… the true writer, as we see him, is the thrall of his time, its serf and bondsman, its lower salve. He is fettered t it on a short, unbreakable chain, shackled to it as tight as can be. His lack of freedom must be so great that he could not be transplanted anywhere else. In fact, if it did not sound ludicrous, I would simply say: he is the dog of his time.

Elias Canetti, The Conscience of Words