I dreamed of an assassin way down below, slashing the throat of the navel-less woman, I imagined her body in death-throes, decomposing, so that the whole enormous tree that grew out of her—suddenly without roots, without a base—starts to fall, I saw the infinite spread of its branches come down like a gigantic rainfall, and—understand me—what I was dreaming of wasn't the end of human history, the abolition of any future; no, no, what I wanted was the total disappearance of mankind together with its future and its past, with its beginning and its end, along with the whole span of its existence, with all its memory, with Nero and Napoleon, with Buddha and Jesus; I wanted the total annihilation of the tree that was rooted in the little navel-less belly of some stupid first woman who didn't know what she was doing and what horror we'd pay for her miserable coitus, which had certainly not given her the slightest pleasure.

—Milan Kundera

(and I also dreamed that this first—and last—woman was me.)