When Nietzsche Wept: A Novel Of Obsession

Irvin D. Yalom

An impertinent note! No one had addressed him so brashly in years. He
knew of no Lou Salomé. No address on the envelope. No way to tell this
person that nine o’clock was not convenient, that Frau Breuer would not be
pleased to breakfast alone, that Dr. Breuer was on vacation, and that
“matters of urgency” had no interest for him—indeed, that Dr. Breuer had
come to Venice precisely to get away from matters of urgency.
Yet here he was, at the Café Sorrento, at nine o’clock, scanning the faces
around him, wondering which one might be the impertinent Lou Salomé.
“More coffee, sir?”