• Well, my book is written-let it go. But if it were only to write over again there wouldn't be so many things left out. They burn in me; and they keep multiplying; but now they can't ever be said. And besides, they would require a library-and a pen warmed up in hell.

    Mark Twain (1929). “Mark Twain's Letters”, p.284, Jazzybee Verlag