This year I have been reading Jorge Luis Borges, somebody that I've read, on occasion. I am only an egg. He's endless fascinating, especially as he blurs the lines between reality and fiction. There is a line between Borges and Eco and Delany, with an occasional intersection by Lem that I am beginning to see.
Today, one of the churches of Tlon Platonically maintains that a certain pain, a certain greenish tint of yellow, a certain temperature, a certain sound, are the only reality. All men, in the vertiginous moment of coitus, are the same man. All men who repeat a line from Shakespeare are William Shakespeare.
Works for me! In the meantime, A Lecture on Johnson and Boswell by Borges.