I went out to buy a book. Any book. I felt buoyant. My expectations were high, and I could hardly wait to enter the first bookstore on my way. Parenthetically, albeit predictably, that is how I conceive of an adventure. The only constraint I usually face is that of time required for browsing, and thus I embark upon such an expedition rather rarely. I returned home emptyhanded a couple of hours later. That is how I conceive of a minor catastrophe, too. The only thing that remained for me to do in this predicament was to consider the reasons for my inability to find a single appealing book among hundreds that went through my hands this evening.

At first glance it appears that the central question here is simple: how can one find something one is not looking for? And conversely: how can something one is not looking for attract one’s attention? But questions such as these tend to imply that I would have felt attracted to too many diverse books, simply because the choice was almost completely unconstrained. In fact, this is decidedly not what had happened. I had felt indifferent toward each and every book I leafed through at random.

It was as though I had a strong premonition from the very beginning that the book I was searching for was as yet unwritten. I stopped searching when I realized that my search had indeed been hopeless. Once again, this cannot be explained directly on logical grounds, because a couple of hours could under no circumstances be sufficient to establish the truth of a hypothesis of this nature. My premonition was not entirely without foundation, though. That is, I realized at some point that, unbeknownst to myself, I had been looking for my own book. It is thus hardly surprising that I could not but fail to find anything of interest, as I tacitly knew with absolute certainty that I had not published a book so far. It goes without saying that it also remains to be seen whether I ever will.

The very expedition was, of course, an exercise in magic: to read what one has yet to write. Although this kind of magic is quite impotent in many respects, its primary function is to provide the foundations for an endeavor of such a momentous importance to oneself. The search destined to futility serves to establish the social need, as it were, that would justify a project as tedious and debilitating as book-writing no doubt is. Having come to this conclusion, I felt reassured. Sooner or later I will have to fill the horrible void. With some luck, I will eventually return to books and bookstores via a detour.

Addendum (February 20, 1991)

Le seul livre parfait, c’est moi qui l’écrirais, si je pouvais.

From Jules Renard’s Journal, 1906-1910, Tome IV, Paris: Union Générale d’Éditions, 1984, p. 1169.