I don't care if that satire of Josephare refers to me or not; it was good. He may jump on me if he wants to—I don't mind. All I ask is that he do it well.
* * *
I passed yesterday with Percival Pollard, viewing the burnt district of Baltimore. He's a queer duck whom I like, and he likes your work. I'm sending you a copy of "The Papyrus," with his "rehabilitation" of the odious Oscar Wilde. Wilde's work is all right, but what can one do with the work of one whose name one cannot speak before women?
* * *
Sincerely yours, Ambrose Bierce.
Washington, D. C.,
April 19,
1904.
Dear George,
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.