In my fever of literary detection, in the moment of inspiration, I have become the complete opposite of that woeful man on Margate Sands.
Here and now, this instant and in this room, the clues are mounting up. Signs move over one another and things that are usually distant are starting to overlap. Texts are linking to texts.
And isn’t this something like dreaming, or maybe even hysteria? Freud said something about this somewhere, about the connectedness of things in the dream work. I must remain alive to the possibility that my work as the world’s only consulting literary detective is really a kind of dream work.
There’s another clue… I must record it. More to follow.