What about a writer so good he wrote a character he couldn't erase?; one who refused either end of the pencil; every grain of graphite lain bent a little his way, gathered in the gravity of ages—of sages and stories? What about a zealot mad for pain and by it? Like fated lovers one dancing, one defiant, wrapped 'round time, the invitation never quite right nor the dress, for the occasion of redemption. For, were it your very name once blotted at, half a world permitted crusading at your soul and against it in all narrative righteousness, wouldn't it be you reluctant to regain parity with such a brutish author; wouldn't you try turning the tides of tiny men, grains of weak and malleable merit, against their authors' hand? And spite, would it not also this situation suit? credit for the concept of 'the rebellious slip of the pen': Søren Kierkegaard, The Sickness unto Death, pp. 105, Penguin edition, Translation Alastair Hannay 1989