My dear Ōtani,—I am pleased to hear that the incident was imaginary,—because this gives me a higher idea of your sense of art. True literary art consists very largely in skilful combination of real or possible facts in an imaginary succession. Literature artistic never can be raw truth, any more than a photograph can be compared with a painting. Here is a little sentence from one of the greatest of modern French writers:—
“L’art n’a pas la vérité pour objet. Il faut demander la vérité aux Sciences, parce qu’elle est leur objet;—il ne faut pas la demander a la littérature, qui n’a et ne peut avoir d’objet que le beau.” (Anatole France.)
Of course this must not be taken too literally; but it is substantially the most important of truths for a writer to keep in mind. I would suggest this addition: “Remember that nothing can be beautiful which does not contain truth, and that making an imagination beautiful means also to make it partly true.”
Your English is poor still; but your composition was artistic, and gave me both surprise and pleasure. You understand something about the grouping of facts in the dramatic sense, and how to appeal by natural and simple incidents to the reader’s emotion. The basis of art is there; the rest can only come with years of practice,—I mean the secret of compressed power and high polish. I would suggest that when writing in your own language, you aim hereafter somewhat in the direction of compression. You are now somewhat inclined to diffuseness; and a great deal is gained in strength by understanding how much of detail can be sacrificed....
Yours faithfully,
Y. Koizumi.
TO MITCHELL McDONALD
Tōkyō, January, 1898.
Dear McDonald,—I believe those three days, of mine in Yokohama were the most pleasurable in a pilgrimage of forty-seven years. I can venture to say little more about them per se. Such experience will not do for me except at vast intervals. It sends me back to work with much too good an opinion of myself,—and that is bad for literary self-judgement. The beneficial result is an offsetting of that morbid condition,—that utter want of self-confidence. On the whole, I feel “toned-up”—full of new energy; that will not be displeasing to you. I not only feel that I ought to do something good, but I am going to do it,—with the permission of the gods.
How nice of you to have invited Amenomori to our tiffin,—and the trip to Ōmori! I look forward in the future to a Kamakura day, under like circumstances, when time and tide permit. I believe A. can surprise us at Kamakura, which he knows better than any man living. He does not give his knowledge to many people.