So much for the ugly side of the question. Let us take the cheerful one.
Every man who has new ideas to express, at variance with the habits of his time, has to meet the same sort of opposition. It is valuable to him. It is valuable to the world at large. Weakness can’t work or burst through it. Only strength can succeed. The man who does get through has a right to be proud, and to say: “I am strong.” With health and time, I shall get through,—but I do feel afraid sometimes of physical disaster. Of course I have black moments; but they are also foolish moments—due to disordered nerves. I must just hammer on steadily and let money quarrels go to the deuce, and sacrifice everything to success. When you are in the United States you may be able to help me with the business part of the thing—providing that you understand exactly the circumstances, and don’t imagine me to be a possible Kipling or Stevenson. Not only am I a mere mite in literature, but a mite that has to be put forward very, very cautiously indeed. “Overestimate” me! well, I should rather say you did.
And now we’ll leave theory for practice. I don’t think you can do anything now—anything at all. You might—but the chances are not worth taking. You will be surprised to hear, I fancy, that the author must see his proofs—not for the purpose of assuring himself that the text is according to the copy, but for the purpose of making it different from the MS. Very few writers can perfect their work in MS.; they cannot see the colour and line of it, till it gets into type. When a statue is cast, it is cast exactly according to the mould, and shows the lines of the mould, which have to be removed: then the polishing is done, and the last touches are given. Very slight work—but everything depends upon it. So with artistic writing. It is by changes in the printed form that the final effect is obtained. Exactness according to the MS. means nothing at all; that is only the casting,—a matter of course; and another man can no more look after your proofs than he can put on your hat. Did you ever try the experiment of letting a friend try to fit your hat comfortably on your own head? It can’t be done.
Health is good; sprain about well; book nearly through—sixteen chapters written. Only, the flavour is not yet quite right.
Finally, dear friend, don’t think, because I write this letter, that I am very blue, or despondent, or anything of that sort. I am feeling to-day unusually well,—and remember something said to me ten years ago by a lady who at once detested me after our introduction. She said: “A man with a nose like you should not worry about the future—he will bore his way through the world.” I trust in my nose. With true love to you,
Lafcadio.
TO MITCHELL McDONALD
Tōkyō, December, 1898.
Dear McDonald,—I am very, very sorry that you had that accident,—and I fear that you are worse off than you let me know. I must get down to-morrow (Saturday), and see how you are—though I fear I can do no more than chatter to you like an usots’ki. Well, we’ve both had accidents lately—my foot isn’t quite well yet. We must have extra good luck to make up for these mishaps.
Yes, I should be glad to know your friend Bedloe,—or any of your naval friends: they are men as well as gentlemen, and I feel quite at home with them.