The Letters of Ambrose Bierce

Edited by

Bertha Clark Pope

FEATURING A MEMOIR BY

George Sterling

San Francisco

The California Book Club

1922

In reproducing these letters, we have stayed as true as possible to the original manuscripts. This has led to some inconsistency throughout the volume, particularly with the names of magazines and newspapers, which are sometimes italicized and sometimes in quotation marks.—The Editor.

COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY THE CALIFORNIA BOOK CLUB

by Bertha Clark Pope

"The question that pops into the minds of ninety-nine readersv out of a hundred," says Arnold Bennett in a review in the London New Age in 1909, "even the best informed ones, is definitely: 'Who is Ambrose Bierce?' I’m not entirely sure, but I can say that among what I call 'underground reputations,' Ambrose Bierce's is probably the most notable. You could spend years in literary circles and never come across anyone who knows of Ambrose Bierce, and then suddenly you might hear some knowledgeable student whisper in awe: 'Ambrose Bierce is the greatest living prose writer.' I've heard that opinion voiced."

Bierce himself acknowledges the "underground" nature of his reputation in a letter to George Sterling: "How many times, and over how many years must one's inexplicable obscurity be highlighted to count as fame? Not knowing, I'm almost inclined to think of myself as the most famous of authors. I've nearly stopped being 'discovered,' but my reputation as an obscurian could be described as global and timeless."

Anything that sheds light on a figure who is both obscure and famous is valuable. These letters from Ambrosevi Bierce, published here for the first time, are therefore particularly interesting. They are the casual literary work—this term is used thoughtfully—of a man regarded as great by a small but very critical group, read enthusiastically by a somewhat larger audience that seldom deeply analyzes what they consume, and overlooked by the vast majority of readers; a man who is both more hated and more adored than anyone on the Pacific Coast; a man who, though he hasn't been gone for ten years, has already become a tradition and a legend; whose life, just like his death, contained elements of mystery, confusing contradictions, and questions that provoke speculation, with motives and meanings not revealed to outsiders.

If Ambrose Bierce were as famous as he should be, the introduction to these letters could be brief; we wouldn’t need to pause to ask who he was and what he accomplished. As it stands, we do.

Ambrose Bierce, the son of Marcus Aurelius and Laura (Sherwood) Bierce, was born in Meiggs County, Ohio, on June 24, 1842. When the Civil War broke out, he was a young man without formal education but with a sharp mind. "My father was a poor farmer," he once told a friend, "and couldn't provide me with a general education, but he had a great library, and it’s to his books that I owe everything." He quickly volunteered in 1861 and served throughout the war. Twice, risking his own life, he rescued wounded comrades from the battlefield and was severely injured in the head at Kenesaw Mountain. He was promoted to Major for his distinguished vii services, but later in life, he never allowed anyone to address him by that title. There's a story that when the war ended, he flipped a coin to decide his career. Whatever the outcome, he immediately went to San Francisco to join his favorite brother Albert—out of ten brothers and sisters—and briefly worked with him at the Mint; he soon started writing articles for weekly publications, especially the Argonauts and the Newsletter.

"I was a messy writer back then," he notes in a letter forty years later, "though I was still better than my neighbors, which caught my own attention. My grasp of English was pretty weak 'a whole lot.' In fact, my intellectual level (whatever that is, and God knows it makes me blush) developed slowly—just like my morals. What I mean is, I didn't have literary sincerity." Clearly, others took notice too, as he was soon editing the Newsletter.

In 1872, he moved to London and spent four years on the staff of Fun. In London, Bierce found like-minded and inspiring colleagues. The standout figure in his circle was George Augustus Sala, "one of the most skilled, polished journalists ever known," with a sharp satirical wit, and the writer of a ballad that Swift might have admired. Another prominent figure was Tom Hood the younger, who had a biting sense of humor. The satirical style in journalism was trendy at the time, and "personal" journals were so personal that an editor named "Jimmy" Davis, who worked for the Cuckoo and the Bat, found it beneficial to spend several years in exile in France.viii Bierce contributed to several of these and to Figaro, whose editor was James Mortimer. To this gentleman, Bierce credited what he called the distinction of being "probably the only American journalist ever employed by an Empress in such a congenial pursuit as the pursuit of another journalist." This other journalist was M. Henri Rochefort, a communard and former editor of The Lantern in Paris, where he had waged relentless war against the Empire and all its figures, especially the Empress. When Rochefort, in exile, announced his plan to restart The Lantern in London, the exiled Empress thwarted him by secretly copyrighting the title The Lantern and launching a publication under that name aimed at undermining his influence. Just two issues were enough; M. Rochefort fled to Belgium. Bierce remarked that in "the field of chromatic journalism," it was the best thing that ever came from a press, but when it came to the literary quality of the twelve pages, he felt less able to judge since he had written every line.

This was in 1874. Two years earlier, using his journalistic pseudonym "Dod Grile," he had published his first books—two small volumes that mostly consisted of his articles in the San Francisco Newsletter, called The Fiend's Delight and Nuggets And Dust Panned Out In California. Now, he used the same pseudonym on the title page of a third volume, Cobwebs from an Empty Skull. The Cobwebs were selections from his work in Fun—satirical tales and fables, often inspired by strange old woodcuts givenix to him by the editors with the request that he write something to match. His journalistic peers praised these volumes highly, and a more distinguished fan was Gladstone, who, finding the Cobwebs in a used bookstore, expressed his enjoyment of their cleverness and, by his praise, gave a certain recognition to Bierce's name among the London elite. But despite such a notable supporter, the books remained largely unknown.

Friendly tasks and working with the top journalists of the time didn’t keep Bierce from being undeniably short on cash at times. In 1876, he returned to San Francisco, where he stayed for twenty-one years, except for a brief but eventful stint as the general manager of a mining company near Deadwood, South Dakota. During this time, he earned a living by writing special articles—for the Wasp, a weekly that reflects its name in its overall tone, and, starting in 1886, for the Examiner, where he wrote a department every Sunday on the editorial page titled as he had for a similar column in The Lantern—Prattle. A partial explanation for the way Bierce felt and the themes he increasingly focused on, eventually leading to the near exclusion of all others, can be found in the specific phase that California journalism was going through at that time.

In the development of humor, the lowest point—where people take pleasure in causing pain to others—is clearly seen in primitive cultures, young boys, and early American journalism. Mark Twain vividly demonstrates this in his x Journalistic Wild Oats when discussing Tennessee, but it was particularly intense in San Francisco. The community valued personal bravery, direct confrontation, and straightforward, effective criticism. Since the social circle was so small and similar, any significant news would usually be known before it could be reported, typeset, printed, and handed out. It was so isolated from the rest of the world that for years, there was no pretension of providing real news from outside. As a result, newspapers began to focus on different kinds of interests. They became pamphlets to spread the views of the groups that owned them and tools to fight for those opinions when necessary. There was plenty of opportunity for that: municipal issues were corrupt, and the courts were weak or dishonest, or both. Editors and readers loved a good fight; they also wanted humor and combined both. In the creative beginnings of 1847, when the foundations of journalism were being formed and two leading papers, the California native in Monterey and the California Star in San Francisco, were active, the editors fiercely attacked the community in general and each other in particular, wielding their words like broad axes and crowbars with whatever other weapons were at their disposal. The California Star introduction to what we would now call its "esteemed contemporary" is a perfect example:

Throughout the seventies and eighties, the tradition continued, with people buying and reading newspapers, as a historian of journalism points out, not so much for the news but to see who was being "attacked" that day. It’s not surprising, then, that publications with a fierce edge were popular, or that editors preferred writers who could deliver in a confrontational style. It’s notable that Bierce first gained public recognition through his articles in the caustic Newsletter, which was widely read on the Pacific Coast during the seventies. Once he got his start in this arena, he became locally famous for his sharp and humorous articles in the Argonaut and the Wasp, and for many years his column Prattle in the Examiner was, as Mr. Bailey Millard put it, "the most wickedly clever, the most audaciously personal, and the most eagerly consumed column of causerie ever printed in this country."

In 1896, Bierce was sent to Washington to campaign against the "refunding bill" that Collis P. Huntington was trying to push through, which would free his Central Pacific Railroad from its obligations to the government. A year later, he returned to Washington, where he stayed for the rest of his journalism career as a correspondent for the New York American, and he also ran a department in the Global citizen for several years.

Much of Bierce's best work was done during those years in San Francisco. Through the columns of the Wasp and the Examiner, his wit was unleashed; he had an incredible influence; his sharp criticism built and destroyed reputations—both literary and otherwise. However, Bierce mostly saw this as "journalism, something so low it shouldn't be mentioned in the same breath as literature." His true interest was elsewhere. Throughout the early eighties, he focused on writing stories; all were rejected by the magazine editors he submitted them to. When he finally compiled these stories into a book in 1890 and presented it to the top publishers in the country, they also rejected it. "These men," writes Mr. Bailey Millard, "acknowledged the purity of his language and the magic of his haunting style, but the stories were considered repulsive."

Finally, in 1891, his first collection of stories, Tales of Soldiers and Civilians, was published, albeit reluctantly. It included this foreword:

There’s a forceful energy in these words; the author confidently throws down the challenge. However, it can't be said that much happened to unsettle the less trusting publishers. It seems Bierce aimed to reach beyond the dull and unfair judgment of those lower courts to the higher authority of critics and perhaps a select group of general readers who might recognize and appreciate something unique. Yet, the judgment wasn’t really overturned. Only a handful of critics were insightful, and the book didn’t gain popularity. When The Monk and the Hangman's Daughter was released by F. J. Schulte and Company in Chicago the following year, and Can Such Things Be was published by The Cassell Publishing Company the year after that, a few enthusiastic critics struggled to find words strong enough to capture Bierce's vivid imagination, his eerie insight into primitive fears in human consciousness, and his polished writing style; but the critics who were not fans had an even tougher time coming up with fitting criticism, and once again, there was no widespread recognition.

For the next twenty years, Ambrose Bierce was a prolific writer, but for some reason, no new volumes of stories from him were released. Black Beetles in Amber, a collection of satirical poetry, came out the same year as The Monk and the Hangman's Daughter; then for seven years, except for a reissue by G. P. Putnam's Sons of Tales of Soldiers and Civilians under the title In the Midst of Life, there were no books by Bierce.xiv In 1899, Fantastic Fables was published; in 1903, Shapes of Clay, more satirical poetry; in 1906, The Cynic's Word Book, a dictionary of wicked sayings; in 1909, Write it Right, a list of literary mistakes, and The Shadow on the Dial, a collection of essays covering, to quote the preface by S. O. Howes, "a wide range of subjects, including government, dreams, dialect writers, and dogs"—Mr. Howes could have added "emancipated woman" for more impact; and finally—from 1909 to 1912—The Collected Works of Ambrose Bierce, which includes all his previously published works in book form, except for the last two mentioned, along with much more, all collected and edited by Bierce himself.

On October 2, 1913, Ambrose Bierce, after taking care of his business matters, left Washington for a journey through the southern states. He stated in letters that he intended to go to Mexico and then to South America. The most detailed account of his trip and his plans comes from a newspaper clipping he sent to his niece in a letter dated November 6, 1913; beneath the ordinary language of the report, the vibrant personality making its final exit shines through:

In December of that same year, the last letter he’s known to have written was received by his daughter. It’s dated from Chihuahua and casually mentions that he has unofficially joined a division of Villa's army, and talks about a possible advance on Ojinaga. No further word has ever come from or about Ambrose Bierce. Whether he was overtaken by illness in his old age at seventy-one, leading to a sudden death, or whether he chose to leap over a cliff rather than drift away in sandy deltas, no one can say. His last letters, brave, serious, and heartfelt, don’t state it directly, but they imply a lot. "You must try to forgive my stubbornness in not 'perishing' where I am," he wrote as he left Washington.xvii "I want to be where something significant is happening, or where absolutely nothing is happening." "Goodbye—if you hear that I’ve been shot against a Mexican stone wall, please know that I consider that a pretty good way to leave this life. It beats aging, illness, or falling down the stairs. To be a Gringo in Mexico—ah, that is a good way to go!" Whatever fate Ambrose Bierce encountered in Mexico, the lines of George Sterling capture what must have been his mindset in facing it:

When thinking about Ambrose Bierce's work, a key question is why it includes so much that seems trivial or fleeting. Another question for anyone critiquing Bierce is why the unique perspective and the clarity in his best pieces—mostly stories—didn't earn him immediate and widespread recognition.

A partial answer to both questions can be seen in the tension between Bierce and his environment. Bierce, in a contradictory way, blended the strange in content with a style that was tightly controlled and concise. An ironic facade hid a profound sensitivity; however, both his sensitivity and irony were bound by a strict commitment to honesty; he would have loudly praised Clough's

"But don't fool yourself, man,
Let truth be truth, and life be what it is."

He had the aristocrat's disdain for popular sentiment, a selectiveness taken so far that he instinctively chose themes involving exceptional individuals and experiences, focusing on one pivotal moment of crisis. He saw his characters not in relation to others or in ordinary situations; he isolated them—often amid unusual circumstances.

All this was in sharp contrast to the literary trends when he picked up his pen to try his hand as a creative artist. The most popular novelist of the time was Dickens; the most popular poet, Tennyson. Neither portrayed life directly; both obscured it: one through kindness, the other through beauty. The reading public preferred harsh and painful truths when they were framed as examples of natural law. The observer witnessing the larger universe in action could tolerate the random destruction of a single person; someone in that position could and did excuse the Creator for minor errors like leading Hetty Sorrell to her execution, becausexix of the belief that, on the whole, "He was a good guy, and everything would turn out fine." This kind of optimistic outlook arose from an unusual combination of evangelical beliefs and evolutionary ideas; and in the minds of the general public that Bierce, under different circumstances and with a different mix of qualities, might have influenced, it turned into a broad, soft insincerity that demanded "happy endings," an overly accommodating approach that dismissed harsh simplicity, and an wrapping of raw emotion in politeness or moral lessons.

But for Bierce, "noble and nude and antique," this mid-Victorian display and decoration of "unpleasant truths" was repulsive. He was perfectly straightforward and fearless—not just in his personal relationships but, even more unusually, in his thoughts. He viewed easy optimism, the belief that God is in his heaven and therefore everything is good in the world, as a form of blindness, and the constant craving for a "happy ending" as ridiculous. In many important passages, Bierce's perspective mirrors the irony of Voltaire: "'Had not Pangloss got himself hanged,' replied Candide, 'he would have given us most excellent advice in this emergency; for he was a profound philosopher.'" Bierce wasn't afraid to present unsettling evidence that a priori reasoning might not always be a reliable guide, that causes don't always lead to the expected outcomes, and that the idea of this being the best of all possible worlds can sometimes be irrelevant.

The themes allowed by this mindset were bound to upset readers of that time. In Tales of Soldiersxx and Civilians, his first collection of stories, he confronts a heavily adorned topic of the era—war; not the romanticized bravery of war, the music and marching and the heroic stories; but the horrifying reality of it; throughout his vivid, dramatic passages pulses a hatred of war, not just "unjust" war, but all war, which is unsettling because it’s never fully expressed. With bitter yet beautiful honesty, he concludes each tale with a tragic ending, always with one last twist, one more unexpected horror. And in this book—take note of the serious implication of the title he later gave it, In the Midst of Life—as well as in the next, Can Such Things Be, there's another topic that Bierce seemed unafraid to explore: "Death, in war and in the terrifying form of the supernatural, was depicted repeatedly. Man's fear in the face of death provided the artist with inspiration for his remarkable physical and psychological details. You couldn't classify this work as realism or romance; it was the greatest human drama—the struggle between life and death—shaped by genius. Not Zola, in the countless pages of his Debâcle, nor the great Tolstoy in his monumental War and Peace ever depicted war, dreadful war, more faithfully than any of the stories in this book; not Maupassant had crafted more dramatically imagined plots from the terrible truths of war.... There painted an artist who had witnessed the reality itself, and being a genius, had transformed it into an even greater art.

The death of the young, the beautiful, and the brave was the final theme of every story about war in this book.xxi The stunning, spectacular death that followed such pointless bravery, like what Tennyson celebrated for the entertainment crowd in his Charge of the Light Brigade; the haunting, slow, soul-crushing death by hanging; the numerous, understandable deaths that turn rivers near battlefields blood red; the death that arises from sheer terror; real and imagined death—every kind of death is depicted here, presented in a way that makes Pierre Loti's Book of Pity and Death seem weak and clumsy.

By the mid-Victorian era, death was seen as just as undesirable in society as sex. Both topics had to be ignored or handled with decorum. In the 1880s, any writer who straightforwardly addressed death was viewed as distasteful. "Disgusting!" exclaimed the critics when they read Bierce's Chickamauga and The Affair at Coulter's Notch.

Bierce's style, because of its uniqueness, distanced him from his audience. It was superior, sharp, flawless in detail, concise, and tight—this was his approach in the casual, long-winded, and sprawling nineteenth century.

Bierce knew that even though it's common to mock trends, they still hold absolute power, whether it's about the latest boots or books.

"A friend of mine," he wrote in 1887 in his Examiner column, "a well-known and talented writer, seems surprised that I don't like the work of Robert Louis Stevenson. I'm equally disappointed to know that he does. If he was ever a boy, he knows that the year isn't divided, as commonly thought, into seasons and months, but into 'top time,' 'marble time,' 'kite time,' etc., and woe to the boy who disregards this unwritten calendar, having fun according to the whims of an untrustworthy conscience. I want to remind my friend that a somewhat similar system exists in literature—a word which I want him to note means fiction. There are, for example—or at least there used to be—James time, Howells time, Crawford time, Russell time, and Conway time, each period—named for the great novelist of the time—lasting, generally speaking, about a year.... The law of observance is particularly strict. You're not allowed to admire Jones during Smith time. I must point out to my indiscreet friend that this isn't Stevenson time—that was last year." It was definitely not Bierce time when Bierce's stories came out.

And he believed he had no compromises—or so he thought. "A great artist," he wrote to George Sterling, "is above his world and his time, or at least his community and his era." His practical application of this belief is evident in a letter to a magazine editor who had just rejected a satire he had submitted:

"Even you ask for literature—if my stories are literature, as you graciously suggest. (By the way, all the top publishers in the country rejected that book until they saw it published without them by a merchant in San Francisco and another kind of publishers in London, Leipzig, and Paris.) Well, you wouldn't touch one of my stories!

"No, thanks; if I have to write trash, I'd rather do it forxxiii the newspapers, which don't pretend to be anything else and are honestly terrible, where the flaws of something bad go unnoticed or are forgotten as soon as it's stale.

"I know how to write a story (the kind with a 'happy ending') for magazine readers who think literature is too highbrow, but I won’t do it as long as stealing is more honorable and interesting. I have offered you ... the best I can create; now you'll have to excuse me." In these two statements, we get a glimpse into why he stopped publishing stories in 1893. He strongly refused to compromise even a little for the public when it came to his stories, abandoning his greatest creative outlet and becoming almost exclusively a "columnist" and a satirist; he took his world by storm and left his "parish and his day" shining as the clear winners.

This doesn’t mean that the "form and pressure of the time" made Bierce into something he wasn’t. Even in his creative work, he had a satirical edge; his early training and connections were rooted in journalistic satire. No matter what, he would have definitely written satire—columns of it to make a living, books of it for self-expression; but in better circumstances, he would have also continued writing other kinds of books. Lovers of literature can rightly mourn that Bierce’s commitment to his own path and the demands of his "parish" caused him to overly develop one talent to the point where another, perhaps even greater, talent became nearly paralyzed.

As a satirist, Bierce was the best America has ever produced,xxiv maybe the best since Voltaire. But when he focused on "exploring the ways of hate as a form of creative energy," it was with pain in his soul and some intellectual and spiritual confusion. This led to a flaw in his character, a contradiction that shows up repeatedly, not just in his life, but also in his writings. A notable example can be found in his article To Train a Writer:

Up until that last sentence, Ambrose Bierce sees the world as a place where tolerance, open-mindedness, a simple life, and clear thinking are at least achievable and definitely worth striving for. He views life as purposeful, aiming for happiness, with art and love as the ways to reach that goal. But suddenly, the thread from which he’s been weaving these broad harmonies snaps with a harsh twist. Everything feels evil and hopeless—“frothing mad.” Both perspectives can’t coexist in the same mind. So, what was Ambrose Bierce’s true belief? It seems clear it was the first one. But he’s been brought on to be a satirist.

In the original fabric of Bierce's mind, the satirical element has taken over more than intended. This leads to not just a significant loss of the main design but also to confusion in the one that replaces it. It's noteworthy that much of Bierce's work reflects what he would have called a futilitarian viewpoint, as he often seems unable to find a fitting target for his satire, an opponent worthy of the sharp wit he brings to the fight; he battles everywhere, on both sides, against anyone who comes his way. Ubiquitous and indiscriminate, he is like someone who screams in frustration at their own futility, one who "might be heard," as he states about our civilization, "from afar in space as a scolding and a riot." That Bierce would devote so much of his incredible talent to the trivial and temporary, wasting powerful expressions of anger on unremarkable individuals from Oakland, and preserving insignificant black beetles in the amber of his art, is not just, as it has been for a long time, a source of astonishment for critics; it also brings laughter from the gods and sorrow among Bierce's true admirers.

Some might say that Bierce's lack of international or even national recognition can't be blamed just on a disconnect between him and his era and the resulting backlash. It’s true that Bierce’s work shows a sort of scarcity—not just a lack of printed pages, but axxvi deficiency in the creative energy that makes someone like Byron, despite being vulgar and casual, a towering figure in literature. Bierce has only a few themes and moods; his literary flow is clear and bright but limited—a narrow stream, not the rich river that nourishes vast landscapes of thought and emotion. He also lacks the ability to integrate individual characters and situations into a wider picture of existence, which sets apart writers like Thackeray, Balzac, and Tolstoy among the greats, and Bennett and Wells among those still writing. Bierce's focus isn't on collective experiences or even the individual's experiences over time. His unit of time is a minute, not a month. It's noteworthy that he never wrote a novel—unless you consider The Monk and the Hangman's Daughter as one—and he had striking opinions about the novel as a literary form, as seen in this excerpt from Prattle, written in 1887:

It’s possible that behind this harsh criticism was a deep-down awareness of his own inability to make a significant impact.

But an artist, like a nation, should be judged not by whatxxvii he can’t do, but by what he can. The fact that Bierce couldn’t paint the large canvas doesn’t make him unimportant or insignificant. He is by no means a second-rate writer; he is a first-rate writer who couldn’t consistently demonstrate his excellence.

When he shows his greatness, what is it? In all his best work, there's originality, a rare and valuable quirk; his perspective and themes are full of it. Above all writers, Bierce can brilliantly present surprising snapshots of life, pulled from surrounding circumstances; isolated conflicts of character and action; sharp depictions of individual men under pressure and in unusual situations. With his immense emotional insight, he has the ability to evoke and make us feel some strange, twisted twist of fate that harms the individual—making it feel real and horrifying. This isn’t an easy feat. De Maupassant mentioned that men were killed every year in Paris by falling tiles from roofs, but if he used that to eliminate a main character, he would be ridiculed. Bierce can make us accept as credible and tragic events that are stranger than the one De Maupassant had to dismiss. "In the realm of the startling—half Poe, half Merimee—he doesn’t have many equals," says Arnold Bennett.... "A story like An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge—well, Edgar Allan Poe might have been willing to sign it. And that’s something.

"He has an impressive style—what Kipling's wouldxxviii have been if he had truly understood the meaning of the word 'art'—and an oddly remarkable sense of beauty. There’s a sense of landscape in A Horseman in the Sky that brings to mind the beautiful opening of that forgettable novel, Les Frères Zemganno by Edmond de Goncourt, which no English novelist apart from Thomas Hardy, and maybe Charles Marriott, could rival." The sense of landscape that Bennett mentions is just one part of a larger ability—the ability to make action, character, and setting feel concrete and visible. Bierce's portrayals of Civil War battles in his Bits of Autobiography are the best descriptions of battle ever written. He lays out the battlefield with map-like clarity, organizes men and events with precision and economy, but his narrative never becomes mere exposition—it is drama. Real battles unfold quickly; descriptions often make them seem tedious and slow. What narrator but Bierce can capture the feeling of their quickness, and time and again the shock of surprise that the event itself must have created?

This wouldn't be the case if it weren't for his verbal restraint. His descriptions don’t drown in a sea of adjectives and adverbs; instead, strong, precise nouns and verbs do the job, which means that the actual object and action are highlighted, rather than being surrounded by qualifying chatter. And this is only possible because of what is, above all else, his greatest strength—absolute precision. "Sometimes I think," he once humorously remarked about some of his letters being misunderstood, "Sometimes I think I'm the only person in the world who understands the meaning of the written word. Or the only one who doesn’t." A reader of Ambrose Biercexxix nearly believes that until now, he has found a writer who completely understands the meaning of the written word. He has the ability to draw out new meanings from familiar words, positioning them in a way that reveals brilliant significances never seen before. He gives one phrase the beauty and compact suggestion of a poem; his titles—Black Beetles in Amber, Ashes of the Beacon, Cobwebs from an Empty Skull—are mini masterpieces. It’s natural that he has a talent for coining striking words: in his later years, he has embraced his "anecdotage," noting that a certain Socialist is the greatest "futilitarian" of them all, "femininies"—and so on endlessly. Often, the smaller the Biercean gem, the more exquisite the craftsmanship. One word can have all the sparkle of an epigram.

In terms of skill, Ambrose Bierce is unmatched by any writer, whether from the past or present; this places him among the few masters who provide that highest form of intellectual pleasure, the instant recognition of a clear idea perfectly expressed in fitting words—wit's twin, evoking that rare joy, the sudden, secret laughter of the mind. That’s Bierce the artist; the real person is revealed in these letters. If you need more insight into Ambrose Bierce’s true nature, it can be found in a conversation he had in his later years with a young girl: "You must be very proud, Mr. Bierce, of all your books and your fame?" "No," he replied rather sadly, "you will come to realize that everything worthwhile in life is the love you have for a few people close to you."

by George Sterling

Since I was a kid, I loved scary stories, but it wasn't until I was 22 that I heard about Ambrose Bierce. By then, I had been living in Oakland, California, for ten months. In the fall of 1891, my friend Roosevelt Johnson, who had just moved from our hometown of Sag Harbor, New York, asked me if I knew his work. He mentioned that he had heard Bierce wrote stories that were just as terrifying as the best of Poe's.

We looked into it and discovered that Bierce had been writing a series of critical columns, humorously titled Prattle, for the editorial section of the Sunday Reviewer in San Francisco for several years. Since my uncle, with whom I had been living for nearly a year, didn’t subscribe to that paper, I unfortunately missed out on these weekly contributions to the wit and sanity of our Western literature—something we somewhat made up for by eagerly reading each new installment of Prattle as it was published. However, when it came to his short stories, we had to rely on a neighbor’s assurance that "they'd scare an owl off a tombstone."

However, later in the fall, while making a pilgrimagexxxiv to the home of our greatly admired Joaquin Miller, we met Albert, Bierce's older brother, who would become one of my best friends until his death in March 1914. From him, we learned a lot to satisfy our completely normal curiosity about this mysterious figure, who, from his solitude on a lonely mountain above the Napa Valley, unleashed weekly insults on the foolish, the pretentious, and the deceitful, and mocked or criticized many powerful people. For no one, no matter how socially or financially strong, was safe from the sting of that sharp pen, the venom of whose ink is destined to shine brightly from the pages of literature for centuries to come.

Bierce is one of the greats. I believe he knows this, and it seems to be becoming more obvious to some of his fans, but it has become clear to anyone who can look past the superficial gimmicks that dominate the literary scene for just a moment. Bierce was an artist who shaped the hardest crystals.

I wasn't so lucky to meet him until after he published his first collection of short stories, called Tales of Soldiers and Civilians. That simple title doesn't give much hint about the horrors that await the unsuspecting reader. I remember being completely captivated by the book, unable to put it down until I had absorbed every last printed doom into my memory. The stories are told with a calmness and restraint that make most of Poe's works feel a bit juvenile and overly dramatic by comparison. The best of them, in my opinion, is An Occurrence at xxxv Owl Creek Bridge, though I'm always enchanted by the eerie beauty of An Inhabitant of Carcosa, a story of unique and unforgettable quality.

Bierce, who was born in Ohio in 1842, moved to San Francisco shortly after the Civil War ended. It's interesting to note that he was one of eleven siblings, both brothers and sisters, and each of their first names started with the letter "A." He initially found work at the United States Mint, where his favorite brother, Albert, had already been employed. However, he quickly shifted to journalism, doing his first writing for the San Francisco Newsletter. His brother once told me that Ambrose had wanted to be a writer since he was a kid and was hopeful about achieving success in that field.

Isolated from most people by his intense and serious way of thinking, Bierce ultimately experienced a physical exile as well, forced to live in high altitudes, which are naturally lonely. This later banishment was due to chronic and completely incurable asthma, a condition he developed in what could almost be seen as a typical way. Bierce had no fear of the dead and their marble city. From occasional night walks in Laurel Hill Cemetery in San Francisco, his spirit "drank repose," allowing him to find a calm where the worries of daytime life faded away. During one of those walks, he chose to lie down for a bit in the moonlight on a flat tombstone, and when he woke up late at night, he found himself completely chilled, becoming a subsequent victim of the illnessxxxvi that would cast a dark shadow over his later years. His suffering from asthma was severe, often reaching a point that required him to be put under chloroform.

