By now you may be beginning to feel the impulses of indignation arising
in your breast, for who am I, the admittedly despicable Jehu, to group
you as my fellow convicts, my co-conspirators, in a sense? And you are
right, for I am not your judge and neither do I wish to be.
Having said that, I now request of you to put down the book and
discontinue reading.
"Surely," you say to yourself, "He is mentally deranged, for what author
in his right mind would encourage his readers to disperse, what writer
does not thrive on the digestion of his words by an eager audience?"
Here I must make a revelation to you: if my manuscript has indeed been
found, then I have long since been dead; and I assure you that in
whatever form my existence takes in the present, I have little desire
for your intrigue or goodwill. Do you think Melville is consoled in
death of his miserable life by the vainglorious praises of the living?
Or do you think that Poe is comforted by such avid attentions in his
present abode? In truth, Melville's only rivalry is now within, and
Poe's only raven that daunting memory of those truths which had escaped
him in life, but which now are opened to you.
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