He was smaller than in the dreams, no taller than a child, but dense as a neutron star. His chlamys was now a coat of woven eyelashes—whose eyelashes, Cărtărescu could not say. He carried no scroll this time. Instead, he held a single object: a mirror the size of a playing card.
“And then Mircea Cărtărescu understood that he had never been the author, only the amanuensis of a dreamer named Theodoros.” mircea cartarescu theodoros
“You see the flaw,” Theodoros said one night, sitting on a throne of petrified bread. “You’ve always written the world as if it were a dream of the world. But the world is a dream of me .” He was smaller than in the dreams, no
“That’s solipsism,” Cărtărescu replied, trying to sound like the rationalist he had never been. Instead, he held a single object: a mirror