Stricken by his condition, he realized that trips to the lowlands were not something to take lightly. For many years, these journeys always ended with a severe flare-up of his illness, leaving him returning to his heights feeling shaken and troubled. However, he found such visits both necessary and enjoyable at times, and it was during one of those trips in the summer of 1892 that I first met him while he was temporarily staying at his brother Albert's camp on a rocky, laurel-covered hill on the eastern shore of Lake Temescal, a location now intersected by the tracks of the Oakland, Antioch and Eastern Railway.

I probably won’t forget his first night with us. The tent wasn’t ventilated enough for his condition, so he chose to sleep by the campfire, and I, swept up in my youthful admiration, had to partially satisfy it by sitting on the opposite side of the fire from him. I had a comfy cot in my tent and wasn’t used to sleeping on the ground back then, which meant I woke up at least every half hour. But no matter how often I woke up, I always found Bierce lying on his back in the dim light of the glowing embers, his eyes fixed on the stars above. I won’t forget the look in those eyes, the most piercing blue I've ever seen, beneath his shaggy yellow brows.

After that, I saw him at his brother's house in Berkeley every so often, and once I visited him at his temporary place at Skylands, above Wrights in Santa Clara County, where he had moved from Howell Mountain in Napa County. During this visit, I felt bold enough to ask him for his opinion on some of my poems since I had developed an ambition to be a poet at the embarrassingly old age of twenty-six. He was open to my request, and I was lucky enough to be his student almost until the year he passed away. For most of that time, he was living in Washington, D.C., where he had gone to help the San Francisco Evaluator defeat the Funding Bill proposed by the Southern Pacific Company, which they successfully accomplished. On that occasion, he shocked the Senate committee by repeatedly refusing to shake hands with the bill's supporter, none other than Collis P. Huntington.

For Bierce put his beliefs about ethics into action. Confident in his own self-respect and placing a high value on his friendships and approval, he refused to "make a harlot of his friendship," as he put it. In fact, he once told me that it was his rule to write a letter to anyone he later found unworthy—someone a less discerning friend had introduced him to without warning—and let them know he viewed the introduction as a mistake, stating that from then on, they would "meet as strangers!" He also mentioned that he didn’t want to be introduced to people he had criticized or was about to criticize in his writing. "I might end up liking the guy," he quipped, "and then I'd have one less pelt in my collection."

In his critique of my work, he rarely used more than hints, knowing how sensitive a beginner in poetry can be. I've heard it suggested that he placed an icy hand on my youthful enthusiasm, but if that’s true at all, I think it was beneficial for someone learning the craft, as young people often tend to be overly emotional and sentimental. Most poets would do anything to erase some of their earlier works, and he likely saved me from quite a bit of that potential embarrassment. Looking back at the manuscripts with his notes in the margins, I can now see that his suggestions were all "indicated," even though I disagreed with some of them at the time. One of his principles was that a critic should "keep his heart out of his head" (to use his own words) when judging the work of writers he knew and liked. However, I can't help but think he sadly broke that rule, especially in my case.

Bierce lived in Washington for many years before he finally visited his old home. That visit took place in 1910, when he came to see me in Carmel, and afterward, we camped together for several weeks with his brother and nephew in Yosemite. I got to know him better during that time, and he found us mostly open to his views, with socialism being the one topic we didn't agree on. This led to many heated discussions, which, as usual, only resulted in the suspicion that truth in these matters was mostly a matter of personal preference.

I saw him again in the summer of 1911, which he spent at Sag Harbor. We spent a lot of time on the water, guests of my uncle on his power yacht "La Mascotte II." He loved canoeing and took many trips on the warm, shallow bays of eastern Long Island, which he seemed to prefer over the less spacious stretches of the Potomac. He went back to California in the fall of the following year, a trip during which we saw him for the last time. A trip to the Grand Canyon was suggested a few times, but nothing came of it, and he didn't agree to be my guest again at Carmel, using the surprising excuse that the village had too many anarchists! Then in November 1913, I received my last letter from him; he was in Laredo, Texas, about to cross the border into war-torn Mexico.

Why he decided to embark on such a risky venture is mostly just speculation. It could have been for the thrill of adventure, out of boredom, or maybe he wasn't even joking when he told a close friend that, feeling ashamed for having lived so long, and not wanting to take his own life, he planned to cross the border and let the Mexicans do that for him. But he also told others that he intended to extend his journey all the way to South America, cross the Andes, and return to New York by way of a steamer from Buenos Aires. At any rate, we know from letters written during the winter months that he had unofficially joined a section of Villa's army, even actively participating in the fighting. He was heard from until the end of 1913; after that, the trail goes cold, and we can only guess what happened. Many rumors about his fate have surfaced from Mexico, with one even claiming he ended up in the trenches of Flanders. These rumors have been investigated as thoroughly as possible, but they lead nowhere. The only one that seems to shed any light is a story reported by a veteran journalist from Mexico City, published in the San Francisco Update. It tells of a soldier in Villa's army, part of a group that captured an ammunition train from the Carranzistas near the village of Icamole. One of the prisoners was a strong, white-haired, flush-faced American, who, according to the story, faced the firing squad alongside an Indian muleteer, his only companion in misfortune. The way the white-haired man met his death—casually and even with contempt—seems so characteristic of Bierce that one might be tempted to believe the tale, impossible as it may be to verify. However, since the date of the tragedy is noted as late in 1915, it seems unbelievable that Bierce could have gone unnoticed for so long, especially with so many people in Mexico eager to learn about his fate. It’s much more plausible that he met his end at the hands of a wandering group of outlaws or guerrilla fighters.

I often imagine him being captured by a squad, their surprise at finding the large amount of gold coins he was known to carry, and his quick condemnation and execution as a spy so they could keep the loot. Obviously, such actions would not have been reported, out of fear of having to share with those "higher up." So, the truth would have remained hidden, completely out of sight. Thanks to the War Department, all U.S. consuls were questioned about Bierce's possible exit from the country; all Americans in Mexico were asked for information—even prospectors. But the reporter's story is the only one that seems somewhat believable. Such a bright and fearless spirit was lost to the shadows.

It's been over eight years since that disappearance, and although the chance he’s still alive seems really slim, the wave of criticism and negativity he always predicted would follow his death has never come. It's not even on the horizon. Instead, he seems to be remembered with some acceptance by even those he criticized harshly. Each year that passes only makes his fame grow brighter, but I think we still don’t fully grasp his greatness or how extensive and lasting his fame has become. It’s interesting that some insightful people admire him for different aspects of his work. For example, the clear-headed H. L. Mencken praises him as America’s greatest wit, but dislikes his narratives; while others, somewhat put off by the cynicism woven into much of his humor, rank him among the top writers of short stories. Some prefer his humor (since he was both a humorist and a wit), while others appreciate the strength, clarity, and sharp insight in his countless essays and shorter comments on everyday matters. Personally, I’ve always considered Poe's Fall of the House of Usher to be our greatest tale; right up there are at least a dozen of Bierce's stories, whether about soldiers or civilians. He himself stated in Prattle: "I am not a poet." Yet he did write remarkable poetry at times, with his Invocation being one of the most noble poems in the language. Some of his satirical verse seems as harsh in its biting critique as any classic satirists, including Juvenal and Swift. Like the targets of their unmerciful pens, his will also be forgiven and forgotten. Today, no one knows or cares if those long-dead offenders were justified in their actions. The grave has closed over both the accuser and the accused, and what truly matters is that a great mind was allowed to express itself. One might smile or sigh over the satire, but it’s also important to recognize that even the satirist had his own flaws and could have been just as harshly critiqued by someone as sharp as he was. Generally, people won’t care much for satire, each seeing bits of themselves in the criticism, while also sensing its biased and cruel nature. However, Bierce thought very highly of himself as a satirist.

Naturally, Bierce brought his wit and humor into his close relationships. I especially remember one time, during my first year getting to know him, when we were both guests at the home of the painter, J. H. E. Partington. There was a bowl of nasturtiums on the table, and having been taught by Father Tabb, the poet, to enjoy that flower, I managed to eat most of them before the evening was over, knowing there were plenty more in the garden outside. Eventually, someone said, "Wow, George has eaten all the nasturtiums! Go out and get some more." At that, Bierce dryly and rightly said, "No—bring some thistles!" However, it shows his sincere kindness that when he saw my embarrassment, he later apologized to me for what he called a thoughtless joke. It was, indeed, well deserved.

I remember even more clearly a scene from a different setting. This involves Bierce's son, Leigh, who was a young man in his early twenties. At that time (around 1894) I was living with them in an apartment in Oakland. Young Bierce had started a relationship with a girl his age, and his father, determined to put an end to it, set a time to discuss the situation. The young man entered his father's room feeling defiant and determined: within an hour, he came out crying and exclaimed to me, waiting for him in his own room, "My father is a greater man than Christ! He has suffered more than Christ!" And just like that, the romantic relationship was over.

Someone who only knew Bierce as a debater and moral critic was almost forced to see him as a misanthrope, a bitter and cynical loner. It was only when you saw him with his close friendsxliv that you could catch a glimpse of his true character, which was thoughtful, generous, and even caring. The only thing that could spark what seemed like a harsh intolerance in him was the mention of Socialism. We didn’t often bring it up, since arguing with him was not an enjoyable experience. At one point, I hoped to get him and Jack London into a debate on the topic, but London rejected the idea of talking it out, preferring to do it through writing. Nothing came of that plan, which is unfortunate since both were great representatives of their views. Bierce eventually went to one of the midsummer gatherings of the Bohemian Club, where he used to be secretary, in their redwood grove by the Russian River. When he found out London was there, he wanted to know why they hadn’t been introduced, and I reluctantly told him I was worried they’d end up arguing fiercely within an hour. “Nonsense!” Bierce exclaimed. “Bring him over! I’ll treat him like a Dutch Uncle.” He kept his promise and seemed just as drawn to London as London was to him. But I always felt uneasy when they were talking. I don’t think the two men ever met again.

Bierce was the cleanest person I know—almost obsessively so, if that's possible. Even during our weeks camping in Yosemite, he would spend two hours in the morning getting ready in the privacy of his tent. His nephew always claimed that time was spent shaving himself from head to toe! He was also a very modest man, and I still remember his strong objections to my swimwear at the Bohemian Club swimming pool in the Russian River. Compared to many of the others there, it seemed more than fine; but he thought differently. He was a great drinker and always kept a clear head no matter how much he drank. He preferred wine (especially a dry vin du pays, usually a sauterne) over "hard liquor," which was a difference in taste from his older brother. When I first met him, I often explored the hills beyond Oakland and Berkeley from Cordonices Creek to Leona Heights with Albert Bierce, his son Carlton, R.L. ("Dick") Partington, Leigh Bierce (Ambrose’s surviving son), and other young guys. During those times, I sometimes stashed a spare bottle of port or sherry in an easy-to-reach spot, and Bierce, who joined us on several outings, pretended to think that I had hidden such bottles under every bush or rock on the hills, and would eagerly search those spots to continue the joke. I wish he had been less unsuccessful in his searches, especially now that he has had "the coal-black wine" to drink.

Although a significant part of his satire suggests misanthropy, Bierce, while deeply pessimistic, confessed to me that he was "a lover of his country and his fellowmen." He was always willing to offer help in times of need and support in moments of sorrow. He had a big and compassionate heart and, by giving so much of it, he expected—or rather hoped for—an equally big return. It might have been the disappointment of such hopes that led him to often break ties with old friends, who appreciated him despite his doubts. His brother Albert once mentioned that Ambrose was never "quite the same" after suffering a head injury during the battle of Kenesaw Mountain, developing a tendency to be easily offended and to show that resentment. Therefore, the rifts he experienced with his friends shouldn't be judged lightly. It's sad to know that he left life so willingly, feeling hurt and let down. However, the brilliant flame of Art that he nurtured for nearly fifty years never faded or became dull; it burned with pure radiance until the end. Perhaps, he reflected on what he found most admirable and lasting in life in the following words, the conclusion of his finest essay:

"Literature and art are about all that the world really values in the end; those who create them have every right to see themselves as the masters of Life, while everyone else is their servant. In the noise and chaos, the jokes and antics of countless incapable people, the great dignity of the literary profession gets overlooked; but when we look back into 'the dark backward and abysm of time' to where, beyond these voices, there's the peace of emptiness, we recognize the greatness of the few immortals and compare them to the tiny figures of their contemporary kings, warriors, and men of action in general—when, across the silent battlefields and quiet fora where the dull destinies of nations were decided, nobody caresxlvii how, we hear

like the ocean on a West Coast beach
The crash and roar of the Odyssey,

then we evaluate literature at its real worth, and how little value everything else seems that Man chooses to fill his busy soul and pointless hands with!

My dear Blanche

You won't mind me saying that the first part3 of your letter was so nice that it nearly made up for the disappointment caused by the other part. Because that is a little discouraging. Let me explain.

You accepted my suggestion to try writing with enthusiasm and seemingly joy. But, unfortunately, it’s not for the love of the craft but to help God fix His messed-up world. You want to "change things," dear girl—to rise up and fight the monsters and free the trapped maidens. You want to "help improve the situation for working women." You aim to be a missionary—and all that. Perhaps I won't make myself clear when I say this discourages me; that for such goals (as worthy as they are), I won’t help you; that these ambitions are not only unrealistic but also clash with the mindset needed for success in art; that these purposes cheapen art; that "helpful" writing is boring to read. If you had more life experience, I would take what you say as completely convincing against your having any literary talent. But you’re so young and inexperienced in that way—and I see little moments of joy and purely literary touches (seemingly unconscious) in your letters—perhaps your untrained heart and hope shouldn’t be seen as having the final say. But surely, my child—as surely as anything in math—Art won’t reward anyone who has divided loyalties. Love the world as much as you want, but serve it differently. The best contribution you can make with your writing is to write well without worrying about anything else. Plant and nurture and let God give the growth if He chooses, to whomever He will.

Suppose your father were to "help working women" by only painting pictures that highlight their harsh surroundings, for instance, to encourage them to help themselves or inspire others to assist them. Suppose you played only music that—but I won't go on. Literature (and I’m not referring to journalism) is an art; it’s not a form of charity. It doesn’t relate to "reform," and when it is used as a tool for reform, it suffers as it should. Unless you can feel that way, I can't recommend that you get involved with it.

It would be dishonest for me to accept your praise for what I wrote about the Homestead Works dispute—unless you praise it for being well written and true. I have no sympathy for that brutal fight between the two types of scoundrels and no desire to help either—except to improve their hearts and manners. The love of truth is a good enough motive for me when I write about my fellow humans. I appreciate many things in this world and a few people—I like you, for example; but once they are taken care of, I have no affection to spare for the irredeemable mass of brutality we call "mankind." Compassion, yes—I genuinely feel sorry that they are savages.

Yes, I wrote the article "The Human Liver." Your criticism is wrong. I have a better understanding of how women feel about Mrs. Grundy than you do. They really dislike her; however, they still feel intimidated. The fact that they are part of her doesn't lessen their hatred or their fear.

* * *

After next Monday, I’ll probably be in St. Helena. However, if you can, please continue to write to me here until I let you know I’ve moved. I’ll be intercepting my letters at St. Helena, no matter where they’re sent. And maybe you’ll write before Monday. I don’t need to mention how much I enjoy hearing from you. I’ll also want to know your thoughts on what I said about your "spirit of reform."

How I would have loved to spend that Sunday in camp with all of you. And today—I wonder if you’re there today. I have a special fondness for that place.

Please send my love to everyone, and sorry for my really long letters—or feel free to write me long ones back.

Best, your friend,Ambrose Bierce.

I know, dear Blanche., there are disagreements among people about what literature is and what it should aim to do; it’s a topic that’s too “long” to go into. I’ll just say that I don’t think those who share Tolstoi's perspective are true literary figures (meaning artists) at all. They’re more like “missionaries,” who, in their eagerness to spread their message, will use any weapon they can find; they’d even resort to a crucifix to hit a dog. Sure, the dog gets beaten, which probably makes it a worse dog than it was before, but just look at the state of the crucifix! The work of these people is certainly better than that of others who have true artistry but less talent; however, you can always spot the opportunities—opportunities6 that are there for them—that they’ve overlooked or intentionally sacrificed for their obsession. In the end, they accomplish nothing beneficial. The world doesn’t want to be saved. The poor only desire to be rich, which is impossible, rather than to be better. Generally speaking, they’d like to be rich so they can indulge in worse behavior. And your working woman (again, generally speaking) doesn’t really want to be virtuous; despite her false modesty, she wouldn’t want the current system changed if she had the chance. You can help individual men and women, and thankfully some are deserving of help. No class of people, no tribe, no nation is worth the sacrifice of a single good man or woman; not only is their overall value low, but they prefer it that way; and in trying to help them, you end up failing to assist the truly good individuals. Your family and your close friends will provide enough opportunity for all your goodwill. I must include your self.

In a timely illustration of this, there's an article by Ingersoll in the current North American Review—I'll send it to you. It won't be anything new for you; you already know the fate of the philanthropist who gives from his mind and heart instead of his wallet—because he has nothing in that. It serves him right for his poor taste in love. Someone who dilutes, spreads, and divides the love that naturally belongs to his family and friends (if they're good) shouldn't complain about not being appreciated. Love and support those you know personally to be worthy. To love and assist others is a betrayal to them. But, wow! I didn’t mean to say all this.

But while you seem sure about your own craft, you seem uncertain about the one you want to pursue. I understand the allure and appeal of the fantasies (that is, delusions) you need to let go of. I know the deep lack of understanding about the world and human nature that you, as a girl,7 inevitably have. I recognize the allure that comes from the Britomarts as they reach out from their dreams, encouraging you to be as similar to them as possible while still being true to your own existence. But I also believe that if you focus on thinking—not just reading—you will discover the truth.

You ask me about journalism. It's such a lowly thing that it can be legitimately used as a tool for reform or for anything considered worthwhile. It’s not an art; art, except in small doses, harms it. A person who can write well shouldn't write as well as they can; others, of course, are free to do so. Journalism serves many purposes, and the well-being of the people can be one of them; although that definitely isn’t the main purpose.

I don’t mind your sarcasm about how I see the unfortunate as just "literary material." It’s true to some extent since I look at them in relation to literature. I might be open to helping them in other ways—just like your dad might help a beggar with money, even if the beggar isn’t interesting enough for a painting. Just as you might be willing to buy a meal for a homeless person, but not want to sing "The Sweet Bye-and-Bye" or "Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay" to entertain him.

You call me "master." It's nice to think of you as a student, but—you know the young squire had to watch over his armor all night before his knighthood ceremony. I think I'll ask you to think about yours a bit longer before putting it on—not as a punishment, but for learning and preparation. When you’re completely sure of your calling to write—absolutely sure it’s not just a matter of "duty"—then let me offer you whatever small help I can, given my limitations and the constraints of the situation. In a few ways, I can8 assist you.

Sure! Please provide the text you would like me to modernize.

Since I arrived here, I've been sick constantly, but I feel it's my responsibility to stay as long as there's a chance that I can. If I can shake off my illness and the anxiety that comes with it, I’ll head down to San Francisco one day and try to connect with your family and mine. Maybe you could help me locate my brother's new house—if he’s actually living there.

With warm regards to your whole family, I am truly your friend,Ambrose Bierce.

Your letters make me really happy. I think it's sweet of you to write them.

Hey Blanche,

It’s not that I forgot to send you the magazine I mentioned; I just couldn’t find it. But now, I'm sending it.

My health is bad again, and I'm worried that I’ll have to give up living here and go back to the mountain—or some mountain. But not right away.

You asked me which books would be helpful to you—I'm assuming you've changed your disrespectful view of literature and are ready to dive into the pursuit of knowledge instead. I’ll mention a few as they come to mind. There's a small book called (I believe) simply "English Composition." It's by Prof. John Nichol—basic, a bit incorrect in spots, but overall much better than the typical books on the same topic.

Read those of Landor's "Imaginary Conversations" that are about literature.

Read Longinus, Herbert Spencer on Style, Pope's "Essay on Criticism" (don't roll your eyes—the critics of Pope don't always get to have their way), Lucian on writing history—though you don't have to write history. Check out outdated Kames' ideas; some of them aren’t bad at all. Read Burke "On the Sublime and Beautiful."

Read—but that’s enough for now. And as you read, don’t forget that the rules of literary art come from the works of masters who wrote without realizing those rules. That gives their work its value; it's secondary to the value of natural talent. Still, it’s significant. You’ve probably read many—maybe most—of these works, but reading them to benefit as a writer might be a different experience. If I could make it to San Francisco, I could pull from those artificial memories, the library catalogs, a lot of additional titles—and get you the books, too. But I have a bad memory and I'm out of the Book Belt.

I wish you would write something small and send it to me for review. I won’t be overly critical because I know this: a good writer (if they're meant for the job) isn't made just by reading, but by observing and experiencing life. You haven’t lived much or seen a lot, so your perspective will naturally be limited, but within that, I see no reason you can’t create quality work. But it’s all hypothetical—you might not succeed. Would it upset you if I said I thought you had failed? Your total failure wouldn’t change my admiration for your intelligence one bit. I've always had this feeling that it's only second-rate and below second-rate minds that hold onto their cleverness so precariously that they can detach it for show in words.

God bless you, A. B.

My dear Blanche

I definitely won’t bore you with a long rant this time. But I thought you’d like to know that I’ve gotten my health back and hope to stay here for a few months at least. And if I feel good long enough to get a little adventurous, I might visit your town one day and maybe ask your mom to tell you to let me take you to Berkeley. It almost makes me sad to think about the camp at the lake being left behind.

So you liked my thoughts on the "labor question." That's nice of you, but aren't you worried that your praise will push me into the dreadful habit of writing for just one pair of eyes?—yours? Or in trying to resist that temptation, I might swing too far the other way. But you don’t realize that it's "Art for Art's sake"—what a terrible phrase! It's definitely not Art at all. Do you forget the difference I pointed out between journalism and literature? Do you remember that I told you the former is so insignificant that it could be used for anything? My newspaper work is in no sense literature. It’s nothing, and only becomes something when I use it in the very same way I would use anything literary. (Of course, I’m talking about my editorial and topical work.)

If you want to learn to write that kind of thing to do good with it, it’s pretty easy. But it’s not worth learning, and the good you can do with it isn’t worth doing. But literature—the wish to do good with that won’t help you get by. It’s not a strong enough motivation. The Muse won’t show up if you have any tasks for her. Sure, I sometimes like to do good—who doesn’t? And sometimes I appreciate that connecting with so many people each week gives me a chance. But, thank goodness, I don’t make a career out of it, nor use something as delicate as that for such a purpose.

Please feel free to send me anything you'd like to write. If you wait until it’s perfect before showing it to me, I might never see it. My comments about the kind of person who keeps their thoughts and feelings so precariously that they can be taken and used by others weren't meant to suggest that you would fail.

Mr. Harte from the New England Magazine wants me to be familiar with his work (which I requested) and has sent me a bunch of excerpts from the magazine. I'm forwarding them to you, and most of it is accurate and genuine.

But I'm writing another long letter.

I wish I weren't an unbeliever—so that I could say: "God bless you," and really mean it. I wish there was a God to bless you, and that He had nothing else to do.

Please get back to me. Best, A. B.

My dear Blanche,

I’ve been waiting for a full hour of free time to write you a letter, but I’ll probably never get it, so I’ll just write to you anyway. Now that I think about it, there’s nothing to really say—nothing that needs to be said, really, because there’s always so much I’d like to share with you, the best and most patient of sayees.

I'm sending you and your dad copies of my book. Not that I expect either of you to care about it, but just because your dad is my partner in crime for making the book, and you were there distracting me from the proof copies of part of it. So, your contribution to the work is the typos. You’re part of the literary world whether you like it or not.

I appreciate what you wrote about my girl. She is the best of12 girls to me, but God knows I'm not really the right person to guide her life. However, it won't be for long. A dear friend of mine—the widow of another close friend—in London wants her and plans to come out here next spring to try to convince me to let her stay with her—for a while at least. I’m likely to agree. My friend is wealthy, has no children, and cares deeply for both my kids. I wish that in the meantime she (the girl) could have the benefit of spending time with you.

Please tell your dad that I have his poems, which I'm looking forward to reading.

You seem to have given up on your dream to "write things." I’m sorry, for "lots" of reasons—not the least being the selfish one that I’m afraid I’ll miss having a reason to write you long, boring letters. Won't you have some fun writing things?

My (and Danziger's) book, "The Monk and the Hangman's Daughter," is coming out next month. The Publisher—I prefer to write it with a respectful capital letter—is unprofessional enough to tell me that he thinks it’s the best piece of English writing he’s ever seen, and he plans to make sure everyone knows it. Now let the great English classics bow their heads and fade out!

So you start to think that books don't really show you the truth about life and people. Well, that thought is the start of wisdom and, to some extent, a first step toward writing books. Men and women are definitely not what books make them out to be, nor what they think—and sometimes believe—they are. They’re more complex, both in good ways and in bad, and way more fascinating.

With best wishes to all your folks, and hoping that13 we can hear from you often, I am truly your friend,Ambrose Bierce.

Both kids send their love to you. And they really mean it.

My dear Blanche,

I’m sending you the latest New England Magazine with this email—just because I have it with me and have read all that I have time for. Hopefully, it will keep you entertained for a bit.

I’ve recovered my health enough that I hope to do a bit of writing tomorrow. (Is that hyphenated correctly?—I honestly can’t say right now. There’s a story about an old actor who played one role for half his life and had to remove the name of the character from his lines: he could never remember which syllable to emphasize.) My illness was just asthma, which, unfortunately, doesn’t kill me and shouldn’t worry my friends.

Dr. Danziger writes that he has sent your father's sketch to me. I've also requested a bunch of extra copies of it—if it’s still available. So you can see, I really like it.

Let me know how you're doing and what's going on with you.

Best, your friend,

I enclose Bib. Ambrose Bierce.

Hi Mr. Partington,

I've been too sick all week to write to you about your manuscripts, or even read them properly.

I think "Honest Andrew's Prayer" is by far the best. It is clever—the others are mostly serious, and in my opinion, not entirely fair. But you know you and I probably wouldn’t see eye to eye on that—there are some places where I hold back my sympathies even though I extend them in others—if that makes sense. You, I think, have a wider range of sympathies than I do—you're not just sympathetic to the Homestead strikers (for instance) but you actually support them. I don’t. But we’re united in our dislike for their oppressor, the smug-wump, Carnegie.14

If you hadn’t sent "Honest Andrew’s Prayer" somewhere else, I would try to include it here. It’s really good, and I hope it gets published. If it gets rejected, please send it back to me unless it’s old news by then.

I'm happy you enjoy some parts of my book. But don’t judge me for cheapening my poetry with harsh language; you should praise me for adding a touch of poetry to my harshness now and then. I’m not a poet, but an abuser—that makes all the difference. It’s all about “how you look at it.”

But I'm still too sick to write. Sending my best to all your family, I am sincerely yours, Ambrose Bierce.

I've been reading your pamphlet on Art Education. You write your best when you take it seriously—and your best is really impressive.

Dear Blanche,

I’m sending you this picture in exchange for the one you have—I’m “redeeming” all of those with these. But I asked you to send that back a long time ago. Please let me know if you like this; to me, it looks like a guy. But I really dislike the other one—the style of it.

It’s really considerate of your father to put in so much effort to go over and work on that stone. I only want the pictures—lithographs—out of practicality: so that when people I don’t particularly like want pictures of me, I don’t have to spend a fortune on orders to the photographer.15 Plus, I’m not really a fan of photographs anyway. How long, O Lord, how long am I going to wait for that sketch of you?

My dear girl, I don’t think people like your father and me have any real reason to complain about an ungrateful world; nobody forces us to create things that aren’t wanted. We simply choose to because the pay, plus the satisfaction, is better than the pay alone that we get from work that is in demand. So where’s our grievance? We get what we prefer when we do good work; for the lower pay, we do easier work. It has never seemed to me that the "unappreciated genius" has a strong case to take to court, and I think he should be quickly dismissed. Inspiration from Heaven is great—the guidance from an attitude or instinct is valuable; but when A works for B, but insists on taking his orders from C, what can he expect? So don’t worry your kind little heart with pity—not for me, at least; whenever I get tired of making ends meet, there’s wood-chopping available to me, along with a thousand other honest and profitable jobs.

I’ve seen Gertrude’s picture in the Examiner, and it caught my attention. That girl is incredibly smart, and her dad and brother better keep an eye on her, or she’ll outshine them. I would suggest, as a precaution against such a crazy twist of nature, that she should have her eyes removed. We need to keep the subjugation of women in place.

Sure! Please provide the text you'd like me to modernize.

Bib and Leigh send their love to you. I believe Leigh is expecting Carlt. I've allowed Leigh to join the band again, and he is really showing off in his uniform. God bless you. Ambrose Bierce.

My dear Blanche, 16

I’m glad you’re willing to put up with the new photo—all my other friends are really excited about it. I appreciate your patience.

But I don't like hearing that you've been "sick and down"; that feels like it fits me more. After all, no matter what reason you have for feeling "down," you can always remember that you are you and take comfort in your identity; while I, unfortunately, am I!

I'm sure you handled your part of that concert well despite your sore wrist, and I wish I could have shared in your success.

I’ve been really sick again, but I hope to leave here (back to my mountain) before it’s time for another attack from my friend, the enemy. I’ll expect to see you there sometime when my brother and his wife come up. They probably wouldn’t dare to come without you.

No, I didn't read the criticism you're talking about—in the Saturday Review. I'll send you all the Saturdays I get if you want them. Anyway, they'll either entertain (or sometimes upset) your dad.

I have a huge backlog of messages, just like always.

The kids send their love. They had a great visit with Carlt, and we're hoping he'll come again.

May God be good to you and inspire you to write to your uncle regularly.

Please give my best regards to all the Partingtons, individually and together.Ambrose Bierce.

