War, you know, is terrible. Friends killed and wounded, and you’re scared. You look around all the time, to make sure that your body is still in one piece.
In reality, every reader, while he is reading, is the reader of his own self. The writer’s work is merely a kind of optical instrument, which he offers to the reader to permit him to discern what, without the book, he would perhaps never have seen in himself. The reader’s recognition in his own self of what the book says is the proof of its truth.
—- Marcel Proust, Le temps retrouvé