End space. Too rainy to mail. Hello Corey.
Thine—
David
52 On a card announcing the reissue of Going Down by Counterpoint in March 2005.
53 I’d recently learned that my first book, Practice, Restraint, would come out in October.
May 3 ’05
Simso, Simso, Simso—
Lissen, kid, I truly dislike “lunch,” part of the total reclusiveness I’ve fallen into in my later years.54 I remember Willie Gaddis telling me the same thing, one of the last times I saw him (though I probably didn’t understand it yet). So whadaya say to this instead? Why don’t you guys stop here at my apartment for an hour or so, in the late morning—say 11 a.m.? That way, you get the whole stretch before your later gig in which to do something far more interesting than watching a grumpy old man dribble egg yolk into his beard (I still have the beard). Eleven o’clock, Sat., May 21.
Done? Done.
But lissen, do, do, do call me earlier—say 9:30 or so, to double-check, just in case. And keep in mind the major sacrifice I’m making—I’ll actually have to make a pass at cleaning this place!
Until—
David
54 I was going to be in New York again, for another reading, and had asked him to meet for lunch. Again.
May 22 ’05
Dear Simso—
I’m glad I finally saw you. I am.
Next time I will try to be civilized enough to have lunch, too. And not to spend half our time bitching about all of my penny-ante maladies.
Were I a dozen or fifteen years younger—yeah, say fifteen, so I’d only be 62—I never would have let you go wandering off alone that way either. I did think to check out that restaurant a while later, to make sure you weren’t sort of semi-stranded there—after also having paused to discover that that Bowery poetry place55 was listed in the phone book as well.
I hope the reading was what you wanted.
Meanwhile I keep crossing over to smell the lilacs. I have a vague feeling my woman brings in some in Wittgenstein’s Mistress, but can’t be sure56—and haven’t opened it in forever. They are now on that small table next to where you were sitting, far more attractive there.
Stay well, both of you.
With love—
David
55 The Bowery Poetry Club, where I was reading later that afternoon.
56 “I have brought in lilacs, also.” (77)
May 30 ’05
Dear Simso—
As you know, I read no fiction at all any longer. But a book I sort of semi-seriously skimmed, because my editor asked me for a blurb, just now out, is The Method Actors, by Carl Shuker (Counterpoint, paper)—all about people like you in Japan.57 Remembered it only after you were gone. Should carry you back, I’d think.
Also, what arrived last week but a check I’d forgotten about—an advance on a Japanese edition of Wittgenstein’s Mistress. (Don’t know when scheduled.)
Lilacs all gone.
With love—
David
57 I’d told him, during our visit, that I’d lived in Japan for three years after college.
June 9 ’05
Simsy—or rather, Simsy-san—
I don’t recall ever having seen a Japanese book but for some reason I’d wager that my title will be: Wittgenstein’s Mistress.58
Why do I think that?
Meantime, if you read that Carl Shuker book, The Method Actors, (and who knows, you may be a character in it), do let me know what you think. It will please my editor. And, hell, since they publish W.S. Merwin, Gary Snyder, etc., can’t hurt you either, maybe, one day, once I pass it on.
Oh, I forgot. The guy who spoke of “those wonderful folk who brought you Pearl Harbor,”59 was Jerry Della Femmina60 (or however it’s spelled).
Thine—
David
58 I’d asked him if he thought there’d be a different title for the Japanese version.
59 This was a line he’d quoted to me during our visit, when I’d mentioned my experience in Japan.
60 Jerry Della Femina, an advertising executive and restaurateur who wrote a bestselling book in 1970 called, From Those Wonderful Folks Who Gave You Pearl Harbor: Front-Line Dispatches from the Advertising War.
June 11 ’05
Dear Simso—
I never did mention that poem.61 The word “stupid” at the end didn’t work for me.62 I tried to think of substitutes, planning to ask you if one of them might fit the translation—that is, if I found one I liked—but got nowhere. But I thank you anyhow. And no, I didn’t know it. I know nothing of that literature.
