The original is unfaithful to the translation. And yet, and yet . . . Denying temporal succession, denying the self, denying the astronomical universe, are apparent desperations and secret consolations. Time is the substance I am made of. It may be that universal history is the history of the different intonations given a handful of metaphors.
Every novel is an ideal plane inserted into the realm of reality.
The fact is that every writer creates his own precursors. His work modifies our conception of the past, as it will modify the future. There is a concept which corrupts and upsets all others. A man sets out to draw the world. As the years go by, he peoples a space with images of provinces, kingdoms, mountains, bays, ships, islands, fishes, rooms, instruments, stars, horses, and individuals.