I opened a book: Austerlitz by W.G. Sebald. In it I met Jacques Austerlitz, an amateur photographer, a compulsive collector of all kinds of images, an art historian with unusual ideas and an obsession with 19th-century monumental architecture. I followed him, page by page, from Antwerp to London, from Paris to Marienbad, from Prague to the Terezin Ghetto, in search of the buried childhood secret. I looked for a path through the maze of his story, his words and his misleading images, through this tale made from snatches of real life - guided by the utterly absurd conviction that this book had been written just for me.