And I who am saying all this – why am I writing this book? Because I realize it’s imperfect. Dreamed, it would be perfection; written, it becomes imperfect; that’s why I’m writing it. And above all else, because I advocate uselessness, absurdity, – I write this book to lie to myself, to be unfaithful to my own theory. And the supreme glory of all this, my love, is to think that perhaps none of it is true and that I don’t even believe it’s true.
