From an interviewer's discussion with Sebald:

The wandering that the prose does, both syntactically and in terms of subjects, reminds me a bit of my favourite of the english essayists, de Quincey: the need, in a sense, to almost sleepwalk, somnambulate from one centre of attention to another, and a feeling in the reader that one has hallucinated the connection between the parts.

Reading this, I think immediately of one of my favourite blogs, the mysterious Red Thread(s), and in particular a post like this one.

(Blog virtues: anonymity, fragmentary speech, a writing that reflects on the gesture of writing and marks it in writing (its voice does not come from nowhere, but nor is it personal either. Avoidance of the cute. Discretion. An interruption of writing (by way of writing) rather than more prose. A subtractive prose.))

Where do I end this rambling post, with its darkness and light, chapels and death, friendships and incommunicability; the general strangeness of things, attempts at speech, of being present?