Thine—
David
61 I’d included a Robert Hass translation of Kobayashi Issa’s death poem in a previous letter to David: “A bath when you’re born, / a bath when you die, / how stupid.”
62 I happen to love that “stupid” at the end, and told him so in my next letter.
June 23 ’05
Lissen, Simser—
What is this wiseguy stuff? If I tell you a poem doesn’t work, it doesn’t work . Behave yourself.
And what’s with Francoise Palleau mentioning that you were here?63 What am I gonna have to do, demand copies of everybody’s e-mail?
Tell Corey, every time you disagree—no question he’s right!
Be good. With love—
David
63 Francoise and I had gotten in touch by e-mail.
July 19 ’05
Dear Wisconsin—
Actually there are more than two or three typos in that interview,64 plus some mis-transcriptions, plus some screw-ups where they cut stuff; but since I do not believe in the web, the hell with it. But aren’t you sweet for looking out for me!
Am I supposed to know what PRACTICE [comma] RESTRAINT is?65 And why isn’t there a copy here, stacked between Shakespeare and Dante? Or Homer?
The Danes are great people.66 When the Nazis in WWII arrived and said all Jews must wear the yellow star, the king himself appeared wearing one.
And then of course there’s Hamlet.
(Though of course he’s an Elizabethan handover.)
Thine—
David
64 I’m not sure what interview he’s referring to here, but it must have been an online one I’d found, which becomes clear by the end of the sentence.
65 It was the title of my first book, due out in October of that year.
66 I must have mentioned my brother-in-law, who lives in Denmark with his wife, a Dane.
Aug 12 ’05
Simsy, Simsy—
PRACTICE, RESTRAINT is to go between my Shakespeare and Spenser? What am I supposed to do with my Shelley? My Skelton? My Gary Snyder? My Shirley? My Sidney? My Sitwell? My Simic? My Southwell? My Spender? My Karl Shapiro? My Smart? My Snodgrass? My Simpson? My Stevie Smith?
What kind of poet can’t even alphabetize?
For shame.
Oct 19 ’05
Dear Simso—
It occurred to me later last night that I’d not said congratulations on the book.67 I’ve been at it so long that I take them for granted, but I’m sure its existence gave you a thrill—and I couldn’t be more pleased for you. Mazel tov.
I also appreciate the inscription—and the dedication on “Bank Four.” I promise I’ll read it and read it and read it—until I at least begin to understand it.
And the rest of them.
I was delighted to see Corey. He’s far too good for you.
Liked your chum Margaret too. You’re all so smiley and energetic—gawd.
I kept wondering, when I got home, why I was hungry. Aren’t they supposed to give you toast or some such with an egg order—or was it on the side where I didn’t notice it?
I also realized I short-changed you guys on the bill. My $20 would have covered my food and drink, but was shy on the tax and tip. DO NOT RETURN THE ENCLOSED!68 (Oops. Tested it against the light. Too visible. I owe you $5.00)
If it arrives. Pretty dumb
to send cash in a letter, no?
Hey—I enjoyed it all. And am sorry I don’t shut up.
With love to you both—
David
P.S. I also found something to do with the pumpkin.69 I won’t tell. But nice. I even scored points with it.
67 We’d met for lunch (finally, lunch!) earlier that day. I was in town for my book launch.
68 There was nothing enclosed, as he explains in the parenthetical remark, which he’d scribbled on later.
69 We’d brought him a miniature pumpkin.
Oct 28 ’05
All right, don’t ask me what I did with the pumpkin.
You’ll never know, now.
[Accompanied by a drawing of a pumpkin, on the bottom of the card.]
Nov 13 ’05
Simso—
Down the corridor here, a youngster with fire-engine red hair. When he’s carried or wheeled past, he’s never done anything but stare and scowl at me. Roughly two weeks ago, near Halloween, he had his first birthday. I knocked—and gave him the pumpkin. Those things are dense, they’re heavy. I thought he was nowhere near strong enough, but he gripped it in both hands and wouldn’t let go. His mother said he held onto it for days. Ever since, whenever I’ve seen him, he grins and grins. He’s now my little red-headed buddy. And that’s the tale of your silly-arsed pumpkin!
Love, etc.—
David
Dec 20 ’05
Simso—
You’re the one who hasn’t written, kiddo. Ever since I told you about the pumpkin. I figured you were sore—a gift from Laura Sims and I’d had the chutzpah to pass it along to a little one-year-old red-headed neighbor, shame on me. No news, in any event. (I have, however, spent more odd moments struggling with your pomes.) Do you know what today’s date (above) is?70 This time, shame on you, then.
Hey, love to you both—
D.
70 His birthday. His 78th, to be exact.
Feb 1 ’06
Simso—
No, I ain’t a Capricorn, whatever comes before that—which I recall only because somebody once told me. Don’t tell me you believe in that shit?
Gawd, how can you teach as much as you say? The only time I did it full time—1964–66, at LIU—I was semi-suicidal.
Meantime, lissen, you might inquire at RCF yet again re your DM essay—telling them you saw a Dalkey Archive catalogue in a bookstore (I’m the one who saw one, but that means they are in distribution) and DM is not even listed for their spring issue. Otherwise, if you don’t peddle it before you go to Japan71 someplace, then what?
Why why why do you do all those readings? Who arranges them? Do you get paid?
Don’t leave flowers, telephone.72
Old tired sick broke73—but with love—
David
71 I’d received a writing grant from the Japan-U.S. Friendship Commission for a six-month residency in Tokyo—for fall of 2006.
72 I was going to be in NYC, for a reading again. We couldn’t meet but I’d told him I was going to leave flowers on his doorstep.
73 Which would become a primary refrain in his last novel, The Last Novel.
Feb 11 ’06
Simser—
So I’ll never see a Sims/Markson essay in print; ah, well.74
Then again, if you’d publish such things, sooner instead of later you’ll be Distinguished Prof of Poetry, U of Wisconsin—or wherever—with one class per semester—one semester per year!
And re readings, readings: someone just called me to share an evening (here) with Michel Butor.75 I said I simply don’t, thanx. Only later did I wonder: if they are bringing Butor from Paris, what are they paying him? And me? I never thought to ask. Old-Tired-Sick-Alone-Broke!
Love again—
David
74 I think I’d finally told him that I was too busy at the time (teaching 4–5 classes per semester while tending to my own creative work) to finish and send out an essay on his work (which would have entailed rewriting the earlier draft, or starting from scratch).
75 Michel Butor, French novelist, critic, and essayist.
Feb 17 ’06
Symsy, gal—
You think you’re a poet? Ha, get this. I’ve just received royalty statements on mine,76 for Jan ’05 through June ’05—the usual delay of six months, plus processing. In that earlier six months—a dozen years after publication—I sold SEVEN COPIES! Willie Yeats is turning over in his grave. Eddie Poe weeps where he lies. Johnny Keats whimpers.
SEVEN COPIES! IMMORTALITY.
Ha.
Thine—
David
P.S. You’re doomed if you tell a soul!
76 Collected Poems. David Markson (Dalkey Archive Press, 1993).
Feb 21 ’06
Dear Simsich—
A couple of hours after your call—
The total of sales to date77 (after 11 yrs) is indeed 540! (That’s thru June a year ago. Must be as many as 8 since!)
Whoinhell bought ’em?
Love again—and hello Corey—
Thine—
D.
77 Total number of copies sold of his Collected Poems.
March 22 ’06
Sims, lass—
So there’s Corey, in the new issue of Fence—and I learn that his poems are as difficult to solve as yours are. I’m glad. It means you were made for each other!
But I’m sore, too. How come he sez he’s reading Practice, Restraint, but not anything by Markson? Doesn’t he know you’re s’posed to?
Then again, somebody else in the back of the book is reading my Springer’s Progress. Who he, I wonder?
