Although he transmuted his sorrow into literature, Montaigne’s grief was overwhelming, and it seemed to become greater with time. After La Boétie died, everything was ‘nothing but dark and dreary night’.28 Travelling in Italy nearly eighteen years later, he wrote in his private diary: ‘This same morning, writing to Monsieur d’Ossat, I was overcome by such painful thoughts about Monsieur de La Boétie, and I was in this mood so long, without recovering, that it did me much harm.’ He also wrote in the Essays about how he longed for a true companion in Italy – someone whose ways harmonised with
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