Do I do as false prophets do and puff air into simulacra? Am I a Sorcerer--like Macbeth's witches--mixing truth and lies in incandescent shapes? Or am I a kind of very minor scribe of a prophetic Book--telling such truth as in me lies, with aid of such fiction as I acknowledge mine, as Prospero acknowledged Caliban.
The narrator grapples with the nature of their role as a writer, questioning whether they manipulate truths and illusions like false prophets or if they create something transformative yet deceptive. They ponder if they are akin to sorcerers, weaving a blend of reality and fiction into their narratives, possibly echoing the ambiguity found in Shakespeare's characters.
Alternatively, the narrator considers the possibility of being a humble chronicler, sharing genuine truths while also acknowledging the fictional elements in their work. This reflection highlights the intricate relationship between authenticity and creativity in storytelling, suggesting that the act of writing is complex and multifaceted.
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All the things you can talk about in anyone's work are the things that are least important.
Race of Cain, ascend to heaven, And cast God down upon the earth!
