One very nice thing has happened this week. I don’t know if I told you, but the brilliant young Jewish writer and critic Alfred Kazin (wrote On Native Grounds and A Walker in the City) has a chair here for a year, and I felt badly, since he was in the English department, that I’d have no chance of coming in contact with him. Then the Alumnae Quarterly conveniently assigned me an interview with him. He is notoriously hard to see and even more impossible to interview, but after about 20 phone calls, I finally persuaded him to give me 5 minutes. At first he was very brusque, and then he asked me a few direct questions about myself. As soon as he found out that I was working my way through college and had a few things published and wanted to teach and write, he became charming and said he’d thought I was just another pampered Smith baby like the rest. He offered to criticize my writing, invited me to audit a class Friday, and told me to come back and talk to him again because he thought I was interesting!
Well, when I went to his writing class of ten, I was delighted with him, but appalled at the weak, mealy-mouthed apathy of the girls, who either were just too scared or just too stupid to have opinions. As an auditor, I found it hard to keep quiet. Finally, at the end of the class, Mr. Kazin turned to me and said, “Well, what do you think?” I told him, and he said, “Why don’t you join the class. I think we need you!” I was really thrilled. The chance to write for a semester under such a man and to have him “invite” me, while countless other girls have wanted to get into his small course, seemed rare and wonderful. I thought it over carefully and decided that it is much more developing for my character to maybe get two B’s in my other courses while grinding my rusty writing gears into motion under Mr. Kazin than it would be to rigidly strive for A’s and sacrifice the rare opportunities of life. Mr. Kazin will not happen again, and it will be good for me to have the impetus of his criticism while starting out again. I can apply it to the things I want to write this coming summer.
The thing about writing is not to talk, but to do it; no matter how bad or even mediocre it is, the process and production is the thing, not the sitting and theorizing about how one should write ideally, or how well one could write if one really wanted to or had the time. As Mr. Kazin told me: “You don’t write to support yourself; you work to support your writing.”
Mr. Gibian is the best kind of thesis adviser I could have. Went over to talk to him yesterday and sat happily holding one of his twin baby boys on my lap while he held the other and discussed Dostoevsky while the baby gurgled happily and pulled my hair. It is amusing that I’m writing on the double, while my adviser has twins!
DECEMBER 7, 1954
Dear Mother,
Kazin’s course is delightful as ever. Our last meeting was held at his home this Friday, over coffee and lovely pastry. I read my last story aloud, and everybody analyzed it. It was the incident about Paula Brown’s Snowsuit, remember? This course is the best thing for getting me in the habit of writing. Every time one sits down to the blank page, there is that fresh horror, which must be overcome by practice and practice. I stayed afterwards to help with the dishes and talked to the beautiful, blond Mrs. Kazin, whose second novel is coming out this winter.
… I have still not heard from the Atlantic Monthly, by the way, which is very tantalizing—it’s been over two months now, which is so similar to Harper’s treatment. I love building up my hopes, even though nothing comes of it. It’s such fun to live in suspense. I am also trying out for Vogue’s Prix de Paris contest for college seniors. The first prize is $1,000 (!) and so amply worth the time. I have already completed one assignment. The second is four articles which I shall write over Christmas. These two assignments will make me eligible for the final long thesis upon which the prize is judged. Last year two Smith girls were among the winners, so I should have some chance!
If only I get accepted at Cambridge! My whole life would explode in a rainbow. Imagine the wealth of material the experience of Europe would give me for stories and poems—the local color, the people, the fresh backgrounds! I really think that if I keep working, I shall be a good minor writer some day, and this would open such doors! One thing, if I get accepted in England, no mere $2,000 will stop me from going! It is the acceptance over there that I’m worried about. Oxford never likes people with any physical or mental ills in the past. Mary Ellen Chase and Miss Duckett may make Cambridge a possibility. I shall earn $500 next summer, at least, I think, and get something from Smith, I hope, and piece the rest together somehow.
I look so forward to the year ahead. There is much work always, but it is happy work, and I am loved, and I love, and everything is sweet and sensible. Much love to you all. See you soon.
Sivvy
DECEMBER 12, 1954
Dear Mother,
The story looks just exquisite! I am so pleased …
I acted immediately upon your suggestion and sent the story off to Woman’s Day. You are right about its being too short for most magazines. I had thought to send it to The New Yorker, which accepts small sketches (it’s really not a “story” in the strict sense, but rather a “slice of life”) but WD might be more inclined to consider something with more pathos. Anyhow, I love having things “out,” whether they are accepted or not. [At this point, her aim was to have twenty things “out” at all times.] I enjoy living in perpetual suspense.
… For our German unit tonight we had to translate and explicate a poem apiece by Rainer Maria Rilke, a really stimulating assignment because a bit beyond our complete grasp. I got so interested in mine, “Ein Prophet,” that I made a stab at translating in verse with rhyme scheme and rhythm exactly like Rilke, and except for a few places I have to rework, it came out rather well, if I do say so!
