Wonderful! Thank you very much!

It reminds me an interesting story.
Jules Verne (1828-1905)
Mark Twain (1835-1910)

Mark Twain's book A Murder, a Mystery, and a Marrage was not published until recent years. In the end of this book, there is a confession by a murderer -

My name is Jean Mercier. Born in a village in the south of France. My father was a barber. I learned and follwed the trade a while. But I had talent and ambition. Without help from anybody, I gave myself a sort of universal education. I learned many languages, made good success in the sciences, and became a good deal of an inventor and mechanic. I learned navigation at sea. By and by I tried my hand as a guide - a courier. I carried tourists all about the world. At last, in an evil hour, I fell into the hands of a Monsieur Jules Verne, an author. Then my troubles began. He paid me a great salary, and sent me here and there and to and fro in all sorts of disagreeable vehicles, and then he listened to my adventures and made each of my journeys into a book. That would have been all right if he had confined himself to the facts; but no, nothing would do him but he must spread. He turned my simple experiences into extravagant and distorted marvels. This humiliated me beyond expression, for I was very sensitive in the matter of truth and honest dealing - at that time.

This monster sent me down the Seine in a leaky old sand-barge; when I came back, he listened to my tale and went to work and spread it out into that distressed book called "Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea." Next he bought an old second-hand balloon and sent me up in it. The old bladder went up about two hundred yards and then collapsed, and I fell in a brick-yard and broke my leg. The literary result of that trip was the book called "Five Weeks in a Balloon" - the heartless fraud! He sent me one or two more little foolish flights in that ragged thing and wrote extravagant books about them. Well by and by he sent me from Paris all the way to a beggarly town at the very tail end of Spain, in an ox-cart. I was nearly a year on the road, and almost died of low spirits and starvation before I got back. What was the result? Why, "Around the World in Eighty-five Days!" He patched up his miserable balloon, and sent me one more trip. I stuck fast in the clouds over Paris without budging, for three days, waiting for a wind, and then slumped down into the river, caught a fever and was abed upwards of three months. While I lay there I brooded over my miseries and by and by murderous thoughts became familiar to me - pleasant to me, I may say. When I got well he said he had fitted up the balloon in the most perfect way and was going to take the next voyage with me. I was glad. I hoped we might both break our necks. He put his valise, his fur coat and all his fine toggery into the balloon, along with a lot of provisions, liquors and scientific instruments. Just as we sailed he put into my hands his distortion of my last trip - a book entitled "The Mysterious Island!" I glanced into it - that was enough. Human nature could stand no more. I hove him out of the balloon! He must haven fallen a hundred feet. I hope it killed him, but I don't know.