Sometimes, right in the middle of my active life, when I’m evidently as clear about myself as anyone is, a strange feeling of doubt enters my imagination; I do not know if I exist, it seems possible to me that I might be someone else’s dream; the idea occurs to me, with an almost carnal reality, that I might be a character in a novel, moving through the long waves of someone else’s literary style, through the created truth of a great narrative.
