How oft have I smarted at the Idea, of that last longing Look by wch thou badest adieu to all thy heart Sufferd at that dismal Crisis—twas the Separation of Soul & Body—& equal to nothing but what passes on that tremendous Moment.—& like it in one Consequence, that thou art in another World; where I wd give a world, to follow thee

Gide's silliness: ‘Just finished rereading Werther, not without irritation. I had forgotten how long it took him to die [which is not at all the case]. He keeps going on and on, until you want to give him a push, right into the grave. Four or five times, what you had hoped was his last breath is followed by another even more ultimate one … the extended leavetakings exasperate me.’ Gide doesn't realize that in the novel of love, the hero is real (because he is created out of an absolutely projected substance in which every amorous subject collects himself) and that what he is looking for here is a man's death – is my death.