No, I don’t subscribe. Someone seems to send it, these last few years.
Nada aqui. Old, tired, sick, broke. But WORKING!78
With love to you both—
David
78 On what would be The Last Novel.
Apr 13 ’06
Simso—
Another periodical that sometimes gets sent to me, & that I merely skim through (DON’T TELL A SOUL!)—Rain Taxi. And who’s reviewed this month?—my gal Laura! I’m thrilled for you. I mean it. I’m hopping around on one foot as if I have water in my ear. (I also have just had walking pneumonia—but never mind that.) May you have uncountable numbers more!
Why go back to Japan when Minneapolis is welcoming you?79
Thine—
D.
79 I was about to go there for a reading organized by Rain Taxi.
Apr 24 ’06
Sims—yeah!
Great review, the Mid-American thing!80 Did you send her a gushing let’s-be-friends-forever letter?
In Minneapolis, say hello to Eric Lorberer (Ed., Rain Taxi)—(never met—a few brief exchanges.)
For your mystery addiction81—Counterpoint are re-doing my two private eye novels82 (two in one volume), maybe late this year. But you’ll be in Japan, no? Too bad, kid.
Hey, love again—
D.
80 I sent him a copy of a good review of Practice, Restraint that had appeared in the Mid-American Review.
81 I was deep into novels by Henning Mankell, Patricia Highsmith, and Ruth Rendell at the time.
82 Epitaph for a Tramp and Epitaph for a Dead Beat, both highly entertaining and full of Markson-esque allusions.
June 5 ’06
Symso, gal—
Donno if I mentioned. Did I say that both of your contributions to my new masterpiece made the final cut?—
A.—Don’t do it, Rodya!83
B.—Catherine the Great dying in the royal W.C.84
There are, however, no footnoted citations of sources! And I have no acknowledgments page. But I thank you.
Love—
D.
83 “Amid the clutter of multilingual graffiti beside the door to the St. Petersburg garret that is alleged to be the one Dostoyevsky used as a model for Raskolnikov’s: Don’t do it, Rodya!” (23)
84 “Catherine the Great died after having suffered a stroke an
d fallen from a commode in the royal water closet.” (158)
July 14 ’06
Dear Simso-san—
Izzat right? What’s “san” mean? (Don’t tell me “sir.”)
This is the first letter/postcard I’ve sent to Japan since Doug MacArthur stopped writing to ask me advice.
A very important question. Why, when I wasn’t sure on which “Friday,” as you put it, you were leaving, and I phoned to say goodbye, did your cheery voice still respond on the machine—as it still does today, July 14, when on impulse, I dialed again? I am not inventing that. Will your “please leave a message” go on for all your sojourn?
Meantime I hope it’s all gratifying for you both. My own attitude re Japan echoes Philip Larkin’s re your nearby neighbor: “I’d love to visit China, if I could come back the same night.” (Maybe he said “same day.”)85
News, news, do I have any news? The MRI they scared the shit out of me by making me take for my brain did not show a brain tumor (they did not mention whether it showed a brain.) An attractive middle-aged good novelist has proclaimed a desperate crush on me. Temperatures in New York are currently averaging 90+ daily. Tell me your evaluation of Anne Carson. Have you ever read Joanna Scott? What did Materazzi actually say to Zinedine Zidane?86 Why is Palleau’s book now long accepted87 and there is no word re Sims’ essay? Did I tell you about the other young French gal who writes me mash notes? Why, why do I have to be 78—which means halfway through my 79th year? Is there no way to transport every central figure of the Bush administration to Guantanamo in place of 95% of the people there now? Can we ship Scalia, Thomas, Alito, Roberts, along with them? When you come home, will you stop by & put my message on my answering machine with your energetic cheerful voice for me?
I am desperately trying to start a new book.88
Love—and to Corey—
David
All of which shows how busy I am between books!
85 He did.
86 Refers to a heated exchange that took place between two players during the finals of the 2006 World Cup.