It’s gotten to the point that I don’t feel confident talking about a single book in this anthology. I don’t trust myself to limit my scope to a single volume because the parts blend into the whole so seamlessly. There is a genetic structure to the themes and characters and ideas in this whole project where the DNA for everything to come is already there in everything that’s already been. As I try to chip away at any individual moments I have trouble knowing if I hear the sound of the axe striking the stone or if I’m only hearing the dead echoes of the original as they bounce off the canyon walls of my mind, resonating into the moiré pattern that Proust paints.

Does that mean it’s pointless to wait until I finish the whole series to start laying out my thoughts? Perhaps that complete inanity of procrastination is exactly what Marcel is trying to show us.