He cannot realise, he cannot make a tale of his own life; which crumbles in discrete impressions even as he lives it, and slips between the fingers of his memory like sand. It is not this that he considers in his rare hours of rumination, but that other life, with was all lit up for him by the humble talent of a Hayward - that other life which, God knows, perhaps he still believes that he is leading - the life of Tom Holt.
(Robert Louis Stevenson: Popular Authors)
That sounds almost parasitic on the part of imaginary character Tom Holt. Perhaps we shouldn't consider as part of our own lives the time spent daydreaming we are someone else.
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