When I reflect on my story I seem to exist only as the one who came, the one who witnessed, the one who… — J. M. Coetzee
When I reflect on my story I seem to exist only as the one who came, the one who witnessed, the one who longed to be gone: of being without substance, a ghost beside the true body of Cruso.
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More from this book
But this is not a place of words. Each syllable, as it comes out, is caught and filled with water and diffused. This is a place where bodies have their own signs. It is the home of Friday.
Nothing I have forgotten is worth the remembering.
p. 17
Return to me the substance I have lost, Mr. Foe. That is my entreaty.
p. 51
