As the poets have mournfully sung,
Death takes the innocent young,
And those who are very well hung.
Tactless. Fiendish. Poe-Faced. Bedeviled. Ecclectic. Gothalla. Haught for Byron. Crooning. Romantic. ShelleBelle. Hermitee. Artist. Symbolist. Obscurist. Dramatist. Classicist. Fool of Passion. Woman of Letters.
At last I called. He did not hear. I called again, a whole stream of "Albé’s" from baritone to falsetto, enough to wake the dead. He stopped, turned, saw me with my arms held high like one waiting to be lifted up and transported, and deliberately shook his head. I had expected at least a “Polly, Mílan,” but got nothing at all. I saw him speak to Hobhouse, who turned and stared at me as if I were a newborn leper. On they went, and I had not the heart to shout again; I left him to the echoes (one faint Albé just dying away behind me, of all places) and the natives, knowing that, if we were to meet in Milan, I would do the finding, not he. Tears in my eyes again made me wince at my own shamelessness. Why did I need him so much? Once upon a time I had never needed him at all, and now he was a drug in contrast with whom opium was bang-up ginger-pop…
The Galateo - this masterpiece of Tuscan prose was hurled out a window by Vittorio Alfieri after the eighteenth-century poet and dramatist had read only its first word, a pretentious literary term for ‘since’: Conciossiacosaché