The merit of detaching oneself from the present seems to lie precisely in the difficulty of doing so. A life dedicated to the future or, in other words, a life centered on what remains—this is the ideal scenario. It so happens that, against one’s will, the present is always interfering, and one might wonder if literature does not depend on this shock, which ends up exposing the problem of impermanence. That is to say: beyond the expressive need, literature is born out of a need for preservation. The further he moves away from both, the more the artist will deteriorate. And so, even if one can idealize a scenario where efforts converge entirely on the enduring, it seems somehow necessary for the present to repeatedly remind one of its reason.