...of the death of literature

Suddenly the melancholy of the writing of the No was reflected in one of the glass beads in the chandelier hanging from my study ceiling, and my own melancholy helped me to see reflected there the image of the last writer, with whom sooner or later, because it has to happen, without witnesses, the small mystery of literature will disappear. Naturally, whether they like it or not, this last writer will be a writer of the No. I thought I saw them just a few moments ago. Guided by the star of my own melancholy, I saw them listening to that word, the last of all, falling silent, dying along with them.

[Bartleby & Co., Vila-Matas, E.]