Dear Blanche,

Just a quick note to say that I’ve changed my mind about agreeing to your well-meaning suggestion for your dad to write about me.17 If there’s anything in my writing that sparks his interest, or in my literary background—then that’s fine, and I won’t mind. But "biography" in the other sense really doesn’t sit well with me. I never read biographical "stuff" about other writers—of course, you know "stuff" is literary slang for "matter"—and I think it’s "beside the point." Moreover, it can be harmful to writing. It doesn’t illuminate one’s work; rather, it “darkens counsel.” The only reason that future generations judge writing with some semblance of accuracy is that they know less and care less about the author's personal life. They look at his work as if they found it lying on the ground with no footprints around it and no initials on it.

My brother isn't really aware of my story, anyway—not the part that's interesting.

So, overall, I’ll request that it not be done. It was only my desire to please that led me to agree. That desire is just as strong now, but I’d prefer to please in a different way.

I hope you made it back safe and sound, and that your memories of those stormy days aren’t too unpleasant. Sincerely your friend, Ambrose Bierce.

My dear Blanche

Returning from the city this morning, I found your letter. I hadn't replied to your last one before that! But that was because I was hoping to see you at home. I couldn't do that—I only saw Richard and no one else I really wanted to catch up with, and I didn’t have an hour free from work or “business” until this morning. And then—it was Christmas, so I wasn’t sure if I had the right to crash anyone's celebration with even a short visit. I hope my brother will be as understanding as I know you will be.

When I went down, I was just getting over one of the worst illnesses I've ever had in my life. Please take as understood everything I've said in praise of this mountain, its air, water, and everything that belongs to it.

Understood. Please provide the text you would like me to modernize.

It was unusually nice of Hume to think so highly of me; if you had seen him a few days later, you would have found things quite different, probably; because I had been unleashing a series of angry outbursts on him for his laziness in securing copyright for my little story—resulting in it being uncopyrighted. I should mention that he has tried to make amends and seems genuinely sorry to the fullest extent of his ability to feel remorse.

No, there was no other basis for the little story than its clear naturalness and alignment with the feelings "suitable for the season." When society is overindulging and acting foolishly, it doesn’t have time to stop being cruel; all it can do is slightly increase its hypocrisy.

Please don't beat yourself up or do all those penances anymore for your role in affecting poor Russell; he's pretty much forgotten with the bigger issue that’s hit James Whitcomb Riley. That seems to be what everyone really cares about, judging by what I heard in town (and that’s pretty much all I heard) and from my letters and "esteemed" (though grumpy) "contemporaries." My goodness, how sensitive people are getting!

Richard promised me the Blanchescape that I've been waiting for while you were busy looking pretty for the sitting, so now I’m happy. I’ll position you across from Joaquin Miller, who is now nicely framed and glazed. I also have your father's sketch of me—I received it and left it in San Francisco to see if it can be cleaned; it was in a really dirty and greasy condition.

Seeing Harry Bigelow's article in the Wave about women who write (and it's uncomfortably close to the truth) makes me feel almost at peace with the failure of my beautiful dream of turning you into a writer. I wonder if you would have avoided the clean, essential tub and instead danced on the shattered pieces of a harmless toothbrush. Imagine you with dark nails and a dirty cheek, revealing to the day what God taught you at night! Let’s be grateful that the danger has passed.

The next time I go to "the Bay," I’ll go to 1019 first.

God bless you for being a good girl.Ambrose Bierce.

[First part of this letter missing.]

Please provide the text you would like me to modernize.

Yes, I know Blackburn Harte has a soft spot for the working-class writers * * * and probably thinks Riley is good because he is "one of the people," people. But he’ll just have to put up with me as best as he can. You asked me what I think about Burns. I don’t think he’s been translated into English, and I don’t (meaning I could but won’t) read that nonsense. I read Burns once—that was one time too many; but fortunately, it was before I knew any better, so my time, being worthless, wasn’t wasted.

I wish you could be here in this beautiful weather. But I’m pretty sure it would rain if you came. Honestly, it’s getting a little cloudy just because I want you to be here. And I wish I had shared my whole life story with you for your father, starting from my childhood. When you come again, I will, if you're still interested. I'm stressed out with all the requests for it, and when I say no, I'm probably seen as rude or worse. Plus, saying no isn’t working anymore because biographers are starting to make up my story. So, the next time I see you, I’ll share (in person) that "history of a crime," which is my life. Then, if your father is still interested, he can write it based on your notes, and I can handle all future questions by sending him the article.

Do you know?—you'll probably be glad to hear that I have many more story offers at good prices than I have the health to accept. (I'm less well than I've let you believe.) Even the Examiner has "woken up" (I woke it up) to the situation and now pays me $20 for every thousand words; my latest offer from New York is $50.

I barely know why I’m sharing this with you, except that you tell me about any good luck that comes to your people, and you seem genuinely interested in my life in a way that nobody else does—so pleasantly and agreeably. I wish you were my "real" niece. But then I would expect you to spend all your time at Howell Mountain with your uncle and cousin. I would teach you how to write, and you could explain to me the secrets of being the best girl in the world. Sincerely yours, Ambrose Bierce.

My dear Blanche,

Not hearing from you after I wrote last week makes me worry that you're sick—can I not know? I'm sick myself, as I was afraid I would be. Last Thursday, I got really sick, and I’ve only just started to feel better. Honestly, I can barely write to you, but since I have to work on Friday, I might as well practice a bit on you. And the weather up here is amazing. Leigh and I took a walk in the woods this morning. We startled a wild deer, but I didn’t feel up to chasing it down and bringing you its antlers.

I hope you're doing well, and that everyone is doing fine. And I hope Heaven convinces your kind brother to send me that picture of the sister who is way too good for him—or anyone.

In the meantime, and always, God bless you. Ambrose Bierce.

My son (who has been incredibly kind to me during my illness) sends his love to you and everyone in your family.

My dear Partington

You see, here's the deal. You can't come up here and head back the same day—at least that would leave you with only about an hour here. You need to stay overnight. Now, think about it—how would you feel if you came and spent the night, and I had to leave you to entertain yourself in a place with no one to talk to? When someone travels a long way to see me, I want to spend quality time with them, no matter how they feel about it. It's not the same as if they lived nearby and just "dropped in." That's why, given my current health and workload, I ask all my friends to give me as much notice as possible before they come. I'm sure you'll agree that it's important to complete certain work by the agreed deadline.

My relationship with Danziger is unusual—just like anyone else's relationship with him must be. Regarding the topic you wanted to discuss, I can't say anything. I hope you'll understand there are reasons for this. It wouldn't have been fair not to inform you, before your arrival, that I wouldn't talk about him.

I figured you’d likely come over today if I wrote you. I’d really like for you to come and spend a week with me. But if you only come for a day, I definitely want that to be a day when I’m free. Sincerely yours,Ambrose Bierce.

My dear Blanche,

I should have written to you sooner; it's been ten whole days since your last letter. But I haven't felt like writing, and I'm ready for the complaints from all my neglected friends except you. My health is better. I got back yesterday from Napa, where I spent twenty-six hours mostly shrouded in fog; but it doesn't seem to have affected me. The weather here is still beautiful. * * *

If I get healthier, I'll eventually feel ready to venture into the Lowlands, reaching as far as Oakland and Berkeley.

Here are some fronds of maiden-hair fern that I just brought in. The first wildflowers of the season are starting to show up, and the manzanitas are a beautiful sight.

With warmest regards to everyone, I am, as always, your most unworthy uncle, Ambrose Bierce.

My dear Blanche,

What an amazing reporter you would be! Your account of the meeting with Miller at the restaurant and the "entertainment" is incredibly amusing. * * * By the way, I see there's a really awful "attack" on me in the Oakland23Times from the 3rd (I think) * * * (I know it’s about me—I can always tell when they dig up that old cliché about "tearing down" but not "building up"—which means criticizing one falsehood without providing another to replace it.) The funny part is that he contrasts me with Realf (God knows we’re different enough) without realizing that it’s me who has "built up" Realf's reputation as a poet—published his work and paid him for it when nobody else would touch it; highlighted its greatness, and when he left behind that incredible collection of sonnets, I insisted that posterity would remember California better because of his death—not a single person, until now, agreeing with my view of the poems. Trust me, my job is not without its humorous moments.

Leigh and I went to the waterfall yesterday. It was almost magnificent—bigger than I’d ever seen it—and I couldn't help but hope that you could see it like that. My wish must have somehow gotten through to Leigh, even if it wasn't clear, because while I was thinking it, he shared the same hope for Richard.

I really wish you could be here today to see the swirling snow. It’s falling fast, and I’m thinking this letter will travel down the mountain tomorrow morning through a foot or two of it. Unfortunately, it has this annoying tendency to turn into rain.

My health is really good now, and Leigh and I go for long walks. After it rains, we search for Indian arrowheads in the plowed fields and on the gravel bars by the creek. My collection is impressive now, but I worry I’ll lose interest before I finish it. Living in the country, you have to have a hobby or you'll get bored and your mind will dull. How lucky is someone who can turn their job into a passion!24

By the way, my New York publishers (The United States Book Company) have gone under, leaving me owed a lot of money, which I’ll probably never see. I'm starting to have a cheeky curiosity about what Heaven plans for me next. If your role as one of the angels gives you insight into this, please break your silence and tell me where I’m going to be struck and how hard.

But this is an unbelievable amount of letters.

With warm wishes to all the good Partingtons—and I believe there are no others—I remain your loving uncle by adoption, Ambrose Bierce.

Leigh has brought in some manzanita blooms, which I'll try to include. But they'll be pretty crushed.

Dear Blanche,

I really appreciate the picture; it's a great shot, despite its flaws as a portrait. According to the renowned art critic, Leigh Bierce, I feel confident saying some of the work in it is on par with Gribayedoff at his best, which is high praise from the critic. But—it doesn’t entirely capture the Blanche I know. Maybe it's the hat—I’d prefer you without one, so you’re less affected by unpredictable fate. What if hats were to go out of style? I shudder to think what would happen to that stunning look that you have now. Oh well, when I come over, I’ll take you to that awful photographer and get a picture that actually looks like you—and has no other value.

And I plan to "see Oakland and die" pretty soon. I have25 not dared to go when the weather was bad. It looks promising now, but I’m having visitors next Sunday, so I have to stay home. If God and the weather permit, you might have to put up with me the Saturday or Sunday after. We'll see.

I hope your father agrees with my comments on picture "borders"—I didn't think of him until after I had written my thoughts, or I would have made sure to know his approach before sharing my opinion. If it weren't for him and Gertrude and the Wave, I would complain again about "half-tones," which I can't stand. Hume tried to get me to appreciate his illustrations, but I didn't, at least not in terms of the process, and I told him directly that he wouldn't get your father's best work that way.

If you visit the Mountain now, I can show you a newly discovered redwood forest and a beautiful gulch to go with it.

The wildflowers are starting to peek out to find you, and my collection of Indian antiques is eager for you to see it.

Please send my thanks to Richard for the picture—the girlscape—and my best regards to your dad and everyone else.

Best, your friend, Ambrose Bierce.

My dear Blanche

I'm really sorry that I can't be in Oakland on Thursday evening to see you "in your glory," looking like a lily in the field. No matter how amazing you might look in public, I think I prefer you the way you were when we were at camp.

Well, I plan to see you on Saturday afternoon if you're home, and I think I’ll ask you to be my guide to 26 Grizzlyville; because I definitely won’t be able to find the amazing new house on my own. So if your mom lets you come out with me, I promise to bring you back to her instead of taking off with you. And, if the weather's nice, we could maybe plan a Sunday in the redwoods or on the hills. Or don’t your parents go out anymore on Sundays?

Please thank your mom for the kind invitation to stay at your place; but I’m afraid that wouldn’t work out. I need to be somewhere that people can visit me—and my friends are such a wild bunch that they would ruin the Partingtonian reputation for respectability. In your new neighborhood, you all will be very proper—which you definitely couldn't be with a parade of pirates and drifters ringing your doorbell.

So—if God is good—I’ll come by on Saturday afternoon. In the meantime, always stay happy—you and yours. Your unworthy uncle, Ambrose Bierce

My dear Blanche

It's great to have your letters again. If you won't let me teach you my writing skills, it's only fair that you work on your own letter-writing. You're a master at that. Byron's letters to Moore are boring compared to yours to me. I guess I have to acknowledge that I need your letters more than Byron needed his. Honestly, I've been a bit down and unsatisfied. In that mood, I quit the Examiner without hesitation, and then I let Hearst talk me into coming back. I won't go into my other mistakes. * * *

We got six inches of snow up here, and it's been raining steadily ever since—over a week now. The fog is incredibly thick—like nothing I've seen before. It’s still raining and foggy. Do you wonder why your not-so-great uncle is feeling dangerously and worryingly close to loneliness? Still, I do have the company of one of your wonderful kind from San Francisco at mealtimes. * * *

Honestly, I would love to come to one of your gatherings, but I think it will be a while before I make it down there again. However, once this gloomy season passes, I can look down, and that helps me imagine you all in your happy (I hope) home. But if that pesky wolf, Joaquin Miller, doesn’t stay away, I will come down there and deal with him. I totally agree with your mom that his compliments will ruin you. You said I would spoil Phyllis, and now, you naughty girl, you want to be spoiled too. Well, you can’t have four Millerine oranges. My love to your entire family. Ambrose Bierce.

My dear Partington,

I’m really happy to hear the good news about Leigh that you shared. I was worried he might be a bit boring for you, but you’ve put my mind at ease. I'm also glad you believe he has enough talent to achieve something in the one area he seems interested in pursuing.

He really wants to take the position at the Examiner, and his uncle thinks that would be the best option—if they give it to him. I’m a bit hesitant for several reasons, but there are factors—some related to his character and personality—that suggest this would be the best setup. The kid needs discipline, structure, and to work hard. He has to learn from experience that life isn’t just fun and games. Of course, you don’t know him as well as I do. As for him making any money at the Examiner or anywhere else, that doesn’t matter—he’ll spend everything he can get his hands on anyway; but I feel he should have the chance to face tough conditions where the grass is sparse and the soil is rough.

Well, I’ll let him stay down there for a while and see what can be done with him. There’s a lot of good in him, and a lot of the other stuff, of course.

I hope Hume has, or will, put you in charge at the Post and give you a fair salary. He seems really enthusiastic about the Post and—about you.

With warm regards to Mrs. Partington and all the Partingtonettes, I am truly yours, Ambrose Bierce.

Dear Partington,

If you're planning to teach my kid (which, unless you're totally okay with it, you shouldn’t), I hope you’ll see him as a student whose education should be paid for like any other student. And I think you should name the price. Could you please do that?

Another thing. Leigh tells me you paid him for something he did for the Wave. That’s not cool. While you let him work with you and under you, his work belongs to you—it’s part of what you do. I’m talking about the work he does in your shop for the Wave.

I don’t want to feel like you’re dealing with him for no reason—can you tell me what you think I should pay you?

I bet you'll be in the Examiner pretty soon—if you want to be.

With warm wishes to your family, I am sincerely yours, Ambrose Bierce.

My dear Blanche, 29

As I was writing to your dad, I couldn't help but feel a strong sense of you; you're the kind of person who pops into my mind in the most unexpected way—like Phyllis. (Phyllis represents my idea of lawlessness, even though I'm devoted to her—a bit of a philistine, if you will.)

Leigh sent me a notice about your concert before the event. I hope it went well. Did it?

It rains or snows here all the time, and the mountain struggles in vain to show its beauty with leaves and flowers. When this weather finally clears up, I’m going to ask you to come up and wipe away your negative impressions of the place. It’s unbearable that my paradise on Earth exists in your mind as a “bad memory,” like Satan’s dominance.

I'm sending you the New England Magazine—maybe I’ve already sent it—and a Harper's Weekly with a story by Mrs. * * *, who is kind of a student of mine. She used to do poor work—still does sometimes; but she will do amazing work eventually.

I wish you hadn't gotten the idea that you can't learn to write. You see, I'd like you to do some art that I can actually understand and enjoy. I wonder why no note or combination of notes can be played on a piano that moves me or gives me any emotion. It's not just because I’m ignorant and have a bad ear, since other instruments—the violin, organ, zither, guitar, etc.—sometimes impact me deeply. Come on, tell me the answer if you know it. What have I done that makes your music feel out of reach for me? I know it's good; I can hear that it is, but I can't feel it. So to me, it doesn't exist.

Now that, you have to admit, is a sad situation—"most30 tolerable and impossible to bear." Will you not pick up some skill that fits my abilities? Do you think you could learn to walk on a tightrope (if it were on the ground)? Can't you ride three horses at once if they’re well-trained? Or swallow swords? Honestly, you should have some way to entertain your uncle.

True, you can talk, but you never get the chance; I always "have the floor." Clearly, you need to learn how to write, and I intend to get Miller to teach you how to be a poet.

I hope you’ll write to me from time to time—writing letters is something you really excel at—just as I excel at appreciating your talent for it.

Do you see my son? I hope he is well and working hard.

Please provide the text to modernize.

You need to write to me, or I will cut off our uncle-nephew relationship.

With goodwill towards all your people—especially Phyllis—I am truly your friend, Ambrose Bierce.

My dear Partington

I think you're mistaken. Based on your own principle, stated in your letter, that "every person has the right to the full value of their work"—excuse me, good Englishman, I meant "labour"—you have a right to your pay for the labour of teaching Leigh. And what work would he get to do if it weren't for you?

I can't hold you and slip money into your pocket, but if the voice of objection can reach you without an invitation, I hope you'll welcome it.

Leigh definitely enjoys seeing his work published, but I hope you won't let him release anything until it's the best he can make it—and not even then if it's not good enough. And31 that goes for whether he signs it or not. I've talked to him about the link between conscience and lab work, but I'm not sure if he really heard me.

O—that terrible joke of mine. Where do you and Richard plan to go when death separates you? Neither of you were there that night at the dam, and I didn't know either of you. Blanche, thank goodness, still has that old respect for truth: it was to her that I said it. Richard clearly dreamed it, and you—you've been believing that annoying Wave! Sincerely yours, Ambrose Bierce.

My dear Blanche

I take a moment from work to write to you mainly to let you know that your letter from March 31st didn’t get lost, as you seem to worry—though I can’t understand why you would care if it did. The real loss for me—that’s probably what would touch your kind heart.

So you will try writing. That's a good girl. I'm pretty sure you can—just not all at once, but over time. And if not, who cares? I know you're not the type to push through everything, insisting on succeeding just because you want to.

Understood. Please provide the text you would like me to modernize.

We’re enjoying the nicest weather you can imagine up here, and the wildflowers are popping up everywhere just to see you. Last autumn, while they were resting in their beds, they heard your promise to come in the spring, and it’s inspired and uplifted them to grow strong.

I'm sending you some more documents. Don't feel like you have to read everything I send you—I don't read it either.

Feel sorry for me—I just lost another publisher—due to32 failure. Schulte, from Chicago, who published "The Monk" and others, has "gone under," I hear. Danziger and I haven’t seen a dime from him. I released three books in a year, and each one seems to bring a publisher's gray hair in sorrow to the grave! Langton, from "Black Beetles," faced disaster—that's how Danziger got caught up in this. "Oh, that my enemy would publish one of my books!"

I’m so happy to hear about your success at your concert. If I could have gotten to you, you would have received the biggest basket of beautiful vegetables ever handed over the stage. I’m sure you deserve it all—what do you not deserve?

Your dad has told me great things about my son. He must be doing well, considering how he ignores all my requests.

Enclosed you will find my contribution to the Partington art gallery, along with an autograph letter from the artist. You can display them however you like and show them to Richard. He will surely be pleased to see how the hidden talent of his boss has finally come to light.

I’ve been walking in the creek this afternoon just for the fun of it; the gravel looked so clear under the water. For that moment, I felt at least ten years younger than your dad. To him, and to all your family, my best wishes. Your uncle, Ambrose Bierce.

My dear Blanche

Understood! Please provide the text you want modernized.

I appreciate your sympathy for my struggles in publishing. I guess I deserve it (not the sympathy) for getting into publishing. I should have known that if a publisher can’t outdo an author in any other way, or is too honest to do so, they will just fail instead. Once in London, a publisher handed me a check dated two days in the future, and then (the only thing he could do to make the check useless)—he ate a pork pie and died. That was the late John Camden Hotten, whose business and qualities my current London publishers, Chatto and Windus, have taken over. They haven't failed, and they steer clear of pork pies, but they have purposely changed the title of my book.33

All this is for your support in "learning to write." Writing books is a noble profession; it has no hint of selfishness in it—nothing worse than arrogance.

Oh yes, you’ll get your huge basket of flowers if I ever catch you playing in public. I wish I could give you the carnations, lilies of the valley, violets, and the first sweet peas of the season that are on my table right now. They came from near you—and they’re trying their best to tell you that through their fragrance.

I hope your mother has gotten over her cold and that you’re all doing well and happy, and that Phyllis won’t forget about me. May the good Lord bless you every hour of every day for your kindness, and especially every minute of every hour as a special favor to your uncle, Ambrose Bierce.

My dear Blanche

I gladly accept your point that the Piano isn’t as bad as I made it out to be, even though it logically suggests that I might be pretty flawed myself. I'm definitely “in outer darkness,” and all I can say to you is, “Lead, kindly light.” Thanks for the humorous article on the luxury question—from such a funny source. But you really shouldn’t expect me to answer it or show you what’s “wrong” with it. I can’t see why you should have any “views” on those topics—even if they’re accurate. If it were up to me, you’d focus on more worthwhile things than the (admitted) “wrongness” of a world full of misguided and unchangeable people. * * * When women “broaden their sympathies,” they end up going in circles. Don’t.

Cosgrave came over yesterday for a "walk," but since he had a dinner appointment before going home, he was dressed to the nines. So I happily lifted him up to Grizzly Peak and sent him back across the Bay in a state that's hard to describe, except with the help of a wet dishcloth for comparison.

Please ask your dad when and where he wants me to sit for the portrait. If that picture isn't sold and eventually comes into my hands, I’ll suggest trading it for yours. I've always wanted to get my hands on that one and would prefer to do it the right way. But honestly, what would I do with either that or mine? Just imagine me hauling big paintings to country inns and places like that!

Leigh is living with me now. Poor guy, the death of his aunt has left him an orphan. I feel a deep sympathy for anyone whom bad luck forces to live with me. However, that person is likely to spend quite a bit of time alone, which is a small relief.

With best wishes for everyone, I am truly yours, Ambrose Bierce.

My dear Blanche

I'm sending you a magazine as an excuse to write. I asked Richard to bring it to you last night, but he forgot. There's an illustrated article about gargoyles and similar things that I think you'll find interesting. Some of the creatures are charming—more so than I realized when I saw them in person at Notre Dame.35

I also want to thank you for the lovely scarf before I settle into my willow chair, content with the idea of death. Right now, at 10:35 p.m., I'm dealing with a pretty bad case of asthma. If I manage to come through this okay in about a week, I'll swing by your place to check out the finished portrait if it’s still there, like the flag in our national anthem.

Best regards, Ambrose Bierce.

My dear Blanche

If you’re not completely overwhelmed by mosquitoes, maybe you’ll head to the post office and get this. With that hope in mind, I write, fully aware of the clerks in the Dead Letter Office in Washington.

I hope you are (even with the mosquitoes) enjoying lots of rest and happiness. As for me, I've just recovered enough to go out, and I took advantage of the situation by visiting San Francisco yesterday and coming back on the 11:15 boat. I saw Richard, and he looked pretty serious about the idea of his family scattering to the four corners of the earth.

I have a cheerful letter from Leigh dated "on the road," getting close to Yosemite. He has been traveling through the famous land of Bret Harte and is filled with a sense of its beauty and romance. When will you be back? Can I hope to see you then?

Best regards, Ambrose Bierce.

P.S. Here are some things I removed for notes. On second thought, I already know all that, so I'm sending them to you for the36 improvement of your mind and heart. B.

My dear Blanche

Your thoughtful note was one of several that I put in my pocket at the post office and forgot about until last night when I got back from Oakland. (I only dared to stay up there for a few hours, and the visit didn’t help me at all.)

Of course I should have realized that your kind heart would make you want to hear from your patient, but I’m afraid I was a bit of a misanthrope all last week and not really in the mood to talk to people.

I came here last Monday, and the change has been beneficial for me. I don’t have asthma anymore and I'm gradually regaining my strength.

Leigh and Ina Peterson spent Sunday with me, and Leigh shared his adventures in the mountains. I had been really worried about him, and it turns out I had good reason to be. The next time he visits, I hope he brings you along. It's beautiful down here. Maybe you and Katie can visit sometime, and I'll take you all around the valley—if you want to drive.

If I keep doing well, I’ll stay around here; if not, I have no idea where I’ll end up. Probably in the Santa Cruz mountains or in Gilroy. If I had it my way, I’d live in Piedmont.

Do you know I lost Pin the Reptile? I brought him along in my bike bag (I rode the second half of the way back) and that ungrateful little guy wriggled out and disappeared into the weeds just before we got to San Jose. So now I have nothing to shower my second childhood affection on—nothing but myself.

My permanent address is still Oakland, but you can reach me here in San Jose if you’re kind enough to contact me anywhere. Please do, and let me know about your successes and challenges at the Conservatory of Music. I truly hope it brings you prosperity, because, after all, you are The Only Girl in the World Who Deserves Prosperity!

Please send my warm regards to your team; and so—may Heaven be good to you.Ambrose Bierce.

O, Greatest of Poets,

How can you have the nerve to call out what you think is an imperfection in those lines? I swear they're perfect, and “moonlight” is now and forever a rhyme with “delight.” Also, in addition, furthermore, a — is now —; and — are always —; and to — shall be —; and so on. You've created new standards for literary criticism—more open-minded ones—and shame on anyone who doesn't accept them! Ah, I always knew you were a revolutionary.

Yes, I’m feeling healthier, but my luck is worse! I miss the beef tea outings more than you can imagine.

By the way, if you run into your fellow practitioner, Mrs. Hirshberg, please let her know what happened to her patient, and that I appreciate her.

It's not boring to hear about your progress in your art, even though I can't enter the temple where it's celebrated. After all, art is most valuable in how it shapes character, and through that, I can see how skilled you've become in the art you love. As you become a better artist, you also grow into a nicer person, and even if your music doesn't get my eardrums moving properly, it still has a positive impact on my soul. 38 So I'm not such a complete stick-in-the-mud, after all.

No, Leigh hasn't gotten me into the exploring trend. I wore myself out with that stuff years before I even met him and caught his enthusiasm. But I really don't like to think about that terrible mountain just sitting there, smug because it defeated the Bierce family.

So—speaking of my brother—I am "different" in a certain way! My child, that is outrageous. You become stronger every day of your life, and you'll end up as a full colonel yet, ready to take on humanity in true Stetsonian style. Know your place, you little being!

Speaking of colonels, I remember that one of the most prominent ones had the nerve to write to me, asking for a "meeting" to discuss a benefit she's organizing for my friend Miss * * *, a brilliant writer and quirky old maid you haven't met. * * * clearly wants more attention and intends to shine by Miss * * *’s light. I had to cool things down with a letter that was polite but to the point. My name won't be involved with that crowd, even to help Miss * * *. But I know that doesn't really interest you.

I wish I could have a conversation with you. I only talk to my housekeeper and the waiter at my restaurant. By the time I see you, I’ll have completely forgotten how to speak and will only be able to communicate with you using sign language.

May God be good to you and inspire you to write to me occasionally.

Best, your friend, Ambrose Bierce.

[First part of this letter missing.]39

* * *

You can expect my help in deciding between your suitors next month, early on. I plan to try living in Oakland again for a little while starting around that time. However, I’ll have a lot to handle during the first few days—probably sorting out my affairs since I've decided to be hanged for killing all those suitors. That seems to me the easiest way to free you from them. For me, it’s the "path of least resistance"—unless they put up a fight.

Sure, please provide the text you would like to modernize.

So you've been sick. You shouldn't be sick, my child—it disrupts my calm like Marcus Aurelius, and it's really inconsiderate of you.

Mourn with me: the golden leaves of my poplars are now underfoot. I sigh for the everlasting eucalyptus leaf of Piedmont.

I hope you’re all doing well. Sincerely, your friend, Ambrose Bierce.

Since I wrote to you yesterday, dear Blanche, I’ve noticed that the benefit for * * * is still on—it’s happening in the evening of the 26th at Golden Gate Hall in San Francisco. I remember your generous offer to help me in any way to support Miss * * *. I definitely don’t want my name tied to anything that the * * * woman and her sister-in-evidence might do for their own self-promotion, but I’m enclosing a Wells, Fargo & Co. money order for all the money I can currently spare—feel free to use it as you see fit; buy tickets, or give it to the treasurer under your own name. I know Miss * * * must be in serious need to accept a benefit—you have no idea how sensitive, suspicious, and difficult she is. She's almost impossible. However, there are countless demands on my limited finances, and I need to do the rest with my writing. So—I appreciate you.

Best, your friend, Ambrose Bierce.

Dear Sterling,

This is just a quick note to let you know I got your letter and the poems. I hope to get to them soon and give them the attention I know they deserve—which I can’t do right now. By the way, I’m curious why so many of you young people keep trying to write sonnets. I guess it’s for the same reason that someone always wants to make their first appearance on stage as "Hamlet." It’s just that boldness from you all.

Yes, Leigh is doing pretty well, and I—well, I’m not sure if it’s really prosperity; it’s a pretty good time.

I guess I’ll have to write to that old jerk Grizzly, [1] to give him my new address, even though I thought he had it; and the old one would work, anyway. Now that his cub is back, he probably doesn’t care about the other bears of his kind.

