It is true: the writer is willing to put the highest value on the meaning his work has for him alone. Then it does not matter whether the work is good or bad, famous or forgotten. If circumstances neglect it, he congratulates himself, since he only wrote it to negate circumstances. But when a book that comes into being by chance, produced in a moment of idleness and lassitude, whithout value or significance, is suddenly made into a masterpiece by circumstantial events what author is not going to take the credit for the glory himself… see his own worth in that glory… the workings of his mind in providential harmony with his time?
Me encanta el sentido de humor de este tipo. Literature and the right to death por Maurice Blanchot