Kazin has invited me out to an informal lunch next week for a long talk, and naturally I look forward to it more than anything else in the world. He has gladly accepted writing a recommendation for me for a Woodrow Wilson fellowship (the one Mrs. Cantor wrote for) and I know his name means a lot. If anything, this year has exposed me to the most magnificent of men! He is an inspiration which comes seldom in a lifetime. And it is so wonderful to know he admires me in return! Oh, yes, I do worship him.
… The Smith Review comes out this week with my story and poem in it. Look forward to bringing it home to you!
Looking forward to Christmas—
Much love, sivvy
P.S. Guess what! Adlai Stevenson is going to be our Commencement speaker! You should enjoy it doubly!
{Written on Street & Smith Publications memorandum paper}
DECEMBER 13, 1954
TO: Mother FROM: Daughter
SUBJECT: Cabbages and Kings DATE: Monday [DECEMBER 13, 1954]
… This morning a happy thing happened: my second semester schedule, which has hitherto been a mess, is settling out miraculously. Had a conference with Alfred Fisher about my most recent poems and he offered to give me a private course one hour a week of special studies in poetics! He is a very strict man, and a brilliant professor, and this is a signal honor! Also, I’ll be writing poetry!
The nasty requirement for a unit this semester, for which I have no desire or need, will probably be changed by the Honors Committee to include this course in special studies, so that my program will cohere beautifully. I must be very quiet about it all, because Fisher is terribly strict about taking on anyone to be tutored, and the waiving of the unit requirement (as yet to be done) is highly irregular! But it will mean my being able to take Kazin’s Modern American Lit course and poetry (plus my Shakespeare and German courses which continue) and a review class which is required. So I am very excited and must write both prose and poetry over vacation with a big “Do Not Disturb” sign on my door.
In eager anticipation,
Your loving daughter,
Sivvy
UNDATED; JANUARY 1955
Dear Mother,
… HANDED IN MY THESIS TODAY! … I was so excited that I cut classes to proofread it. It is 60 pages of straight writing, with 10 m
ore for notes and bibliography…. It is an excellent thesis, I know it in my bones, and already two girls have told me that Mr. Gibian thinks it’s something of a masterpiece! I am really pleased with it.
Another note: I hoped I could save it till I was sure one way or the other, but it’s too exciting to keep, so I’ll let you in on it. The Journal rejected my “The Smoky Blue Piano” story, but with the following wonderful personal letter: “… We feel the diary method of narration, certainly for this story, is awkward and makes the telling too limping. If you should ever decide to rewrite it as a straight story, keeping the nice sparkle it now has, we will be glad to see it again. Congratulations, anyhow, on a good first try.”
Well, usually they say they’d like to see your next story or poem, but this offer to consider a rewrite stimulated me to my typewriter today, and I was amazed at the validity of their criticism. I did the story over in direct form (I knew inside the diary wasn’t right), and the whole thing drew together and incandesced! Naturally, I took them up on their offer and sent it back immediately, tonight, after spending a whole day typing the 20 pages. It is the best short story I have ever written of its kind (the kind is the “Initiation” kind, written to meet certain specifications, while being true to my own humor and ideas). I knew it in my bones again and somehow felt that their letter to me would be exactly this, only I never expected them to say they’d consider it again after I rewrote it! I thought, like The New Yorker, they’d just criticize, so I could profit by it and then sell to Harper’s, or something! But even if they don’t take it rewritten, I know now, in my intuition, that it will SELL somewhere! …
Mr. Fisher has been having unofficial classes with me already for my Poetics course! We get along admirably, now that we are getting acquainted, and he is the most brilliant, enchanting man I’ve ever known, reminding me very much, in his way, of Gordon as he may be 30 years from now, who knows. Anyhow Mr. Fisher is exactly what I need for poetry criticism, and my first two “Batches” of about ten poems he went over so thoroughly, I find myself just flying home to rewrite them, which is a rare drive for any writer, I think! I have polished the two long ones I wrote over vacation, and he is very pleased.
I am now in the finals for the Vogue Prix de Paris and must write a “thesis” of over 10 pages (at least) on “Americana”; “on my discoveries in the arts this year, what I’ve found most exciting in the American theatre, books, music, etc.” I’d really appreciate any advice you have on bird’s eye reading I could do. I feel that you would be much more aware of current trends than I, what with your Monitor and Saturday Review of Literature! I hope to see more theater in NYC after next weekend and also take in the latest additions to the NYC art galleries in preparation for this essay, which I am hoping to get done mostly before second semester begins—plan to do a research job on it in NYC …
Love to all.
P.S. Am planning to rewrite a really good (if awfully naked and depressing) story for Mile contest between semesters! It has possibilities and is in the nature of Ilona Karmel’s “Fru Holm,” only more subjective—more fun!
JANUARY 27, 1955
[Written on back of envelope:] P.S. … Sorry for the discouraging facts in this letter, but they are, unfortunately, facts.
x x x S.
Dear Mother,
I always hate being a harbinger of bad news, but I am really pretty miserable this morning. Evidently my interview decided the committee against me, and this is the first time I have been really rejected after having all the chances, and I have been terribly sad all morning. Perhaps at last those four little men will stop arguing and asking me sarcastic questions in my head. It simply doesn’t do any good to say: “Don’t worry, it’s only one scholarship.” It is, unfortunately, everything. Letters from Kazin, Phi Beta Kappa, all that did absolutely no good: my interview canceled all that.