Thank you for sharing so much about some of our friends from long ago. I worry that I didn't bring all of my heart with me when I came here. There's a piece of it, for instance, out there by that small lake in the hills.

So I’d love to get a photo of one of your beautiful sisters. Of course I want it—I want pictures of all five of them. If you had been a nice guy, you would have let me know them ages ago. And what about that other stunning girl, your much better half? You could slip a little photo of her into the envelope, just so I don’t forget, just so I don’t forget. But I haven’t forgotten yet.

The best wishes of the new century to both of you. Ambrose Bierce

P.S.—Have you checked out Stedman's new "American Anthology" in your poetry studies? It's the most significant collection of American poetry that’s been put together—it’s definitely a book worth owning. I have to admit, I take some pride in saying that; I mean, I don’t really think he represented me as well as he could have. I guess that’s what everyone thinks if they’re aware enough to notice. So, I’m trying to stay current. A. B.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Albert Bierce.

My dear Sterling

I've taken a long time to get to your poems, but there were a lot of reasons—including a broken rib. They’re really good poems, with a few very impressive lines. I was really tempted to borrow one or two for my "Passing Show," but I knew it would trigger a flood of poems from other poets—just like how every mention of a new book fills my mailbox with new books for a month.

If I were to offer you advice, I would suggest sticking to the simple, everyday meters and forms that are natural to our language.

I’m waiting for the picture of the pretty sister—don’t think I’ve forgotten.

It’s 1 a.m., and I’m about to toast to your health with a glass of Riesling and enjoy it in a pâté.

My love to Grizzly if you ever see him. Yours always, A. B.

My Dear Doyle, 42

Your letter from the 16th just arrived, and since I'm at my office (which I hardly visit), I'll entertain myself by replying right away. Look, I don’t intend for your criticism of poor Morrow’s book to turn into a regular issue or even an annual event. It's not "nonsense." It’s not "disgusting." It doesn’t “bring to mind bedpans”—at least it didn’t for me, and I’ll bet Morrow never thought of them either. Think about this: If his main characters had been a married couple, the bedpan would still be there, but you wouldn’t have thought of it. Every reader would have been touched by the husband’s devotion. A doctor deals with many unpleasant things; who is disgusted by his work? A trained nurse lives in an environment filled with bedpans—when do you think of that with her? I think of the heroic Father Damien and his lepers; do you focus on the rotting limbs and grotesque distortions of his unfortunate patients? Isn’t his selfless sacrifice one of the purest, most uplifting memories in all of history? So it’s *not* the need for a bedpan that offends you; it’s something else. It’s the fact that the hero of the story, being neither a doctor, nurse, nor certified husband, still did *their* work. He cared for the helpless in a natural way without any authority from a church or school, breaking all the rules and norms. My noble critic, the Untamed Philistine speaks through your blood. You weren’t influenced early enough. You came into literature and art fully burdened by all your outdated conventions. Take a step back. Forget that there are Philistines. Forget that they’ve imposed their terrible standards on the natural world. Forget that their code of ethics and manners (which is worse than the smell of a bedpan) does *not* exist in the elevated realm of great art, which you aspire to join. I understand this issue. I, too, tried to rise with that heavy baggage dragging me down. Well, I couldn’t—now I could if I wanted to. In my mind, I do. I’m not asking for freedom of action or living; I’m arguing for freedom of thought, of mind, of spirit; the freedom to see something good in the horrible laws, biases, customs, and conventions of the masses, but of no value to you *in your art.* In your life and behavior, defer to as much of it as you want (you’ll find it useful to conform to a lot), but in your mind and art, don’t let the Philistine in, nor let it whisper through the keyhole. My main issue with Morrow’s story is (as I told him) its lack of authenticity. He didn’t dare to follow the natural progression of his narrative. He was too timid (or too focused on appealing to his prudish audience) to have the hero and heroine join in the holy bonds of *bed*lock, as they naturally, inevitably, and rightfully would have long before she was ready to be up and about. I bet that would have seemed "disgusting" to you, without the preacher and his fee. When you break down your objection to the story (as I’ve tried to help you with), you’ll see it all boils down to that—the absence of the preacher. I don’t envy your perspective on this, and I honestly don’t think you enjoy it much either. I forgot to mention: What if they had been two men, two partners in hunting, mining, or exploring, as often happens? Would the bedpan idea have crossed your mind? Did it come to you when you read about the slow and uneven starvation of Greeley’s party in the Arctic? Of course not. So it's not about bedpans, but about sexual exposure (not blessed by the church), about prudery—about that artificial concept, the "sense of shame," which the great Greeks knew nothing about; which the great Japanese know nothing about; which Art knows nothing about. Dear Doctor, do you really cover your piano legs with trousers? Does your inappropriate closeness with your mirror make you blush?

There, there's the person I've been waiting for (I'm supposed to take her to dinner, and I'm not even connected to her in any way, not even her little toe) has arrived; and until you mess up again, you're safe from the punishment. May all your brother Philistines have to "Kiss the place to make it well."

Pan is gone! Long live Bed-Pan!

Yours always, Ambrose Bierce.

My dear Sterling,

I’m sending back the poems with a few suggestions. You’re improving so quickly that I won’t have the courage to touch your work for much longer. I truly mean that.

Your criticisms of Stedman's Anthology are valid. But you can make equally valid criticisms of any anthology. None of them will suit everyone. I think Stedman didn't try to "live up" to his standard but aimed to make representative, though not always the best, selections. It wouldn't make sense to leave out Whitman, for example. We might not like him; thankfully, we don't; but many others—the big names too—do; and in England, he's considered great. And then Stedman has the misfortune of knowing a lot of poets personally—many of them not great. Put yourself in his shoes. Would you leave me out if you honestly thought my work was bad?

In any collection, we’re all going to miss some of our favorites—and45 come across some of the crowd's favorites. You might miss Whittier's "Joseph Sturge"—I miss the sonnet "Forgiveness," and so on. Unfortunately, there’s no one-size-fits-all standard!

Thank you for the photos. Miss * * * is a beautiful girl, really, and she has a natural talent for posing too. She has a special spot on my mantel. * * * But what scoundrel has put the idea of the stage into her head? If you know life as I do, you would rather she be dead, poor girl.

It’s no trouble at all, but a pleasure, to read your poems—I’m as proud of your talent as if I created it myself.

Best regards, Ambrose Bierce.

[over]

About the rhymes in a sonnet:

There are valid reasons for favoring the standard Italian form established by Petrarch—who really understood the craft; and sometimes there are solid reasons for a different arrangement of the sestet rhymes. If one were to sacrifice a great idea just to imitate Petrarch, one wouldn’t actually be like him. A. B.

My dear Sterling, 46

I’m sending your amazing poem about Memorial Day to the "Journal." I can’t predict what’ll happen with it. I don’t even know the editor of the department it’s going to. But if he doesn’t have the sense to appreciate it, he’ll send it back, and I’ll find another place for it. It’s fantastic—fantastic!—the highest note you’ve reached and maintained.

Maybe I owe you a lot of letters. I don't know—I'm behind on my correspondence and I just don't have the heart to catch up.

Thank you for your kind words of sympathy.[2] I'm hurting more than anyone can tell from what’s obvious—I'm feeling a bit broken and have gone gray from it all.

But I remember you asked for the title of a thesaurus. It’s "Roget's Thesaurus," a great and helpful book.

The other poems I’ll check out soon and think about. I haven’t changed anything in the "Memorial Day" except for adding the missing stanza.

Best regards, Ambrose Bierce.

[2] About the death of his son Leigh.

My dear Sterling

I’m sending the poems along with some suggestions. There’s nothing to say about them that I haven’t already mentioned regarding your other work. Your "growth in grace" (and other poetic qualities) is truly amazing. You’re leaving my other "students" so far behind that they’re not even in the same league. Honestly, you "promise" more than any of the new writers in our literature—and you perform better than almost everyone except Markham during his clear moments, which are unfortunately too rare.

Best regards, Ambrose Bierce.

My dear Sterling, 47

I’m enclosing a proof of the poem[3]—everything is marked up. The poem was submitted to the Journal, but to the wrong editor. I wouldn’t submit it to the one who could actually use it because he once rejected some great verses from my friend Scheffauer that I sent him. I’m glad the Journal isn’t getting it because it’s now going to the Washington Post—and the Post reaches the best homes here and elsewhere—a good, clean, non-yellowed paper. I’ll send you some copies with the poem.

I think my comments make sense—I mean my remarks. Maybe you won’t agree with all of them, or any of them, but I just ask you to be patient. When you publish it, you can go back to the original version if you want. I didn’t have time (after coming back from New York) to get your okay and I did the best I could with the little time I had.

Understood. Please provide the text to be modernized.

My love to your lovely wife and sister. Let me know how much you hate me for messing with your important words.

Best regards, Ambrose Bierce.

Yes, your poem reminded me of my "Invocation" when I read it; but it’s better and not too similar—barely similar at all, except in the "political" section. Both, in that regard, show a decent level of restraint. How * * * would have ranted and gone on about it in those spots!—a much better quality of ranting, I admit. A. B.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ "Memorial Day"

My dear Sterling

I'm glad my few words of praise didn't upset you. I meant every word and even more. You deserve recognition, considering it's all you get. The "Post," like most other newspapers, "doesn't pay for poetry." What a terrible admission! It shows that the public is as indifferent to poetry as a pig is—well, to poetry. To any rational person, a poem like yours is worth more than all the other content in a newspaper for a year.

I've not found the time to think about your “bit of blank” yet—at least not as carefully as it probably deserves.

My relationship with the current editor of the Examiner isn't unfriendly, I hope, but it's too minimal for me to suggest anything to him or even bring anything to his attention. I was hoping you'd be enterprising enough to get your poem published in the paper if you wanted it there. I wrote to Dr. Doyle about you. He’s a great guy, and you should definitely get to know him. As for Scheffauer, he’s another one. If you want him to see your poem, why not send it to him? Last I heard, he was very sick. I'm quite eager to hear more about him.

It made sense to include the stamps, but I'm not going to do that—so there! as the women say.

Best regards, Ambrose Bierce.

My dear Sterling

Here is the bit of blank. When are we going to see the book? Needless question—when you can afford to pay for publication, I guess, if by then you're eager to gain public indifference. That's my idea of encouragement—I like to motivate the young author as he aims for "the peaks of song."

Say, that photo of the pretty sister—the one with the downturned eyes—has completely faded. That's a real shame: it takes away from the overall happiness around here49. Couldn't you get a new one made in vibrant colors and send it to me? The other one is fine, but this is the one I prefer for my wall. Sincerely yours, Ambrose Bierce.

My dear Sterling

I’m sending the poems along with a few suggestions. They don’t need much criticism that would be "helpful." I think they’re good, but not great. I assume you don’t expect to create great work every time. However, in the body of your letter (from Oct. 22), you write wonderfully—and claim that the work is "egoistic" and "unprintable." If it[4] were addressed to anyone else but me, I’d say it’s definitely "printable." You can label it however you want, but let me tell you, it might be a long time before you write anything better than some—many—of these stanzas.

You ask if you've answered your own questions correctly. Yes; in four lines of your ongoing commentary:

"I guess I’d be doing the greater good in the long run by making my work the best poetry it can be."

Understood! Please provide the text you'd like me to modernize.

Of course I regret your tendency to flirt with the manipulative side of politics. I hope you won't walk down the dirty paths—leading nowhere—of social and political "reform".... I hope you won't follow * * * in trading your poetic integrity for a bit of "popularity." If you do, I’ll have to distance myself from you, just as I have from him and at least one of his superiors, because I draw the line at demagogues and anarchists, no matter how talented or beloved they are.

Let the "poor" be—nobody is holding them down but50 God. No one hates them, no one looks down on them. "The rich" actually care for them much more than they care for each other. But I won't delve into that; your own good judgment has to be your guide if you hope to find salvation. I understand the temptations of your surroundings: you're from San Francisco, the paradise of ignorance, chaos, and superficiality. Still, a poet isn't entirely defined by where they are and when they live—at least not by today and their immediate world.

By the way, you say that * * * is your only friend who knows anything about literature. She’s a sweetheart, but be careful; she’ll try to turn you into an anarchist if she gets the chance and convince you to take out a President or two every nice morning. I bet she can pronounce the name of McKinley's assassin from A to Z, and she has a little figurine of him close to her heart.

Yes, you can republish the Memorial Day poem without the Post's permission—you can even do it "in book form" even if the Post had copyrighted it, which it didn't. I think the courts have decided that when an editor buys work for publication in their newspaper or magazine, they don't gain any rights to it, except for that purpose. Even if they copyright it, that's just to protect them from other newspapers or magazines; the right to publish in a book stays with the author. It’s best to ask a lawyer though—ideally without letting them know if you’re an editor or an author.

I should have answered these questions sooner, but I’ve been sick and stressed, and I’ve written very few letters and done hardly any work, and what I did was just the bare minimum to get by.

My daughter has healed and come back to Los Angeles.

Please thank Miss * * * for the beautiful photographs—I mean for being so beautiful that she could "take" them, as I’m sure I owe having them to you.51

I wrote to Doyle about you, and he warmly praised your work as being far better than his own and requested that you visit him. He's a great guy, and you definitely wouldn't regret going to Santa Cruz to hang out with him.

Thank you for the picture of Grizzly and his cub.

Sincerely yours, with warm regards to the lovely much-improved half of you,Ambrose Bierce.

P.S. * * * * * * * * * * *

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ "Dedication" poem for Ambrose Bierce.

My dear Sterling

Where are you planning to stop?—I mean at what point in your development? I assume you don’t have a ton of poems actually written and haven’t been sharing them with me, starting with the worst and not in the order they were created. So it must be that you’re making incredible progress. This last[5] surpasses everything that came before it—or maybe I'm just under some spell. I can’t trust my own judgment on it. In style, it’s amazing, but the depth of the theme!—that’s beyond anything.

It is a new field, the broadest yet discovered. To paraphrase Coleridge,

You are the first one to ever break into that quiet [unknown] sea—

a silent sea because no one else has jumped into it singing. Sure, there have been some brief crossings over the "border," but only for a moment. The incredible wonders of Astronomy have never received the poetic attention they deserve, their significance never fully expressed. You need to make it your own realm. You will be the poet of the skies, the prophet52 of the suns. Don’t get caught up in the pointless and tedious arguments like (for example) the age-old conflicts between "rich" and "poor" on this "tiny speck in the sunbeam." (Both "classes," when you really think about it, are pretty much equally disgusting and unworthy—there's no real moral difference between them.) Let them cheat, pick pockets, and stab each other to satisfy their basest instincts, but you should not pay them any mind. Also, by that great law of change that you see so clearly, there can be no lasting resolution to their dirty struggles. Whatever they try to "settle," just a swing of the pendulum and everything resets; and before long, Man will be savage again, sitting on his bare haunches and gnawing raw bones.

Yes, circumstances make the "rich" who they are. And circumstances make the poor who they are. I’ve known both for a long time. The rich—while they're rich—are slightly better off. There's nothing like poverty to bring out the worst in people. But in this country, there aren't strict "classes" of "rich" and "poor": usually, the wealthy person today was struggling just yesterday; today's struggling folks have an equal chance to become wealthy tomorrow—or they would if they had the same level of intelligence and fortune. The system that provides them that opportunity isn’t oppressive. Under a truly oppressive system, a salesman in a small-town grocery couldn’t rise to a salary of a million dollars a year just because he was worth it to his employers, as Schwab did. Sure, some people get rich through dishonesty, but the poor often cheat as much as they can and stay poor—thus avoiding notice and blame. To me, the moral difference between cheating to the limit of a small opportunity and cheating to the maximum of a large one is indistinguishable. The worker who “cuts corners” is just as much a53 rascal as the "director" who monopolizes a harvest.

As for "Socialism," I consider myself a bit of a Socialist; that is, I believe the principle that has always existed alongside competition, with each protecting the other, can be beneficially expanded. However, those who complain about "the competitive system," thinking they are harmed by it, are actually suffering from their own lack of thrift and inability. For those who are capable and resourceful, it is a perfectly ideal system. Since others do not contribute to lasting reforms, or any reforms at all, pure Socialism is just an unattainable dream.

But why do I write all this? People’s opinions on such matters are not swayed by logic and examples; they come from emotions and personality. There’s a Socialist mindset, just like there’s an Anarchist mindset. Could you teach a bulldog to fetch, or a sheep to carry things? Could you make a “born artist” understand a syllogism? It would be just as easy to convince a poet that black isn’t whatever color they love. Someone once called poetry “glorious nonsense.” That definition isn’t completely off, even though I see poetry as the flower and fruit of language and would prefer to write gloriously rather than sensibly. But if poets truly saw things for what they are, they would write no more poetry.

Nevertheless, I dare to ask you: Can't you see in the prosperity of the strong and the struggles of the weak a part of that great beneficial law, "the survival of the fittest"? Don't you see that the problems inherent in "the competitive system" are only issues for individuals, but blessings for society by slowly eliminating the unfit and their offspring?

I've done, I swear. Be any kind of critic or skeptic that you want, but don’t let it influence your writing. Nobody is asking you to save your land from the chains of ignorance. What we want from you is poetry, not politics. And if you're concerned about fame, just think about whether any "champion of the poor" has ever truly achieved it. From the earliest days up to Massanielo, Jack Cade, and Eugene Debs, the leaders and prophets of "the masses" have been considered unworthy. And with good reason, despite the layers of injustice mixed in with the truth. In the end, the most principled, popular, and successful "demagogue" inherits a legacy of disgrace. The most brilliant talents cannot save him. That will be Edwin Markham's fate if he doesn’t get out of that, and it will be George Sterling’s fate if he doesn’t take heed.

You think that "the main product of that system" (the "competitive") "is the love of money." What a case of having the cart before the horse! The love of money isn't the product; it's the root of the system—not the result, but the cause. When one person wants to be better off than another, they compete with them. You can end the system when you can end the desire—when you can make people, like Nature didn't, content to be as poor as the poorest. Eliminate the desire to excel, and you can establish your Socialism right away. But what kind of lazy and sluggish people will you create?

But, wow, I'll never finish if I say everything that comes to mind.

Sure, my comments about * * * were just jokes—meant to be lighthearted. She really is an anarchist, and she supports criminals, whom she sees as the "product" of the laws, but—well, she was born this way and can’t help it any more than she can change the color of her beautiful eyes. But she's still a child—and as far as her beliefs make her unapproachable, they don’t really matter. She wouldn’t hurt a fly—not even if, like the toad, it had a valuable gem in its head that it didn’t earn. But I’m talking about the * * * that I knew. If I didn’t know that an anarchist’s fundamental traits can change, your words might lead me to believe she could have evolved. It really doesn’t matter what women think, if you can even call it thinking, and * * * will always be charming.

In case you don't have a copy of the verses written for me, I'm including one that I created myself. Of course, I would be happy if you choose to publish it. You don’t need to worry about the phrase "splendid weight" or anything like that—there's nothing "conceited" in the poem. Since it was meant for me, I haven't criticized it—I can't. And I think it doesn’t require any critique.

I worry about the other two-thirds of this latest poem. If you come down from Arcturus to Earth, from your nebulae to your neighbors, from Life to lives, from the vastness of space to our petty feelings, won’t you run the risk of an anti-climax? I doubt you can address "human interest" after those lofty subjects without a significant drop. I’d hate to see the poem "fizzle out" or "fall flat." It would be like if Goethe had let his "Prologue in Heaven" fade away into a silly song. You've reached the "heights of dream," but how will you maintain that until the end? By the way, you need to improve your Astronomy skills, or at least gain a general understanding of it, which I’m afraid you’re lacking. Be sure to get the pronunciation of astronomical names right.

I have read some of Jack London's work and think it's clever. I fear I've never heard of Whitaker before. If London wants to critique your "Star poem," what's the problem? 56 I wouldn't think, though, based on his praise of * * *, that he's very critical. * * *

Where should we put Browning? Among thinkers. In his younger days, when he wrote in English, he was one of the poets. I remember once writing about the thinker: "There's nothing more obscure than Browning, except blacking." I still stand by that.

No, don’t bother sending me a copy of these verses: I expect to see them in a book really soon. * * *

Sincerely, Ambrose Bierce.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ "The Testimony of the Suns."

Dear Sterling

I’m glad to hear that you also think highly of that poem.[6] It’s important to understand your own work. Most writers believe their work is good, but good writers truly know it. Sorry if I underestimated your knowledge of astronomy. My impression was based on how you used those names. I've never seen the spelling "Betelgeux"; even if it’s correct and looks nice, I wouldn’t recommend using it, because it doesn’t communicate itself clearly, and you shouldn’t distract the reader from your point with a pronunciation issue. Back in my student days, I was taught to pronounce Procy´on. I don’t think I’ve heard it said that way since, and I don’t have any authority on it. If you’re comfortable with Pro´cyon, then that’s probably how it is. But if you pronounced Aldeb´aran, then your meter is pretty off. I asked (with a question mark) if it shouldn’t be Aldeba´ran—and I think it is. I'm not sure about Fomalhaut; I thought it sounded French and masculine. In that case, I guess it would be "ho," not "hote."

Don't remove that stanza, even if "clime" doesn't seem57 to have anything to do with time. The stanza is strong enough to handle a flaw.

"You're criticized by suns that claim"—I was mistaken in replacing "who" with "that," without realizing it would create confusion. I just gave in to a habit I have: to say "that" instead of "who," and didn't think about the consequences.

Don't cut out any stanza—if you can't make them perfect, just leave them imperfect.

"Without a beginning or an end."
"Without birth, without end."

These aren't as good as

"Without beginning, without end";—I suggest using this to find a way around that exact rhyme. All you need to do is drop the second "without." I wouldn't want "impend."

Yes, I vote for Orion's sword of suns. "Cimetar" sounds nicer, but it’s more specific—less general. It’s modern—or, rather, less ancient than "sword," and it brings to mind Turkey and the Holy Land. But "sword"—there were swords before Homer. And I don’t think the guy who named this constellation ever saw a curved blade. And yet, and yet—"cimetar of suns" is "mighty catchin'."

No, I really can't argue with you seeing the skies as being at war. There have been times I've imagined I could hear the rush and roar of it. A few months ago, I started a sonnet like this:

"Not like two lost planets crashing into each other,"
With catastrophic destruction, in the emptiness of space,
Devastation brought about by their hostile union—
Their unfortunate populations all doomed to die—" etc.

I've been a star-gazer my whole life—from my habit of staying58 "out late," I suppose; and the stars have always felt alive to me.

The change in the verses ad meum, from "thy clearer light" to "the clearer light" might have been made either intentionally or by accident—I can't remember. It's definitely not an improvement, and you can decide what you want to do. I'm usually oblivious, but occasionally modest.

Below is a short piece of text (5 words or fewer). Modernize it into contemporary English if there's enough context, but do not add or omit any information. If context is insufficient, return it unchanged. Do not add commentary, and do not modify any placeholders. If you see placeholders of the form __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_x__, you must keep them exactly as-is so they can be replaced with links. * * *

A type of material that I can't write in my own style (without "trouble at work") I won't write at all. So I'm barely writing anything but nonsense. * * *

With best regards to Mrs. Sterling and Miss Marian, I am

Best regards, Ambrose Bierce.

Leigh passed away a year ago this morning. I wish I could stop counting the days.

"The Testimony of the Suns."

Dear Sterling

All good—I just wanted you to be sure about those star names; it wouldn’t be right to be anything less than sure.

After all our discussion (on my part), I think that stanza is better left as it was originally written. "Clime"—meaning climate—refers to temperature, weather, and similar things in everyday language, but I suppose a poet can create their own definitions and make the reader figure them out and accept them.

Your concern about not being able to reach such a high level again like you did in this poem is funny, but it also has a hint of sadness. It's definitely unfortunate for a writer to produce their best work early; however, I think you should follow your creativity and act whenever inspiration strikes. "The Lord will provide." Of course, you've read Stockton's story "His Wife's Deceased Sister."59 But Stockton does just fine, even with "The Lady or the Tiger." I have a feeling you'll find other dramatic themes among the stars if you can't find enough high-quality subjects here on earth.

Will I write a preface for the book? Sure, if you think I’m up to it. Emerson tells us to "hitch our wagon to a star," and, wow! Here’s a whole constellation—a universe—of stars to draw from! It makes me blink just thinking about it.

O yeah, I’d really like to “leave the Journal,” but—

Best regards, Ambrose Bierce.

My dear Sterling,

If rejection hurt, all writers would be suffering. Still, not my will but yours be done. Of course, I’d be happy to review your entire body of work again and offer any suggestions I might have. It won't be an issue—I can’t think of a better way to spend my time than by critically reading your work, and I enjoy it too.

Understood. Please provide the text you would like me to modernize.

Of course, your standout poem has one flaw—if it is a flaw—that limits the number of readers who understand and appreciate it—its lack of "human interest." We humans, as a rule, only care about ourselves and think that the best things are those that closely relate to the emotions and feelings that come from our connections with one another. I don’t share that preference, and a few others don’t either, believing that there are things more fascinating than people. The Heavens, for example. But who knows or cares about them—even knows the name of a single constellation? Hardly anyone but the60 professional astronomers—and there aren’t enough of them to buy your books and bring you fame. I would be disappointed not to see that poem published—disappointed if you didn’t write more like it. But while it may impress and dazzle "the many," it won’t win them over. They want you to tug at their heartstrings and pull the strings that move their arms and legs. So you have to tug and pull, too.

The Château Yquem arrived, and it's great. Thanks for it—though I wish you didn't feel like you had to do things like that. It's very traditional and, honestly, a bit too "proper." But I remember you used to do that when you definitely didn't feel any "obligation" at all. So I guess it's fine—just your way of reminding me of the good old days. Anyway, the wine is so much better than mine that I never feel guilty drinking it.

Has "Maid Marian" got a photo of me?—I can't remember. If not, I’ll send her one; I just got a few printed from a negative that's five or six years old. I’ve given up the habit of taking photos, just like one gives up other habits when age makes them seem silly—or unfeasible.

Send me the typed book when you have it finished.

Best regards, Ambrose Bierce.

My dear Sterling

I guess you're in Seattle, but this letter can wait until you get back.

I’m really excited to hear that I’ll be getting "the book" soon, and I’ll give it my full attention and (if you still want) some introductory lines. Come up with a good title, and I’ll gladly welcome any suggestions from my inner muse61. He hasn’t given me anything for the star poem yet.

* * *

You'll "learn in suffering what you teach in song," that's for sure; but let's hope the song will be even better because of it. It will be. For that reason, I never fully "pity the sorrows" of a writer—knowing they are beneficial for him. He needs them in his work. I guess you must have shed a tear or two since I met you.

I'm sending you a photo, but you didn't tell me if Maid Marian the Superb already has one—that's what I asked you, and if you don't reply, I'll ask her.

Understood! Please provide the short phrases you would like me to modernize.

Yes, I’m doing pretty well, and while I’m not exactly “happy,” I’m content. But I’m really sorry about Peterson.

Best regards, Ambrose Bierce.

I’m about to disband my current setup and have no idea where my next one will be. Better to reach me at "Care N. Y. American and Journal Bureau, Washington, D. C."

You see, I'm still tied to the grind of sensational journalism, but it's a pretty light burden.

Hey Sterling,

I think you might be worried by now that I didn't receive the poems, but I did. I'll definitely get to them eventually, although I've got quite a bit of manuscript— including a couple of novels!—that I need to deal with first, and there's also one published book of poor poems that requires specific criticism.

I'm a bit embarrassed about the preface I'm supposed to write. I worry that you'll have to skip the preface or I the dedication. That kind of "cooperation" doesn't really seem classy: it feels like "mutual admiration" in a bad way, and the reviewers would likely label it "log-rolling." Of course, it doesn't matter too much what the reviewers say, but it matters a lot what the smart readers think; and your book will have no others. I honestly wouldn't want to write the preface for a book dedicated to me, even though I didn't realize that at first.

The difficulty could easily be solved by not dedicating the book to me, but that would mean giving up the noble poem with my name on it. That poem is already a fitting dedication if printed on its own in the front pages of the book and labeled "Dedication—To Ambrose Bierce." I'm sure my appreciation for the verses has little to do with vanity. After all, they show that I have said to you everything I could say to the reader in your praise and support. What do you think?

When it comes to dedicating individual poems to others, I have no hesitation in telling you not to do it. That practice feels amateurish and usually only pleases the person being honored. It's a custom that's faded away and there's really no reason to bring it back. If you have any obligations to fulfill, do it in a different way. You can say it like this: Since the whole book is dedicated to me, none of it can be dedicated to anyone else. Or you can put it this way: Confident in my high status, I have no intention of sharing the spotlight with lesser (and competing) claimants. They can deal with it!

Seriously—but I guess it is serious enough as it stands. It occurs to me that in saying: "no part of it can be dedicated to another" I might be understood as meaning: "no part of it must be," etc. No; I mean only that the dedication63 to another would contradict the dedication to me. The two things are (as a matter of fact) incompatible.

Well, if you think a short preface from me is better than the verses with my name, that's fine; I’ll happily write it, and that will let you pay tribute to your other friends if you want to. But those are amazing lines, and since they convey everything a standard preface could express, I believe they should be included.

Understood. Please provide the text for modernization.

Maid Marian will get the photograph.

Best regards, Ambrose Bierce.

My dear Sterling

You are a solid person. You can do whatever you want. My main concern is that if it gets out, or when it gets out, people might question my honesty in praising you and your book; critics and readers probably won't bother checking the dates. I would hate for it to seem like my endorsement was just a favor; honestly, I wouldn’t care about it. This situation feels like a slippery eel.

