His first book was a success for reasons
which I have already explained, but none of his others have been
more than creditable failures. He is one of those unfortunate men,
each one of whose books is sneered at by literary critics as soon as
it comes out, but becomes "excellent reading" as soon as it has been
followed by a later work which may in its turn be condemned.
He never asked a reviewer to dinner in his life. I have told him
over and over again that this is madness, and find that this is the
only thing I can say to him which makes him angry with me.
"What can it matter to me," he says, "whether people read my books
or not? It may matter to them- but I have too much money to want more,
and if the books have any stuff in them it will work by-and-by. I do
not know nor greatly care whether they are good or not. What opinion
can any sane man form about his own work? Some people must write
stupid books just as there must be juniors ops and third class poll
men. Why should I complain of being among the mediocrities? If a man
is not absolutely below mediocrity let him be thankful- besides, the
books will have to stand by themselves some day, so the sooner they
begin the better.
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