From Eireene Nealand
Les Plesko Sun, Feb 18, 2007 at 6:38 PM
To: Eireene Nealand
But in the end I understood this language. I understood it, I understand it, all wrong perhaps. That is not what matters.
Does this mean that I am freer now than I was? I do not know. I shall learn. Then I went back into the house and
wrote, It is midnight. The rain is beating on the roof. It was not midnight. It was not raining.
Pleskoism 
wow..breathtaking. I can’t imagine how painful it must be for you, dear!
Even if this text is from a personal conversation, but still it feels like pure literature. It seems it is impossible to separate the man from the writer.
This text is actually from Samuel Beckett. Les loved him…As I said it is so difficult to separate the man from the writer, from the reader, from literature.