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The article in the Sun3
on "Our National Letters"4 gave me much joy5. That's just it, when we're at
all true to facts and existing conditions, when we get away from "Old Chester Tales"6 and Booth Tarkington7
platutudes, we seem foreign! I've often had a deep inner toothache of the soul,
wondering whether I was unconsciously copying some "foreign" writer. When "O Pioneers"8 was written, it was a terrible
lonesome book; I couldn't find any other that left out our usual story machinery.
I
wondered then, and still sometimes wonder, whether my mind had got a kink put in it
by the four shorter novels of Tolstoi, "Anna Karenina"10, "The Cossacks"11, "Ivan Ilyitch"12, and "The Kreutzer Sonata"13, which, in paper bindings and
indifferent English, fell into my hands when I was fourteen. For about three years
I
read them all the time, backward and forward; and I used to wonder whether they had
so "marked" me that I could not see the American scene as it looked to other
Americans- - - as it, presumably, really was. I tried to get over all that by a long
apprenticeship to Henry James14 and Mrs. Wharton15, and to maker make an entrance in good society (I mean in, not into) in good company, with Alexander's
Bridge"16. "The Bohemian Girl"17
and the first draft of "O Pioneers", the nucleus from which it was made, were
written before that first artificial novel, but I did not even send them, or show
them to a publisher. Because their pattern was different, I thought they must be the
artificial ones-- real only to me, because I had a romantic and lyric attachment for
the country about which they were written. I thought Alexander' Bridge the natural and un-exaggerated book, because it used all the
conventional machinery in the conventional way, and so, with pride, I published it.
This lengthy confession is apropos of your article, but you may put it in your
graveyard as handy for an explanatory obituary.
May I ask you to read a copy of the new novel18 in June or July, an advance copy? It's so very different from the others ⬩W⬩S⬩C⬩ that I'd like to know what you think of it. I might be hit by a taxi-cab or something before you got round to reading it in the regular course of things. It may be a complete mistake, and you would be a good man to smell out falsity, if it's there, for you are just a little prejudiced against the subject matter, and against the sentiment on which the latter part of it is built- - - or, rather, the sentiment by which it moves and draws the next breath. If Claude's19 emotion seems real to you,- scoffer that you are!- if his release makes something expand the least bit behind your ribs or under your larynx; then, I shall know that in spite of the damnable nature of the material I've got to port before the perishible cargo spoiled. Remember: this one boy's feeling is true. This one boy20 I knew as one can only know one's own blood. I knew the ugliness of his life and the beauty--to him-- of his release. He can't help what went over this country21, any more than you or I can. His own feeling was fine; and by an utter miracle one so disherinherited of hope, so hopelessly at odds with all his life could ever be, - - - such an one found his kingdom; found conditions, activities, thoughts that made him glad he had lived. You see I absolutely know this; some of him still lives in me, and some of me is buried in France22 with him. - - - - But the presentation, of course, can make any truth false as Hell23, as Mr. Othello24 said; and the pity of a true knowledge and a true desire is always that it should be so at the mercy the feeble hand,- the hand that very fullness of truth makes unsteady.
But presentation is always a gamble; the road is so rutted with old tracks, we can't go as we would.
Please save this lengthy epistle and read it over when you read the book. I may be guilty of special pleading, but I want to give this boy every chance with you. And if I've done a sickly, sentimental, old-maid job on him, tell me so loudly, like a man, rub it in, pound it down; I'll deserve it and I'll need it for my soul's salvation.
Faithfully yours Willa Cather