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what you saw is Nabokov
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meditating on how reader and writers meet,
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and so I just want to read to you a little bit from that.
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If you still have it, you can get it out:
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The real writer, the fellow who sends planets spinning
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and models a man asleep and eagerly tampers with the sleeper's rib,
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that kind of author has no given values at his disposal:
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he must create them himself.
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The art of writing is a very futile business if it does not imply first of all
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the art of seeing the world as the potentiality of fiction.
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The material of this world may be real enough(as far as reality goes)
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but it does not exist at all as an accepted entirety: