I’ve been invited to spend some time next spring as a visiting scribbler to the University of Virginia and also to take the post of writer-in-residence—a six month thing—held by Mr. William Faulkner first, then Katherine Anne Porter, Dos Passos, + Stephen Spender.†oo So I may be closer to Durham in the near future. However, I have not made up my mind—anything which tends to greatly interrupt my work I try to avoid—and may possibly put the whole thing off until another year like ’67 or ’68 when, God be praised and God willing, the endless (not in length but in time) Nat Turner will be finished and done with. But I will let you know.
Your Prof. Warddropper sounds remarkably like his name. Do give him a good boot in the tail for me.
Have you read the new second volume of Camus’ Notebooks? If you get a copy, do look up the wonderful quotation on the last page beginning “If I were to die unknown to the world …” which I am using as an epigraph to Nat Turner. But mainly look up the book because the whole thing is so good—a lovely man. How he would have laughed at Norman Mailer.
Hope all goes well with you. Give my best to my friends at Dook.
As ever in Jesus’ name,
W.S.
TO JAMES JONES
November 23, 1965 Roxbury, CT
… Dear James:
I hope you will be thoughtful enough to bring me back from Paris a box of H. Upmann Petit Coronas. I know that there is an inordinate risk involved and that you may get a 2-year stretch at Leavenworth but it will be a test of your friendship. Right now I’m down to the last three short and frazzled Montecristos I bought in Biarritz.
Anyway, Rose and I will be absolutely delighted for you all to stay with us on the Vineyard. We have, as you may know, a guest house up there and there are all sorts of living combinations we can work out—me and Kaylie in one house, along with Moss; you and my man Terry in the other, etc. At any rate, we are tickled to pieces that you all are coming. There’s plenty of room, really, and we can discuss the details when you arrive. I imagine that we will be going up there for the summer around the middle of June and will stay until mid-September. So anytime between those dates is fine with us and stay as long as you like. I think it’ll be great fun. We can take a lot of trips to the deserted Elizabeth Islands and lay around in the sun and drink and smoke cigars and look at the adorable teen-age girls at the yacht club. It will be a ball, as they say …
The blackout didn’t affect me.†pp We were “out” for only 15 minutes before they got the local waterfall going—we were the luckiest area in 5 states.
Prof. Rubin is coming over fairly soon to talk about you and vice versa. An odd chap. He wants to “play tennis” with Rose, but I told him that Rose will be in Boston and I’d give him 5 hours to talk about you—take it or leave it. Since I’ve gotten published in Romania I figure my time is worth about $50 an hour, so with this kind of debt over your head maybe you’ll bring me two boxes of cigars.
Keep in touch about your arrival. A big smooch to Moss + Kaylie + a firm handshake to Jamie.
Love to all,
Bill
TO CARLOS FUENTES
December 6, 1965 Roxbury, CT
Alas, Carlos, sad news! The Russians evidently decided that we American writers were peddling dangerous bourgeois ideas, for only a week or so ago they cancelled my invitation—just after Rose had bought a sable coat for the Moscow winter! I should sue! Anyway, we’re not coming, at least this year, and will miss you. Please convey my respects to Betty di Robilant and give me a call if you come back through N.Y. I loved Aura—deft + beautiful.†qq Saluti! B.S.
TO WILLIAM BLACKBURN
January 12, 1966 Roxbury, CT
Dear Professor:
I hope you will not consider me churlish or ungenerous when I balk at your publishing that letter of mine.†rr I’ve read it over carefully, and while it seems from this vantage point to be honest enough and well-intentioned, I just don’t see what purpose is really served by publishing it. In the first place, your book is to be a book of Mac’s letters, not mine. Second and more importantly, I have very definite feelings about publishing letters in general (you may recall the long review I did of Fitzgerald’s letters in The N.Y. Review of Books; at any rate, I have given the matter some professional thought).†ss Quite frankly, I feel that the publication of personal letters—as distinct from “public” letters, correspondence to newspapers, etc.—while the writer is still alive has somewhat the quality of gratuitous exposure; to be honest, when I read that letter of mine which you sent and thought of it appearing in print, I felt terribly naked all of a sudden. Certainly as I say the letter has nothing in its content to be really embarrassed about—an earnest youth worrying about his future, etc. Nonetheless, it was not written for public display and since I’m still quite alive (or feel myself to be so from time to time) I would quite simply not want to see these very private meanderings in print.
