Nov. 29, ’88.  Jesus Christ!—­It is perilous to write such a man.  You can go crazy on less material than anybody that ever lived.  What in hell has produced all these maniacal imaginings?  You told me you had hired an attendant for ma.  Now hire one instantly, and stop this nonsense of wearing Mollie and yourself out trying to do that nursing yourselves.  Hire the attendant, and tell me her cost so that I can instruct Webster & Co. to add it every month to what they already send.  Don’t fool away any more time about this.  And don’t write me any more damned rot about “storms,” and inability to pay trivial sums of money and—­and—­hell and damnation!  You see I’ve read only the first page of your letter; I wouldn’t read the rest for a million dollars. 
                                   Yr
                                         Sam.

P. S. Don’t imagine that I have lost my temper, because I swear.  I swear all day, but I do not lose my temper.  And don’t imagine that I am on my way to the poorhouse, for I am not; or that I am uneasy, for I am not; or that I am uncomfortable or unhappy—­for I never am.  I don’t know what it is to be unhappy or uneasy; and I am not going to try to learn how, at this late day. 
                                   Sam.

Few men were ever interviewed oftener than Mark Twain, yet he never welcomed interviewers and was seldom satisfied with them.  “What I say in an interview loses it character in print,” he often remarked, “all its life and personality.  The reporter realizes this himself, and tries to improve upon me, but he doesn’t help matters any.”

Edward W. Bok, before he became editor of the Ladies Home Journal, was conducting a weekly syndicate column under the title of “Bok’s Literary Leaves.”  It usually consisted of news and gossip of writers, comment, etc., literary odds and ends, and occasional interviews with distinguished authors.  He went up to Hartford one day to interview Mark Twain.  The result seemed satisfactory to Bok, but wishing to be certain that it would be satisfactory to Clemens, he sent him a copy for approval.  The interview was not returned; in the place of it came a letter-not altogether disappointing, as the reader may believe.

To Edward W. Bok, in New York: 

My dear Mr. Bok,—­No, no.  It is like most interviews, pure twaddle and valueless.

For several quite plain and simple reasons, an “interview” must, as a rule, be an absurdity, and chiefly for this reason—­It is an attempt to use a boat on land or a wagon on water, to speak figuratively.  Spoken speech is one thing, written speech is quite another.  Print is the proper vehicle for the latter, but it isn’t for the former.  The moment “talk” is put into print you recognize that it is not what it was when you heard it; you perceive that an immense something has disappeared