"[...] for he belonged to that rare type of writer who knows that nothing ought to remain except the perfect achievement: the printed book; that its actual existence is inconsistent with that of its spectre, the uncouth manuscript flaunting its imperfections like a revengeful ghost carrying its head under its arm; and that for this reason the litter of the workshop, no matter its sentimental or commercial value, must never subsist."Vladimir Nabokov, The Real Life of Sebastian Knight
