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At work? Are these the vital arteries in which the blood becomes visible under the skin? The weightiest dreams are dreamed on anonymous beds of soil, in zones from whose perspective work has something of an accidental character, a lesser degree of necessity. Michelangelo chiseled just the contours of the faces into the marble as his last step, then he left the raw blocks to slumber in grottos like the cocoons of butterflies, whose inwardly enfolded life he entrusted to eternity. The prose of “Will to Power” – an uncleared battlefield of thought, the relic of a terrible, solitary accountability, a workshop full of keys, thrown down by someone with no time to unlock. Even someone in the zenith of his creativity like Cavaliere Bernini speaks of an aversion to the completed work, and Huysmans writes in a late introduction to “A Rebours” of the impossibility of reading one’s own books. This too is a paradoxical image – like that of the owner of an original work who studies poor commentaries on it. The great, unfinished novels that were not completed because their very conception overwhelmed them - they resemble the construction of cathedrals.