When a writer is dead, certainly that becomes a different matter. Presumably then there evolves enough interest in the writer’s private self that the very publication of his correspondence wipes out the element of gratuitousness. Fitzgerald is an example; the mythology surrounding his name generates enough excitement to make valid the publication of his most casual squiggle. Besides, being quite dead, he can hardly feel the sensation of nakedness. And when I myself am dead and someone wants to put my letters together, I couldn’t care less one way or another. But being alive, I have quite strong feelings about this—the only word is again, I’m afraid, exposure—and so I really would not want you to include the letter in the book.
The footnote you asked me to comment on sounds perfectly fine to me, though I wish I could cast more light on just what J.P. Marquand said to the BOMC board. If I’m not mistaken I got the news from John Marquand, Jr. I am going to be seeing him soon and I’ll ask him if he can recollect any of the details; if he can, I’ll certainly send them on to you as soon as I can. We think our powers of recollection are fabulous, but faced with such matters it is amazing how little our memories really stand up.
Yours ever,
Bill
TO DONALD HARINGTON
January 17, 1966 Roxbury, CT
Dear Don:
Having come back from Jamaica, where I enjoyed and sunned myself in the company of the damndest, fruitiest, emptiest group of English lords and ladies I’ve ever seen (the English are really the bottom of the heap), I returned to find that the house (the big house) has been invaded by the damndest and fruitiest plague of rats you can imagine. It took me some time to divine the reason, but it’s basically simple. The Seltzer farm atop the hill, it may interest you to learn, has gone out of business—at least for the moment—and all the cattle and equipment sold. So all those barn rats up there, suddenly abandoned, homed in on the Styron spread like a bunch of Bowery bums heading for the Salvation Army. Fortunately there is something called “d-Con,” a lethal poison, which has been able to cope with the problem, and they are being diminished, but until you’ve had a real invasion like this you don’t know what it must be like to live in the slums of Calcutta.
This is my main problem for the moment. Otherwise all in Roxbury is fairly serene. I’ve re-read your letter of November and I’m able to sympathize with your plaint as I was back then. Surely the only thing more unsettling and traumatic than to be reviewed hatefully and unfairly and maliciously is to be reviewed either sparsely, as you have, or not at all. I really think Random House is at fault in this; they sit on the book—but that does happen from time to time, and the only thing you can do now is to lament the fact. In consolation I can only say that your experience is really not unique in the history of first novels by writers of great gifts; I am thinking now of a whole horde of writers and their first books (just Americans), ranging from Hawthorne and Fanshawe down through Anderson and Windy MacPherson’s Son to Daddy-O himself—I mean Faulkner and his earliest works, Soldier’s Pay and Mosquitoes. Unless I am terribly mistaken—and I don’t think I am—all these writers
and those works were almost totally ignored, and quite as crushingly as The Cherry Pit. The incidence of writers who have scored smashingly with their first work must at the very least be no larger than the other way around, and I suspect you are in very good company, melancholy as that company is. Even as I say all this, I am aware of course that it is in the nature of a consolation; but I have given it thought and I do mean it, and I hope you won’t let the experience even partially diminish the determination to keep on writing. Gollancz’s faith is bracing, I think—he’s no fool—and most of the rest of us are folks who thought and still think you have great talent.†tt
As for J. Dodds, I wouldn’t give it a second thought if I were you, since the simple fact is that at the time of that party he was secretly getting ready to quit the agent business anyway.†uu I suppose you know that he kicked over the agency and is now vice-president at G.P. Putnam’s. It surely had nothing about it personal, nothing to do with you. I was as shocked as you were to learn he had quit, mainly because he had been for me a truly excellent agent and I felt his departure severely. Von Auw, incidentally, is reputed to be top-notch, so consider yourself in good hands.†vv
I will soon have two-thirds of Nat Turner or thereabouts finished and as soon as I get it copied on Arthur Miller’s Thermoplex machine and then typed up I will send it to you for your appraisal and sage counsel. I blow hot and cold on the bastard—as I do with everything I’ve written—at one moment certain it has things in it as good as anything being done now, and at other moments thinking it’s the kind of pretentious junk that little pricks like that guy on The New Yorker will (justifiably, this time) have a field day with. Ah well, see for yourself, I’ll try to get it to you in the next month or so, and hope you will be kind with it.
