"What seems beautiful to me, what I should like to write is a book about nothing, a book dependent on nothing external, which would be held together by the internal strength of its style, just as the earth, suspended in the void, depends on nothing external for its support; a book which would have almost no subject, or at least in which the subject would be almost invisible, if such a thing is possible. The finest works are those that contain the least matter."
Gustave Flaubert, Letter to Louise Colet, [Croisset,] Friday night. [January 16, 1852]
“Ever ready, his house is portable, he lives always in his native country.”Franz Kafka, from The Blue Octavo Notebooks (via kafkaesque-world)
Travel is useful, it exercises the imagination. All the rest is disappointment and fatigue. Our journey is entirely imaginary. That is its strength.
It goes from life to death. People, animals, cities, things, all are imagined. It’s a novel, just a fictitious narrative. Littré* says so, and he’s never wrong.
And besides, in the first place, anyone can do as much. You just have to close your eyes.
It’s on the other side of life.
Louis-Ferdinand Céline, Voyage au bout de la nuit, 1932.