Thank you for your letter of March 11th.
The best manner to send the MS is by registered mail, or through the British railways as you did on the first occasion (I have established connections with the customs people at this end, and we will not have any difficulty to clear the MS this time). In any case, do register, or insure the parcel, and write on the wrapping “Manuscrit littéraire, sans valeur commerciale.”
I look forward to receiving your book in its final version.
Yours sincerely,
M. Girodias
I sent the manuscript to Girodias as advised, writing on the wrapping “Manuscrit littéraire, sans valeur commerciale.” The first two of these words one might have thought true enough but the latter three over the years were to prove inaccurate indeed. And the manuscript finally sent off, I gave by letter my final advice to be followed.
March 22nd 1955
Dear Mr. Girodias,
Thank you for your letter of March 15th. I mailed MS yesterday, March 21st, following your instructions and hope you receive it soon and safely.
I’ve used American spelling. However, there may be one or two English I’ve overlooked. I’ve also tried to correct misspellings. Where I have crossed out, I mean for it to follow preceding sentences without a new paragraph except where I’ve put a paragraph mark. I think this occurs in one or two places only. At page 55 there is a jump in numbering to 71 due to cutting 16 pages in first 55.
Could you please let me know as soon as you receive MS?
Yours sincerely,
J. P. Donleavy
I had long been aware that the work was already written the way I wanted and that any attempt at rewriting was making me tense. And I found I could rewrite only minimal parts I thought could suffer to be shortened. MacNamara especially was against cutting or condensing what he felt should be regarded as the natural character of the novel. But too, as a wordsmith I found one could capitalize and embellish here and there and often to one’s amusement. I had, however, despite my overlooking many a misspelling, meticulously gone through the manuscript, making doubly certain that each and every word could be understood and my corrections exactly followed.
Although the name Maurice Girodias was becoming familiar to me, it still somehow seemed enigmatic, if not hinting of mystery, including his signature which continued to consist of three strokes, four dots, a small scribble and a long loop at the bottom of the page. However, it seemed as if nothing could have warned me of a lifelong life-and-death nightmare to come. But in fact a few things should have caused me to be more than cautious, and one event actually did give a premonition of disaster looming.
A day came in Fulham in the mild spring of this fatal year of 1955. I was sitting at my desk in the middle of the afternoon in the front bedroom of 40A Broughton Road when suddenly, as my fist pounded down upon my desk in rage, I knew something gravely catastrophic and inimical to me had happened. Someone somewhere had betrayed me. The foundations of the little house in Fulham shook, and my voice and the word “goddamnit” trembling the windowpanes, could be heard reverberating far away up and down the street. I could only guess that the catastrophe, whatever it was, involved The Ginger Man, which, after the welfare of my wife and now soon-to-be two small children, was the most important thing in my life. I again swore that whomever it was or whatever it was and wherever it was, I would seek out the perpetrator and avenge such wrong or die doing it.
Shortly after this explosive abreaction, there came scribbled on a scrap of paper an eminently legible note from Behan, who said he’d just been in Paris, and that the Olympia Press was publishing The Ginger Man. This was an ordinary enough habit of Behan, who had, and not without justification, assumed all the prerogatives of royalty. His elegant, eminently legible penmanship would appear on scraps of paper and would by someone’s hand be delivered to one. Behan taking upon himself the role of official chronicler, whose emissary in passing on such news meant that such was guaranteed to be a fact and being so, had his imprimatur. Which indeed, it had to be admitted, was always the case. But information far more ominous reached my ears just following Behan’s communication and related to me by Desmond MacNamara:
“Mike, someone passing through London and just in from Paris, whose identity is unknown to me, was heard to say that The Ginger Man was a dirty, filthy book and deliberately written pornography.”
