...a literature ordered according to the infinite task of extracting from the depths of oneself, in between the words, a truth which the very form of the confession holds out like a shimmering mirage (Michel Foucault)
K: Sure enough. I wonder if that is what has happened to me. A’s work is a faithful companion. I find myself left alone, and it chills my heart. I have no feelings left – except loneliness and beneath that: rage.
