* * * * *
Yes, I got and read that fool thing in the August Critic. I found in
it nothing worse than stupidity--no malice. Doubtless you have not
sounded the deeper deeps of stupidity in critics, and so are driven to
other motives to explain their unearthly errors. I know from my own
experience of long ago how hard it is to accept abominable criticism,
obviously (to the criticee) unfair, without attributing a personal
mean motive; but the attribution is nearly always erroneous, even in
the case of a writer with so many personal enemies as I. You will do
well to avoid that weakness of the tyro. * * * has the infirmity in an
apparently chronic form. Poets, by reason of the sensibilities that
_make_ them poets, are peculiarly liable to it. I can't see any
evidence that the poor devil of the Critic knew better.
The Wine of Wizardry is at present at the Booklovers'. It should have
come back ere this, but don't you draw any happy augury from that: I'm
sure they'll turn it down, and am damning them in advance.
I had a postal from * * * a few days ago. He was in Paris. I've
written him only once, explaining by drawing his attention to the fact
that one's reluctance to write a letter increases in the ratio of the
square of the distance it has to go. I don't know why that is so, but
it is--at least in my case.
* * * * *
Yes, I'm in perfect health, barring a bit of insomnia at times, and
enjoy life as much as I ever did--except when in love and the love
prospering; that is to say, when it was new.
Sincerely yours,
AMBROSE BIERCE.
[Washington, D. C.,
December 8, 1904.]