The worst thing is that they told me it was practically impossible to get a Fulbright to Oxford or Cambridge (and they know, having been over there) and that Dean Rogers is now merrily receiving my Radcliffe applications for admission and scholarship no doubt with a preconceived rejection all ready in his mind. Obviously, if this American Regional Committee refused me, I have no chance for a Fulbright in national competition with countless PhD’s. And also, obviously, if Rogers says in his letter to apply to a grad school with no overcrowding in the Department, he doesn’t mean Radcliffe, where only a few make the grade every year. Even if I got admitted, that would be something, but I honestly am dubious about even that last hope, which was the very bottom one on my list, after the Fulbright, England admission, Woodrow Wilson, Radcliffe Scholarship. On this one simple fact of admission hangs my whole future. They can quite easily cut off my whole chance to expand my intellectual horizons with one little: “We regret to inform you.”
Oh, I really will have to fight with myself to weather the repeated discouragements of this. I’ve borne the tens of rejections I’ve gotten for my writing this year with a gay philosophy, but this, after all, is my life. You were only too right when you challenged me about my ability to be an English teacher on the college level. I don’t think I’m organized or positive or well informed enough to teach anybody a damn thing. I’ll be lucky if I can teach myself to be a practical file clerk or waitress.
… Well, at least my thesis is all right, and my work here these last months of what may be my only academic experience seems to look promising … At least Smith loves me and I love Smith. It’s so discouraging, because it implies a rejection of personality and potentiality as well as just “a superfluous applicant.”
I’m enclosing a letter to Dean Rogers, in addition to his depressing refusal, for your opinion. I think the letter to him is all right and doesn’t sound bitter, which was very hard for me, but I must have some idea about my failings, because they are inextricably involved with my Radcliffe chances. Dean Rogers only needs to say to a wavering committee at Radcliffe: “She is too risky. I saw her for an interview and she had no grasp of questions, was too cocky, or too nervous, or too God knows what—” and I’m done. The thing I’m worried most about now is being admitted even. I never thought I’d fall to such a level!
One fortunate thing is that after I’ve stopped crying about this and deluging my typewriter, I shall plunge into my work here, a little defiantly to be sure, but with renewed vigor.
… If only I knew what they disliked about me! I think it’s only fair for him to give me some inkling, where my application to Radcliffe is so related to his decisions and so I won’t go through life repeating that half hour interview and wondering what I said or did wrong. It’s appalling to think that my application and letters were good enough to get me there and that something about my personality was so bad that it canceled all the rest.
Well, I sat and wrote ten back letters yesterday, Mrs. Prouty’s among them, and am caught up there. This morning I wrote one short story for the Christophers and will write the other this afternoon. [The Christopher Movement, founded in 1945, emphasized the importance of personal responsibility and individual initiative in raising the standards of government, education, literature, and labor relations.] If even one of my three big contest prizes came through, I might be able to earn enough waitressing this summer to go to Graduate School without financial scholarship. But now I am really scared about even being admitted. If admitted, I will go, of course, but at present I hate Dean Rogers, which is not exactly charitable, but rather easy to do at this point.
Today this refusal, a SatEvePost rejection, my 2nd semester bill, and your forwarding of my check balance all came, and it is enough to make Vanderbilt wince.
*
Hello again. It is now after lunch, and I am beginning to think a little. I shall write immediately to Columbia and ask if it is too late to apply for a scholarship there (the due date is February 20, but they said to send for applications before January 15). I do not think they require the Graduate Record Exam at Columbia as they do at Yale (which is why I am ineligibl
e for Yale, on top of the fact that New Haven leaves me totally cold and the department there is stricter than Harvard about languages). Columbia, at least, evidently has a huge graduate department and may be more generous about admission than Radcliffe. It is where Pat O’Neil wanted to apply next year and certainly has a good name, even if it is a huge machine. But I am old enough to adjust to a huge machine where the graduate department in English is as large as our senior class at Smith. In fact, I am beginning to think that Harvard is too small to hold both Dean Rogers and myself. Even if it is too late to apply for scholarship blanks at Columbia, I can still apply for admission, and I trust they do not know Dean Rogers. I would rather go there, now that I think of it, than be a waitress in Florida. I never could get orders straight.
… I was foolish to assume that Harvard would be panting to have me and put all my eggs in one basket. It is just that sometimes when all your chickens come home to roost at the same time, broken and bloody, it is a little discouraging.
Forgive me for spilling all this over to you, but if you have any pertinent advice, I’d be glad to have it. You seem to be more of a realist than I about my future prospects. I’d appreciate it if you’d send off the letter to Rogers immediately upon checking it for subtle malice. Keep the refusal for my grandchildren: “See what a brilliant career mother had in spite of Woodrow Wilson, Dean Rogers and various hard-hearted professors!” And they will look admiringly at a picture of me, just elected most popular waitress at Howard Johnson’s.