-paris-edition-book">revised edition</a>, Hemingway's grandson, Seán Hemingway, removes the last line, "This is how Paris was when we were very poor and very happy," and excises the chapter "There Is Never Any End to Paris". This may prove disconcerting to readers drawn to read Hemingway's youthful account of his days as a young writer in Paris through Enrique Vila-Matas's <em>Never Any End to Paris</em> which refers frequently to both phrase and chapter title.
<em>Never Any End to Paris</em> is a fictional memoir in which Vila-Matas exorcises the mostly literary ghosts of his time as a young, impoverished writer in Paris. After reading <em>A Moveable Feast</em> at fifteen years old, the narrator decides to emulate Hemingway. Unlike in Hemingway's expurgated phrase, Vila-Matas's narrator is very poor and very unhappy in Paris.
There are several good online reviews of <em>Never Any End to Paris</em>, my favourite is David Winter's <a href="http://www.3ammagazine.com/3am/paying-for-the-lights-of-bohemia/">review</a>:
<blockquote>The book, or lecture, tells of the ‘farcical garret life’ of a writer ensnared in the error of becoming a writer. Becoming, perhaps, Vila-Matas, or else his nameless namesake, the lecturer, an old man immersed in the ‘irony’ of his ‘not having been aware of irony as a young man’. In a Borgesian take on the problem of types and tokens, the place where these identities overlap is the very place they diverge. The protagonist labours absurdly over his first novel, The Lettered Assassin, a project whose preposterous aim is ‘to kill its readers’. In reality, Le asesina ilustrada (1977) was the second of Vila-Matas’ novels. Do the two books coincide? Such questions are raised but never resolved, which is why Never Any End to Paris resembles an edge or an opening, not onto anything outside itself, but onto literature, a leap from a sheer drop, located within the book’s written limits. In this sense, the text may best be read as its own invention, with no prior knowledge of the life of its author. The true world the book opens onto is one where a writer called ‘Enrique Vila-Matas’ never existed. Let alone Hemingway. Let alone Paris.</blockquote>
Vila-Matas succeeds with the tricky "novel about a writer trying to write," a sub-genre that normally bores me. Though some of the humour feels over-laboured, I enjoyed the literary references and the narrator's attempt to comprehend the thirteen novelist's protocols listed by his landlady Marguerite Duras.