New York is hot and sluggish, and there is incessant chatter of war. God, what a time we live in! Who cares really for art or beauty or anything like that when one is so inundated by perpetual mementoes of distraction, ugliness, television faces. At a party at Loomis’s last night I was surrounded by a real herd of television and radio creatures. It was a veritable shame to hear them talk, and so I got abruptly and impolitely drunk. Surely this Peter Viereck is correct in writing that the real Babbitts of our time are not the hollow-headed businessmen but the intellectual chic: the ones who read Flair, and go to avant-garde movies and think Charlie Chaplin is the new messiah, and believe that the music of Kurt Weill and Burl Ives and South Pacific reach dizzy summits of emotion. Maybe the outfit is headed for extinction, and we do need the Atom bomb. Collier’s, incidentally, has a really horrifying article portraying the destruction of N.Y.C. by the Bomb, with a capital B.*F
The corn will be ripe when you return, so come back and you and I will eat some, also our tomatoes. We’ll also avoid Anna O’Higgins like a plague and if I take my MS up I’ll wrap it in windproof cellophane.
Now I must go out and sponge a meal from someone I know, probably Loomis. If Haydn wants to know why I’ve been writing so slowly, I’ll tell him the truth: all I’ve been able to write about is food.
Much love and hugs from S.B. Kisses from
S.B.
TO WILLIAM CANINE
August 8, 1950 Valley Cottage, NY
Dear Bill,
I was happy to get your letter and to read all about life and art in Durham. What with your short stories and the fable (what is a fable? Like Aesop? La Fontaine? It sounds interesting.) you seem to be coming along faithfully and well, and I hope and expect Mr. Fuller (whom, incidentally, I’ve heard of but don’t know) to have them in print for you very soon. From what you write I gather that you have a considerable portion of the novel finished, which is a fine thing, too. Before I go any further I’d like to call your attention, as they say, to both the Houghton Mifflin fellowship and the Saxton Fellowship—you’ve no doubt heard of them. Why don’t you give them a try, since they seem to me to be the best ways in which to place an unfinished MS? Both funds provide a working author with $2400—no strings attached, except the obvious one of literary promise, and the rather natural provision that you give publishing rights to Houghton Mifflin, or to Harper’s, with whom the Saxton trust has a somewhat incestuous relationship. You can get application blanks for the HM Literary Fellowship by writing to the HM Company, 2 Park Street, Boston. The Eugene F. Saxton Memorial Trust blanks you can obtain from Harper and Bros., 49 E. 33rd St., NYC.
Now that that’s off my chest, I might go on to finer and better things, which brings me to music. The music up here is wonderful. We have a Lafayette FM-AM radio, with all sorts of fine attachments, LP, and I’d imagine one would call the other SP. I’m rapidly beginning to believe that Mozart is the most important man since Shakespeare. Have you heard the Horn Concerto No. 4? Or the Divertimento No. 17? The latter is on Columbia records with the Lener Quartet and the brothers Brain playing the horns. In both pieces the horns give this lovely sense of space and poignancy to the foreground melody, and I get utterly “sent” when I hear them. If I’m not mistaken, the Durham Music Co has the Divertimento. Maybe they’re having a 50% reduction sale, and you could pick it up cheap, if you liked it. Yesterday (Sunday) WQXR played all of The Marriage of Figaro from two till five, and from five till eight WABF, a lovely New York FM station, played all of Don Giovanni. It’s almost indecent, really, listening to all of this grand stuff, but I don’t know what I’d do without music. Somehow I believe that one of the conditions of art—literature—is to approach, like Pater said, the state of music, although I believe, too, that one should have a bit more to say than Pater. At any rate, I wonder whether people without a proper appreciation of music (in the un-snobbish sense) can impose a feeling of poetry upon literature. And without this poetry (I don’t mean “poetic prose”) I just don’t believe that the best literature can be produced. Which all leads back, perhaps, to loving Mozart and Beethoven and Bach and the best of Brahms. Frankly, I don’t know much about the rest of them.