Take care of yourself and trust in Jesus.
Yrs Faithfully
Bill
TO WILLIAM BLACKBURN
February, 1966†ww Roxbury, CT
I shall certainly not expect to see your shining face at this event, which I am told is a Godawful bore. However, I did want to apprise you of my election to this august body, which was adorned by Mark Twain, Eugene O’Neill + Faulkner and was shunned (doubtless wisely) by Hemingway, Mencken and Edmund Wilson. I only can hope that this does not mean my premature fossilization among the Alexandrian poets and ancient architects, but I think at least it is interesting that my personal statistician has uncovered the fact that I am the only live graduate of Duke to be honored and maybe the only graduate period. Could this astonishing albeit very unimportant fact be true?
TO JAMES AND GLORIA JONES
February 28, 1966 Roxbury, CT
Dear James and Moss:
The enclosed clipping will describe what I’ve been up to lately, politically.†xx It was an incredible evening, with a huge crowd of peace-lovers sweating in the armpits—and that was the trouble, it was preaching to the faithful and the already-converted, but anyway I don’t think it could have done any harm, and if it got noticed in the foreign press (which has the mistaken notion that intellectual opinion in the US&A cuts a lot of ice) then so much the better. Brother Norman was there, as you can see, but we managed to keep out of each other’s way, though I accidentally got close enough to notice the fact that, aside from his obesity, he has a case of mean malevolent halitosis.†yy
We received Moss’ snotty little postcard, which made us guilty, and also the letter about your being surprised in the act of coitus by Louis Malle and Marlene Dietrich.†zz What you never explained was whether you disengaged yourself enough to put down the telephone and ask them over for a drink. Such items are important. We never get such kind of calls up here. We hear from the school principal every now and then, and Tom Guinzburg calls every now and then, wanting a date with Rose, but that’s just about it.…
I’ve been working my ass off on this novel (every time Jim sends word about having finished his 45th chapter it sends me into spasms of productivity), and am now very close to what is loosely called the home stretch. I have had to fuck around with the plot quite a bit, and change the setting to Kansas and bring in a quadruple shotgun murder,†AA but basically I’ve kept the integrity of the book intact and it should sell quite a few copies.
That was an absolutely lovely time in Jamaica and we have missed you very much. We can’t wait for your sojourn with us at Martha’s Vineyard. After three years of legal shenanigans, the house became ours today and this is a sort of celebration. Please keep us informed about your arrival in June, etc. It seems a long time off, but God how time passes.
We’ve done very little socializing recently, mainly, because of the book. We did go to one party at Steve Smith’s in N.Y. (JFK’s brother-in-law); the whole clan was there, Bobby, Teddy, Jackie etc., and someone made a perfectly horrible and true remark about Jackie: “She is the most interesting 16-year-old in America.”†BB I had a long talk with Bobby, and God knows it’s hard to believe but I think he is shaping up as a kind of fantastic committed liberal politician who just might be the one who will get us out of Viet Nam. I don’t mean to say that I’m completely sold on him yet, but he’s certainly come a long way and is weirdly impressive.
Rose told me to tell you what she has written to Jerry what’s her name Gibbs at Bonwit Teller and that you should get the refill for your toilet tissue dispenser very soon directly from the store. If you don’t, let her know.