It’s definitely a nice thought that my friends have always liked my work—or me—enough to want to publish my books at their own expense. Everything I’ve written could reach the public that way if I agreed. In the two times I did agree, they got their money back, and I’m sure it’ll be the same this time; if I didn’t believe my book could at least earn a little profit, I wouldn’t offer it to a publisher. "Shapes of Clay" should be published in California, and it would have been a long time ago if I hadn’t been so lazy and unwilling to negotiate with publishers. If it was properly promoted—which none of my books ever have been—it should sell there, if nowhere else. So why don’t I invest in it? Well, for one, I don’t have any money to put up. Do you want to hear the other reasons?

But I need to set a condition. If there’s a loss, I will take responsibility for it. Therefore, I expect a detailed report from your Mr. Wood, and the percentage that Scheff. plans to pay him should come to you. The copyright will belong to me, but nothing else until you are fully reimbursed. I will sort all of this out with Scheff., who I assume will handle the business side of things, with, of course, your approval of the arrangements he makes.

I’ll write to Scheff today to tell him to move forward with his contract with Mr. Wood based on these points. Scheff doesn’t seem to know who the “angel” in this situation is, and he doesn’t have to, unless or until you want him to.

I've got a nice letter from Maid Marian thanking me for the photograph. I’ll send one to Mrs. Sterling right away, hoping to get another in return. It’s nice of her to remember me, especially since your sneaky control over her means we hardly ever get to see each other. I think we should impose a heavy tax on married men who live with their wives.

"She holds no truce with Death or Peace" means that with one of them she holds no truce; "nor" makes it mean that she holds no truce with either. The misuse of "or" (using it to mean "nor") is a common mistake that annoys almost everyone. It's so frequent that "nor" often sounds jarring instead.

I left out the verses about "Puck," not because Bunner has passed away, but because his work doesn't have much relevance anymore, and the verses don’t seem strong enough to hold their own. I might end up skipping a few more when I get the proofs (I wish you could see the tons I’ve already cut) and include a few more serious ones.

I'm really glad that you and Scheff have gotten to know each other. I like the guy, and I think he likes me too. He’s also working on a collection of poems, and I’m hoping it gets a great launch. I've experienced all of this; some parts are impressive in terms of strength and power; some are beautiful.

Pardon the typewriter; I wanted a copy of this letter.

Best regards, Ambrose Bierce.

Dear Sterling

It’s great to hear from you again and to know that the book is almost finished and with the publishers. I bet they won’t take it, and you’ll need to publish it on your own. If it comes to that, I’ll do my best to help you, just as you have helped me.

So you like Scheff. Yeah, he’s a great guy and a good friend. I wish you had met our friend Dr. Doyle, who has now taken his final journey. It’s really affected me, but that doesn’t matter much since the time to grieve is short. I’ll be heading that way soon.

No, I won’t include anything about the * * * person in "Shapes of Clay." His crime deserves a different kind of punishment, and until I face him, he will remain unpunished. I once traveled to San Francisco to confront him (but that was out of anger), but * * * from "The Wave" informed me that he was a hopeless invalid, suffering from locomotor ataxia. I always believed that until I received your letter and one from Scheff. Is that true?—or was it not? If not, he has every reason to think I'm a coward, because his crime was worth killing for; but of course, you don’t kill a defenseless person, regardless of the offense. If * * * lied to me, I’m very eager to find out; he has always claimed to be a loyal friend.

The passage you quoted from Jack London seems pretty good to me. I actually like the word "penetrate." It's commonly used in the context of exploration and discovery. But I agree with you about "rippling"; it's too vibrant a word to be paired with an adjective like "melancholy." I noticed that London has a great article in "The Critic" about "The Terrible and Tragic in Fiction." He really knows how to think things through.

What do I think of Cowley-Brown and his "Goosequill"? I didn’t realize he had brought it back; it had been gone for several years. I’ve never met him, but in both Chicago and London (where he had "The Philistine," or "The Anti-Philistine," I can't recall which right now) he was very kind to me and my work. In one issue of his magazine—the London one—he featured four of my stories and a long article about me that made me blush like the reflection of a red rose on a violet petal. Naturally, I have a good opinion of Cowley-Brown.

You make me sad to think about the long distances and the huge curvature of the earth keeping me from your campsite in the redwoods. There are very few things I would rather do than join that group; and I'd be the last one to pack up my tent and gear. Unfortunately, it's just not possible—not this year. My trips are limited to short runs along this coast. I was about to head out on one this morning and wrote a quick note to Scheff as part of my preparations. After five hours, I was struggling with asthma and am now stuck in my room. But for eight months of the year here, I’m good—like I never was out there.

* * *

You’ll need to get ready to handle a lot of praise when that book comes out. You’ll get used to it over time. It won’t excite you or annoy you; you’ll just feel indifferent about it. But if you really value my praise, I hope you’ve included a bit of it at the beginning of those dedication verses, as I recommended. That will give them a raison d'être.

With my best regards to Mrs. Sterling and Katie, I am sincerely yours, Ambrose Bierce.

P.S.—If it’s not too much trouble, could you remind Dick Partington and his wife that I’m still around and think of them fondly?

Dear Scheff:

I received the proofs yesterday and am sending them back in this mail. The "report of progress" is completely satisfactory, and I’m sure that a great job is being done.

The correction you made is approved. I wanted and expected you to make many corrections and suggestions, but I had a purpose in creating this book—specifically, that it should reflect my work at its average. Following this idea, I wasn't very open to suggestions and kept a lot of work that I didn't particularly approve of; some of it was trivial. You know I've always had a thing for the trivial, and no book that excluded trivialities would truly represent me.

I couldn’t support this idea in someone else. In your work and Sterling's, I’ve worked hard to help you both get as close to perfection as possible, because that’s what you and he want, and it’s what young writers should strive for, given that the quality of your work is better than mine. I hit my literary peak a long time ago, and since it’s not that high, it feels a bit pretentious, even dishonest, to make it seem better than it actually is by only reissuing my best work. Of course, I haven’t followed this plan strictly enough to make the book boring: I had to “draw the line” at that.

I say all this because I don't want you and Sterling to think that I look down on help: I just decided from the start not to take advantage of its clear benefits. You would have contributed to the book in one way just as much as you have in another.

I'll need you to suggest that Mr. Wood have someone go through everything in the book to make sure there are no duplicate pieces, which I’m worried there might be. Just reading the titles won't be sufficient; I could have given the same piece two different titles. I think it’ll be necessary to compare the first lines. That’s a tedious job I won’t ask you to take on; some of Wood’s staff or some of the printer's staff can handle it since it’s part of their job.

The "Dies Irae" is one of the most serious and heartfelt religious poems; my parody of it is just a solemn joke, which is made clear in the prose introduction, where I mention that my version might be helpful in the church! The parody isn't entirely unfair—it was bound to come from the author's clear lack of humor and logic—a trait that's noticeable in all religious literature, as it's a basic requirement for a religious mindset. Without logic and a sense of humor, a person is as religious as a bird is land-dwelling without webbed feet.

It’s funny, but I’m way more interested in seeing your book’s cover than in the contents. I’m not worried at all—since you took on this challenge—I’m sure your amazing vision will be perfectly represented in your hands; so my feeling isn’t anxiety. It’s just pure interest—interest in something beyond my abilities, but something you can tackle. By the way, Keller, the old "Wasp" wasn’t the best cartoonist. The best—without a doubt the best of all cartoonists if he hadn’t died at eighteen—was another German named Barkhaus. I have all his work and have long wanted to republish it with the necessary explanatory text—much of it being "local" and "transient." Someday, maybe—most likely not. But Barkhaus was a master.

How I envy you! There are few things that would make me as happy as just dropping in on you all at Sterling's camp. Honestly, I think the only thing stopping me is the exhausting train journey. It would take two months just to go and come back by sea. But that train ride across the country always gives me a terrible asthma attack that lasts for weeks. I will never do that trip again if I can help it. Just imagine the good times you all will have around the campfire and at the table! I feel like an exile, though I’m afraid I don’t look or act the part.

I didn’t go on the little trip I was planning when I wrote to you recently. Right after I mailed the letter, I got sick and I haven’t felt well since.

Poor Doyle! How considerate of him to take care of destroying my letters! But I worry that Mrs. Doyle found some of them strange—if she even read them.

Please provide the text you'd like modernized.

Wow! If they ever start publishing my stuff, it’ll be a real show! Obviously, the women will be the main culprits, and—well, they’ve got plenty of material; they could fill many volumes, and your poor deceased friend will have such a terrible reputation that you’d swear you never knew him. I imagine you’ve probably been a bit reckless, too. My biggest flaw has been writing to my female friends as if they were lovers—which they’ll surely be quick to agree with. The fact that they write to me the same way won’t be any defense; because when I’m gone, I can’t provide proof—and I wouldn’t even if I could. Maybe it won’t matter—unless I start turning in my grave and causing problems for the worms.

As Doyle's "literary executor," I’m afraid your responsibilities will be minimal: he likely didn't leave behind much writing. From his letters, it seems he was discouraged about his work and the limited recognition it received. So, I assume he left behind little more than the book of poems, which no publisher would (or will) accept.

You’re about to face the same frustrating indifference from the public—so is Sterling. I’m confident about Sterling, but I’m not sure how it will affect you. You’re a pretty strong guy, both physically and mentally, but this might hurt a lot. I hope it doesn’t, and I could give you—maybe have already given you—a thousand reasons why it shouldn’t. You’re still young, and your recognition might come while you’re alive; but you shouldn’t expect it right now, and I’m sure you don’t. To me, and I hope to you, the approval of one person who truly understands is sweeter than the praise of ten thousand who don’t—praise that, honestly, I’d rather not have. If you don’t feel this in every part of your brain and heart, try to learn to feel it—practice feeling it, like you would practice some athletic skill that’s important for your health and strength.

Thank you so much for the photo. You're getting way too ridiculously good-looking to be allowed to wander around unrestrained. If I had your "advantages" of youth and looks, I’d go to the sheriff and ask him to throw me in jail. That would be the honorable thing for you to do, if you don’t mind. God be with you—but not really paying attention.

Ambrose Bierce.

Dear Sterling,

I’m worried that while I was dealing with everything related to my departure from Washington, I forgot or didn’t get around to acknowledging the Joaquin Miller book you kindly sent me. I was really happy to receive it. It has all of his usual strengths and weaknesses—among the weaknesses are his never-ending verbosity, the shallow ideas, his constant repetition of favorite words and phrases, a lot of which come from his other poems, his mispronunciations, his occasional moments of prose, and so on.

Scheff tells me his book is out and mine is almost out. But what about yours? I'm really worried it might never be published if you wait for any American publisher to "

I bet Scheff, who is great at getting me to write letters—the rascal!—has told you about my time here on top of the Alleghenies and why I’m here. I’m having a pretty good time. * * * Can you picture me playing croquet, cards, lawn—no, thank goodness, I’ve avoided lawn tennis and golf! Other than that, though, I’m a shining example of the Summer Old Man.

Did you have a great time in the redwoods?

Please give my regards to Madame (and Mademoiselle) Sterling. Best, Ambrose Bierce.

Hi Sterling,72

I’m sending back the verses with a few suggestions.

I'm sorry your time for poetry is so short. But grab your pencil and calculate how much you'd write in thirty years (I hope you live that long) at, say, six lines a day. You'll be surprised by the outcome—and inspired. Keep in mind that 50,000 words make a pretty long book.

You make me uneasy when you say you're reading the "Prattle" from years ago. I don't have it and would probably hesitate to read it even if I did. There's so much in it to regret—so much that's unwise—so much that's just based on a mood or a whim—so much that isn't entirely sincere—so many half-truths, and so on. Please be understanding, and where you can't, just forgive.

Scheff has expressed his strong desire for you to join the Bohemian Club. I know he wants me to recommend you do it. So I'm caught in a tough spot and would prefer not to give any advice at all. There are clear advantages to being a member; for someone your age who is grounded in sobriety and self-control, the downsides aren't as significant as they are for someone younger like Scheff. (Of course, he’s not as young as he appears to me; but he's younger by a few years and quite a bit less mature than you.)

The problem with that type of club—like any club—is the temptation to waste time and money, and the risk of developing a drinking habit. If someone can resist these, a club can be just fine. I’m a member of one in Washington, and I even came close to "running" it at one point.

Got it! Please provide the text you would like me to modernize.

No, I don't think Scheff's opinion on Kipling is fair. He asked me about including that skit in the book. It was his perspective, and since that's the case, I see no reason to hold it back out of respect for those who disagree. I believe in free speech, though I wouldn’t extend it to my enemies if I were in charge. I wouldn’t think it’s beneficial for the State to let *** write poetry, for example. The modern trend of Tolerance doesn’t impress me, but since it’s all the rage, I'm okay with my friends having their fun.

I really think Scheff doesn't realize that Kipling is the source of the great line in "Back, back to Nature":

"The waves crash loudly against the shore."

But check out "The Last Chanty" in "The Seven Seas," listen to it, and you'll be inspired to write a line just like that yourself.

Understood. Please provide the text for modernization.

God be decent to you, old man. Ambrose Bierce.

Dear Sterling

I have your message from the 5th. You should have received mine from some date before now.

I’m ready for the text.

I'm glad you like London; I've heard he's a great guy and I've read one of his books—"The Son of the Wolf," I think that's the title—and it seemed pretty clever overall. The main impression I have is that it's always winter and always night in Alaska.

Understood. Please provide the text you would like me to modernize.

* * * will probably be happy to sell his scrapbook later to earn some money. He can't survive just on the labor unions alone. I wish he wasn't such a demagogue and wouldn't, as poor Doyle put it, chase after their Muse. When he comes back to truth and poetry, I'll welcome him back, and he can kick me if he wants to.

No, I can't tell you how to get "Prattle"; if I could, I wouldn't be without it myself. You ask me when I started it in the74 "Examiner." It was soon after Hearst took over the paper—I don't know the exact date—they can tell you at the office and will show you the bound volumes.

I have the collected volumes of the "Argonaut" and "Wasp" from the years I was involved with them, but I only kept my work in the "Examiner" (as well as in the "News Letter," London "Fun," "Figaro," and other papers) in a random and incomplete manner.

I don't remember giving Scheff any "epigram" about women or anything else, so I can't send it to you. I occasionally have fun with that kind of thing in the "Journal" ("American") and I guess Hearst's other papers might copy them, but the "environment" is unwelcoming and uninspiring.

Do I think excerpts from "Prattle" would sell? I don’t believe anything I create will sell. I could put together a dozen books from what I have "saved up"—I even have a few ready for publication now—but it all feels pointless when it comes to making a profit. Publishers only want novels from me—and I won’t do that.

Who is * * *—and why? It's nice of London to stand up for me against him. I bet all you guys have plenty of defending to do for me, but honestly, it's hardly worth it. My whole life I've been hated and slandered by all sorts of people except for the good and smart ones; and I don't really mind. I knew from the start what to expect, and I know now that, like getting spanked, it hurts (sometimes) but doesn't do any real damage. And the same malice that has surrounded my life will follow my memory if I’m remembered. Just think about the names of men who have spoken the truth about their unworthy peers and about human nature "as they saw it." They are the boogeymen of history. None of them has escaped being vilified. Can poor little me expect anything better? When you hit, you get hit back. The world is a jerk, but it has rights; one of them is the right to retaliate. Yes, you’re fooling yourself if you think the little writers "like" you, or rather if you think they will like you when they realize how significant you are. They’ll lie awake at night creating new lies about you and figuring out how to spread them without being caught. But you get your revenge: in a few years, they'll all be gone—just like if you had killed them. Even better, you'll be gone too. So—you have my entire philosophy in two words: "Nothing matters."

Reverting to Scheff. What he really has to worry about (if he cares) isn’t bad criticism, but being ignored by the public. That doesn’t hurt, but poets are ambitious and love being in the spotlight. Maybe Scheff is different, just like I know you are. Try to help him be that way if he isn’t. * * * Smart poets write for each other. If the public happens to pay attention, that’s great. Sometimes they do—and when that happens, the wise poet is like a blacksmith. But this rant is turning into an essay.

Please send my love to all the wonderful Sterlings—both those who are born into it and those who joined by marriage. * * *

My friends are back in Washington, and I'm having a blast climbing hills (they're just bumps) and checking out ravines and canyons—places these folks don't even name—poor souls. My dreamland is still unexplored. The other day, they discovered a Confederate soldier over there, with his rifle next to him. I'm planning to go there and apologize.

Yours truly, Ambrose Bierce.

My dear Sterling,

I have Jack London's books—the one from you and the one from him. Thank you, and I will definitely make time to read them. I've only been back for a few days, and I find a dozen books titled "Shapes of Clay." The incredible work done by Scheff, Wood, and your other teammates in your labor of love is truly gratifying to me, and that should be obvious. I feel really lucky to have such good friends who care about my interests. Still, there will be an empty space in my heart until your book is available. Honestly, I feel more satisfied with the work you and Scheff have done than with my own. It's through both of you that I expect to gain my best recognition. And how generously you give it!—unlike some of my "students," whom I have helped much more than I did you.

My trip through the mountains has really improved my health—and my spirit too. It was a "sentimental journey" in a different way than Sterne meant. Do you know, George, the thrill of a new feeling? Of course you do, but at my age, I thought it was impossible. Well, I experienced it over and over again. Honestly, I’m considering going back to my old "theater of war," setting up a cabin there, and spending my remaining days in reflection and nostalgia. But I’d like you to be close enough to come up some Saturday night with something to drink. Sincerely yours, Ambrose Bierce.

My dear Sterling

I'm grateful to you for two letters—really great ones. In the last one, you mention that your health is better, and I can see for myself that your spirits are up. You credit this to exercise, which is probably spot on. You really need a lot of fresh air—we all do. I can drive myself into hypochondria in just forty-eight hours by staying indoors. The sedentary life and obsessively thinking about oneself are only good for Eastern deities. We energetic types need sunshine and the hills. My recent hikes and rides in the mountains did me more good than any sermon. And you have "the hills behind Oakland"! Gosh, what I wouldn't give to help you explore them, those beloved old places! I know every inch of them from Walnut Creek to Niles Canyon. Of course, they’re filled with ghosts, like all places out there, even the streets of San Francisco; but I and my ghosts always get along well. With the female ones, my relationships are sometimes a bit better than they were with those dear women when they were alive.

I guess I didn’t acknowledge the beautifully bound "Shapes" that you kindly sent, or the Jack London books. Thank you so much.

I'm glad to hear that Wood plans to sell the entire edition of my book, but I'm not really confident about that myself.

So we should have your book soon. That's great, but I'm not a fan of your indifference to its appearance. Some of my own books have been and still are a letdown in that regard. At best, a book is just okay-looking; at worst, it’s ugly. Take a cue from Scheff on this matter; I think his taste is fantastic, and I’m really impressed with his work on the "Shapes." Even his covers, which I’m sorry to hear Wood doesn’t like, look great to me. I approved the design before he made it—actually picked it from several options he showed me. The only downside seems to be that there’s too much gold leaf, but that's a minor issue. In that and all his other work (except mine), the experts here are thrilled. I gave him complete freedom, and I’m glad I did. I’m not a fan of the ragged leaves, but he doesn’t like them either, upon further thought. Unfortunately, I fear the reading public does, at least for now.

I'll check out your new verses in a few days. It will be, as always, a pleasure to look them over.

About "Prattle." I think you could get some help with that from Oscar T. Schuck, 2916 Laguna St. He used to deal with "Prattle" quite a bit, but he’s really friendly, and getting it would fit in with what he’s doing now.

How did you come across Markham's two greatest lines—but I don’t need to ask that—from "The Wharf of Dreams"?

Well, I wish I could believe that my lines in "Geotheos" were worthy of being mentioned alongside Keats' "magic casements" and Coleridge's "woman wailing for her demon lover." But honestly, I don't think anyone's lines really are. I laugh at myself when I remember that "Geotheos," which I don't think has ever been published before, was written for E. L. G. Steele to read at a "young ladies' seminary" somewhere out in the sticks! Like a sensible person, he didn't read it. I don't share your disappointment that I haven't focused on serious poetry. I don't see myself as a poet, but as a satirist; so I deserve some credit for whatever little gold there might be in the mud I throw. However, if I claimed to be throwing gold, the mud I would inevitably mix in with it would work against me. Plus, I prefer being the top person in a small town rather than the second person in Rome. Poetry is a ladder that has no more room at the top—unless you and Scheff are willing to push down some of the people occupying the highest spots. It looks like you might, but I couldn’t. When old Homer, Shakespeare, and that crowd—who built better than Ozymandias—say: "Look on my79 works, ye mighty, and despair!" I, thinking they are specifically addressing me, despair. The challenge from the clever doesn’t intimidate me.

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Regarding your grammar issues.

If you say: "There is no hope or fear," you're saying that one of them isn't real. When you say: "There is no hope nor fear," you're saying that both aren't real—which is what you mean.

"Not to tire you, I'll say that I got the book from his cabin." Whether that's better than "I will say" depends on the exact meaning; both are correct. The "shall" just shows the intent to say it; the "will" suggests a bit of concession in saying it.

It’s no trouble to answer questions like that, or to do anything else to make you happy. I just hope I’m being clear.

I’m not sure if all my “Journal” pieces make it into the “Examiner,” since I don’t see every issue of either paper. I’m not writing much anyway. They don’t seem to expect much from me, and their weekly paycheck is pretty much all I want from them.

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No, I don't know a better poem by Kipling than "The Last Chanty." Did you see what Prof. Harry Thurston Peck, the special literary censor for the Hearst group, chose to commend the other day? Yet Peck is a scholar, a professor of Latin, and a writer of notable distinction. Aside from the ability to write poetry, I think the ability to understand it is the rarest of intellectual gifts. Let's be grateful to "whatever gods may be" that we have that, even if we don't have much else.

I've got a beautiful birch stick curing for you—cut it up80 in the Alleghanies.

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Best regards, Ambrose Bierce.

Dear George

I send back the verses—sorry for the delay. I've been overwhelmed with worries.

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I wouldn't switch "Religion" to "Dogma" (if I were you) for all "the pious monks of St. Bernard." Once you start making compromises for someone’s feelings, there’s no stopping point, and you might as well put down the lyre. Besides, Dogma doesn’t "seek"; it just boldly claims something has been discovered. However, that's a minor issue—nothing can take away from the brilliance of the verses. I just want to warn you against giving in to a temptation that will challenge you your whole life—the temptation to "edit" your thoughts for someone who might be hurt by them. Stay true to Truth and let everyone deal with it.

Yes, I think the quatrain you wrote in Col. Eng's book is good enough to include in your own. But I'd stick with "discerning" instead of replacing it with "revering." In art, discernment includes reverence.

Of course I plan to say something about Scheff's book, but in no publication I'm currently associated with can I actually "review" it. Hearst's papers would give it incredibly wide exposure, but they aren't looking for "reviews" from me. They have Millard, who has already reviewed it—very well too—and Prof. Peck—who might review it if it were sent to him. "Prof. Harry Thurston Peck, care of 'The American,' New York City." Mention it to Scheff. I'm trying to figure out what I can do.

I'm really glad to see that you can appreciate the value of your own poems—it's a rare skill. "To Imagination" is, I think, the best of all your short ones.

I'm eager for the book. I also hope to write something about it. Sincerely yours, Ambrose Bierce.

Dear George

A thousand worries have kept me from writing to you—and Scheff. And today is supposed to be a "busy day." But I want to express that I haven't forgotten your kindness in sending the book—it's hardly left my pocket since I received it. I've read nothing in it more than once, except for the "Testimony." That I've gone over, line by line—and "precept by precept"—always discovering "something rich and strange." It's greater than I realized; it's the greatest "ever"!

I'm writing a few words about it in tomorrow's "American"—I wish I had a better platform for what I want to say and more freedom to say it. But they don't want, and won't accept, "book reviews" from me; probably because I refuse to help their advertising publishers. So I have to hide my comments and build up to them as part of a different topic. In this case, I’ve used my favorite "horrible example," Jim Riley, who should be proud to be mentioned on the same page as you. After all, my comments might not even make it; I have the littlest editor who cuts out whatever he thinks is especially precious to the writer. I'm only here for a few days, I hope.

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I want to say that I think you’re at your best when you tackle the biggest subjects—not flowers, women, and all that—but something beyond the realm of flowers and women—something you can see from heights where they can’t be seen or experienced. Your poetry is unmatched compared to our other poets, but your thoughts and philosophy are even greater. Right now, I’m writing this at a desk in a hotel reading room; I’ll write to you again when I’m home.82

I'm worried about your health because I keep hearing bad things. Can't you go to the mesas of New Mexico and work with cattle for a year or two—or do something that lets you sleep outdoors under the stars you love—something that will keep you from going inside for even ten minutes? You say no. Well, one day you will have to—when it’s too late—like Peterson, my friend Charley Kaufman, and so many others who could have survived if they had gone there in time and been willing to make the sacrifice when it actually mattered. You can go now just as easily as you could then; and if you go now, you’ll come back healthy, but if you wait, you’ll not only give up your salary, “prospects,” and so on, but you could also lose your life. I really believe that kind of life would heal you. I've talked to dozens of men who have been cured by it.

You'll die from consumption if you don't. About twenty years ago, I was writing articles about outdoor treatment for consumption. Now—just now—doctors are doing the same and setting up outdoor sanatoriums for consumption.

You'll say you don't have a serious illness. I’m not saying you do. But you will if you keep telling yourself: "I can't do it." * * *

I'm sorry, my friend, for this blunt advice about your personal matters: I'm really worried about you. Your life means a lot to me and to the world. Best, Ambrose Bierce

Dear George,

Thank you so much for the books and the inscription—which83 (as do all other compliments) makes me feel a bit sad about my shortcomings as a writer and as a person. Kind words from overly supportive friends highlight for me, in a troubling way, who I should be; and the difference from who I actually am stings. Maybe you feel that way sometimes too, and can relate. You're still young enough to learn from that pain; my character is set—my chances are gone. But it doesn’t really matter—nothing does. I have a little proof from you, Scheff, and others that I haven't lived entirely in vain, and I know I take more pride in my small connection to your work and theirs than in my own. I also have a better reason to earn the attention and respect of my fellow humans.

Don't worry about the "slow sale" of my book; I expected that would happen, and my only concern comes from the fear that someone might lose money from this venture. It won't be you. You know I'm still a bit "in the dark" about what you have really done regarding this. I wish you would let me know if any of your own money went into it. The contract with Wood is fine; it was set up according to my instructions, and I won't even take the small royalty I'm entitled to if anyone is going to be "out." If you are going to be out, I won't just forgo the royalty, but I’ll pay you back to the last cent. Can you let me know about all that? In any case, please don’t "buy out Wood" or spend any money on advertising or anything else.

The silence from the reviewers doesn’t bother me any more than it would bother you. Their compliments on my other books clearly didn’t help me at all. No book published in this country has ever received such high praise from esteemed sources as my first collection of stories. But the book was never a84 "seller," and it probably never will be. The fact that I like it quite a bit is enough for me. You and I don’t write books to make money; we write—or rather publish—just because we enjoy it. We have no right to expect a profit from having fun.

It’s strange and funny that you might think I had any reason for not writing to you other than my usual habit of procrastination, being caught up with my little issues, and dealing with a ton of correspondence. You probably could create a reason for me to be upset if you really tried, but if you ever realize you didn’t make the effort, you can be sure I don’t have any reason to complain.

I should have figured that the author of "Viverols" and several great studies on fish would understand your poems. (Oh no; I don't mean that your Muse is a mermaid.) Maybe he did, but you know how carefully scientists choose their words. Did you send a book to Garrett Serviss? I’d like to know what he thinks of the "Testimony." As for Joaquin, he has this frustrating habit, like Longfellow's, of praising all poetry he gets, and he said about Madge Morris's coyote poem exactly what he says about your work. Sorry to burst your bubble, but it’s true.

As for your health, you really ease my mind.* * * But I didn't just hear bad news about you and "your cough" from Scheff. He has been quiet on the topic, but clearly worried; and you’ve written in a gloomy way, even predicting an early end. If nothing’s wrong with you and your lungs, then some of your friends need to pay better attention. I'm glad to have your word on it, and I want to drop my plans for your recovery. I'm eager to hear that new poem. The lines

"The blue-eyed vampire, pleased after her meal,
85 Grins wickedly under the sickly moon"

give me the chills. Wow! they're terrible! Sincerely yours, Ambrose Bierce.

Dear George

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You shouldn't let the "conspiracy of silence" from the "Call," the "Argonaut," and other papers bother you. Honestly, my enemies don’t have to repay kindness with kindness; I wouldn't even respect them if they did. * * *, with his head still sore from all the times I beat him over that "distracted globe," would just be a funny character stuttering about how great I am and trying to highlight the quality of the books I have.

As for the public, its indifference to a diet of pearls—our pearls—was something I was aware of, and honestly, it only bothers me in my wallet. That public isn't really indebted to me, considering I've been hitting it on the nose my whole life. Why should it participate in the ceremony? Its indifference to your efforts is a fresh challenge and deserves more strikes, but its indifference to mine doesn't.

The Ashton Stevens interview was delightful. His discovery of you and Scheff together seems too perfect to be true—I thought it was fake. He mentioned me quite a lot—maybe too much. As for Joaquin's jab at me—well, that was truly generous from someone who, like most of us, doesn’t counter blame with praise, subtract the latter from the former, and find something to be thankful for in the difference. You know “what fools we mortals be”; criticism that isn’t all sweet is all bitter. Nobody has enjoyed highlighting the brilliance of Joaquin's significant work more than I have; but nobody has been as harsh in condemning * * *, his arrogance, and the overall nonsense that makes his writing so unbearable. Joaquin is a good guy, after all, and you shouldn’t expect him to have impossible virtues or a level of reasonableness that he just doesn't possess.