My confidence in The Ginger Man allowed to ignore all kinds and types of criticism and although I could take no serious view of this opinion, treating it as misconstrued, it did at the time strike me as odd, if not suspicious. Even MacNamara, the most eminently tolerant of the world’s foibles, thought this was altogether contrary news to be coming from Paris over a manuscript he had read and admired. And unable to pinpoint the cause, I must have known in my bones that something was badly amiss, for an anxiety was beginning to show three weeks later, following these sinister forebodings.
April 13th 1955
Dear Mr. Girodias,
I am most anxious about my MS. Do let me know if you have not received it.
If you still intend to do my book at this late date, please let me know the terms of your proposed contract, rights, translation, etc., as they are extremely important to me.
However, should MS arrived too late for you to go ahead or for any other reason, let me know and I will send coupons for its return.
Yours sincerely,
J. P. Donleavy
And a pity for us all, except those dedicated lawyers, that this latter had not happened and the manuscript repatriated. For, by God, in the quarter of a century ahead, there was going to be hell to pay.
Which happily
Was not all going to be
Paid by me
Indeed
A sovereign or two
Would tinkle
My way
36
MEANWHILE the correspondence with the Olympia Press was to continue, and Valerie, having a cup of tea in the kitchen, said she thought she was feeling contractions and would feel better if she went to go and lie down. Not that many minutes later in the front bedroom of 40A Broughton Road, with the district midwife summoned and still on her way, Karen was born. She was already lustily crying even before she’d half entered the world.
As these waiting days passed, one of my frequent walks now was westward down Clancarty Road, which, amid its lookalike Victorian terraces, provided a vicarage behind a few trees and an actual for-the-purpose-built artists’ studio on the edge of South Park. Philip went to school here, and one could pass farther along Peterborough and Hurlingham roads to Bishop’s Park along the river. Where under the great shadowy plane trees one could watch rowing crews training and practicing on the Thames. From here the annual Oxford and Cambridge boat race would begin, and one would witness these longtime adversaries going through their daily routines. It was from my many perambulations along this riverbank that my inspiration to write “Persons and Paddling at Putney” came, a piece which again was published in the Manchester Guardian.
These weeks there was no mail and little further news. In what could be thought, or what I imagined was the French literary manner of the eighteenth century, I’d taken an odd Sunday walk along the Thames again with Igor Chroustchoff, Paul Allen and Brian Parker, and we would then repair to take tea in Richmond. Valerie, always willing to do all, one tried to make her work burden less. Washing nappies, dishes, hanging clothes out to dry. One then sat in the warming sunshine on the back iron steps, reading as Philip dug in the tiny garden. We dined off baked beans, ham and pears. My thoughts at this time were highly random. Words appearing in my notebook. How light car refreshment get. And if one goes around the world, does one mee someone in the middle and then say, “I know I am a stranger but fee I’ve known you all my life.” And leaving my desk, one occasionally lurked at the front bedroom window to watch the passing pale white pudding faces of the poor. Their tales always the same. For any two ladies talking in this district were always recounting
their happy days in the hospital, where, free of charge, they had on the National Health scheme been served meals in their beds for perhaps the only time in their lives. I was relieved of writing my meandering words when finally a letter arrived from Paris and I was temporarily reassured as I was plunged back into thinking of business, where, alas, the consequence of every word were to legally reverberate and upon which would hang a fortune.
THE OLYMPIA PRESS
April 15th 1955
Dear Mr. Donleavy,
Thank you for your letter of April 13th.
I have had some difficulties once again with the French customs about clearing your MS, which I received only two days ago. I have given it to one of our editors for a final revision before sending it to the printer. It should be printed within one month.
It is quite unnecessary to have a separate contract; an exchange of letters will, I think, be quite sufficient. These are the terms I suggest:
a) You grant us the right of printing and selling your book in all countries.
b) On the first printing, which will be of 5000 copies, we will pay you an outright royalty of Frs 250,000. On every subsequent reprint, we will pay an outright royalty of Frs 300,000.
c) We are liable to print a special edition, clothbound, for sale in England; on this edition, we would pay you a royalty of 10% on the selling price of copies sold.
d) Every transaction relative to the disposal of translation rights or reprints by other publishers, or any adaptation or use to which the book might be subjected, should be approved by both parties and the monies to proceed from such transactions should be divided equally between us.
