Twist and Scream - Volume 4
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A fellow always gets worst mad seeing his sins in other people. I haven't the least idea. Take it along.
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I get many curious things: some adulation—a little a little's enough : some cussing: now and then somebody goes for me—gives me hell. If I had made a collection of such documents I'd have had some queer stuff for you to preserve. Look at this for instance. I want to be generous: I'll share my possessions with you. Bucke's almost ready to come: that's the best news. I confess it moved me. Was it something in the letter or something in me? I find myself emotionally much more readily stirred some times than others. These days I seem to need something: seem to be looking for something—feeling towards it: something my illness makes me crave: God knows what it is: something there seemed to be a hint of in the gentle Mary's letter.
I wrote Burroughs today. There's black round the paper and envelope: I wonder who's dead? What a funny custom that is—to publish such a fact: a death in the family: insist on it: but it's going out: gone out, in fact, except with the old families—except, too, with the new families who want to cut a dash. Over there in England they take their forms seriously—observe them: all of them: from king down, from the slums up: observe them all: forms we on this side for the most part never knew or have dismissed.
What had Rolleston written? I don't flatter myself: I don't believe in requisites—in chosen people, in chosen peoples, all that—it seems quite like nonsense to me. But I acquiesce in Rolleston as a beautiful friend: yes, I do that: wonderful he is, surely: but as to the 'requisite'—well, I have no opinion on that: though as for Rolleston in the end, it's not me but the idea we stand for that he's really after: the idea: the immortal idea.
As I was leaving W. Appeared exhausted. Yet was willing to talk. Had had trouble with his eyes the past week or so, too. Has to shade his eyes as he reads. Stops often. I am altogether in the dark: don't know what the fellow says. First he said: "Well—never mind: I'm tired" —but when I suggested that if he'd move his chair forward I'd straighten the stuff out he acquiesced, saying: "They are all disturbed: I got them in that shape looking up some scraps today. Says he's feeling "fairly. Suffers some from indigestion for which he is taking Friedrichsthal Waters again. I quoted a passage. It ought to be printed broadcast: we should have it printed.
Haven't you noticed it? Take me for example. You don't often see me mad: I don't dare get mad: I get so damned mad when I get mad that it shakes me up too much—leaves ugly results: so I hold myself in sternly: have to: yes, must. I sent today for copy of San Francisco Chronicle of 13th for Bucke. Received Boston Traveller. Criticism adverse. He was "considerably interested and amused to have them come. I don't mean to: they certainly have a place—a vast big vital place: they can't be skipped—escaped.
I asked him: "Well—have you some objections to Jesus? Emerson had too: the dear Emerson: he felt that Jesus lacked humor, for one thing: a man who lacks humor is likely to concentrate on one idea. But on that Jesus matter: take that: I've heard it discussed often: some of the bright fellows have been saying it for a long time: not Emerson alone: others: radical fellows—the strong men: thinkers.
Yet I confess I'm not altogether clear in the matter. Emerson was in no sense priggified—solemnfied: he was not even stately, if that means to be stiff.
The question is, was Shakespeare's humor good natured? Good nature is the important equation in humor. Look at Heine, for example: I'm not sure of his place: but look at him—consider him: ask yourself whether he was not a mocker as well as a humorist. They do charge me, as you say, with lacking humor: it never seemed to me it could be true: but I don't dispute it: I only see myself from the inside—with the ordinary prejudice a fellow has in favor of himself: but O'Connor—oh!
The idea that anybody imagines I can't appreciate a joke or even make jokes seems preposterous. Do you find me as infernally impossible as that, Horace? Bryant said to me in one of our chats: 'The most humorous men I have met have been the lightest laughers. Also a postcard from Garland. But he said today: "Moncure was not always discreet: was apt to say things to put himself in a hole: and me, too—once or twice: did it: talked rather wildly over there about my poverty: they got an idea that I was starving to death.
I was going to ask him what he did with them but didn't: something came between. Give her this.
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Davis admitted me: said: "Mr. Whitman is feeling pretty good now" —by which I understood that he had not been as well as usual today.
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I passed upstairs. When I first asked W. I picked the book off the bed and gave it to him. Oldach had done the job at last. Fondled it. Inspected it from cover to cover. Turned it over and over. And then I can go on and say it's better—far, far better—than the best I looked for. I feel I have very much to be grateful for: no one can know—perhaps no one but you and me can know—through what doubts, difficulties, chagrins, this came safely at last. It's like a ship, at last got into port after many storms, trials, losses—after a long painful voyage.
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I said: "We had to go slow—proceed with deliberation. Some of my best friends—my own people—accuse me have always accused me of procrastination—the most provoking in all private annals! He was silent. I waited till he began to talk again, saying nothing myself: "Despite everything the book is here: we have finished the journey: that is our answer: procrastination or no procrastination, the perfect result is in our hands: the book: our book: your book, my book: beautifully done except with one except.
If we could control everything—do everything we please: get a first class man here from New York, Paris, London, anywhere: pay five dollars for that: pay men for winking and bowing and scraping: we might have our way absolutely. But—well, we have had no such choice: we should be glad we've done decently well: you, indefatigable as you are: I, loafing round: Oldach, with his man or two. I'm satisfied: say so for me.
I said to W. But as a fact I have spent a dull leaden time of it since I got up this morning: up to four or half-past four it was very bad: then Mary brought me in a big mug of hot coffee: it was very nice: I drank it all. It was simply more of my infernal indigestion: I seem to be passing through such a stage: it is almost periodical: constipation to start with: then the violent reaction. Let's get away to something else.
I feel that I'll go on this way to the end, keeping my headpiece together whatever happens to the rest of me. But I said we should discuss something else: yes, let us do it. I reminded W. He replied: "I certainly thought I had shown you Wilson's letter.
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I don't know whether I sent it to Bucke or whether it's here yet. Wilson's note was short but very definite: almost vehement, one may say: a business man's note. It looks as if Wilson, after unaccountable delays, is about to proceed at last. You see, we appear to have quite a clientage in Scotland. You remember Alexander Gardner's purchase of an edition of November Boughs? Wilson is evidently scared: he has heard of that: he knows what it means: he sees us slipping through his fingers: so he writes to Kennedy: 'If you are ready with the copy I am ready to go on with it: I have had it in hand eight months: it's about time we should do something conclusive—emphatic.
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McKay wants to know what W. He says he'll be sure to be applied to for copies—especially abroad. I asked W.