In an earlier post I mentioned that I had, via Christopher Hitchens' essays And Yet..., discovered Henrich Heine (whom I had never heard of) and Edmund Wilson (actually I had been aware of him thru Gore Vidal so re-discovered)... well, I have now spent more time with HH and can report that that guy (1797-1856) was a cinematic writer, one who in turns can inspire one to pen and to despair (at one's own feeble efforts). We have the handy word master to apply to folks like that. Florentine Nights, I'd heard of it only vaguely. The narrator returns again and again to visit a dying young woman, pale, bed-ridden and delicate. To persuade her to follow doctor's orders to ly as still as possible, he tells her stories which he presents as from his own life. This is the device he uses to ty the tales together in what might otherwise be a collection of short stories. In another, Ideas – Book Le Grand, he addresses the reader as Madame at the beginning of each chapter, as if talking with or writing to a friend. It eventually evolves to an homage to Napoleon which, like Beethoven's Emporer's Concerto, he came later to repent.