The Museum of Eterna's Novel (написано между 1925 и 1938, опубликовано посмертно в 1967) Маседонио Фернандеса, загадочного старичка-наставника Борхеса — какое-то запредельное чтение, типа литературного The Stanley Parable, не только из-за пятидесяти авторских предисловий и изобретения=исчерпывания постмодернизма еще за годы до рождения Пинчона, но и потому, что потом неожиданно начинается сам проект романа, внутри которого один из персонажей пишет еще один проект романа, и в этом последнем ряд идей как будто напрямую телепатически взят из моего кирпича-в-работе. 

Вот уж действительно hidden gem.

…We’ll make a spiral so twisted that it will make even the wind tired winding inside it, and it will come out the other end dizzy, and forgetting which way to blow; we’ll make a novel that for once isn’t clear, isn’t a faithful, realistic copy. Either Art has nothing to do with reality, or it’s more than that; that’s the only way it can be real, just as elements of Reality are not copies of one another.

…All the inhabitants sensed the dream-like quality of finding themselves there all reunited, on this unstable settlement, due to a lucky encounter with the President, who was passing through just as they were, but who could have left them at any second. They associated this quality with great dreamers like themselves, living there together freely, finely, affectionately, changing, with numerous new sympathies, living their dreams, not being able, no matter how they opened their eyes, to convince themselves that they actually were where they had dreamed they were. They resigned themselves to the fact that it was a dream, which initially made them feel anxious, but later gave them the feeling of being real. Their suffering grew less as they renounced its realization, accepting it as a permanent dream that wouldn’t carry over into reality — but not verisimilitude— as if dreaming alone were their vocation.

…They live as consciousnesses operating causally among themselves; each one with its conscious phenomenology; they conserve the memory of their corporeal existences; but they are not only memory, they are actuality. (Except for Mnemonia, she’s only Memory.) Someone has a problem or forgets, has a fear or a confusion; the most powerful feeling sets the tone for the whole group of consciousnesses. The unfolding of consciousness is absolutely free; it is eventfulness, nothing more or less than how we can become dizzy without wanting to; in each consciousness the states come without reason; it’s ridiculous to say that some whirlwind of dust would cause fear or anger, because why was the whirlwind there? It is continuous spontaneity, which is to say: we are truly inhabiting the mystery.