The "belatedness" of your letter only made _me_ fear that _I_ had
offended _you_. Odd that we should have such views of each other's
sensitiveness.
About Wood. No doubt that he is doing all that he can, but--well, he
is not a publisher. For example: He sent forty or fifty "Shapes" here.
They lie behind a counter at the bookseller's--not even _on_ the
counter. There are probably not a dozen persons of my acquaintance in
Washington who know that I ever wrote a book. Now _how_ are even these
to know about _that_ book? The bookseller does not advertise the books
he has on sale and the public does not go rummaging behind his
counters. A publisher's methods are a bit different, naturally.
Only for your interest I should not care if my books sold or not; they
exist and will not be destroyed; every book will eventually get to
_somebody_.
* * * * *
It seems to be a matter for you to determine--whether Wood continues
to try to sell the book or it is put in other hands if he is ever
tired of it. Remember, I don't care a rap what happens to the book
except as a means of reimbursing you; I want no money and I want no
glory. If you and Wood can agree, do in all things as you please.
I return Wood's letters; they show what I knew before: that the public
and the librarians would not buy that book. Let us discuss this matter
no more, but at some time in the future you tell me how much you are
out of pocket.
_Your_ book shows that a fellow can get a good deal of glory with very
little profit. You are now famous--at least on the Pacific Coast; but
I fancy you are not any "for'arder" in the matter of wealth than you
were before. I too have some reputation--a little wider, as yet, than
yours. Well, my work sells tremendously--in Mr. Hearst's newspapers,
at the price of a small fraction of one cent! Offered by itself, in
one-dollar and two-dollar lots, it tempts nobody to fall over his own
feet in the rush to buy. A great trade, this of ours!
I note with interest the "notices" you send. The one by Monahan is
amusing with its gabble about your "science." To most men, as to him,
a mention of the stars suggests astronomy, with its telescopes,
spectroscopes and so forth. Therefore it is "scientific." To tell such
men that there is nothing of science in your poem would puzzle them
greatly.
I don't think poor Lang meant to do anything but his best and
honestest. He is a rather clever and rather small fellow and not to be
blamed for the limitations of his insight. I have repeatedly pointed
out in print that it requires genius to discern genius at first hand.
Lang has written almost the best, if not quite the best, sonnet in the
language--yet he is no genius.
* * * * *
Why, of course--why should you not help the poor devil, * * *; I used
to help him myself--introduced him to the public and labored to
instruct him. Then--but it is unspeakable and so is he. He will bite
your hand if you feed him, but I think I'd throw a crust to him
myself.
* * * * *
No, I don't agree with you about Homer, nor "stand for" your implied
view that narrative poetry is not "pure poetry." Poetry seems to me to
speak with a thousand voices--"a various language." The miners have a
saying: "Gold is where you find it." So is poetry; I'm expecting to
find it some fine day in the price list of a grocery store. I fancy
_you_ could put it there.
* * * * *
As to Goethe, the more you read him, the better you will love Heine.
Thank you for "A Wine of Wizardry"--amended. It seems to me that the
fake dictum of "Merlin-sage" (I don't quite perceive the necessity of
the hyphen) is better than the hackneyed Scriptural quotation. It is
odd, but my recollection is that it was the "sick enchantress" who
cried "unto Betelgeuse a mystic word." Was it not so in the copy that
I first had, or do I think so merely because the cry of one is more
lone and awful than the cry of a number?
I am still of the belief that the poem should have at least a few
breaks in it, for I find myself as well as the public more or less--I,
doubtless, less than the public--indisposed to tackle solid columns
of either verse or prose. I told you this poem "took away one's
breath,"--give a fellow, can't you, a chance to recover it now and
again.
"Space to breathe, how short soever."
Nevertheless, not my will but thine be done, on earth as it is in San
Francisco. Sincerely yours, AMBROSE BIERCE.
[Washington, D. C.,
May 11, 1904.]