Never mind. I’ll send you my own book sometime this year—I think. It ought to be in the printer’s hands by the time you get this letter. It will probably be called “A Living God, and Other Studies”—or something of that sort. But only the gods exactly know.
Half of my psychological book—or nearly half—is also written. I shall dedicate it probably to the Lady of a Myriad Souls—whose photo in a black frame decorates my Japanese alcove. Provided—I don’t die or worse before it is finished. Any suggestions? I’m trying to explain all mysterious things which philosophers, etc., call inexplicable feelings. Have you any? Please turn some over to me, and let me digest them. I’ve managed the frisson (woman’s touch), some colour-sensations, sublimities, etc. I want some mysterious feelings—some exquisitenesses,—normal only. Parfum de jeunesse suggests experiences. Do you know any?...
Ever faithfully,
Lafcadio.
TO ELLWOOD HENDRICK
Kōbe, February, 1897.
Dear Hendrick,— ... Oh! have you read those two marvellous things of Kipling’s last—“McAndrews’ Hymn,” and “The Mary Gloster”? Especially the “Mary Gloster.” I have no more qualified ideas about Kipling. He is to my fixed conviction the greatest of living English poets, and greater than all before him in the line he has taken. As for England, he is her modern Saga-man,—skald, scôp, whatever you like: lineal descendants of those fellows to whom the Berserker used to say: “Now you just stand right here, and see us fight so that you can make a song about it.”
Meanwhile the Holy Ghost has become temporarily (perhaps) disgusted with me; and I am doing nothing for three days past. Simply can’t—no feelings. I can grind; but what’s the use? I want to do something remarkable, unique, extraordinary, audacious; and I haven’t the qualifications. I want sensations—dreams—glimpses. Nothing! Will I ever get another good idea? Don’t know. Will I ever have any literary success?—So swings the pendulum! I fear my next book won’t be as good as it ought to be....
After all, the Jesuit is really the most interesting person. We are close to each other because we are so enormously far away,—just as in Wundt’s colour-theory the red and violet ends of the spectrum overlap after a fashion....