You’re under no necessity to compose;
Why you should wish to publish, heaven knows.
There’s no excuse for printing tedious rot
Unless one writes for bread, as you do not.
Resist temptation, then, I beg of you;
Conceal your pastimes from the public view.
— Molière, The Misanthrope

In the mail are two notes from women in his recent past. One says, “I want
to see you.” The other says, “I want to kill you.”   (From “On a Page from Rilke,” Above Ground: An Anthology of Living Fiction, 2009)