I’m glad you mentioned Gide. I’ve read nothing of his, including the Journals, but from time to time I’ve planned to do so, because what the reviews have said all seemed so interesting.*G The laziness, the boredom, the striving toward a discipline—all these have been mentioned and have intrigued me, as they probably do you, because they seem to strike some common chord. So many people, as I have made bold to say before, seem to think that writing is an act apart and discrete from the author’s personality, that one sits down each day and gets such-and-such an amount of words written, and that’s that. Well, it’s not the case; at least it’s not the case with me, and I suspect that it’s not the case with any writer except a hack, who undergoes no probings of his mind and doesn’t care about halting to consider this or that way of expressing a thought or turning a phrase. It’s not a precious pose. This agonizing, in any real writer; most of the writings of any real writer are, I suspect, merely the projections in fictions of his own personality, and he isn’t willing to sweat and strain and make it as nearly perfect as he can, then he ain’t a real writer, because he’s not searching through his mind for the real him, but is just putting down the first old thing that pops into his head. As for this novel, Peyton, that I’m writing, it lacks too much form to begin with for me not to sweat over the inside particulars. Actually, it’s coming along very well, but God! You want to put in everything, express so much, but you find that if you try to do this you’re deserting the little form and unity you already have. I’ll be satisfied if, say about the summer of next year, I’ve gotten one/fiftieth of what I want to say within my vague and sprawling outline. By that time I should be finished, and I hope it’ll be good. It’s what I’m living for.
If and when you come to N.Y. in September, don’t fail to let me know you’re here. I don’t know if I’ll still be up here or not; I probably will, though. The number is NYack 7-1806-W. We could have a number of rousing good beers, or martinis, if you prefer. I haven’t heard from Loomis in a number of weeks; I think he’s suffering from a curious sense of guilt or betrayal over Suzie, but it’s all right with me if he wants to be such a young child. Tell Brice, if you please, that I’ll write him soon, also Snitger, to whom I’m in debt a little. I’m glad he got a better job. Embrace Bennett-Lee for me, and give my best to Emily, Gipp, Cricket, and Byron.
Incidentally, did you ever play chess? We play the game often up here, and I’m getting to be something of a gee-whiz. Back to work.
Yours,
Bill S.
P.S.: See the pretty stamps?
TO WILLIAM BLACKBURN
October 19, 1950 314 West 88th Street, New York City
Dear Prof. Blackburn,
This is just a note to thank you for your letter, which was wonderful. Everyone is just as happy as you are that you had a nice time at Valley Cottage and perhaps, like Gen’l MacArthur, you shall return, soon.
In regard to Lead Belly, I’m glad that you were able to get a copy of “Irene.” However, Sigrid and I have had copies made for you, on two 10″ unbreakable 78 rpm records, three of the songs which you heard at Valley Cottage: They are “Frankie + Albert,” which takes up two sides; “Midnight Special”; and “Take This Hammer.” They are a little noisy and since the originals were cracked, the cracks have been reproduced, too, but they sound good just the same. I am wrapping them up and you should get them next week.
The Occasion for this is, of course, the death of Sir Thomas Browne, which took place 268 years ago today.*H
As ever,
Bill S.
TO WILLIAM C. STYRON, SR.
December 6, 1950 314 West 88th Street, New York City
Dear Pop,
A note to let you know that I’m thinking of you, and that I’m hoping everything goes well and you’re on your way to a good recovery. Eliza
has been keeping me apprised of your progress and at last reports you were doing admirably well. Keep it up and stay in good spirits and I know you’ll be in prime working order very soon.
The big news up here recently has involved three things—the Long Island train wreck, the big storms and, of course, the war. The wreck was awful and most people I know out on Long Island are actually paralyzed with fright.*I As for the storm, it really did leave havoc in its wake, as they would say in the newspapers. I was up with the de Limas in Valley Cottage that weekend and, while there was no damage to the house, all the lights were gone for three days and also the water, which is worked by an electric pump. It was an amazing journey; riding back down to the city through northern New Jersey there were whole acres in that thickly wooded area where not one tree was left standing. They were all blown down like so much kindling, looking as if a bomb had blasted away at them—an A-bomb—and it was appalling and rather pathetic.*J
The really gruesome news here, as elsewhere, is the war.*K I don’t know what’s going to happen, and I try—in order to keep my wits about me—not to think about it, and proceed about my work in an orderly fashion. The Marines (so Tommy Peyton, who is now back at Quantico, informs me) will probably not make me join up for a while yet—unless there’s a real war—because reserve officers are called up by serial number, and my number is a relatively low one. So that’s some temporary consolation, at least.
The book, finally, I can say, is nearing completion. I’m over the hump and the end is in sight. I’ve been working very hard on it lately—due to the pressure of the news and monetary considerations—and I don’t know whether the book will profit or suffer by my sense of urgency. I surely hope, at least, that it doesn’t suffer too much. Not that I’m writing sloppily; I’m just not taking so long to ponder and find the bon mot, the impeccable phrase. Right at this moment Haydn is reading for the first time the second 175 page chunk of the book, which brings me up currently to p. 365. I haven’t heard from him yet, but I know he’ll like it, and at any rate I’m still writing furiously, with roughly 75–100 more pages to go.
