On its own, having escaped my grasp, the spool I had loosed was unwinding.
Floating high on the waters of catastrophe
Blood had long since ceased to beat from one end to the other, but one could sense, from passages marked with fresher traces of wheels and hooves, that once the meaning and even the very idea of a long journey was lost, sleep had not descended over it in one fell swoop: it had continued to steal a march here and there, in a discontinuous way, and over short distances, like a laborer who feels his cart jolt on a section of Roman road that crosses his field.
And what can still delight an inert stone except to become, once more, the bed of a raging torrent?
A history of literature, unlike history as such, ought to list only victories, for its defeats are no victory for anyone.
