There have always been⁠—and here I prefer to turn to my accomplice and friend Stendhal⁠—writers without readers. In The Life of Henry Brulard, which was written in the 1830s and which is an absolute masterpiece, Stendhal quite rightly acknowledges that he will probably have to wait until 1880 before his books are finally read. Maybe there will be readers in 1935. Maybe the crying baby next door is his reader. Finally, quite late in life, he did find a reader, a great reader⁠—Balzac, who wrote him a long letter, from one writer to another. I’ve always loved that story. Stendhal had no readers, whereas Balzac was extremely popular. Now, I would add that there has always been a certain universe that reads. There has always been Balzac for Stendhal. But it is unusual for a writer whose oeuvre is powerful, and therefore destabilizing for the reader, to be recognized. This is part of the destiny of writing. You must wait.