But though Melmoth nestles boldly atop the rustling feathers of your jackdaws, your servants, though your many names appear on every page – Melmoth, Melmotte, Metmotka, Melmat – your novel is one of pasteboard masks a labyrinth in which you willingly lose yourself. Perhaps this is why your name commands the cover of your novel, its letters blanched and bloodless, while my work bears only a soubriquet, a caricature and a name that has never been mine.
Your travels have bloodied your feet and mine my hands, but while you have witnessed the crimes of others, I have seen only my own. Accept the homage of one who has no name, and who, like you, was born the child of an accursed creator and cast out in the hour of my first great sin.
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