Vanishing Point

Notes for a novel called “Without a Trace” by Donavan Hall (@theangler)

Notes for...

Without a Trace

As a result, she disappeared from his life without a trace. There was not a scrap of tangible evidence to show that he had spent the most wonderful year of his life with her. Which only increased his desire to remain faithful to her. —from The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera
...and yet, how soon the traces we leave stand revealed as nothing more than distortions, mutilation... —from Arriving in Avignon by Daniël Robberechts
Perhaps this is what literature is, the invention of another life that could well be our own, the invention of a double. —from Montano’s Malady by Enrique Vila-Matas
A novel is not an archive; if it were, then all a novelist would have to do is publish his notebooks. A novel presents only what is essential. But it is up to the novelist to decide what is essential, but that doesn’t justify the novelist’s choice. The novelist could be wrong, but the novel is no one else’s to correct, amend or complete. —from A Life in Letters by Russell Eaton
I also pictured to myself a platonic, hereditary sort of work, passed down from father to son, in which each new individual would add a chapter or with reverent care correct his elders’ pages. —from The Garden of Forking Paths by Jorge Luis Borges
It’s been at least three decades since she told me that she wanted to disappear without leaving a trace, and I’m the only one who knows what she means. She never had in mind any sort of flight, a change of identity, the dream of making a new life somewhere else. And she never thought of suicide, repulsed by the idea that Rino [her son] would have anything to do with her body, and be forced to attend to the details. She meant something different: she wanted to vanish; she wanted every one of her cells to disappear, nothing of her ever to be found. And since I know her well, or at least I think I know her, I take it for granted that she has found a way to disappear, to leave not so much as a hair anywhere in this world. —from My Brilliant Friend by Elena Ferrante

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