Literary fantasy

Just finished reading some of your works. I cried to the skies asking why I hadn't met you earlier. Your words stir my soul.
C'est magnifique, sans doubt!
Would you perhaps like a stroll with me in a field of rye, on an orange day?
Sincerely,
Thomas Hardy.

So runs one of my personal bookish fantasies.
However, the master of this game is Woody Allen. The spotlight is on a piece of prose called The whore of Mensa.
Run by a madam with a degree in comparitive literature, for a price a girl will come over and discuss any subject- Proust, Yeats, anthropology. Women who cater to your intellectual needs.
Red flocked wallpaper and a victorian decor set the tone. Pale girls with black rimmed glasses and blunt cut hair lolled around on sofas, riffling Penguin classics provocatively. For three bills, you got the works: A thin Jewish brunette would pretend to pick you up at the Museum of modern art, let you read her master's , get you involved in a screaming quarrel at Elaine's over Freud's conception of women, and then fake a suicide of your choosing- the perfect evening, for some guys.
Woody my man, thank you deeply for the thought. Tea today evening, what say?