Sometimes a writer is immersed in a novel, has planned its structure, has worked on the characters, and perhaps has written pages and pages of it. But at a certain moment –it could happen any day, even on one of those days when you feel least inspired–, they write a sentence and immediately realize that in that sentence “there is the novel”. It is a truly glorious moment that the author will most likely celebrate with a shout, or by abandoning writing and going for a walk, or going out onto the balcony to light a cigarette, as the case may be.