If rejection wounded, all writers would bleed at every pore.
Nevertheless, not my will but thine be done. Of course I shall be glad
to go over your entire body of work again and make suggestions if any
occur to me. It will be no trouble--I could not be more profitably
employed than in critically reading you, nor more agreeably.
* * * * *
Of course your star poem has one defect--if it is a defect--that
limits the circle of understanding and admiring readers--its lack of
"_human_ interest." We human insects, as a rule, care for nothing but
ourselves, and think that is best which most closely touches such
emotions and sentiments as grow out of our relations, the one with
another. I don't share the preference, and a few others do not,
believing that there are things more interesting than men and women.
The Heavens, for example. But who knows, or cares anything about
them--even knows the name of a single constellation? Hardly any one
but the professional astronomers--and there are not enough of them to
buy your books and give you fame. I should be sorry not to have that
poem published--sorry if you did not write more of the kind. But while
it may impress and dazzle "the many" it will not win them. They want
you to finger their heart-strings and pull the cord that works their
arms and legs. So you must finger and pull--too.
The Chateau Yquem came all right, and is good. Thank you for
it--albeit I'm sorry you feel that you must do things like that. It is
very conventional and, I fear, "proper." However, I remember that you
used to do so when you could not by any stretch of imagination have
felt that you were under an "obligation." So I guess it is all
right--just your way of reminding me of the old days. Anyhow, the wine
is so much better than my own that I've never a scruple when drinking
it.
Has "Maid Marian" a photograph of me?--I don't remember. If not I'll
send her one; I've just had some printed from a negative five or six
years old. I've renounced the photograph habit, as one renounces other
habits when age has made them ridiculous--or impossible.
Send me the typewritten book when you have it complete.
Sincerely yours,
AMBROSE BIERCE.
[Washington,
August 19, 1902.]