“Well, there is the text and we have explored its meaning. And now, let us behold it once more with amazement, having examined its parts, seeing the compact, solid whole, admiring the logic of the thought, the momentum of the execution, the terse perfection of the style that, without a hint of superfluity, tells you everything. And finally, let us consider the signature, which is so modest, a mere initial — for true letters and true works of art require nothing more: the work itself identifies the author, is one with her. No one imagines that the Divine Comedy required the name of the author below the title… not that I wish to invite comparisons, of course. But what need for names when the whole text speaks so clearly, the words, the syntax, the individual letters; when everything is infused with the same character, the same soul, a soul driven by necessity and inspiration to creation, in the recognition that its fate is to see you, nothing more. And having said that,” he added carelessly, holding the letter between two fingers and passing it over, “we have done. Here’s the letter.” And when the host and addressee did not move, he lightly placed the letter on the mantelpiece beside the candlestick.
“You will read it later?” he asked. “Yes, I understand. I think you will often read and reread that letter in the years to come, but later, when you are older. You will understand it then.” And he fell silent, breathing heavily, as if he had overexcited himself with all that talking, his heart worn out, his lungs exhausted.
“We have done,” he repeated, old and tired now, and leaned against his stick, holding it with both hands. But he continued speaking, still seated, leaning on his stick, not glancing at his host but staring into the fire, frequently blinking and screwing up his eyes, watching the embers.
“I have accomplished one of my missions by giving you the letter. I hope you will look after it properly. I wouldn’t like the love letter of the duchess of Parma to be left on the wine-stained table of some inn, nor would I want you to read it out while in bed with a whore, in that boasting and bragging way men have when under the influence of cheap wine and cheap passion. I would not be in a position to prevent that, of course, but it would cause me great pain, and therefore I hope it will not happen. Yet we may be sure that this kind of letter will not remain a secret, and I would not be at all surprised if at some later time, in another, more refined and more generous age, such brief masterpieces were taught in schools as a model of concision. Nor do I doubt that the letter will be imitated, as is every masterpiece, that through the fine capillaries of memory it will enter the general consciousness of our descendants: lovers will copy it and make irreverent use of it without knowing the least thing about the author and its provenance. They will copy it, and not just once, as if they themselves had composed it, committing it to paper, declaring