“What is wanted is a form with continuity. What kind of continuity? What continuity? Everything around us, including ourselves, it’s all in patches, in spasms, in ebbing and flowing, our whole envelope, this whole earthly covering, is crisscrossed with loose stitches, which keep coming undone, and which we keep persistently trying to tighten. Under these unstitched tatters chasms open up into which we don’t dare look, into which we don’t wish even to glance. We try in vain to sew up and smooth out these seams, the pinpricks remain visible. Scars don’t fade. With time, that patchwork of ours, that we, becomes so thin that we forget about it, as though a magic carpet had flown away, and then come back as a huge, heavy cape, covering us. A life of continuity, how tedious. How monotonous, monochrome. A tepid, limp flow in one direction. Like literary continuity.” — Daša Drndić, E.E.G.