While I have had the worst enemies that ever were I have also had the best friends that ever were.

When I hear of the brotherhood of lovers—
Five men, a group of sworn friends, stalwart, bearded, determined, working their way together through all the troubles and impediments of the world—
How it was with them,
How together through life, through dangers, odium, unchanging, long and long,
How unfaltering, how affectionate and faithful they were,
Then I am pensive, fill’d with the bitterest envy.

Yet I know not why I should be sad,
The principal object of my life seems to have been accomplish’d—
I have the most devoted and ardent of friends, and affectionate relatives,
A small band of the dearest friends and upholders ever vouchsafed to man or cause,
The better of which the world never saw,
Doubtless all the more faithful and uncompromising—this little phalanx!—for being so few,
Lately I think of little else than of them.

There are some things in the world too big for it. They seem to crowd it out at the sides—to demand more room. When I turn about and look at my friends—how sacred, stern, noble, they have been—when I have thought of them I have realized the intrinsic immensity of the human spirit and felt as if I lived environed by gods.

If having very bitter enemies and friends very sweet—a good taste of both—is variety, then I have had it. Perhaps the one comes to offset the other—the passionate love to offset the venomous hate. How I have been bedeviled! how I have been blessed!

Of the enemies I really make no account—a man who has the friends I have had can afford to forget that he has enemies. But I have learn’ d to feel very thankful to those who attack and abuse and pervert me; that’s perhaps the only way to bring out the splendid ardor and friendship of those, my unknown friends, my best reward.

I first thrived on opposition; the allies came later. Now I get some adulation—a little—a little’s enough. These words of affection sound good to me. It stirs the cockle of my blood to read the nice things they say.
My friends—after all there are quite a lot of you—oh! of you I feel certain; there is no doubt about you; you are my rock of ages. But for you, for the assurances you have always been bringing me, I would never feel that I and my book had done more than simply passed across the stage into oblivion.

Yet I have not only been made a target by those who despised me, but a victim of violent interpretation by those who condoned me. That is one of my penalties—to have the real vital utterances, if there are any in me, go undetected.

I find some of my friends making very many claims for me which I would not make for myself. I call to the world to distrust the accounts of my friends, but listen to my enemies, as I myself do. My friends are blind to the real devils that are in me; my enemies discover fancy ones. Yet I admire a good many of my enemies more than I admire some of my friends.

Have you learned lessons only of those who admired you? Above all we must avoid flattery—the tendency in anyone to pile it on and on till a fellow no longer shows his honest self at all! If we don’t look out we develop a bumptious bigotry—a colossal self-satisfaction, which is worse for a man than being a damned scoundrel. 

When you write do you take anybody’s advice about writing? Take my advice: Never take advice! I am pursued, pursued by advisers. I used to think God was everywhere. I was wrong—the adviser is everywhere! Once or twice things have been said with such insight, I have ordered my course accordingly. But if I accepted all the suggestions there wouldn’t be one leaf of the “Leaves” left—and if I accepted one why shouldn’t I accept all?
Nothing will so mix you up as advice. The thing that one likes another don’t—the thing that another likes one don’t. A fellow might easily be lost in the confusion. He’s got no business to hear any of it. He’s to hear only himself—that’s his whole concern.

One advantage a thing has if a man disregards the advice of his friends—it is all his own, an expression purely of his own personality. Almost any writer who is willing to be himself will amount to something. If a fellow wants to keep clear about himself he must first of all swear a big oath that he’ll never take any advice.
I don’t seem to have any advice to give, except perhaps this: Be natural, be natural, be natural! Be a damned fool, be wise if you must (can’t help it,) be anything—only be natural! Write your own way; don’t take anyone’s word, just take your own. Free of blemishes nothing could be, but freedom from alien influences—ah! that is necessary.

I like advice, comment, criticism from all sides. (Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself.) I do not object to advice but to having it made imperative. It is impossible for a man to get down on his hands and knees before the advisers. I am not concerned to please them, but I am anxious to come to conclusions satisfactory to my own soul.
So I claim the final privilege—claim the right to pass upon the advice that is passed up to me. After hearing all that is told me, then I like to demonstrate that I hold the reins, that I know the journey’s end and drive accordingly. When once I am convinced I never let go. In the end the individual should have control—hold the reins—not necessarily to use them—but to possess the power.

NEXT: YOU AND THE POET

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