True literary writing made use of reality, but didn’t allow reality to constrain and subjugate it. It recalled the writer’s remarks and observations, but it also had to bore through these into the comedic imaginary realms or hidden tragic dimensions. Reality, as it stood, beckoned beyond the visible, opening outlets to the writer that might contradict it. The skilful writer was the one who picked up on these signals or invented them.
As he writes, he experiences moments that are beyond Time itself, immortal. He loses interest in people’s lives, content with the fate to which he’d finally been guided. Writing was his fate and his life’s purpose. His destiny wasn’t the search for adventures, whether with women or anything else, in Europe or elsewhere. He was assigned another mission that ha
