Your very kind and interesting letter would have been answered long before this, except for the fact that all of the month of November I was suffering from an injury to my right hand.³ The month of December, I spent in the French Hospital⁴ having treatment for my hurt. I am still unable to use a pen and my hand is under constant treatment. It progresses very slowly. I wish I were able to answer your letter at length for it is a thoughtful one, much beyond the range of the usual intelligent reader.

I can best answer briefly by saying that I never try to write any propaganda — any rules for life or theories about the betterment of human society. I by no means despise that kind of writing. It can be very noble, at its best, and very useful. But I think it loses some of its strength when disguised as fiction. You mention Dickens⁵. Of course, important reforms resulted from his books. But he did not write in the reformer's spirit, nor did he write in order to produce reformers. He wrote because his heart was touched, or his indignation aroused by certain abuses. In other words, he wrote about life itself, as it moved about him. He had no theories for the betterment of the world. So many of the books on social betterment which are written nowadays, are written out of ill feeling; out of class hatred, or envy. Very often they are written out of a very great conceit and vanity, by young writers, who really think that the history of the world and the wisdom of the great statesman was all a very silly affair. These new writers think they can manage the age-old tragedies of life very neatly.

I am glad to have you tell me that some of your youthful friends can ⬩W⬩S⬩C⬩ read my books with interest. My method of work is so simple that I have never had a conscious method. I never write about people or places that have not interested me intensely,: that have not taken hold of me in some very personal way which I cannot explain. After a subject has hag-ridden me for a long time and the book is pretty well developed in my mind, then I begin to write it. The actual writing is usually a very pleasant experience. Accidents and incidents from the outside break in, of course, but the actual development of a story that has been carefully planned is the pleasantest occupation I know.

Let me thank you again for your friendly letter. The noble fortitude with which you bear those mischances, which in one way or another must come to us all, I shall not forget. If my hand is well enough tomorrow, I shall sign this letter myself.