The bakery has been brandished against me in literature.

When I first wrote, it was said:

"This Baroja is a crusty fellow; naturally, he is a baker."

A certain picturesque academician, who was also a dramatist, and given
to composing stupendous _quintillas_ and _cuartetas_ in his
day, which, despite their flatness, were received with applause, had the
inspiration to add:

"All this modernism has been cooked up in Baroja's oven."

Even the Catalans lost no time in throwing the fact of my being a baker
in my face, although they are a commercial, manufacturing people.
Whether calico is nobler than flour, or flour than calico, I am not
sure, but the subject is one for discussion, as Maeztu would have it.

I am an eclectic myself on this score. I prefer flour in the shape of
bread with my dinner, but cloth will go further with a man who desires
to appear well in public.

When I was serving upon the Town Council, an anonymous publication
entitled "Masks Off," printed the following among other gems: "Pio
Baroja is a man of letters who runs a bake-shop."

A Madrid critic recently declared in an American periodical that I had
two personalities: one that of a writer and the other of a baker. He was
solicitous to let me know later that he intended no harm.