It would be a book as long as the Arabian Nights perhaps, but quite different. It is probably true that when one is in love with a work of literature one wants to make something as like it as possible, but one needs to sacrifice one’s love of the moment, think not of one’s own taste, but of a truth which does not ask for your preferences and forbids you to think about them. And only if one follows it will one sometimes find that one has come upon what one abandoned, that, by forgetting them, one has written the Arabian Nights or the Mémoires of Saint-Simon for a new age. But was there still
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