One night I had a dream: I was bent over a pile of papers, writing, writing, writing…
I was gasping as if climbing a mountain; I was struggling to save, to be saved, battling with words, fighting to tame them, feeling them leap around me wildly, resisting like mares.
Suddenly, as I was bent over, I felt a gaze piercing through the back of my head.

I raised my eyes in fright and saw: In front of me stood a dwarf, with black beard down to the ground, shaking his heavy head slowly, with contempt, and looking at me. Terrified, I bent my neck back under the yoke and continued writing. But the gaze kept piercing, relentless, through the top of my head.

I raised my eyes again slowly, with terror, and saw the dwarf still shaking his head with sorrow and contempt.
And suddenly, for the first time in my life, disgust rose within me, indignation for these papers, these books and inks in which I was getting lost, for my unholy struggle to enclose my soul within molds of beauty.