They (writers) publish books for the pleasure of seeing them printed and bound, without remembering the saddest aspects of their lives will end up contained in those pages.
But wouldn’t my book be a result of my desire to commit a crime, and thus be part of it? Wouldn’t every page be a sliver of glass in the daily soup of my fellow citizens?
A book is the vegetal pulp left behind by man. And now, after countless centuries of digging up and studying palimpsests and engraved tablets, they’re saying that we should just allow those dead, abandoned cities to become buried again beneath the windblown sentiment…
A book is a slow, unavoidable catastrophe.
Viscount Emilio Lascano Tegui, On Elegance While Sleeping
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