In this sort-of-a-book which isn't really a book at all I'd have liked to talk about this and that, as one does all the time on an ordinary day just like any other. To drive along the motorway of the word, slowing down or stopping as I felt inclined, for no particular reason. But it's impossible -- you can't get away from the road itself and the way it's going; you can't not go anywhere; you can't just talk without starting out from a particular point of knowledge or ignorance, and arrive somewhere at random amid the welter of other words. You can't simultaneously know and not know. And so this book, which I'd have liked to resemble a motorway going in all directions at once, will merely be a book that tries to go everywhere but goes to just one place at a time; which turns back and sets out again the same as everyone else, the same as every other book. The only alternative is to say nothing. But that can't be written down.

Marguerite Duras -- Practicalities