* * *

I have the books you kindly sent, and I've planted two or three in what I believe is fertile soil, hoping they will yield a small harvest of appreciation.

* * *

And the poem![7] I can hardly find the words to describe it. No poem in English of that length has such an astonishing wealth of imagination. Not even Spenser has packed so many gems into such a small space. Honestly, it takes my breath away! I've read and reread it—once for the expression and once for the thought (and when I mention "thought" in your work, I mean the meaning—which is different) and I plan to read it many more times. Soon I’ll go through it with my red pen to see if I can suggest anything that’s worth your time. I’m not too hopeful, though.

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Sincerely, Ambrose Bierce.

"A Wine of Wizardry."

Hey George,

I wrote to you yesterday. Since then, I’ve been rereading your letter. I wish you wouldn’t talk so much about what I’ve done for you and how much it meant to you, and all that. I’d hate to think that I didn’t do a little for you—I tried to. But, my friend, you should know that I don’t offer that kind of service for sale. Besides, I’m more than repaid by what you have done for me—I mean with87 your writing. Do you think I don’t appreciate such things? Does it seem reasonable to think I’m not delighted by those amazing dedicatory verses in your book? Is it nothing to me to be called "Master" by someone like you? Is my nature so cold that I have no pride in such a student? There’s no obligation here—certainly none that can be satisfied from your wallet.

You really overestimate how much I donate to "charity." Sometimes I help out some unfortunate person through tough times, but not as much as you think. I can't—I've got too many regular, ongoing, legitimate expenses. Those are mostly what keep me broke.

* * *

Maybe you think it's strange that I haven't mentioned any of your work in print except for the "Testimony." It's not that I don't value the minor poems—I really do. But I don’t like to scatter my focus; I prefer to hammer on one nail—to keep pressing one button until someone notices. When the "Wine" is published, I’ll have another poem that is not only great, but also striking and noteworthy to focus on. However good, or even great, a short poem with titles like "Poesy," "Music," "To a Lily," "A White Rose," and so on, just can't capture public attention. Some longer, more notable work of greater significance may carry it, but by itself, it won’t make an impact. Even a collection of its kind won't. Not until you’re famous.

Your letter about your brother (who still hasn’t shown up) was unnecessary—I can’t help him find a job. I’ve tried so many times to help others, and it’s been so fruitless that no one could convince me to try again. I don't like the role of a beggar, nor the feeling of being rejected by the small-time officials who run this Government. Obviously, I'm not in good standing with this Administration, not only because of my ties to Democratic newspapers but also because I sometimes dare to openly disagree with the idea that those in high positions are divine—especially Teddy.

I'm sorry you find your office unbearable. That's "the common lot of all" who work for others. I've struggled under the burden for many years—probably a heavier burden than yours. It doesn't fit me well at all. Maybe one day you and I will live on neighboring ranches in the mountains—or in neighboring caves—"the world forgetting, by the world forgot." I've really been thinking about becoming a hermit lately, but I guess I’ll have to keep living like a reasonable person a little longer until I can free myself without feeling guilty to my creditors and dependents. But "the call of the wild" echoes, even in my dreams.

You ask me whether you should write in the style of "A Wine of Wizardry" or "The Testimony of the Suns." Do both. I can't say which one you’ve done better in, and I don’t know anyone who has done either one better. Succeeding in both is an incredible achievement. You might argue that one is more fanciful and the other more imaginative, which is true, but it’s not the whole picture. The "Wine" has just as much imagination as the other, along with a good dose of fancy. I appreciate your grand style, and I enjoy the other one as well. To put it in terms of another art form—build great towers and domes. Also, carve friezes. But I wouldn’t waste time on cutting single finials or small decorations. No matter how beautiful the craftsmanship, they aren’t worth your focus right now. If you were a painter (and with your amazing sense of color, you definitely could have been), your larger canvases would be your strongest work.

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I don't care if that satire of Josephare is about me or not; it was great. He can go after me if he wants—I don't mind. All I ask is that he does it well.

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I spent yesterday with Percival Pollard, checking out the burned area of Baltimore. He's a funny guy that I like, and he appreciates your work. I'm sending you a copy of "The Papyrus," along with his take on the awful Oscar Wilde. Wilde's writing is fine, but what can you do with the work of someone whose name you can't say in front of women?

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Best regards, Ambrose Bierce.

Dear George,

The delay in getting your letter only made me worry that I had upset you. It's strange that we see each other's feelings this way.

About Wood. There's no doubt he's trying his best, but—well, he's not a publisher. For instance, he sent forty or fifty "Shapes" here. They’re sitting behind the counter at the bookstore—not even on the counter. There are probably fewer than a dozen people I know in Washington who even realize I wrote a book. So how are any of them supposed to know about that book? The bookseller doesn’t advertise the books he has for sale, and people don’t go digging behind his counters. A publisher's approach is a bit different, of course.

Only for your interest, I shouldn’t care whether my books sell 90 or not; they exist and won’t be destroyed; every book will eventually reach somebody.

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It seems like it's up to you to decide—whether Wood keeps trying to sell the book or hands it off to someone else if he ever gets tired of it. Just so you know, I couldn't care less what happens to the book, as long as it helps reimburse you; I don't want any money or recognition. If you and Wood can come to an agreement, do whatever you think is best.

I’m sending back Wood's letters; they confirm what I already knew: that the public and the librarians wouldn’t buy that book. Let’s not go over this again, but whenever you get a chance in the future, let me know how much you’ve lost.

Your book shows that someone can gain a lot of fame with very little financial benefit. You're now well-known—at least on the Pacific Coast; but I bet you're not any better off financially than you were before. I also have some recognition—a bit broader, at least, than yours. Well, my work sells really well—in Mr. Hearst's newspapers, for just a small amount! When sold independently, in one-dollar and two-dollar amounts, it doesn't make anyone eager to rush and buy. What a great business we have!

I find it interesting to read the "notices" you send. The one from Monahan is funny with its chatter about your "science." For most people, like him, talking about the stars makes them think of astronomy, with its telescopes, spectroscopes, and so on. So, it’s considered "scientific." Telling those people that there’s no science in your poem would really confuse them.

I don't think poor Lang meant to do anything but his best and be honest. He's a pretty smart but small guy, and you can't blame him for not seeing more than he does. I've often mentioned in print that it takes real genius to recognize genius firsthand. Lang has written almost the best, if not quite the best, sonnet in the language—yet he is no genius.

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Why, of course—why shouldn’t you help that poor guy? I used to help him myself—got him in front of the public and tried to teach him. Then—but it’s just too horrible to talk about, and so is he. He’ll bite your hand if you feed him, but I think I’d still toss him a crust myself.

* * *

No, I don't agree with you about Homer, nor do I support your implied opinion that narrative poetry isn't "pure poetry." To me, poetry speaks with a thousand voices—"a diverse language." There's a saying among miners: "Gold is where you find it." The same goes for poetry; I expect to find it one day in a grocery store's price list. I bet you could put it there.

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As for Goethe, the more you read him, the more you'll appreciate Heine.

Thank you for "A Wine of Wizardry"—revised. I believe that the made-up saying "Merlin-sage" (I don't really see the point of the hyphen) is better than the overused Biblical quote. It's strange, but I remember it being the "sick enchantress" who called out "unto Betelgeuse a mystic word." Was it not the case in the first copy I had, or do I think that way simply because the cry of one person is more solitary and terrifying than the cries of many?

I still believe that the poem should have some breaks in it because I find that both I and the public—probably me less than the public—aren't really inclined to face solid blocks of verse or prose. I mentioned that this poem "took away one's breath,"—so can we give someone a chance to catch their breath every now and then?

"Space to breathe, no matter how little."

Nevertheless, not my will but yours be done, on earth as it is in San Francisco. Sincerely yours, Ambrose Bierce.

Dear George

To start from the beginning, I would definitely be happy to meet Josephare if he comes this way; just to try to figure out what happened to a guy who started off so poorly and in such a short time was doing so well, with a chance of getting "a place." Byron, you know, was similar, and Tennyson wasn’t too different either. Still, their beginnings weren’t as rough as Josephare’s. I honestly admit that I considered him a fool. This one’s on me.

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I wonder if a London publisher would put out "Shapes of Clay." Sometimes a little chatter about me pops up in the London press, flares up for a bit, and then "goes up in smoke." I’m enclosing some proof of the latest buzz—you can return it if you remember. The letter from "a deeply disappointed man" was filled with playful humor inspired by a few articles by Barr about me and a private suggestion from him that I should publish more books in London.

Yes, I've put down "The Passing Show" again, for the same old reason—I can't deal with my editor's censorship. I'm writing for the daily issues of The American, mostly anonymously. It's really easy work.

Sure! Please provide the text you'd like me to modernize.

It’s fine—that "cry unto Betelgeuse"; the "sick enchantress"93 part is good enough without it. I like the added lines of the poem. Here’s another critique: The "Without" and "Within" at the start of the first and third lines, respectively, seem to be opposites, but they aren't. The latter means "into," which I think could be swapped for it for clarity without messing up the meter—a trochee for an iambus.

Why shouldn't I submit this poem to "The Atlantic"?—if you haven't done it already. I could write a short note about it, sharing insights that you might not express, and possibly attracting attention to the work. If you agree, I will. I can't picture a magazine editor turning down such an incredible poem. I've read it at least twenty times, and my admiration just keeps growing.

Your book is still my constant companion—I carry it in my pocket and read it again and again, on public transport and everywhere. All the poems are great, but "Testimony" and "Memorial Day" are exceptional—the former for its grandeur and the latter for its emotion.

I’m sending you a critique in a letter from a friend who is pointing out your "obscurity," as many others have honestly done. It takes honesty to say that, since the issue lies with the critic's understanding. However, someone who appreciates Shakespeare and Milton has some credibility as a complaining witness in the literary world.

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My favorite translation of Homer is Pope's, even though it's currently trendy to criticize him, just like Byron. I'm aware of the arguments against them—and I even agree with some of those points—but I wish their critics had a fraction of their intelligence. I also recognize that Pope's translations of The Iliad and The Odyssey are more like paraphrases than direct translations.94 Still, I love them and wonder (like you probably do) what profoundly moved Keats when he "heard Chapman speak out loud and bold." Whatever it was, it inspired us to what Coleridge considered the best sonnet in our language, and Lang's admiration for Homer has given us at least the second-best. There must be something special about poems that inspire other poems—about a poet whom most other poets acknowledge as their leader. I believe (like Poe) that there is no such thing as a long poem—a poem on the scale of an Epic. It should consist of poetic passages linked by recitative, to borrow a term from opera; but perhaps it's better that way. If the writer can't create "sustained" poetry, the reader probably wouldn’t be able to appreciate it. Regardless, I'm all in for Homer.

I'm doing well, but I’ll soon head to the mountains, although I hope to be here when Scheff takes his ship this way. I wish you were sailing with him!

I’ve been hearing so much about all of you, because Eva Crawford has been with you, “taking notes,” and her sharp observations on what and whom she sees are a pleasure to read. I’d guess that you would appreciate Eva—most people don’t. She’s the best letter writer I've encountered—many women are great letter writers—and there’s so much more to her. I can confidently say that you’d find her views on your work and personality “quite favorable.”

Now that I'm on this topic, I'll include a note to my friend Dr. Robertson, who runs a mental health facility in Livermore. He's a fascinating guy with a family just like his and a library that will make you seriously envious. You should go visit him one day and bring Scheff or any friend along—he’s eager to meet you. You won’t mind that he believes all poetry comes from a sick mind and that the only reason he doesn’t think all brains (except his own) are sick is that not everyone produces poetry.

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Seriously, he's a great guy and knows a lot of things that most of us don't.

Best regards, Ambrose Bierce.

My dear George

I have a letter from * * *, who is in St. Louis, where his progress has been slower than I hoped, especially since I'm staying away from my mountains just to see him. However, he hints that he plans to come in a week. I wish you were with him.

I’m sending the W. of W. to Scribner's, as you suggested, and if they don’t take it, I’ll try the other magazines in your order of preference. But it’s funny that you—you—would prefer the "popular" magazines and want the work to be "illustrated." Just so you know, the illustrations will probably shock you if you receive them.

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I get what you mean about being bored by the people your writing brings to you. The most content years of my life recently were the two or three I spent here before the folks in Washington discovered I was an author. Word got out, and even though not a single one of them buys or reads my books, some of them annoy me endlessly with their clueless compliments and unwanted attention. I think I’ll have to "move on."

Tell Maid Marian to wear gloves while modeling, or the clay will seep into her soul through her fingers and she'll become a Shape of Clay herself. I think she should work with a paste made of ashes-of-roses moistened96 with nectar.

* * *

Best, Ambrose Bierce.

P.S. Do you find it boring that I want you to meet my friends? Professor * * *'s widow (and daughter) mean a lot to me. She knows about you, and I've told her I'd ask you to visit. You'll really like them, but I have another reason for this. I want to find out how they’re doing, and they’re a bit secretive about it. Maybe you could figure it out indirectly by seeing their lifestyle. I asked Grizzly to check this out, but of course, he didn’t, the big oaf that he is. A. B.

Dear George

I haven't written a letter, except for work, since I left Washington on June 30—no, it was actually since Scheff got there. I'm back on solid ground now, and my first visit is to you.

You'll be happy to hear that I'm having a great time here in the Catskills. I won't be heading back as long as I can find a hotel that's open.

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I’d love to hear from you about our—or rather your—group in California, and especially about you. Are you still toying with your creativity? Enclosed are two clear examples of more failures. Harper's now has "A Wine of Wizardry," and I’m sure they’ll reject it too. I’ll then try The Atlantic, where it should have gone in the first place; and I almost expect them to accept it.

I'm not working much—just hanging out on my cottage porch, mixing the occasional cocktail, wandering the woods with a knife in hand, looking for the yellow-birch sapling that makes a walking stick like yours; and so on. I took a month off work when Scheff came, and I'd love to do the same for you. Are you ever going to visit the places of your youth?

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It’s incredibly sad—that last visit from Death to the heart and home of poor Katie Peterson. Can you please pass on my sympathy to her?

Love to everyone in Piedmont. Best wishes, Ambrose Bierce

My dear George,

First, thank you for the knife and the honor of being a member of the Ancient and Honorable Order of Knifers. I haven't used the blades and other tools much, but I use the corkscrew all the time.

I'm attaching a short note from the editor of Harper's. Please hold onto these items for now, and at some point, I might ask for them to "make a point or enhance a story" about that poem. If we can't get it published, I'd like to write a review of the unpublished poem for a friendly magazine, including lots of excerpts and a brief history. I think that would be something special.

I think Marian's pictures are intriguing, but I have the self-control to keep just one of them—the prettiest one, of course. Yours is pretty serious, but it works for the cover of the Testimony, which is still my favorite book.

Scheff showed me your poems about Katie's baby, and Katie has sent them since then. They are very heartfelt and beautiful. I wouldn't want to give up any of your "personal" poems—especially not the one that's personal to me. Your success with them is outstanding. However, the habit of writing them can be risky, as the many failures of great poets show—take Milton, for instance, with his lines to Syriack Skinner, his lines to a baby that died at birth, and so on. The reason is clear, and you have pointed it out yourself with precision:

"Ignore the duty they uphold"
Who serves her with a conflicted heart;
She’s reluctant to share
Her strength for goals, outcomes, or concern."

When you're focused on making someone happy, you're less focused on inspiring the immortal Muse. I say this as a warning for the future, not to criticize the past. I'm guilty of this myself, but then again, I'm not perfect, so my example doesn't really matter.

I don't mind * * * calling me a "dignified old gentleman"—actually, that's what I've wanted to be for a long time, but I've only managed it around strangers, and not even always then. * * *

(I forgot to mention that your poem is now with the editor of the Atlantic.)

Your determination to "take me down" almost scares me. Seriously, you have no idea how huge this task is; the labors of Hercules were nothing compared to it. Honestly, don’t make any enemies like that; it’s not worth it. And you don't realize how comfortable I am being unnoticed. It’s like being in "the shadow of a great rock in a weary land."

How is the no sale of Shapes of Clay going? I'm gradually saving up some money to pay you back for your generous investment. Saving is a new experience for me, and I actually enjoy it. If it ends up turning me into a miser, you'll have to explain yourself to quite a few people who will complain. 99

Get behind me, Satan! I can’t go to California just yet. For one, my health is better here in the East; I’ve completely avoided asthma this summer, which is my only "sickly season" here. In California, I had it at any time of year—even at Wright's. But I hope to spend my final days out there.

I don't think Millard was too tough on Kipling; it wasn't "unconscious" plagiarism; just a "straight steal."

About Prentice Mulford. I barely knew him and used to tease him a bit by calling him "Dismal Jimmy." That summed up my impression of his character and work, which was mostly just empty clichés. I last saw him in London, part of the group with Joaquin Miller, Charles Warren Stoddard, and Olive Harper at 11 Museum Street, Bloomsbury Square. He married a foolish girl named Josie—can't remember her last name—who I think he endured a difficult life with for a while, then he left her. A few years later, he came back to this country and was found dead one morning in a boat at Sag Harbor. Rest in peace. No, he wasn't a fraud; he was a sincere guy who just got his calling wrong.

My friends have gone back to Washington, but I plan to stay here for a few more weeks, hanging out in the woods, raiding the mountain food supplies, watching the sunsets, and guiding the stars in their paths. Then I’ll head to New York and finally to Washington. Please get to work on your fame so you have the money to come and chill with me.

I hope you don't mind the typewriter—I don't.

Convey my love to all the lovely ladies in your group and send my regards to the Gang as well. Sincerely yours, Ambrose Bierce.

Dear George, 100

Your latest was dated Sept. 10. I received it while I was alone in the mountains, but since then I've been in New York City, at West Point, and—here. New York is too intense for me; it really gets on my nerves.

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Please don’t try to convince me to go to California—I really can’t, and it’s hard to say no. A big part of my heart is there, but—oh, never mind the reasons; some of them wouldn’t look great written down. One reason I don’t mind sharing is that I wouldn’t want to live in a state governed by union labor rules. There’s still one place where honest American workers aren’t allowed to take advantage of others and treat women poorly whenever they want. That’s the District of Columbia.

I can’t wait to read Lilith; please finish it.

I have another rejection note for you. It's from * * *. I know you won't trust what he says about the Metropolitan, so I'm including it. I followed his advice and sent the poem. It's about time for it to be returned. Then I'll try the other magazines until I've gone through the entire list.

Did I send back your Jinks verses? I remember reading them and planning to return them, but my correspondence and documents are such a mess that I'm completely lost on these things. For all I know, I might have already written a detailed response to the letter I think I'm replying to now. I liked the verses moderately, not passionately.

Of course you're right that magazine editors don't recognize poetry when they see it. But who does? I've only known about half a dozen people in America who do, and none of them edited a magazine.

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No, I didn’t write the "Urus-Agricola-Acetes stuff,"101 though it was created for me and, I think, at my suggestion. The author was "Jimmy" Bowman, and I wrote a sonnet about his death that's in Black Beetles. We used to have a lot of fun coming up with literary pranks, having mock battles with each other, and so on. He was a smart guy and a great judge of whiskey.

Yes, in The Cynic's Dictionary I did "jump from A to M." I had previously worked on the content in various papers up to M, then lost the beginning. So when I picked it up again, I rewrote that part (completely differently, of course) to make it complete in case I wanted to turn it into a book. I guess the Examiner isn't publishing much of it, or really much of anything of mine.

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I appreciate your love for Keats and early Coleridge.

Best regards, Ambrose Bierce.

My dear Davis

The "bad reputation" of rejecting Sterling's amazing poem is one that you'll have to share with some of your respected fellow magazine writers—like the editors of the Atlantic, Harper's, Scribner's, The Century, and now the Metropolitan, all of the elite. I believe all of these gentlemen, unlike you, claim to recognize literature when they see it and to engage with it.

Well, I admit I dabble in it a bit, and if Sterling allows, I plan to someday ask for judgment between them and me.

Even you ask for literature—if my stories count as literature, as you’re kind enough to suggest. (By the way, all the major publishers in the country rejected that book until102 they saw it published without them by a merchant in San Francisco and other types of publishers in London, Leipzig, and Paris.) Well, you wouldn’t change a thing in one of my stories!

No, thank you; if I have to write nonsense, I'd rather do it for the newspapers, which are upfront about being trashy, and where the flaws of a bad piece go unnoticed or are forgotten as soon as it’s no longer fresh.

I know how to write a story (the kind with a "happy ending") for magazine readers who think literature is too fancy, but I won't do it as long as stealing feels more respectable and intriguing.

I've given you the best material available—Sterling's poem—and the best I can create; so now, you'll have to excuse me. I have no doubt you genuinely believe you would enjoy "the kind of fiction that made 'Soldiers and Civilians' the most readable book of its kind in this country," and it's kind of you to express it that way; but I also believe you would find the story I sent to be a different type of fiction and, like the satire you returned to me, "out of the question." An editor with a fixed idea about the kind of content they expect to receive will always be let down by what they actually get.

I know this from my early experience as an editor—before I realized that what I really needed wasn't a specific type of material, but rather the work of a certain kind of writer.

All of this without any emotion, and just to explain why I need to ask you to forgive me.

Best regards, Ambrose Bierce.

Dear George, 103

* * *

Yes, I read that ridiculous piece in the August Critic. I found nothing worse than stupidity in it—no malice. You probably haven't explored the deeper levels of stupidity in critics, so you're looking for other reasons to explain their bizarre mistakes. I know from my own experiences long ago how challenging it is to accept terrible criticism, which is obviously unfair to the person being criticized, without thinking the critic has some personal bad motive; but that assumption is almost always wrong, even for a writer like me, who has plenty of personal enemies. You should try to avoid that rookie mistake. * * * has this issue in what seems like a chronic state. Poets, because of the sensitivities that make them poets, are especially prone to it. I don't see any evidence that the poor guy from the Critic knew any better.

The Wine of Wizardry is currently at the Booklovers'. It should have returned by now, but don’t get your hopes up about that: I’m sure they’ll reject it, and I’m cursing them in advance.

I got a postcard from * * * a few days ago. He was in Paris. I've only written to him once, pointing out that the longer the distance a letter has to travel, the less motivated you feel to write it. I don't know why that is, but it seems to be true—at least for me.

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Yes, I'm in perfect health, except for occasional insomnia, and I enjoy life just as much as I ever did—except when I'm in love and things are going well; that is to say, when it was fresh and new.

Best regards, Ambrose Bierce.

Hey George,

This is the worst yet! This idiot seems to think104 "The Wine of Wizardry" is a story. It should "arrive" and be "dramatic"—the conclusion being, I guess, a particularly exciting example of a "happy ending."

My dear friend, I’m truly embarrassed to waste your valuable insights on these fools, and I sincerely apologize for doing it in the first place. I suppose the "Wine" will have to wait until your next book is published.

But I'd like to keep this guy's note if you could kindly give it to me. Later, when the poem is published, I’ll glue it into a little scrapbook, along with all the rejection notes, and then if I know a couple of people who can appreciate the humor of it, I can laugh about it with them.

Best regards, Ambrose Bierce.

Dear George,

It's been a while since your last letter, but I've been working double the workload for weeks and honestly haven't had the time to write to my friends. Since it's the first time I've really pushed myself in years, I shouldn't complain, and I won't. But I hope this will wrap up with the current session of Congress.

I think I forgot to thank you for the extra copies of your new book—the latest edition. I wish it included the new poem, "A Wine of Wizardry." I've given up trying to get it published. I told Mackay from "Success" about my struggle, and he asked to see it. "No," I replied, "you’d probably reject it too, and I don’t want to risk losing the respect I have for you." So, I didn't show it to him. He said he wanted to get a hold of it, which was exactly what I hoped for. But I'm sure he didn't. 105

Yes, you sent me "The Sea Wolf." What do I think of it? Certainly—or at least part of it. It’s a really unpleasant book overall. London’s writing style is pretty terrible and lacks any sense of balance. The plot is just a chaotic mix of unpleasant events. Two or three of those incidents would have been enough to show the character of the man Larsen; his own spoken revelations would have handled the rest. Many of these events are also unrealistic—like a man climbing a ladder while a dozen other guys are hanging onto his leg, or the hero’s task of re-rigging a wreck and getting it off a beach where it had been stuck for weeks, and so on. The "love" part, with its ridiculous suppressions and impossible rules of propriety, is terrible. I admit I have a strong disdain for both of the sexless lovers.

Now, about the merits. It's a really engaging story in a way; there’s always something happening—not always what you'd want, but something. You won’t fall asleep reading this book. But the best part—and this is truly significant—is the incredible character of Wolf Larsen. If he’s not a lasting addition to literature, he at least leaves a permanent impression on readers. You "can't lose" Wolf Larsen. He’ll stick with you forever. So it doesn't really matter how London has portrayed him. You may disagree with the methods, but the outcome is nearly unmatched. Creating and establishing such a character is an impressive feat for one lifetime. I can hardly find the words to express my high regard for that work.

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That’s a nice image of Phyllis as Cleopatra—who I believe you used to refer to as "the angel child"—just like the Furies were called Eumenides.

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I'm including a review of your book from the St. Louis "Mirror," a publication that has always been supportive of our little group of talented unknowns. I figured you might not have come across it; and it's definitely worth checking out. Percival Pollard sent it to me, and we owe our acknowledgment by the "Mirror" to him.

I hope you thrive quickly. I mean in your mind and spirit; all other success is worthless.

Best regards, Ambrose Bierce.

Dear George,

I've come across your letter in my files. I can't believe I did, because I'm really busy—mostly with quick, newspaper-type gigs, some compiling for future—likely very distant—books, and a bit for posterity.

Valentine hasn't returned the "Wine of Wizardry," but I'll tell him to do so in a few days and then I'll try it with the magazines you mentioned. If that doesn't work, I don't see any reason not to offer it to the English periodicals.

I don't know about Mackay. He has a small piece of mine that he was supposed to publish months ago. He didn't, so I asked for it back. He returned it and pleaded for it to go back to him for immediate publication. It went back, but it still hasn't been published. In many other ways, he has been really kind. I guess he can't always get what he wants.

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I read that other book to the bitter end—the "Arthur Sterling" thing. He is the most unpleasant character in fiction, although Marie Bashkirtseff and Mary McLean in real life could give him a run for his money. Can you believe a poet, or any kind of writer, who finds it painful to think? What are all his struggles about—his writhing, twisting, and foaming at the mouth? What would a poem from an intellectual like him even look like? Luckily, the author spares us from having to read any of it. I guess there are Arthur Sterlings among the little guys, but if genius isn't about peace, strength, and reason, then I don't know what it is. You can't even picture Shakespeare or Goethe suffering over their work and howling when "in the fell clutch of circumstance." I imagine the greats as always smiling—a bit sadly at times, maybe, but always with a certain detachment from the annoying little Titans trying to storm their Olympus with their trivial disasters and childish misfortunes. Imagine someone wanting, like Arthur Sterling, to be supported by others so he can write what they don’t want to read! Even Jack London would be disgusted by that kind of Socialism.

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I'm going to spend a month or two this summer with the Pollards in Saybrook, Conn. I really wish you could join us. But I guess you'll be busy with your chicken ranch, and I hope you're happy where you are. I wish you the best of luck with that venture, and while it might not bring in much money, it will probably be more fulfilling than sitting at a desk in your uncle's office. The name Carmel Bay is just beautiful. I have a feeling I'll get to see that ranch someday. I don’t really recognize the "filtered-through-the-emasculated-minds-of-about-six-fools" article that you mention I quoted—don’t remember it or quoting from it.

I get why you're surprised by my high opinion of Longfellow in a certain article. It's higher than how I usually view him. At the time (while I was writing for a newspaper, remember), I was thinking more about his reputation than his actual talent—I needed a literary counterpart to Washington or Lincoln. Still, we shouldn't forget that Longfellow wrote "Chrysaor" and, for narrative poetry (which you’re not a fan of), "Robert of Sicily." Should someone be evaluated by their average, or can they be assessed by their best work sometimes? The one who is truly strong is the one who can lift the heaviest weight, not just someone who consistently lifts lighter ones.

As for your questions, to my knowledge, Realf did write his amazing sonnets on the night he died. In any case, they were found with his body. Your memory of me saying they were written before he arrived on the Coast is incorrect. Some of his other works were already published when he submitted them to me (and got paid for them) as new; but not the "De Mortuis."

I got the lines about the echoes (I think they go like this:

the loony
Laughed, and the echoes, terrified,
Like Odin's hounds went howling through the night")

from a poem called "The Washers of the Shroud." I found it in the "Atlantic" magazine during the summer of 1864, while I was at home from the war recovering from a wound, and—shameful to admit!—I haven't seen or heard anything about it since. If the magazine was a recent issue, as I think it was, it should be easy to find the poem. If you look it up, please let me know what you find. I don’t even know who wrote it—I once thought it might be Lowell, but I'm not sure.

The term "mulolatry," which I created in "Ashes of the Beacon," shouldn't really be used in serious writing. I used it because I couldn't think of the right term, "gyneolatry" or "gynecolatry," depending on whether you use the nominative or accusative. I once came up with "caniolatry" for a similar reason—just plain laziness. It’s not cool to do things like that, even in newspapers.109

* * *

I was planning to write you something about "beesness," but time's up and it'll have to wait. This letter is already way too long.

My love to Carrie and Katie. Best wishes, Ambrose Bierce.

Dear George,

Bailey Millard is the editor of "The Cosmopolitan Magazine," which Mr. Hearst has purchased. I met him in New York two weeks ago. He had just arrived, and after hearing from Hearst that I was in town, he reached out to me. I had just recommended him to Hearst as editor. Hearst had planned to make him the associate editor. I think that will give you a shot, however small it may be. Millard had dinner with me, and I shared the adventures of "A Wine of Wizardry." I’ll send it to him as soon as he gets settled in, unless you’d prefer to send it yourself. He already knows I think highly of it, and he respects you as well.

