CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
July 1816
I know you write about me, about my life, about my creation.
I have heard your whispers, noted your observations, been aware of your gaze.
I know what you are thinking.
But I speculate whether you will learn the lessons that I have failed to.
I have read many books and studied with exceptional clarity to make my way in the world in which I live—in which we both live. I have trod in the footsteps of those who came before me but who refused to acknowledge the direction we walked. I have laughed in happiness and cried in despair. I have been tormented by worry, been driven mad by the unexpected, by the abhorrent.
By the wonderful.
I have seen the lightning play upon the summit of Mont Blanc. I have seen the vast sheets of fire that cross the night sky and
