But what most injures an author is not means and leisure: it is society, conventions, obligations, waste of time in forms and vanities. There are very few men strong enough to stand the life of society, and to write. I can think of but one of importance,—that is Henry James;—but his special study is society.
And now for a lecture. (In haste.)
Affectionately,
Lafcadio.
TO MITCHELL McDONALD
Tōkyō, October, 1898.
Dear McDonald,—I find myself not only at the busiest part of the term, the part when professors of the university don’t find time to go anywhere,—but also in the most trying portion of the work of getting out a book,—the last portion, the finishing and rounding off.
And I am going to ask you simply not to come and see your friend, and not to ask him to come to see you, for at least three months more. I know this seems horrid—but such are the only conditions upon which literary work is possible, when combined with the duties of a professor of literature. I don’t want to see or hear or feel anything outside of my work till the book is done,—and I therefore have the impudent assurance to ask you to help me stand by my wheel. Of course it would be pleasant to do otherwise; but I can’t even think of pleasant things and do decent work at the same time. Please think of a helmsman, off shore, and the ship in rough weather, with breakers in sight.
Hate to send you this letter—but I think you will sympathize with me in spite of it.
Affectionately,