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To Mrs. Elinor Glyn, in New York:
Jan. 22, '08.
DEAR MRS. GLYN, It reads pretty poorly--I get the sense of it, but it
is a poor literary job; however, it would have to be that because
nobody can be reported even approximately, except by a stenographer.
Approximations, synopsized speeches, translated poems, artificial
flowers and chromos all have a sort of value, but it is small. If
you had put upon paper what I really said it would have wrecked your
type-machine. I said some fetid, over-vigorous things, but that was
because it was a confidential conversation. I said nothing for print. My
own report of the same conversation reads like Satan roasting a Sunday
school. It, and certain other readable chapters of my autobiography
will not be published until all the Clemens family are dead--dead and
correspondingly indifferent. They were written to entertain me, not
the rest of the world. I am not here to do good--at least not to do it
intentionally. You must pardon me for dictating this letter; I am sick
a-bed and not feeling as well as I might.
Sincerely Yours,
S. L. CLEMENS.
Among the cultured men of England Mark Twain had no greater admirer,
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