I have disappeared. As of the present moment, the world does not yet know this. I am sure of this because I lack all the relations that would otherwise notice my disappearance --- my parents are dead, my relatives shun me, all the women I know (save one) have been monetary transactions, and I have no friends. In a few years I shall die, and then they will have no one to tell them what Mr. Vithano really thought.
You hate my books and I hate your column, so in some way we are inextricably linked. The world goes to you to learn just what A.E. Vithano is talking about in his latest book and you tell them what to hate about it; they go away satisfied, read the book themselves, and --- oh happy coincidence! --- find that they hate my book for exactly the same reasons. Somewhere along this tedious process the book becomes a bestseller.
I ask of you a favor: enclosed within this same package is a little money; between the notes is a letter I have written --- I ask that you bring it in person to the laundrywoman living in the first floor of my old address. She does not read my letters when sent the usual way, and so I have turned to this.
They do not sell the Daily here, and so I will not be able to read it even if you happen to insult me. If you wish, send a copy to this address, and I shall see if you have improved a bit at last.