I guess you’re at your new ranch, but I’ll write this letter like I always do.

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If you hear about me drowning, know that it’s just the natural (and expected) outcome of my canoeing habit. I’ve got a fantastic canoe and I’m tempting fate and worrying my friends by spending my time not along the edge of the upper river, but in the wide stretches below town, where the wind has plenty of range and creates a truly thrilling chaos. If I survive, I plan to send my boat up to Saybrook,110 Connecticut, and sail around Long Island Sound.

Are you close enough to the ocean to go boating every now and then? When I come to see you, I’ll want to bring my canoe.

I've almost quit my newspaper job, but I will write something for the Magazine each month. I haven't done much yet—I just haven't been in the right mindset. Death has been hitting close to home again, and you know how that affects a person.

Sincerely, Ambrose Bierce.

Hey George,

I'm in your debt for two lovely long letters. You're mistaken if you think that your letters, no matter how long or how often, could ever be anything but delightful to me.

No, you hadn’t sent me Upton Sinclair's article before, where he explains why American literature is "bourgeois." It's amusingly absurd. The political and economic situation has as much to do with it as the flow of our rivers or the color of our hair. But it’s in the nature of trendsetters (and among all trendsetters, the extreme socialists are the least grounded) to see their obsession everywhere, with its name boldly displayed. They are the comedians of observation. When Sinclair momentarily puts aside his unrealistic beliefs, he can see clearly enough.

I see what you’re saying about * * * and I know he didn’t used to like me, though I doubt he ever had anything against you. Six or eight years ago, I confronted him about a particularly nasty comment he made about me while I was away from California. (I don’t think I had met him before.) I bluntly told him what I thought about it. He honestly admitted he was wrong, expressed regret, and has since then, as far as I know, been fair and even generous to me. I believe he’s sincere now, and I’m including a letter that seems to confirm that. You can return it if you want—I’m mainly sending it because it relates to your poem. The issue we have with * * * is that he has willingly made himself a slave to the traditions and theories of the magazine industry, which, like all industries, are shaped by small-minded people. A great person finds success by ignoring those conventions. I don’t intend to argue with your opinion of * * *, but I do think he’s pretty decent.111

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Bless you, don’t bother going through the Iliad and the Odyssey to pick out the poetic parts. I admit they are short and rare—I mean in translation. I believe, like Poe, that there are no long poems—only bursts of poetry in long stretches of metrical prose. But even the "recitativo" of the translated Greek poets has a charm that might not resonate with everyone. I doubt anyone who has always loved "the glory that was Greece"—who has been perpetually enamored with its cheerful deities and so on—can accurately state how much of their enjoyment of Homer (for example) comes from loving poetry and how much comes from a revival of youthful thoughts and dreams. Some of the pleasure we derive from verse defies categorization and analysis. Only someone without memory (and memories) could pinpoint what exactly pleased them in poetry and be confident that it was only the poetry. For instance, I never read the opening lines of Pope’s Iliad—and I don’t need the book for much of the first few hundred lines, I suppose—without feeling like I’m on a sunny green hill on a cold windy day, with the bluest sky above me and rolling pastures below, stretching to a sharp horizon. There’s nothing in the text to explain that feeling, which is nonetheless to me a part of the Iliad; a truly delightful part, too. It all stems from my having read it for the first time under such conditions when I was about ten. I remember that; but how many times have I been powerfully moved by poets without remembering why. If someone could eliminate all that external interest, they would be foolish to do so. But they would be a better critic.

You should be happy thinking about a natural, fulfilling life at Carmel Bay—the view is definitely nice. But I'm worried, I really am. Maybe you could find a newspaper job that brings in a little income without forcing you to compromise your writing principles. I’m not sure you can make a living off the land. But I’ll keep an eye on your experiment with genuine interest, because it intrigues me. I'm a bit tired from age and city life, and maybe if you can make that work, I could too.

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As for * * * the Superb. Isn't Sag Harbor close to Saybrook, Connecticut, at the mouth of that river? I'm heading there for a month with Percival Pollard. I plan to leave around the beginning of July. If Sag Harbor is easy to get to from there, and * * * would like to see me, I’ll go visit her. * * * But maybe I’d fall for her and, being currently (sadly) single, end up marrying her!—or get rejected by her, which would completely ruin my peace! I'm just a young guy—63 on the 24th of this month—and it’d be unfortunate to start off on the wrong foot in life. But honestly, I’m not sure if it’s good taste to joke about * * *. I’m sure she’s a pretty serious girl, with the sun of a fading race shining on her hair. Eva Crawford thinks she’s amazing—and Eva has a clear, thoughtful perspective on everything. 113

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I'm going to send my canoe up to Saybrook and take on the waves of the Sound. Don't worry—I've been a skilled canoeist since I was a kid. * * *

Best, Ambrose Bierce.

Dear George

I finally have the letter I was waiting for—I didn't reply to the other one because one of mine was on its way to you.

Understood. Please provide the text you would like me to modernize.

You don’t need to stress about your part in the business. You’ve done right, just as I expected you would; and, not worried about any other aspect of this situation, I appreciate you giving my pessimism and increasing disbelief in people's selflessness a solid wake-up call.

Understood! Please provide the text you want me to modernize.

Yes, I felt bad about criticizing London because I really admire him as a writer, but I have a lot of disdain for him as a public figure and reformer. Even if we were personal friends, I would still have criticized him, probably even more harshly. I’m not someone who gives my friends a free pass to screw up. If my friend brings shame upon himself, he brings shame upon me; if he acts foolishly, he makes me look foolish too—something that no one else can do.

Please provide the text you would like me to modernize.

Your description of your new surroundings in your other letter makes me really "homesick" to see it. I genuinely congratulate you and Mrs. Sterling on having the wisdom to do what I've always been too lazy to do—namely, to do as you please. I guess I've always been too busy "warming both114 hands before the fire of life." And now, when

"It sinks, and I'm ready to leave,"

I realize that the damn fire was in me and should have been put out with a bit of common sense. I'm getting my canoe fitted out and rigged for deeper waters and I hope to be drowned in line with what my conscience tells me.

By showing my ability to hold back, I'm going to end this rant with a whole page left blank.

Sincerely yours, always, Ambrose Bierce.

Hey George,

I don't know why I haven't written to you—well, I guess I don't know why God made me what I have the misfortune of being: someone who struggles with procrastination.

Understood. Please provide the text you would like me to modernize.

I read Mary Austin's book with unexpected interest. It’s absolutely delightful. You might not know that I'm familiar with the kind of country she writes about, and reading her book felt like exploring it all over again. But the best part is her writing style. It’s wonderful. It has a slight hint of old-fashioned charm—just enough to evoke "clear syrups flavored with cinnamon," or the "spice and balm" of the sea breezes Miller writes about. And she has such a talent for observation! Nothing slips past her. Tell me more about her. What else has she written? What is she planning to write next? If she’s still young, she will create great work; if not—well, she has certainly achieved that in this book. But she’ll have to keep pushing and pushing until the world takes notice.

As for me, I'm just getting by. The pieces I'm writing for the N. Y. American115 (I assume the part you see is in the Examiner) are just fluff, created without effort, purpose, or care. My section in the Cosmopolitan is a bust, just like I told Millard it would be. It's impossible to write timely pieces for a magazine. How can you discuss something with passion or inspiration when it happened two months ago and your comments will only be read then? The idea and the title were Hearst's, but the title makes it so difficult for me that I can't do anything right. I'm going to drop it.

I've written three short stories for the March issue (they might be delayed) that are disturbing enough to make a pig squeal.

Understood. Please provide the text you would like me to modernize.

Best, Ambrose Bierce.

My dear George

First, about the "Wine," I really don't like the "privately printed" scheme. Can you hold off on this for a bit longer? Neale has the poem, but he’s currently out of reach, somewhere in the South working on his upcoming magazine. I tried to contact him when I was in New York, but he had already left, and I haven’t been able to get in touch since; however, he’s supposed to be back here on the 23rd. If his magazine isn't going to move forward, or if he doesn't want the poem for it, let Robertson or Josephare take a shot at it.

Barr is funny. I don’t need a copy of what he said.

About the pirating of my stories. That’s an issue for Chatto and Windus, who purchased the English copyright of the book that included that story. I imagine the publication was arranged with them. Regardless, my interests aren’t at stake.

I was really intrigued by your story about Mrs. Austin.116 She's a smart woman and should write a great novel—if there is such a thing as a great novel. I don't read novels.

Yes, the "Cosmopolitan" cat story belongs to Leigh and should be credited to him if it’s ever published in print. I took it on as the only way to get it published at all. Of course, I had to rewrite it; it was very rough and too disturbing. A story can be bad, but it shouldn’t be horrifying—there’s a difference. I found the manuscript among his papers.

It’s unpleasant to think about the distance between *** and his family. The issue probably comes from his marriage. It is amusing to see him drinking with you old drinkers. I remember he used to complain about my having wine in camp and about you hiding a bottle in the bushes.

I had seen that group of you, Joaquin, and Stoddard and laughed at your realistic impersonation of the Drowsy Demon.

I spent the first half of last month in New York. I went there for dinner and stayed until midnight. Sam Davis and Homer Davenport were part of the group.

Sam was here for a few days—but maybe you don't know Sam. He's Bob's brother, who insists you got your Dante-like serious look from visiting his office while he was editing a newspaper.

You shouldn't think I've completely moved on. There are only a couple of serious issues between us, and they can’t really be talked about through letters, so they’ll have to wait until he and I meet, if that ever happens. I won’t bring them up with anyone else, and I don’t think he will either. Aside from that—well, our correspondence was unpleasant, so the obvious choice was to end it. It’s not easy to stop being friends with someone, and I haven't tried to do that.

Of course, I approve the new lines in the "Wine," and if Neale or anyone else wants the poem, I’ll put them in their place. That "screaming thing" sticks with you almost as much as "the blue-eyed vampire," and it’s not just visible like she is, but also heard. If you keep adding lines to the poem, I won’t be as upset about our failure to get it published. As Mark Twain says: "Every time you draw, you fill."

The "Night in Heaven" is a great piece in a classic style, and its rhythm is captivating once you catch it. I get a jolt or two while reading it, but I suspect you intended that, and I can't say it detracts from the experience. Of course, the rhythm reminds me of Kipling's "The Last Chanty" (I’m not sure if I'm spelling it right—if there's a right way), but that doesn’t matter. No one owns the copyright to any meter or rhythm in English poetry. It’s been ages since anyone was "first." When are you coming to Washington to paddle in my canoe? Sincerely yours, Ambrose Bierce.

Dear George,

I've been back in New York but am gradually feeling better. I saw Neale. He assures me that the magazine should be out by June, and he wants my poem, "A Wine of Wizardry," along with an introduction from me. I think he’s serious; if he is, that will give it more exposure than what you’re thinking, even if the magazine ultimately fails. Magazines that are well-promoted usually sell several hundred thousand copies of their first issue; the challenge is to keep them going. Munsey's "Scrap Book" sold half a million. * * *

* * * was supposed to start for a few weeks in California around this time. I hope you get to see him. He’s not a bad guy when he feels respected. He’s been treated really poorly in this area, just like every Western man who comes into this place full of smug people. 118

My blessing goes out to all Carmelite individuals—if there are any at all.

Best regards, Ambrose Bierce.

Doubleday, Page & Co. will publish my "Cynic's Dictionary."

Dear George

I write hoping that you’re okay and worrying that you’re not. [8]

Please let me know if I can help—I can’t tell you how happy I’d be to do so. “Help” would be included if I were sure about you and the post office. It’s really a terrible situation, and you don’t need to own property out there to be “hit hard” by it. You only need to have friends there.

We are stuck here regarding the telegraph—we won’t be able to send anything over the wires for several days since all private messages are being denied.

Pray God you and your family are doing well. Of course, anything you can share about my friends will be gratefully appreciated.

Best regards, Ambrose Bierce.

[8] The San Francisco earthquake and fire happened on April 18, 1906.

Dear George

Your letter really eases my mind. I was starting to worry that you had "gone ahead." Thank you so much for the updates about our friends. I had already heard from Eva Croffie. Also from Grizzly.

Text is needed for modernization.

Thank you for Mr. Eddy's review of "Shapes." However, he is mistaken about poor Flora Shearer. Of course, I helped119 her—who wouldn’t help a good friend in tough times? But she went to Scotland to stay with a brother a long time ago, and at this point, I don’t know if she is alive or dead.

But here I am, momentarily forgetting that terrible destruction of San Francisco. It really affected me in many ways—mostly indirectly, through my friends. I had hoped to host you and your crew, and I’m a bit disappointed to hear that you’re fine—except for the chimneys. I’m glad the tidal wave didn’t hit, but don’t you think it’d be wise to have a canoe ready? You could keep it on your porch stocked with supplies and whiskey.

My letter from Ursus (written during the fire) expresses a deep concern for the Farallones, as the flames were spreading westward.

If this letter seems a bit scattered and hard to follow, know this, O King: I've just come back from a dinner in Atlantic City, NJ. I ran into Markham there, along with Bob Davis, Sam Moffett, Homer Davenport, Bob Mackay, and other people from San Francisco. (Can there really be a San Franciscan when there’s no San Francisco? I don't want to go back. Sure, the new San Francisco—while it lasts—might be a nicer city than the old one, but it won’t be my San Francisco, and I don’t want to see it. For many years, it has felt like it's filled with ghosts for me. Now it’s a ghost itself.)

I return the sonnets. The destruction of "Town Talk" has probably saved you from having the one about me rejected. Dear old friend, don’t bother trying to defend my memory when—or at least until—

"I've escaped"
From this horrible world, to live with the most disgusting worms."

I'm not letting my enemies' attitude bother me at all. On120 the contrary, I actually feel sorry for them and their sleepless nights—lying awake thinking up new and necessary lies about me, while I sleep soundly. Oh, it's all good, really.

No, I never had any conflict (or much familiarity) with Mark Twain—I only met him two or three times. Once with Stoddard in London. I think highly of him, but I doubt he cared about me and can't, right now, think of any reason why he should have cared about me.

"The Cynic's Dictionary" is being printed. I'll have to come up with a different title because the publishers told me there’s already a "Cynic's Dictionary" out there. I wouldn’t be surprised if the author borrowed more than just my title—the material has been a goldmine for plagiarists for quite some time. The publishers won’t accept "The Devil's Dictionary." Here in the East, the Devil is a revered figure (the Fourth Person of the Trinity, as an Irishman might put it) and his name should not be used lightly.

No, "The Testimony of the Suns" hasn't "worn off" on me. I still read it and still believe it's one of the greatest poems in the world.

* * *

Well, God be with you and take care of the place at Carmel,

Best regards, Ambrose Bierce.

Dear George

Your poem, "A Dream of Fear," was so good before that it didn't need any changes, though I'm glad to see that you have "the passion for perfection." Sure—you can use the word "colossal" to describe something that's only two-dimensional, if that’s what you want.

I don't mind the publication of that sonnet about me on121. It might give my enemies a brief, unpleasant feeling, and if I can manage that without any effort on my part, it’s worth it. I think they must have stirred things up again to have gotten you so worked up—probably made up a new and interesting lie. Thanks for stepping in on my behalf.

What a "settlement" you've got around you at Carmel! All sorts of oddballs and curiosities that I feel oddly connected to. Still, I guess I won't go. I'd have to see the new San Francisco—once it’s foolishly built—and I’d rather not. Nobody wants to see either the disfigured face of their beaten-up friend or an arrogant pretender with his name. No, my San Francisco is gone, and I won't accept any other.

Sure! Please provide the short piece of text you'd like me to modernize.

You’re mistaken about Gorky—he doesn’t have an “artist” in him at all. He’s not just a peasant, but also an anarchist and supporter of assassination—by others; like most people of his kind, he doesn’t want to take the risk himself. His “career” in this country has been nothing more than a sham. Hearst’s newspapers and * * * are the only allies he has left from all those who praised him when he first arrived. And no amount of the former’s blatant lies can save him now. It’s not just about the issue with women. You’d get it if you were in this part of the country. I was also fooled by him. He had shown great admiration for my books (in an interview in Russia), and when his government let him out of prison, I sent him a congratulatory cable. Oh, my!

Yes, I've seen the obviously false figures regarding the number of people who died in San Francisco; also that there wasn't an earthquake—just a fire; and also the effort to "outsmart" the insurance companies. Insurance is a scam, and if the companies can be tricked out of their dishonest profits by someone even more dishonest, I have no problem with that; but in my opinion, they are neither legally nor morally responsible for the half that's being claimed from them. Those that didn't cover earthquake risks don’t owe anything. 122

Please don't send me * * *'s verses if you can politely refuse. I'd be disappointed to discover they're bad, and my dislike for the Whitmaniacal "style" is just as strong as yours. Maybe I would think they're good otherwise, but the chance of that is so low that I don't want to take the risk.

Sure, please provide the text you would like me to modernize.

I've just finished reading the first proofs of "The Cynic's Word Book," which Doubleday, Page & Co. will release in October. My interactions with them have been very enjoyable, and one of their team members I met the other day in Atlantic City seems like a great guy.

I think I mentioned that S. O. Howes from Galveston, Texas, is putting together a book of essays and things from some of my writing that I sent him. I've left the choice completely up to him and offered him the profits if there are any. He probably won't even find a publisher. He has the work about halfway done. By the way, he’s a big fan of yours. For that, I like him, and for many other reasons too.

I plan to stay here all summer even if it kills me, which it probably will. Good luck and best wishes to you.

Best regards, Ambrose Bierce.

Dear Mr. Cahill,

I truly regret that I can't send you the copy of the Builder's Review that you generously sent me. However, before I received your note, I had looked everywhere for it on my own, but to no avail. Someone took it from my table. I really valued it after the incident, but I would have been even happier to have it for you.

It was definitely a tough situation for you San Franciscans. I always thought I’d return to the good old town someday, but I have no interest in seeing the new town, if there is going to be one. I’m afraid the fire even took away the ghosts that used to greet me at every street corner—ghosts of beloved friends who have passed away, oh, so many of them!

Please accept my condolences for your losses. I also experience pain, as an entire edition of my latest book, along with all the illustrations, has gone up in flames, and many of my friends are now part of the "dependent class." It affected us all pretty deeply, I suppose, no matter where we were.

Best regards, Ambrose Bierce.

Dear George,

I'm ready to assist you with modernizing text. Please provide the phrases you would like me to work on.

If your neighbors, the Carmelites, are truly "normal" and respectable, I feel sorry for you. They will definitely make you want to drink, even while staying completely sober themselves. Their kind affects me like that. Thank goodness for the eccentric and the odd!—what would life in this desert be without its wise men and wandering mystics? Just a world of merchants and camel drivers—no one to share laughter with and at.

Did you catch Gorky's take on us in "Appleton's"? After spending just a few weeks in a country where he doesn't speak a word of the language, he somehow knows everything about us—thanks to his genius intuition and a little help from Gaylord Wilshire and his crew. He expresses his thoughts through vague insults that could apply to any country. He's a great bomb-thrower,124 but he's only so-so at throwing the stink-bomb. He ought to write for "The Cosmopolitan" on "The Treason of God."

Sorry you didn't like my comments in that ridiculous "symposium." If I said enough to make it clear that I don't care at all about any of the topics discussed, or about the people who do care, I achieved what I wanted. It wasn't meant to be a "debate" at all—at least not on my end; I don’t argue with naive people. Hunter is a decent enough guy, for a dreamer, but Hillquit is a joyless anarchist. When I complimented him on the beauty of his neck and jokingly suggested putting a nice, new rope around it, he almost choked on the brandy I was pouring at the hotel bar. And it wasn't out of laughter. His anarchist views were completely fabricated.

I'm not familiar with the poetry of William Vaughan Moody. Can you fill me in?

I'm sending you a strange piece by Eugene Wood from Niagara Falls, where I met him a couple of years ago. I’m sure you’ll appreciate it. The poor guy passed away recently and will likely rest in a forgotten grave. You can return the book whenever you've read it enough. I’m pretty sure you haven’t heard of it before.

Enclosed is your sonnet, along with a few unimportant suggestions. I didn't have enough space to mention that the excess of superlatives noted is highlighted by the words "west" and "quest" right after, creating a lot of "ests." The verses are nice, but if any villain likes them more than "In Extremis," may he bite himself with a snake!

If you send me that creepy piece on Fear—with the "clangor of ascending chains" line—and a couple of other ones you think would work in a magazine, I'll give them a shot with Maxwell. I have a feeling he might drop dead from boredom while reading, or maybe his jaw will dislocate from yawning, but either way, you won't have wasted your time writing them. 125

Have you checked out anything on "Munsey"? Bob Davis is the editor, and we mentioned you over dinner (wondering where you might have been). I think he appreciates my opinion a bit. * * *

I wish I could feel your Carmel sea breeze; the weather here is terrible! I don't even canoe.

My "Cynic" book is coming out in October. I'll send it to you.

Best regards, Ambrose Bierce.

Dear George

Both your letters are here.

Sure, please provide the text you'd like modernized.

Be a "magazine poet" as much as you can—that's the quickest route to getting noticed, and all our greatest poets have taken it. You don't have to compromise your principles, though, by writing "magazine poetry." You wouldn't be able to.

What's your issue with * * *? I don’t see that it’s any worse than other things in its category. But someone who has spent almost twenty years writing for sensationalist newspapers can't be expected to have much insightful to say on that topic. So I guess I might be mistaken in my advice about the type of pigs for your pearls. There are probably more than just the two kinds—live ones and dead ones.

Yes, I'm a colonel—on Pennsylvania Avenue. In the neighborhood of my apartment, I'm just a Mister. At my club, I'm a major—which is my official title by an act of Congress. I kept it under wraps in California, but I can't here, where I hang out with the military crowd.

You don't need to insult your poem, "A Visitor," although126 I wish you hadn't picked blank verse. To me, that style is only suitable for serious topics, not trivial ones. Anyway, I always expect something profound when I start reading a poem in blank verse. Besides, it's not your best "medium." Your amazing poem, "Music," doesn't fully work for me because of that. Can I say that it feels a bit sing-songy—the lines are too similar in their pauses and some other aspects?

By the way, I’d like to see what you could do in more complex meters than the ones you handle so well. I thought of this the other day while reading Lanier’s "The Marshes of Glynn" and some of his other work. Lanier didn’t often match his master, Swinburne, in fully utilizing the technique, but he did well in the poem I mentioned. Maybe you could pull off this challenging task. It would be worth doing, so it's definitely worth a try.

Thank you for the Moody book, which I'll return. I really enjoy it and could easily fill pages with my thoughts on him for various reasons. But for you to say that he has you "skinned"—that’s quite generous. I agree, it's a great quality in poets, and a rare one at that. There's something about him and his book in the latest "Atlantic" by May Sinclair, who, I bet, has never heard of you. Unlike you, she thinks his dramatic work is the best of what he does. I haven't seen that. For it to be the best, it must be incredibly good.

Yes, poor White's poetry is exactly as you say—and even worse, but, honestly! he "had it in him." What stood out to me was his open admiration for piracy on the high seas. I'd dislike anyone who didn't have at least a bit of sympathy for that—just like Goethe admitted to feeling some sympathy for every vice. No one will ever127 hear about White, but (please take note, ambitious poet!) he doesn't mind. How wise are the dead!

I'm ready to help with your text. Please provide the short piece of text you'd like me to modernize.

My friend Howes from Galveston is, I think, almost done putting together his book of essays from my material. Neale has definitely decided to publish "The Monk and the Hangman's Daughter." He has the plates for my two unfortunate Putnam books and is considering my "complete works," which would be published by subscription. I doubt he'll take it on right away.

By the way, I'm in good health and am aging not too disgracefully.

Best regards, Ambrose Bierce.

Dear George

I'm hurt by your comments on my book. I always feel this way when I receive praise—"just plunged into a deep pit of dark despair" thinking that I didn't put in enough effort to make the compliment more genuine. I’ll work harder on the Howes book.

* * *

I can’t provide the missing link between pages 101 and 102 of the "Word Book," since I destroyed the copy and proofs. Figure it out yourself.

You’re mistaken: the book is bringing me a bit of recognition, but that’s it—it won’t sell because it doesn't have any slang, no “dialect,” and no funny bits. By the way, please send me any “notices” about it that you might come across out there.

Please provide the text you would like me to modernize.

I've written a ghost story for the January "Cosmopolitan," which I think is pretty good. That's all I've managed to do for over128 two months.

I’m returning your poem and the Moody book. Best, Ambrose Bierce.

Dear George,

Your letter from November 28 just arrived at my breakfast table. It’s the best part of the meal.

Please provide the text you would like me to modernize.

No, my dictionary won't sell. I made that very clear to the publishers.

I had lunch with Neale the other day—he comes down here once a month. His magazine (I think he plans to call it "The Southerner" or something like that) won't be published this month like he expected. And for a concerning reason: He depended heavily on Southern writers and discovered that they can't write! He assured me that it will come out this winter and asked me not to take back your poem and my comments on it unless you requested it. So I didn't.

Understood! Please provide the text you would like me to modernize.

In your role as a bookseller carrying my books, you have a new interest. May Heaven elevate you to publisher!

Thank you for the Moody books—I’ll return them soon. “The Masque of Judgment” has some excellent work in its final pages, just as impressive as anything in Faust. The parts you marked are good too, but some of them just fall short of being completely satisfying. It might frustrate you to find many similar passages in the other book, which isn’t exactly known for being clear. I often found myself wanting to ask the author: “What on earth are you trying to say?”

I'm going to finish this letter at home where there is less129 talk about the military power of Japan compared to San Francisco and the latter's newest and most serious problem, Teddy Roosevelt.

Ambrose Bierce.

P.S. I guess the letter is done.

Dear George

I guess I owe you a bunch of letters—but since you’re not really into writing them yourself, you’ll get it.

* * *

Hanging in front of me is a watercolor of a piece of Carmel Beach by Chris Jorgensen, which I spent fifty dollars on the other day. He had a great exhibition of his Californian work here. I wanted to buy everything, but settled for what I could afford. The painting has sentimental value to me, in addition to its artistic appeal.

Understood! Please provide the text you'd like me to modernize.

I’m meeting Neale in a few days and will try to find out when his magazine is coming out—if he knows. If he doesn’t, I’ll pull your poem. Next month, he’s republishing "The Monk and the Hangman's Daughter," with a new preface that some people won’t like. I’ll send you a copy. The Howes book is making its rounds among the publishers and will probably continue to do so for a while.

Best regards, Ambrose Bierce.

Dear George

Our letters crossed paths—a common occurrence in my correspondence when neither person has written in a while. I’ve made some interesting conclusions from this, but I don’t have time to explain them130. In fact, I only have time to send you the information about the battle of Shiloh that you asked about.

I should write it a bit differently now, but it might entertain you just the way it is.

* * *

Best regards, Ambrose Bierce.

* * *

Dear George,

If you leave Carmel, I’ll get rid of my Jorgensen picture, build a bungalow in the Catskills, and forget about California for good. (Those are the footprints of my damned canary, who won’t write himself or let me write. Right now, he’s sitting on my shoulder, waiting for me to tell him to sing—then he’ll drown me out with a completely nonsensical song. Oh, he's definitely a poet.)

I fully support your loyalty to money. If I had been smart enough to make a choice like that, I could be using my time at 65 to write a good book or two before I end up in the trash. * * * Build a solid bank account—there's no better friend than a bank account, and the best book is a checkbook; “You can count on that!” as one of Stevenson's pirates says.

Understood! Please provide the text you'd like me to modernize.

No, sir, your boss is not bringing you East next June; and even if he does, you won't be coming to Washington. How do I know? I can't explain it, but for everyone (and there are many) who were supposed to come from California to see me, I've never been wrong about whether they would come or not. Even in the case of * * *, although I wrote to you and her as if I was expecting her, I told one of my friends: "She won't come." I don't think it's some kind of sixth sense—it's just something that happens. Yours isn't a great example, because you never said you were definitely coming.

So your group of intellectuals is setting up shop again at the old place—Piedmont. * * * But Piedmont—it has to be in the middle of Oakland. I can't shoot rabbits in the ravine behind it and then sleep under a tree to go hunting again in the morning. I also can't walk along that long ridge with different girls anymore. I bet there's a boulevard stretching the whole way across it,

"A palace and a prison on either side."

If I could prevent you from reading that old volume of "Argonauts," I would, but I guess a legal order wouldn't work. Yes, I was a messy writer back then, though I was still better than those around me, which got my attention. My grasp of English was pretty poor, to say the least. Honestly, my intellectual development (whatever it is, and trust me, it’s enough to make me embarrassed) took a long time, just like my moral growth. What I mean is, I lacked genuine literary sincerity.

Yes, I wrote some harsh words about Swinburne that you quoted. But they weren’t completely untrue. He always made me uncomfortable—couldn’t stand still for a minute, and you were left looking for the string that controlled his limbs. And he had a weak face that made you think of a lack of chin. However, I’ve long since abandoned the opinions I once had about his poetry—thought I had, or at least believed I did. I can't recall if it was as recent as '78 that I felt that way.

You wrote about Miss Dawson. Did she make it through the earthquake? And what do you know about her? I haven't heard a thing about her. Despite your fancy nightingale (which I think should come with a hefty tax), your Ina Coolbrith poem is so great that I want to hang onto it if you have another copy. I see no correctable mistakes in it. * * *

The guy who told you I was an editor of "The Cosmopolitan" isn't being truthful. I just write for it, and honestly, the less of my work the editor uses, the happier I am.

