'everything i say in front of somebody immediately launches into orbit around his navel-gazing, and his answer will be a reaction to that kind of gravitation. he doesn't see what i name, be it a poor smoked herring; he contemplates only the landscape of himself complemented by the new moon that i've launched. and depending on the light it affords his navel-gazing, he approves, critiques, touches up or, most often, eliminates: the moon sets. his navel is sad, and i don't know how to have a dialogue.'
–tony duvert, ‘diary of an innocent’