Please let me know whether these terms meet your approval. I am anxious to settle this before sending the MS to the printer. As to the payments, I could arrange to have part of the money paid to you in England, and the rest in France. Would that suit you? It is possible to let you have all of the money in England, but that will involve some difficulties.
Yours sincerely,
M. Girodias
Although I had not yet the full grasp of copyright and that it vested in the full and absolute ownership of the author until such time as he would assign and do otherwise with it, as an amateur I had the fundamental idea.
April 19th 1955
Dear Mr. Girodias,
Thank you for your letter of April 15th.
Concerning the right to print in all countries: Does this mean, for example, that as publishers you might print and sell book in USA or elsewhere? This is not something I object to, but I should like to be in a position to give my approval and consider terms.
You have my approval for a clothbound edition for sale in England, and for equal division of monies secured from rights.
Will you send cloth or papercover books for review in England?
Concerning payment: If it is at all possible I should like to have all money in England.
I do wish you all luck and prosperity in dealing with my book and offer any help I can from this end.
Yours sincerely,
J. P. Donleavy
Girodias, as it became apparent in his next letter, was depending less on my wishes of good luck than he was on making sure of preserving his prospects of prosperity.
THE OLYMPIA PRESS
April 22nd 1955
Dear Mr. Donleavy,
Thank you for your letter of April 19th.
As regards American rights, I want to be free to sell as many copies as we can in the USA. If it proves possible to find a publisher willing to print an American edition (with a few cuts), we could sell him jointly the rights and share the returns, which would only be fair as our own market would thus be considerably limited. In any case, nothing will be done and no negotiation will be opened without your approval.
Your MS has been now nearly entirely revised, and a section has been sent to the printer. With a little luck, the book should be on the market within three weeks.
As to the money, we will arrange to have it paid to you in England, but we won’t be able to settle the first half before the beginning of May and the balance in June.
Yours sincerely,
M. Girodias
And Girodias’s response had put him nicely back in the generous position of a fifty-fifty share of rights, which my immediate reply agreed in the case of America.
April 25th 1955
Dear Mr. Girodias,
Thank you for your letter of April 22nd.
I am willing to sell jointly and share returns equally with you as regards American rights. I should like to have my share paid in dollars.
I am pleased book is progressing satisfactorily and look forward to seeing it.
Herewith a tragedy which appeared few days ago in Manchester Guardian.
Yours sincerely,
J. P. Donleavy
The money due was the equivalent of 250 pounds sterling. Considering that my budget was a steady 5 pounds per week, where owning a house with modest overheads and provided one had only an occasional bottle of wine or bottle of pale ale from the off license a short distance away, this was a considerable amount of money and represented nearly an entire year’s survival at Broughton Road. And now for the first but not last time, some small adventure intervened in my dealings with the Olympia Press. A letter arrived from Girodias authorizing payment of the 250 pounds on presentation of the letter to a gentleman called Mr. Cliff in Old Compton Street, Soho. Despite the address, I half expected to enter some august office, flowers on desks, and to be received by a smiling receptionist who would, taking my letter, then hand me a check drawn on a reputable bank. I telephoned the number and seemed to get some evasive answers as to how to contact Mr. Cliff or how to determine his whereabouts and make the arrangements to collect the 250 pounds. Following what I thought to be prevarication, I clearly was alarmed and immediately scribbled a note off to Girodias suggesting another means and place of payment. An immediate reply came back.
THE OLYMPIA PRESS
May 9th 1955
Dear Mr. Donleavy,
I have just received a rather disturbing phone call from Mr. Cliff, who says that there seems to have been some misunderstanding when you phoned the number I gave you. Mr. Cliff appeared rather surprised by the manner in which you had requested payment of the agreed £250 from the person who answered your call.