Understood! Please provide the text you would like modernized.

O, you want to know about the "Ursus-Aborn-Gorgias-Agrestis-Polyglot" stuff. It was written by James F. ("Jimmie") Bowman—long gone. (Check out a not-so-great sonnet on page 94, "Shapes of Clay.") My only role in this was to suggest the papers and chat with him over many mugs of beer.

* * *

By the way, Neale mentions that he receives nearly enough inquiries about my books (from San Francisco) to make it worthwhile for him to republish them.

Sure! Please provide the text you'd like me to modernize.

That's all—and, as George Augustus Sala said about a chew of tobacco being the cost of a certain lady's favors, "God knows it's enough!" Ambrose Bierce.

Dear George

I got your letter from the 13th. The enclosed slip from the Pacific Monthly (thanks for sending it) is funny. Yeah, * * * is an unbearable know-it-all, but I don't mind his know-it-all attitude at all. Any critic can go ahead and criticize me as much as they want, as long as they include my definition of "Critic" from the "Word Book," just like * * * thoughtfully did.

Please don’t feel obligated to write to me if you’re not genuinely inspired to do so. We don’t need to communicate unless we truly want to. As for you coming East, please avoid making any promises, or you’ll end up like all my other friends out there, who always promise to visit but never do. It would be wonderful to see you here, but I understand that things often work out independently of our wishes. We do what we have to do, not necessarily what we want.

I think that uncle of yours must be a really great guy. Be nice to him and don’t take advantage of his help, even when you feel restricted. It’s worth more than poetry for nothing a year.

Did you receive the "Shiloh" article? I sent it to you. I also sent it to Paul Elder & Co. (New York branch) for their "Western Classics" book, and I hope it will fulfill their needs. They were looking for something, and it seemed to me that, with a little revision, it was as good as any of my work that I have the rights to. Do you think it would be smart to suggest they republish "In the Midst of Life"? It's currently "out of print" and I'm left with it.

Sure! Please provide the text you'd like me to modernize.

I'm glad you liked my "Cosmopolitan" pieces. The editor doesn't really give me much of a platform—he doesn't seem to like me as he should and only lets me do just enough to keep Mr. Hearst's attention off him and avoid any interference with the mutual admiration that's going on in the "Cosmopolitan" office. Since I'm quite fond of light work, I'm not upset about it.

Understood. Please provide the text that needs modernizing.

You haven't mentioned getting the book I sent, "The Monk and the Hangman's Daughter"—new edition. It's not as good as the old one. * * *

I'm boating again. I would love to head out my bow134 on Monterey Bay.

Best regards, Ambrose Bierce.

Dear Lora,

Your letter, along with the yerba buena and the sprig of redwood, felt like a refreshing breeze from the hills. The photographs are really nice. I see that Sloot's mustache is finally a respectable white, which is fitting for someone his age. I assume his hair is white too, but I can’t tell since he always seems to be wearing that hat. That backyard of yours is amazing, but I really miss the usual ash piles, tin cans, old packing boxes, and stuff like that. And that palm tree in front of the house—wow, it has really grown! Well, it’s been more than a day since it started growing, and I haven’t been watching it closely.

I hope you have a great time in Yosemite, but Sloots is silly for not going with you—nineteen days is way longer than anyone would want to be there.

I saw a bit of Phyllis Partington in New York. She mentioned a lot about you and seems to really like you. That’s pretty smart of her, don’t you think?

No, I won’t wait until I’m rich to visit you. I don't plan on being wealthy, but I do intend to visit you—someday. Probably after Grizzly has visited me. Love to you all. Ambrose Bierce.

Dear George

* * *

So * * * showed you his article about me. He showed it to me too, and some parts of it really made me laugh, though I didn’t let him know that. That image of me as a grumpy and disappointed old man taking over the entire cave of Adullam is135 especially funny, and so poetic that I wouldn’t dream of “cutting it out.” * * * seems unable (like many others) to measure success in any way other than popularity. He gives a better insight into his own character than mine. The old man is quite happy with how he’s played the game and with his share of the rewards, thank you.

I’m glad to hear you liked my article about you and your poem. I’ll fix the quote about the “timid sapphires”—I’m not sure how I missed the best part. But I removed the line about “harlot’s blood” because I didn’t think a magazine would accept it if I mentioned it to the editor. You don’t really understand magazines until you’ve experienced them. However, I can give it a try with Chamberlain if that works for you. And I’ll include “twilight of the year” too.

Understood. Please provide the text you would like me to modernize.

It's great to hear that you've "cut out" your clerical work if you can manage without it. Now, let's dive into some amazing poetry! I'm also really intrigued by Carmel—thanks to your letters. If I wasn't worried about getting sick—having a relapse of my old issue—I would head there right away. I've got nothing that would hold me back—just about two days of work each month. But I would never set foot in San Francisco. Of all the places that are like Sodom and Gomorrah in our modern world, it's the worst. There aren't ten righteous (and brave) people there. It could really use another earthquake, another taste of fire, and—most importantly—a constant stream of grapeshot. When * * * finishes criticizing New York (which it definitely deserves) and has shaken the filth of San Francisco off his feet, I'm going to send him after that moral prison of the world. * * *

I've got two "books" looking for a place in New York—the136 Howes book and some satires. I think they're just chickens who won't stand up and fight.

Best regards, Ambrose Bierce.

I turned sixty-five yesterday.

Dear George

I've just finished reading the proofs of my work about you and your poem. Chamberlain, as I told you, has scheduled it for September. But he also plans to include a longer ghost story of mine in that month, along with my usual pieces. Not seeing how he can fit everything into one issue, I’ve asked him to publish your poem (along with my comments) and to save the ghost story for another time. I hope he agrees, but if he doesn’t, please don’t blame me. An editor rarely does what you want. I added a couple more quotes in my article and restored some lines that I had cut from the quotes to save space.

It's scorching hot here—I envy you being in Carmel.

Best regards, Ambrose Bierce.

Dear George

I guess a bunch of your nice letters haven’t been answered, just like many others from different friends. I've been out and about a lot lately—mostly in New York. When I want to have a really great time, I head to New York; and I always have a blast.

Got it! Please provide the text you would like me to modernize.

As for Miller being "about the same age" as me, that's not true. The guy is well over seventy, even though nine or ten years ago he wrote from Alaska saying he was "in his mid-fifties." I've known him for almost thirty years, and he can't trick me with his youthful attitude and stories. May he live137 a long time and regret it.

Thank you for taking the time to send me Conan Doyle's opinion of me. No, it doesn't go to my head; I can show you dozens of "appreciations" from even greater and more famous people. I'm sending it back to you with corrections—just as he actually wrote it. Here it is:

"Praise from Sir Hugo is high praise." In "Through the Magic Door," a very insightful article on short stories that have caught his interest, Conan Doyle gives a well-deserved nod to Ambrose Bierce, whose incredible short stories have frequently been highlighted in these columns: "Speaking of eerie American tales, have you ever read any of Ambrose Bierce's works? I have one of his books in front of me, 'In the Midst of Life.' This man has his own distinctive style and was a true artist. It's not light reading, but it leaves an impression on you, and that’s the mark of great work."

Thank you also for the Jacobs story, which I will read. As a humorist, he isn't that impressive.

I haven't finished reading your Bohemian play yet, * * *. By the way, I've always wondered why they haven't put on Comus. If done right, it could be amazing forest-themed entertainment. Read it with that in mind and see if I’m not right. Then convince them to stage it next year.

I'm really feeling the urge to go back to California. No San Francisco for me, but Carmel sounds nice. How much would it cost to buy land and build a bungalow—for one person? That's a pretty vague question; but honestly, my desire to go isn't very clear right now. It's still just the element of wanting. * * *

The "Cosmopolitan," along with your poem, hasn't arrived yet but should be here soon—I'm a bit impatient—eager to see the specific kind of outrage that Chamberlain's artist has created with it. He (C.) asked for your address the other day, so he will probably send you a check.

Understood. Please provide the text you would like me to modernize.

Now please go work on "Lilith"; it’s sure to be amazing, since you’ll have to visualize everything. I regret that anyone ever created Lilith; it turns her into too much of a historical figure.

Understood! Please provide the text you'd like modernized.

"The other half of the Devil's Dictionary" is in a fluid state—not even liquid. And so, it will probably stay that way.

Best regards, Ambrose Bierce.

[9] (has) and (is) crossed out by A. B.

My dear George

I'm really glad that you don't mind Chamberlain's ridiculous nonsense linking Ella's name with yours. But when you read her honest opinion of your work, you'll see that she isn't complicit in the disrespect. I'm sending you a few pieces from Hearst's newspapers—written by the critics, people who use dialect, and those who just regurgitate clichés from the staff, as well as some of the idiots among the readers.

Note the deliberate and repeated lying of Brisbane in quoting me as saying the "Wine" is "the greatest poem ever written in America." Notice his dishonesty in admitting that he has positive letters but not publishing a single one. But the end isn't here yet—my turn is coming in the magazine. Chamberlain (who claims to have an enthusiastic admiration for the poem) promises me the freedom to respond to these ignorant fools. If he doesn’t allow me that, I’m out. I've written a paragraph or two for the November139 issue (it’s too late now for October) to warn them about what they can expect when December arrives. So you see, you have to patiently put up with the nonsense until then.

Understood. Please provide the short piece of text for modernization.

Did you see in the last line of the "Wine" that I put back the word "smile" from your earlier version of the verses? In one of your later drafts (I can't remember if it was the last), you had it as "sigh." That was off; "smile" feels so much better to describe the poet's attitude towards his dreams. So, since I had a choice, I went with it. Hope you like it.

I seriously want a place in Carmel as a safe haven from the challenges of aging. I’m not sure if I’ll actually end up living there, but I’d like to have the option if I choose to. Next summer, I plan to head out there and scout the area, and if I can afford it (without having to sell any of my favorite stocks), I’ll buy a place. I’m not worried about the food situation—I’d like to try living simply since I already have two sore spots on my fingers from my current lifestyle. (Of course, if they all end up that way, I won’t mind because I appreciate consistency.) If I do try living in Carmel, I might end up with asthma again, which I’ve been free of for a long time.

Understood! Please provide the text you would like me to modernize.

Best, Ambrose Bierce.

My dear Morrow

Whether you "succeed" or not, I'm glad you write instead of teaching. I've done a bit of teaching myself, but since it was unpaid, I could choose my students; so it was a labor of love. I'm quite happy with the results.

No, I'm not working too hard right now. I've written all that matters to me140, and since I have it pretty easy (just writing for The Cosmopolitan and not tied to Mr. Hearst's newspapers), I'm content.

I have seen your story in Success, but since I never read serials, I will wait for its full publication before diving into it.

You seem to be living at the old place on Vallejo Street, so I guess it was spared by the fire. I had some really good times in that house, not just with you and Mrs. Morrow (send her my love, please) but with the lovely Hogan girls, too. Poor Flodie! She's almost the only one left now. I wonder if she ever thinks about us.

I hear from California often through a small group of interesting people who get together in Carmel—where I might wander someday and leave my remains. In the meantime, I'm pretty happy here.

I really wish you’d join the Carmel crowd. You’d fit in perfectly and find them worthwhile. You’ve got to know George Sterling; he’s like the big boss and an incredibly great guy. Go grab a bungalow in Carmel, which is definitely the most charming place in the state. As for San Francisco, with its labor-union government, its crooks, and all its craziness, I can’t be dragged into it, even by a team of giants. But California—oh, I shouldn’t even think about it. Still, this Eastern part of the country isn’t without its charm. And my health is better here than it ever was there. The only thing I have to deal with is getting older, which brings its own remedies.

God bless you!—go and live at Carmel.

Best regards, Ambrose Bierce.

James D. Blake, Esq.,
141 Dear Sir:

It doesn't matter much to me, but I wouldn't be happy about the republication of those ridiculous books you mentioned. They have no real value or interest. One of them, "The Fiend's Delight," was published despite my objections; the best the compiler and publisher (the late John Camden Hatten, London) would agree to was letting me edit his collection of my work and write a preface. You would definitely lose money on any of them.

If you're thinking about republishing anything of mine, I believe you'd have more success with "Black Beetles in Amber" or "Shapes of Clay." The former sold well, and I think the latter would have done just as well if the earthquake and fire hadn't destroyed it, including the printing plates. Almost all of both books were sold in San Francisco, and both the sold and unsold copies—I mean the unsold copies of the latter—were lost in the fire. There's a lot of demand for them (mainly from people who lost their copies), and I've heard they sell for high prices. You probably know more about that than I do.

I would be happy to consider your proposals for republishing them—in San Francisco—and I won't be too strict about royalties, and so on.

But the other books are "youthful mistakes" and are "better off forgotten." Sincerely yours, Ambrose Bierce.

Dear George,

Understood. Please provide the text you would like me to modernize.

Please send me a copy of the new edition of "The Testimony." I borrowed one of the first editions to give away, and I want to replace it. Did you add the "Wine" to it? I'd142 not drop the indefinite article from the title; it seems to elevate the drink by suggesting it was something special. It might have been witch-fermented.

I don't "dislike" the line: "So terribly that brilliance shall enhance"; it just seems a bit less impressive than the others. Why didn’t I say so? I couldn't share with you everything I thought about the poem—for instance, how much I loved the lines:

"Where dawn has placed"
A single tear on a pansy's petals, and where the wind has passed by
And left behind a silence."

I'm ready to assist. Please provide the text you want me to modernize.

I'm sending you back some letters that I've received and responded to, using a different cover (as the ceremonial slangers would say). I have many more, mostly rude, which I'll pull out later. However, I can't send you the most enjoyable ones because I sent them to Brisbane on his promise to publish them, which he never did, nor has he had the decency to return them. I'm not really sorry about it, as it gives me a good reason to call him a peasant and a beast of the field. I'm always thankful for the opportunity to poke fun at someone.

I'm ready to assist! Please provide the text you would like me to modernize.

I really dislike the "limited edition" and "autographed copies" publishing plan, but to support Howes, who has contributed so much to my book, I've agreed to Blake's proposal in every aspect and hope I can eventually laugh at this perfect example of "irony of fate." I've made it clear that I won't profit in any way from the book. I just want Howes to "break even" for his work.

By the way, Pollard and I had a great time in Galveston, and on the way, I revisited some of my old battlefields. In Galveston, their hospitality almost overwhelmed me—so much that Pollard ran away. I came back through Key West and Florida.

You'll probably see Howes next summer—I convinced him to head out West and give up his bookworm habits for some other nonsense. Be nice to him; he's a great guy in his quirky, funny way.

I had no idea there was an American edition of "The Fiends' Delight." Who published it and when?

Congratulations on the acceptance of "Tasso and Leonora." But I wouldn’t focus too much on blank verse if I were you. It limits you to straightforward expression and seems to stifle the rich imagery and metaphor that enhance your rhymed work. This isn’t really a criticism of "Tasso," which is perfectly fine for anyone, but—well, it’s just so.

I'm not doing much. My work in the magazine comes last, and when ads fill the space, some of it gets left out. Most of it gets published later (since I obviously don't replace it with more work), but it ends up looking pretty outdated. My payments, though, are always up to date. Sincerely[10] yours, Ambrose Bierce.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ I can almost say "chill."

Dear George,

I just found a letter from you that I received in Galveston and (I’m afraid) didn’t respond to. But I’ve written to you since then, so I think everything is fine.

You mentioned the sonnet that Chamberlain requested. You shouldn't have given it to him—like you said, it was exactly the kind of content that magazines love. Actually, it was even better than that. But I wish you had sent it somewhere else. You owed it to me not to let the Cosmopolitan readers see anything of yours (at least for a while) that was anything less than great. Something as great as the sonnet you sent to McClure's was what the situation called for.

"And strict concern of relativity"—Oh come on! that's not poetry. It's just philosophical jargon.

I’m still waiting for my copy of the new "Testimony." That’s why I'm upset.

Best regards, Ambrose Bierce.

My dear Lora,

I'm an age aware of your letter; but then you would have taken forever to write it if you hadn't done it for "Sloots." And the other day I got one from him, written in his own improper style.

I think it's terrible that he and Carlt have to work so hard—at their age—and I completely agree with George Sterling that Carlt should go to Carmel and grow potatoes. I’d love to do that myself, but the problem is that too many annoying people hang out there: * * *, * * * and others like them. Still, I’m hoping the ocean will take * * * and won't spit him back out.

I hope you’ll allow Sloots to "retire" at seventy, which is actually pretty far along in life towards the age of judgment and adulthood. But once he retires, I know he’ll isolate himself in the redwoods and never see another person again. Honestly, I’d like to do that myself—for a few months.

I've taken on a lot of work this season, and I doubt I'll make it to California like I hoped. So I guess I’ll never, ever see you. But you could send me a photo.

God be with you. Ambrose Bierce.

N.B. If you go through the pages, you'll be able to make some145 sense of this rant.

My dear George

I’m sorry to hear that you haven’t been able to break free from your commercial constraints, even though you want to, though I really don’t know if they’re bad for you. I’ve complained about mine my whole life, but I don’t remember ever making good use of my free time when I had it—unless just having fun counts. I once wrote that your career or usefulness starts to fade when you focus more on the burden of doing your job than on how to do it well. I could have mentioned the struggle of having so little free time to do it. As I get older, I see more clearly the benefits of challenges, the powerful motivation that comes from tough situations, and the positive impact of limitations. And I’m ashamed to realize how little I benefited from them. I just wasn’t the right type, that’s all; but I really hope that you are.

No, I don’t see how it would help for you to try to keep * * * and me as friends. But don’t let that get in the way of your feelings for him, if you have any. We don’t have to share the same feelings in these situations. I wouldn’t expect you to like my friends or dislike my enemies just because they seem different to you than they do to me; nor would I necessarily take your lead. For instance, I can’t stand your friend * * * but I expect him to come back safe because the ocean won’t take him.

Understood. Please provide the text you would like me to modernize.

I congratulate you on the Gilder acceptance of your sonnet, and on the publication of "Tasso to Leonora." I don’t believe it’s your best work by a long shot—I don’t think any of your blank verse is as good as most of your rhymed poetry—but it’s not something that needs an apology. 146

Sure, I'd be happy to see Hopper. Just give me his address, and when I head to New York—either this month or next—I’ll pay him a visit. I think highly of Hopper and hope he won't end up being some kind of 'ist, like most writers and artists tend to be. That's because they're more in touch with their feelings than with their thoughts. It’s the emotional side of them, not the logical, that drives them to be writers and artists. Generally, they have sensitivity but lack common sense. Unless we're talking about the big names.

Understood! Please provide the text you'd like me to modernize.

Neale already has three volumes of the "Collected Works" ready and will have two more in about a month; I hope to have all of them this year. I'm going through all the material, making a lot of revisions and rearranging content from one book to another, and so on. If Neale gets enough subscriptions, he plans to release all ten volumes next year; if not, I probably won't be around to see the final one published.

Sure! Please provide the text you would like me to modernize.

Glad you think better of my role in the Hunter-Hillquit "symposium." I think I did pretty well considering, first, that I didn't care at all about the topic; second, that I knew nothing about the people I was meeting or what we were supposed to discuss, while they were all set and ready for a fight; and third, that the whole thing was basically a Socialist event at my expense. Of all the 'ists, the Socialist is probably the biggest fool because (in this country) he’s just the one who pulls chestnuts out of the fire for the Anarchist. His job is to keep the country's attention occupied while the Anarchist plants the bomb. In some places, Socialism is genuine, but not here. And everywhere, the Socialist is a dreamer and someone who believes in futility.

But I guess I'll wrap up this letter, the result of an147 unproductive hour in chatty old age.

Sure! Please provide the text you'd like me to modernize.

Best regards, Ambrose Bierce.

My dear Mr. Cahill,

Your note asking about "Ashes of the Beacon" caught my attention. You refer to it as a "pamphlet." I’m not aware of it being published in any other format except as an article in the Sunday edition of the "N. Y. American"—I can't remember the date. If it has been released as a pamphlet or in any other separate format—that is, on its own—I would really love to know who published it, if you have that information.

I would be happy to send it to you in the "American," but I don’t have a copy of the issue that includes it. It will be published in Vol. I of my "Collected Works" by Neale Publishing Company, N.Y. That volume is likely to come out early next year.

But the work will be in ten or twelve expensive volumes, and available by subscription only. That pretty much seals its fate as far as the public is concerned.

Regretting that I can't help you, I am sincerely yours, Ambrose Bierce.

Dear George

I find your approach to the spaced sonnet amusing, as well as Gilder's compliance. If I had been your editor, I imagine you would have gotten your sonnets back. I’ve never liked the space. If the work naturally splits into two parts, as it should, then the space isn’t necessary; if it doesn't, it’s even worse. The space was introduced by printers not too long ago; neither Petrarch nor Dante (as Gilder points out) knew about it. Every magazine has its own system of printing, and Gilder's good-natured agreement with your request, or rather demand, shows that he’s a nicer guy, though not a better poet, than I thought. The whole incident is satisfying as a win for the author over the editor.

I've never been to New York, but I plan to go soon. I'd be happy to meet Hopper if he's around.

Thank you for the article from "Town Talk." It raises an interesting question: How many times, and over how many years, does someone’s unexplainable obscurity need to be mentioned to be considered famous? Not knowing the answer, I’m almost ready to call myself the most famous of authors. I’ve pretty much stopped being “discovered,” but my reputation as an obscurian could be considered worldwide and seemingly everlasting.

The problem, I think, is with our vocabulary—the absence of a term that captures something between "popular" and "obscure"—and writers' ignorance about what readers actually read. I rarely come across an educated person who isn't familiar with some of my work; the bills from my clipping service got so expensive that I had to stop using it, and Blake tells me he sells my books for a hundred dollars a set. It's kind of funny, considering how little known I am.

I sometimes wonder what you think of Scheff's new book. Does it live up to the promise of the others? In the dedication poem, it seems to me that it does, along with some others. As a committed Socialist, you're likely to appreciate that poem because of its political and economic views. I like it despite those views.

"The dome of the Capitol echoes
With the cries of the emperors of crime"

is great poetry, but it's not true. I'm pretty familiar with149 what happens in the Capitol—not through the sensationalists who spend a few days "investigating" and then look in their pockets to write, but through years of personal observation and knowing the people involved. There aren't any major criminals, just about a dozen minor crooks, and I can name them all. They lack the power or influence to really matter in legislation. The truly dangerous and troublesome individuals are the demagogues, the friends of the people. They do all the "shouting." Compared to the Congress of our forefathers, today’s Congress is like a group of angels compared to an executive body of the Western Federation of Miners.

When I showed the "dome" to * * * (who had been reading his own magazine), his voice cracked with emotion, and I guess his eyes did too, as he mourned the decline of civic responsibility, "the betrayal of the Senate," and all that. He was so moved that I quickly offered him some whiskey to lift his spirits. He was also "squirming" over "other people's problems," just like you were.

I believe "the current system" isn't "terrifying." It's fine—it's a natural result of human needs, limitations, and abilities, full of potential for growth in goodness, flexible, and improving over time. Why not study humanity like you study the stars—not from a time perspective, but from an eternal one? The Middle Ages were just yesterday, and Rome and Greece were the day before. An individual man is insignificant, just like a single star. If this earth were to catch fire, you would smile at how little it matters in the grand scheme of the universe; all the crying of self-centered people wouldn’t bother you. So why do you react strongly to the minor disaster of a few thousand or millions of ants being crushed under the wheels of evolution? Must the new heavens and the new earth of prophecy and science arrive in your brief moment of life for you not to complain and curse along with Jack London about the world we have? No, no, read history to gain a broader perspective—to learn to think in centuries and cycles. Focus less on your neighbors and more on the nations. What poetry we will create when you understand and share with us The Testimony of the Races!

I'm ready to assist! Please provide the text you would like me to modernize.

I’m working hard on compiling and revising. I’m rearranging my work quite a bit—switching things between books, adding, removing, and tweaking. Five volumes are done, and Neale is working on a “prospectus” that he says will embarrass me. I’ll send it to you when he finishes it.

Gertrude Atherton is sending me postcards of Berchtesgaden and other locations from "The Monk and the Hangman's Daughter." She found all the places "just like described"—the lakes, mountains, St. Bartolomae, the meadow on the cliff where the edelweiss grows, and so on. The photos are obviously very interesting to me.

Good night. Ambrose Bierce.

My dear Mr. Cahill

Thank you for your kind wishes for the "Collected Works"—an advertisement of which—I send with many blushes!

Best regards, Ambrose Bierce.

P.S.—The "ad" isn't sent in the hope that you'll be151 foolish enough to subscribe—just to "show" you. The "deluxe edition" thing is not at all my style—I’d rather have a popular edition at an affordable price.

Dear George,

Your letter has just been forwarded from Washington. I'm only here for a few days—"a few days and full of trouble," as the Scripture says. The "trouble" mostly involves howling, dining, and drinking. I won't try to respond to your letter until I get back home.

Understood! Please provide the text you would like me to modernize.

I'm going to read Hopper's book, and if it doesn't make him look like a jerk or a fraud, I'll reach out to him. If it does, I won't. I'm becoming quite picky in my old age; sensationalists, drama queens, and the wannabe rebels aren't my vibe.

By the way, why do you talk about my "caning" you? I didn’t think that you had joined the countless others who see something sarcastic or hurtful in my lighthearted teasing during a casual debate. If I choose to laugh in writing about your hypocrisy in crying over the suffering of individual "others"—meaning other humans—while you, of course, couldn’t care less about the thousands of lives you wipe out every time you step down or eat a berry, why shouldn’t I do that? You can't always remember to focus on the small stuff, even when you're writing a letter. Put on your skin, old man; I might want to poke around with my finger again.

Sure, please provide the text you would like me to modernize.

Best regards, Ambrose Bierce.

Hey George,152

Understood! Please provide the text for modernizing.

I'm still working on my book. I've finished seven volumes and I've gone through the proofs of Volume I.

Your story about the "movement" to free the oppressed and beaten-down river from the control of the sandbar really made me laugh. No group of reformers has ever taken on a more classic mission against the Established Order and Intolerable Conditions. I can almost hear you congratulating yourselves as you thought about your impressive success in outsmarting Nature and advancing the Cause. I believe that if I had been there, my cold heart and hardened mind would have caught the enthusiasm of the Great Reform. Anyway, I would have enjoyed the sunset that (naturally) interrupted things as they are. I'm sure that whenever you social reformers figure out how to make the earth stop "turning over and over like a man in bed" (as Joaquin might say), you will achieve all the reforms you care about. All you need is plenty of time—maybe a few eons, give or take, of uninterrupted daylight. In the meantime, I eagerly await your new book.

I have pictures of my brother's cabin in the redwoods, and I feel really pulled to that place—since, as you can tell, Carmel is off-limits. But I’ll probably stick to the busy life of the city for now.

Best regards, Ambrose Bierce.

Dear George

I've been reading your book—re-reading most of it—"every little while." I don't know if it's better than153 your first, but saying it's as good is high praise. You know what I like most about it, but there are some things you don't know I appreciate. For example, "Night in Heaven." It has a few flaws, but it's fantastic. I'm not going to bore you with a list of titles. The book is all good. Well, not (in my opinion) all, since it has lines and words that I found objectionable in the manuscript, and time hasn't changed my mind about them. Your decision to keep them shows that you agree with me, believing you've moved past your 'prentice period and don’t need further criticism. So, I welcome them.

I assume the cover design is by Scheff—probably because it's so good; that little guy is really talented at that.

* * *

I actually appreciate your defense of Jack London—not because I think it’s valid, but because I admire loyalty to a friend whom you don’t believe is bad. (The whole "thick-and-thin" loyalty thing has never appealed to me; it feels too much like dog loyalty.) However, I don’t see any sense of regret in London’s stories about his struggles, and my accusation of literary theft wasn’t based on his primitive man book, "Before Adam."

As for * * *, since he’s just a casual friend of yours, I wouldn’t trust him even if he swore on his deathbed. * * * The reality is, none of these loudmouths can tell the difference between a million and a thousand or between truth and lies. I could share examples of their deceit about things happening in the capital that would shock you. It’s not just that they’re all liars—they’re like children; they don’t know anything and don’t care to learn, nor do they need to for success in their fields. Being honest would actually hurt their chances; if they stuck to the facts, they wouldn’t be taken seriously. * * * is the biggest waste of space in the group.

It’s not the goal of these guys that bothers me so much, but the dirty tactics they use to achieve it. I’d probably be a decent Socialist myself if they hadn’t tarnished the word (and the idea).

Don't think that I won't "come to Carmel" if I head out there. I'll hang out with you until you're tired of me. But I wouldn't live there and be "associated" with it, as the newspapers would put it. I've been cautioned by Hawthorne and Brook Farm.

I'm still working—though a bit more casually—on my books. But I can feel New York calling to me, resonating in my very being. I have to go there sometimes, or I might just fade away from boredom. * * * "O Lord, how long?"—this letter. Well, you don't need to pay it any mind; I don't think there's anything that needs a response or deserves one.

Best regards, Ambrose Bierce.

Dear George

Understood! Please provide the text you'd like me to modernize.

Did you see Markham's review of "Wine" in "The N. Y. American"? It was pretty fair, but if a piece of writing packed with poetry isn’t considered a poem, then what is? I also wonder what he thinks of Kubla Khan, which has a beginning but no middle or end. And what about The Faerie Queene for lacking "unity"? I guess I'll ask him.

Isn't it funny what happens to critics who try to set limits for the Muse—excluding the label "poem," for instance, from a piece because it doesn't resemble some155 other work, or one that exists in their minds?

I hope you're doing well and happy, and that I'll hear from you every now and then.

Howes is telling me that the "Lone Hand"—Sydney—has been praising you.

Best, Ambrose Bierce.