Dear So Many Things,
When I read what I wrote you, I see air rushed out. It is as if, I watched the
train and took the breeze, out of town. I get the feeling, with certainty. Soon
you won't anymore, soon you will return the envelopes and I will be left only
your hands. I have accumulated evidence for this. It amounts to, what I saw was
my owned fault. The things we've left there for a while—I don't expect them,
going on what I've seen or where I've looked. Nod twice if you agree. Here's
to hoping we find an apparent glass to raise, recursive and diligent. Here's to
next time: We will be just a little lighter, a lot softer, and one fewer.
There are three infallible ways of pleasing an author, and the three form a
rising scale of compliment: 1, to tell him you have read one of his books; 2,
to tell him you have read all of his books; 3, to ask him to let you read the
manuscript of his forthcoming book. No. 1 admits you to his respect; No. 2
admits you to his admiration; No. 3 carries you clear into his heart.
-- Mark Twain, "Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar"
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