I came to see you, but when I read that strange note on your door I turned around and left. I came with news; but to someone buried alive what use would it be?
There is much talk around the city about your having shut yourself away. A rumour that originated at the newspaper tells of a book you’re writing and which will contain a hundred feuilletons. But it’s a rumour nobody believes. Your friends hint that you must be in love, and that as conceited as you are, you don’t want to admit it. Although your prolonged isolation speaks for itself.
Another rumour is downright offensive. It is whispered, among members of the club in particular, that you are insane. Don’t be angry; I am only repeating word for word what has reached my ears. According to them, you went insane this autumn when you published that outrageous article. You were insane even before that, because you always wrote in the first person singular and talked about yourself as some kind of Übermensch, referring to your ‘flesh, blood and spirit’ as if every reader were required to bow down before them. That’s what members of the club are saying. Naturally, I don’t believe any of the rumours. I think you want to play some kind of a practical joke and that you want to work in peace and quiet on one of your mediocre novels. You told me about them last autumn; and I don’t think they’ll sell.
You can receive me, can’t you? I have other things to impart that may be of interest to you: about Bibi’s love life, about a gentleman who’s asking me to be his wife, about a handsome young man, with very attractive lips, who is your friend, etc.
Naturally, if you are ill-mannered and refuse to receive me, I won’t be upset. And don’t think I’m going to waste away pining after you. I just won’t ever visit you again.
In any case, I can tell you that this will be the only letter you’ll receive from your friend,
Nonora.