"Dear Anna,
Did I say that the human might be filed in categories? Well, and if I did, let me qualify—not all humans. You elude me. I cannot place you, cannot grasp you. I may boast that of nine out of ten, under given circumstances, I can forecast their action; that of nine out of ten, by their word or action I may feel the pulse of their hearts. But of the tenth I despair. It is beyond me. You are that tenth."
Did I say that the human might be filed in categories? Well, and if I did, let me qualify—not all humans. You elude me. I cannot place you, cannot grasp you. I may boast that of nine out of ten, under given circumstances, I can forecast their action; that of nine out of ten, by their word or action I may feel the pulse of their hearts. But of the tenth I despair. It is beyond me. You are that tenth."
— love letter from Jack London to Anna Strumsky
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