To weep, with its weight in your lap, over a man’s letter to his father
about the death of his friend, 448 years after it was written.
Upon reading Montaigne’s letter to his father
on the death of La Boétie (1563)
Michel de Montaigne: The Complete Works
“In the friendship I speak of, our souls mingle and blend with each other so completely that they efface the seam that joined them, and cannot find it again. If you press me to tell why I loved him, I feel that this cannot be expressed, except by answering: Because it was he, because it was I.”