The library at my old temple had a few peculiar books in it. In order to save time I am not going to tell you the titles.
The first book is about a bunch of children who are both seduced and menaced by fairies. As they go deeper into their mysterious old house they learn that they themselves are the fairies.
The second book is about a spy trying to uncover a ring of anarchists. As he uncovers the first anarchist he learns that the anarchist is actually an agent provocateur who is posing as an anarchist in order to uncover the ring of anarchists. Ultimately they learn there is only a single anarchist in the world and that the king of the world has deliberately sacrificed himself in order to save the single anarchist from his own refusal of love.
The third book is about a little girl who dreams that she is in a world just like this one, but simultaneously more beautiful and more terrifying. At the end of the book she wonders whether the king of the stupid, crazy and hilarious characters in the book is actually dreaming of her.
The fourth book is about heroes on the planet Mercury who fight villains, but once they defeat the villains they decide that nothing in life is more interesting than the fight, so they return to the beginning of their war and begin it again.
Obviously these are all one and the same book.
Obviously they are offering different solutions to the same problem, with the twin caveats that, firstly, while they disagree on the nature of the problem so deeply that in essence you can say they are solving four completely different problems, and secondly, that the solution they offer is at its root, exactly the same.
Obviously we are all writing the actual book of which these books are merely smudgy copies, and doing it with what you might call real life — loves and hopes, fear and despair, anger and loneliness, beauty and trauma, meeting and departing.
What you might call real life that is, if you had never read these books.