TŌKYŌ, October, 1899.
DEAR MITCHELL,--No news up here, to interest you.
I am not doing anything much at present. Don't know whether I shall
appear in print again for several years. Anyhow, I shall never write
again except when the spirit moves me. It doesn't pay; and what you
call "reputation" is a most damnable, infernal, unmitigated misery and
humbug--a nasty smoke--a foretaste of that world of black angels to
which the wicked are destined. (Thanks for your promise not to make any
more introductions; but I fear the mischief has been done; and Yokohama
is now for me a place to be shunned while life lasts.)
Six hundred pages (about) represent my present quota of finished
manuscript. But I shall this time let the thing mellow a good deal,
and publish only after judicious delay. While every book I write costs
me more than I can get for it, it is evident that literature holds no
possible rewards for me;--and like a sensible person I am going to try
to do something really good, that won't sell.
In the meanwhile, however, I want not to think about publishers and
past efforts at all. That is waste of time. I shall prepare to cross
the great Pacific instead,--unless I have to cross a greater Pacific in
very short order. I should like a chat with you soon; but I am not going
down to Yokohama for an age. It is better not. When I keep to myself
up here, things begin to simmer and grow: a sudden change of milieu
invariably stops the fermentation. Wish you were anywhere else that is
pleasant except--at the G. H.
Affectionately ever,
LAFCADIO.