A final note: Professor Herbert Ruhm called me up the other night from that veterinarian’s school over in New York State to tell me that he has been fired. I told him that I couldn’t care less and that as for you (he was worried about your reaction), you would probably be delighted. Then I told him to fuck off and he cried a whole lot. These academic creeps are the fucking limit.
We miss you. Keep in touch. Say hello to Mimi, Kaylie, Jamie and all the gang.
Love, Bill
TO JAMES AND GLORIA JONES
March 16, 1966 New Milford, CT
Rose enceinte la quatrième fois les hivers de Connecticut sont terriblement froids†CC
Bill
TO DONALD HARINGTON
March 24, 1966 Roxbury, CT
Dear Don:
… I don’t want to get your hopes up prematurely, but I’ve put you up for a grant of some kind with a worthy, well-known outfit (whose name I can’t divulge) and they might come through with some loot. I say “might” simply because there is no certainty at all but we can both pray to Jesus for his aid. Also, I am about to enter Valhalla as a junior member of the National Institute of Arts and Letters, which really means a form of permanent embalmment with 80-year old classical architects and arthritic painters who were once disciples of Childe Hassam and Winslow Homer.†DD However, I have been told by those who are in the know that the Institute does have the singular advantage of possessing a lot of money, which is doled out at intervals rather freely to people like yourself. The sole object in becoming a member, then, is to recommend artists and writers for largesse and so as soon as I can worm my way into the inner circle I am going to try to get some of that lucre on the first train to Putney, V-T. All of these machinations will take some time, as you may imagine, so don’t expect any miracles right away.
Your test in class about Set This House on Fire I found wonderfully amusing but it does seem authentic and revealing. The book has gone recently into a third edition in Germany, which pleases me, and helps corroborate your test.
I still have a few pages to go before completing the ⅔ds mark on Nat but expect to have it typed up before too long. I’ll send you a copy. There is a small excerpt in the current Paris Review which you may have seen.†EE After the recent Supreme Court decision I’ve been busy taking all the “hells” and “damns” out of the manuscript.†FF
Keep cool with Jesus.
Yrs Bill
TO DONALD HARINGTON
April 22, 1966 Roxbury, CT
Dear Don:
Your letter on Nat was very valuable to me. In case, God forbid, that you ever decide to c
ease being a writer of fiction you could surely take up the trade of critic and beat everyone now working in the field by a mile or more. Speaking of critics, while I think of it Bob Loomis called the other day to say that he had seen an advance copy of the Herald Tribune Book Week, in which John Aldridge’s new collection of criticism is reviewed by Robie Macauley.†GG It seems that that Playboy essay on me which you read (and I didn’t) is included in the book, and Macauley really takes out after Aldridge because of the piece, using it as example of critical revisionism and sloppiness at its worst. That tickles me, because it only goes to show how personal animosity and jealousy in a critic will get found out after all.
But to get back to your letter—it was fine, really excellent and I appreciate it. Appreciate it not because it scratched my back or buttered me up but because it did neither of these things and was an honest, pointed and above all deeply understanding critique of the book. No one I know could have as well comprehended what I am trying to say in this work, and it gave me a great glow of hope when I saw that you, whose judgment and sensibility I have come to trust so well, had absorbed the plan and the structure and the spirit and had been affected by the story. Also I’m grateful to you for two other things—the words of criticism which were absolutely just (I shall certainly eliminate that bothersome occasional trait of Nat referring to the reader as “you,” also I will clear up the question of Rev. Eppes being bugger or buggee, and other such matters as you brought up), but even more importantly the way in which you have so clearly seen how all of this background stuff prefigures as necessity in the killing of Margaret Whitehead. Your theory about I love you, but I am forbidden to put it into you, etc. seems so sound as to provide an almost miraculous solution to Part III, and I would be indebted to you for that if for nothing else. Doubtless I would have arrived at it through toil, but how much nicer it is to have the obvious stated so simply, as you have done. It leaves me free to address myself to 1000 other technical matters.