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that maybe, somewhere, he would stumble across some of his more brilliant ideas which, considering them to be exclusively his, he would stuff into the novel.

A step forward, especially to the point where he was drifting in limbo, was again when he ascertained that if the making up of a first sentence which he would then craft like needlework until he completed the chapter and after that the novel, was everything - starting in its absence with a first word to which the rest would come to stick to like a fly to honey (they’d be of the clingy type) was half of everything. A leap forward – the awareness of how pointless it was to lament over the fact that he had started writing a little too late to have enough time to mature as a writer since the con-ditions had not been ripe yet for him to have start-ed earlier. Crossing the Rubicon – the thought that to think as obsessively about the novel as an insomniac about sleeping, in addition to not thinking about it at all was, to say the least, completely thoughtless, while to sit willy-nilly in front of the text from early morn-ing, in the same way the other would be counting sheep, at night, the former because it was suggested by successful writers, the latter, because of conven-tional wisdom, was reckless. A point of reference, fi-nally, – the conviction that it did not matter if his