I am sure that this incident was the result of some misapprehension. In any case, Mr. Cliff is a friend of mine, and is taking care of this transfer at my request on a friendly basis. I would not like to cause him any inconvenience over this that I can avoid. I’m sure you will understand my position and that, when you contact him again, this slight confusion will easily be cleared.
Yours sincerely,
M. Girodias
Next day I again directed my attentions to Soho and arrived by tube at Piccadilly and set off to the address in Old Compton Street. At a doorway I rang a bell, and as I stood on the street I was viewed from a window above. Then the door opening, two cautiously friendly gentlemen appeared and bid me to accompany them directly across the street into a fruit and vegetable shop. Inside, past the potatoes, cabbages, carrots, lettuces and leeks, we went down a narrow dark stairs into the basement. The dank cellar full of and smelling of stored vegetables, we proceeded forward to a table which was faintly illuminated beneath a skylight of glass blocks in the pavement of the street above. Businesslike, one of the gentlemen proceeded to count out 250 pounds from a stack of five-pound notes. I handed over my letter and bundled the cash into an envelope and squeezed it into an inside pocket of my jacket. Any second I thought I might feel a cosh on the back of my skull. But the two gentlemen, who seemed pleased at our exchange, were suggesting that we would be making such a transaction frequently in the future. The prospect of which, despite the less than elegant circumstances, I found not provoking in me any increased dismay.
However, as I climbed back up the dark cellar stairs and again past the carrots, brussels sprouts and cauliflowers and back
out into the street, it was more than vaguely dawning on me that beyond these present gentlemen, who seemed totally innocent of such, that I could be coming close to rubbing elbows with a world commonly referred to as the dirty book trade. Nor could I help feeling that with so much cash upon my person, that in the close-knit community of Soho that anyone else knowing of the transaction might take it into their heads to dispossess me of my very first literary earnings from The Ginger Man. Which, instead of having been paid by official-looking check from a respectable publishing house, was rather a wad of much-used bank notes counted out to me down in the dank cellar of a Soho vegetable shop. And which had guaranteed, along with two recent pieces published in the Manchester Guardian, my yearly income of 5 pounds a week and in a stroke made me fully supporting as a writer.
Heading left out the vegetable shop door, I also turned left down Dean Street past the York Minster Pub, which, as the door happened to open, my eye caught sight of its smoky interior, full of its literary and artistic habitués. Looking back over my shoulder to see if I were being followed, and resisting running, I approached Shaftesbury Avenue. And here, with my best boxing footwork, I smartly nipped across through the two-way moving traffic. Glancing behind again, I could spot no particular pursuer, and it seemed so far, so good. But on my first steppingstone to fame and fortune, I was eager to avoid all jeopardy and I realized that if there were any foolproof way of telling that I was not being followed, I need now only slip through two narrow alleys I knew of off Macclesfield and Wardour streets, a hop, skip and a jump away.
I must have looked strange enough accelerating with a sudden burst of speed and turning abruptly into Dansey Place, a grim pedestrian alley through which one made greater haste, as it indeed seemed a place where one could be ideally murdered or mugged. However, I continued out into Wardour Street and a few yards down and into Rupert Court, a shorter, narrower and more civilized walkway, in which was located one of the best and cheapest-priced Chinese restaurants in London. And then before emerging from the other end, I waited at the corner of the Blue Posts pub to see if someone at speed also turned into this alley. And who would, by a guilty look in sudden confrontation, alert me to knowing I was being pursued. But in the next minute, during which I stood my ground, not a soul came rushing into the alley foaming at the mouth with a cosh or gun at the ready to rob me. I may have even been a little disappointed, but it did dawn on me that in starting my literary career as a novelist, I was being paid in this most bizarre manner of all time and was already seeming to be running for my life.