In the tenebrous domain of literature and art, identities become enmeshed with their creations, weaving an inscrutable tapestry redolent with mystique and portent. The original work metamorphoses into a canvas, imbued not with mere pigments but with the very eyes that behold it, each gaze an arcane brushstroke suffused with longing and despair. Here, variegated perspectives do not merely augment the work with layers of interpretation; they haunt it, each view a phantasmagorical reflection, ineffably shaped by the observer’s unique lens and tinged with an elegiac aftertaste. This enigmatic confluence is an observation I have sublimated in the haunting aphorism: “Currer Bell is neither man nor woman, but an abstract…