I am a theatre of processes, he told himself. I am prey to the imperfect vision, to the race consciousness and its terrible purpose.
Yet, he could not escape the fear that he had somehow overrun himself, lost his position in time, so that past and future and present mingled without distinction. It was a kind of visual fatigue and it came, he knew, from the constant necessity of holding the prescient future as a kind of memory that was in itself a thing intrinsically of the past.
I´m really sick and tired of this "floating through time and space" / awareness / "I can see the past and the future simultaneously" stuff, which has been going on for the last 200 pages. Everytime Paul starts to ramble, I´m thinking "Please, not again!".