from César Aira’s Ema, the Captive

“… a novel could be written about those changes in color in the sky and the transformations of the clouds between, say, six and eight, so long as the author confined himself to the most rigorous realism. The resulting novel, a report on atmospheric colors, shifts, and flows, would be the apotheosis of life’s futility. Why not? A supremely stupid saga; the world was ripe for such a work, or would be by the time he finished writing it… ‘Adventures,’ he said to himself, ‘are always adventures in boredom.'”

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