He was never satisfied with his writing, but his works had been published globally; bound in leather and sold by the millions, loved by readers and critics alike. This meant nothing to him. Upon completion of a novel he’d feel confident it was as good as it was going to be, although eventually he’d be overcome by disappointment, wishing he’d spent more time on it. As far as he was concerned he was a hack and the world had exceptionally poor taste.

He didn’t consider himself a handsome man, although the many women who had walked in and out of his life had disagreed. He chalked this up to his own romantic tastes, concluding that he favored women who favored troll-like figures.

He’d written all of this into his suicide note, another composition he wasn’t satisfied with. Yet even this touched the hearts of many. His last words may have marked the end of his own life, but they sparked change and renewal in the lives of others, as did the many drafts found in his apartment in the weeks following his death.