The best sellers of literature and life will, as if they were raw material, offer the ingredients for the myth. One fragmented myth which will get fused in order to become the idol, or the icon of a unity slated to disintegrate down to all its motley parts; to become fine dust, or a faint, turbid remembrance; to eventually turn to wind, or a pixie which will be hovering above some, probably non–existent, tombstone, or around one blank, marble pillar where every passing reader could imagine, or carve upon, whichever quote, or perdition they might think of.
