" the self may be royal, but it hungers like a pauper. it may be nourished for a moment by the inspection of such cocooned wonders as these, but it remains a poor, starving, thirsting thing. and it is a king imperiled, a sovereign forever at the mercy of many insurgents, of fear, for examples, and anxiety, of isolation and bewilderment, of a strange unspeakable pride and a wild, silent shame. the self is beset by secrets, secrets eat at it constantly, secrets will tear down its kingdom and leave its scepter broken in the dust.

— salman rushdie, the enchantress of florence