"But why describe a man in trouble with his mule? Again, I could invent stories about that girl coming up the steps. "She met him under the dark archway... ''It''s over'', he said, turning from the cage where the china parrot hangs." Or simply, "That was all". But why impose my arbitary design? Why stress this and shape that and twist up little figures like the toys men sell in trays in the street? Why select this, out of all that-one detail?"
("The Waves", Virginia Woolf)
Защото писателите правят така. А ти, Bernard, не си такъв...