To Eric Rohmer [1954]
from Paris, Thursday evening.

You old son of a bitch,
Dear bastard, con-man friend, jerk of a brother, i would have you know that i've got a thousand bones to pick with you, to begin with, with... you'll soon find out. Let me tell you that i'm offering you the chance to redeem yourself; you have to lend me at once - and bring it yourself to Cahiers - everything in that hideaway of yours that bears the slightest resemblance to film equipment: lamps, reflectors, wires, celluloid, money, etc. So stop being such a pain in the arse and ring me pronto, here at Cahiers, tomorrow if possible or else you'll be hearing from me.
They all turn on their smiles for you here, but i won't be alone in despising you if you turn out to be incapable of doing your friends and acolytes a favour,

Ave, and hoping to hear from you soon,

Letters, François Truffaut.