It is all very well to recollect in tranquility, but this betrays whatever it was that prompted and suffered the emotion. Literature may be the worst way of analysing things because of its seductive mobilisation of distance. A certain set of discursive gestures is combined in endlessly new patterns suggestive of a freedom for novelty which is genuine enough, but no match for the reality it faces. Everything keeps escaping, and after all the traps have been set out for and on behalf of his desire, he keeps finding that they fail to close over what passes through them. This is not his experience, rather he is the way this experience is expressed.