It is just possible to understand how the letters someone writes to us could be so similar to each other, could create an image so distinct from the person we know, that they constitute a second personality.
Marcel Proust, The Prisoner, translated by Carol Clark, p. 62.
I think letters from my mother are the starkest example of this in my own life. I read her letters, in her handwriting, wondering, who are you, you are not the voice on the phone or the silent person at the dinner table. She is this whole other world. P.S. This is why I never wanna meet my Tumblr friends IRL!!!!
