I went back to the garret that night transformed into a man who didn’t know who he was. And shortly afterwards, after reading a story by Borges about knife-fighters, I imitated the forgers and fakers in Welles’s film in The Lettered Assassin and, quoting Borges without quotes, I wrote of “a knife-fighter who gradually leaves his strength in his weapon and in the end the weapon has a life of its own (as Krespel’s diabolical violin did for Hoffman) and it is the weapon that kills, not the arm that wields it.” It was the first time that, with a steely resolve, without acknowledging him, I quoted a man named Borges, I was in another, I quoted a man who was someone, and I was a man who was no one.
Never Any End to Paris , Enrique Vila-Matas
trans. Anne McLean