Possession

by A.S. Byatt

If I have offended you by calling your last long-ago letter contradictory (which it was) or timid (which it was) then you must forgive me. You may well ask why I am so tenacious in continuing writing to one who has declared herself unable to maintain a friendship (which she also declared to be valuable to herself) and remains resolute in silence, in rejection. A lover might indeed in all honour accept such a congé—but a peaceable, a valued friend? It is not as though I ever breathed—or scribbled or scratched—the faintest hint of any improper attention—no “if things were otherwise, ah well then …” no “Your eyes, which I know to be bright, may peruse …”—no—all was straightforward from my honest thoughts which are closer to my essential self than any such nonsensical gallantry—and this you cannot support? And why am I so tenacious? I hardly know myself. For the sake of future Swammerdams, it may be—for I see that I had insensibly come to perceive you—mock not—as some sort of Muse.