There is something deeply bittersweet about getting so invested in the life and works of someone who is long gone. You read about them, you collects informations, you think you know them, but your knowledge will always be incomplete. We base our perception on what we have, which sometimes is not very much. You cannot know how they really looked like (if they lived before the invention og photography) or how their voice sounded. A million little details you would like to know. You can grasp something of their lives if you are lucky enough to have personal objects, diaries, letters preserved... but even then it's not enough. They lived, they breathed like you do, and now they are gone. You both walked on the same earth but there are centuries separating you. There is a certain ache in that.
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