Washington, D. C.,
February 15,
1911.
Dear George,
As to the "form of address." A man passing another was halted by the words: "You dirty dog!" Turning to the speaker, he bowed coldly and said: "Smith is my name, sir." My name is Bierce, and I find, on reflection, that I like best those who call me just that. If my christen name were George I'd want to be called that; but "Ambrose" is fit only for mouths of women—in which it sounds fairly well.
How are you my master? I never read one of your poems without learning something, though not, alas, how to make one.
Don't worry about "Lilith"; it will work out all right. As to the characters not seeming alive, I've always fancied the men and women of antiquity—particularly the kings, and great ones generally—should not be too flesh-and-bloody, like the "persons whom one meets." A little coldness and strangeness is very becoming to them. I like them to stalk, like the ghosts that they are—our modern passioning seems a bit anachronous in them. Maybe I'm wrong, but I'm sure you will understand and have some sympathy with the error.
Hudson Maxim takes medicine without biting the spoon. He had a dose from me and swallowed it smiling. I too gave him some citations of great poetry that is outside the confines of his "definition"—poetry in which are no tropes at all. He seems to lack the feel of poetry. He even spoils some of the "great lines" by not including enough of the context. As to his "improvements," fancy his preference for "the fiercest spirit of the warrior host" to "the fiercest spirit that fought in Heaven"! O my!
Yes, Conrad told me the tale of his rescue by you. He gave me the impression of hanging in the sky above billows unthinkably huge and rocks inconceivably hard.
* * *
Of course I could not but be pleased by your inclusion of that sonnet on me in your book. And, by the way, I'm including in my tenth volume my Cosmopolitan article on the "Wine" and my end of the controversy about it. All the volumes of the set are to be out by June, saith the publisher. He is certainly half-killing me with proofs—mountains of proofs! * * *