Do you ever read a novel that’s over 100 years old and get hella into it and as you’re getting into it, you can feel the ghost of the long-dead author getting excited as you get into their work, like the ghost of Jane Austen or Alexander Dumas or Mary Shelley has sat over me like “Yes child! My purpose in this universe is fulfilled, I may be gone, but my work echoes through the halls of time long after my flesh and blood death… Now cry”.
What do I not owe you! You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous. By you, I was properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt of my reception. You showed me how insufficient were all my pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased.