The Rings of Saturn

by W.G. Sebald

What we perceive are no more than isolated lights in the abyss of ignorance, in the shadow-filled edifice of the world. We

Nature of knowledge has never been so beautifully described, I think.

The iniquity of oblivion blindly scatters her poppyseed

What manner of theatre is it, in which we are at once playwright, actor, stage manager, scene painter and audience?

Like our bodies and like our desires, the machines we have devised are possessed of a heart which is slowly reduced to embers.