The book of my husband is growing into something grotesque. He has eight large suitcases full of notes now. He filled all of our suitcases with thoughts. He filled more than 15.000 pages with his thoughts, he wrote 16 pencils empty, and all this material was only used for the beginning of chapter one, of a book that will change the world.
This morning he sat at the table, surrounded by all those suitcases. He opened one, sighing, and put a heap of papers at the table.
"The suitcases are full," he said.
"I agree," I answered, "your manuscript is too big. Maybe you should organize it."
"Shut up!" he reacted annoyed, "you always see things different from me. Is the world organized? No! So why in the world should a manuscript about the world be organized? I'll just buy some more suitcases today to deal with this minor problem."