My doubts relate more to the fact that now, when I look back on that time, another completely different image occurs to me as the source of that impulse; and judging by this image, the initial impulse arose from a conversation I had with a friend. I’d told this friend about an experience of mine that had been extremely transcendental, and I’d told him how difficult it would be to turn it into a story. According to my theory, there are some extraordinary experiences that can’t be written about without becoming denatured; it’s impossible to set them down on paper. My friend insisted that if I wrote it just as I’d told it that night, I’d have a beautiful story; and that not only would I be able to write it, but that writing it was my duty.