Do take care of yourself, Pop, and try not to be too depressed. Remember that you’re only one of a legion of people who’ve had the same thing, and most of them have recovered handily and are now active and happy. Please try to write me when you can, and give my best to Eliza and everybody.
Your son,
Bill Jr.
TO WILLIAM CANINE
February 23, 1951 314 West 88th Street, New York City
Dear Bill,
Got your note and am glad to hear that you are coming up to the flesh-pots of the North. You’d of course be welcome to stay with me, except that frankly there’s not a shred of anything to lie on in my squalid room. There’s a seedy, but clean, hotel called the Colbourne, which sounds like it should be on Fifth Avenue, but which is on Washington Place near Sixth Avenue right off Washington Square. If you’ll write next week and tell me just about when you plan to get here I’ll reserve a room; which is pretty cheap there, and you’ll be all set when you arrive. It’s in the heart of the so-called Village, where I spent more of my so-called Nights, and so it would be convenient to what parties are on hand at that time. Just let me know about when you plan to get here. My telephone number, incidentally, is Trafalgar 7-2895 and if there’s no answer there I can generally be reached at Walker 5-2041, which is the number of Wanda Montemora,*L this girl I know, and at whose apartment I do some of my work. There are good shows at the Metropolitan and at Modern Art; I think it’s a fine season to come to the city.
I did receive a call from Cate, indeed. The orders were to report to the 2nd MarDw, whatever that is, CLNC (Camp Lejeune) on March 2nd. I took my physical at the Brooklyn Navy Yard and passed beautifully. I had 70–20 vision in one eye (uncorrectable), but I could have strolled in there with no arms and a case of leukemia and they still would have taken me. However, Haydn got on the phone to HQMC WashDC (Code DF) and contacted a General Jerome, who is head of USMC publicity. Haydn gave him a sad story and the general was sympathetic, so I have been deferred until May 1st. Ample time to finish the book, but hardly enough time to finish the book and celebrate its completion both. You said you thought you’d be raging mad if you got the call. I have no doubt that you would. I was absolutely frantic, planning to turn myself in to the FBI and tell them to take their bloody war and ram it, as we say in the Marines, and other desperate expedients. But now I’m a little calmer and my rage has turned into a greasy sort of bitterness. I think this country—at the moment—is strictly from hunger.
The book will be finished by April 1st and will be published in July. This is the straight scoop. I’m on Peyton’s death scene now, page 480-something. The book’s too long. The jacket is going to be handsome, with a design by George Salter, who did “Joseph in Egypt” for Knopf. I wish I would be more excited over these trifles, but the Marines have deadened me to every emotion except disgust.
We’ll have time to talk when you come. Let me hear from you before.
Yours,
Bill
TO WILLIAM C. STYRON, SR.
April 7, 1951 Valley Cottage, NY
Dear Pop,
I’m up in Valley College this weekend with the de Limas—a beautiful spring day (the first this year up here), and listening to Beethoven’s Ninth adds a touch of supernatural grandeur. The book was finished over a week ago and since then I’ve been resting up—as much as I can, since the rest period has involved trips to Westport with Haydn and visits to Bobbs-Merrill for touching up and revision. Fortunately, there hasn’t been much of the latter, except for minor changes here and there, and I’m on my way back to regaining the 15 pounds I lost writing the final hundred pages. Now, finished, I can say I’m pretty well pleased with what I’ve achieved. The book has quite a few flaws but generally speaking I believe that I’ve accomplished what I set out to do. It’s a big novel in size (620 typed pages) but I do think it’s big in quality, too. I suspect that if I don’t achieve fame from it I’ll at least get a certain notoriety, for the last part of the book has pages that are exceedingly frank.*M Necessary, though, to my intention. Some people, too, will no doubt think the book is filled with a sense of needless despair. I don’t much care what they think; it has plenty of despair in it, but none of it, I think, needless. I’ve done what the true artist must do: paint life honestly according to his vision. If my vision is, to use a phrase, tragic, the tragedy is not gratuitous, but a part of our monstrously tragic times. The hope offered at the very end of the book is also not gratuitous; I think you’ll agree with me when you read it. Title: Lie Down in Darkness.
Outside of my own reactions, the book has really gone over with the rest of the people so far. The ones, that is, including Haydn, who’ve read the MS. Haydn really does think I’m the best writer living and it does me no harm to hear him say it, although I’m too much the natural pessimist to let it turn my head. George Salter, the fellow who has done the jacket, has written a note to be sent out by Haydn to the booksellers. Salter is a very snooty guy, according to Haydn, and is not given to insincere tributes; Haydn will send you the note when it’s printed and I think you might be pleased by it. The book, incidentally, is finally scheduled to be published on August 20th and you’ll get a galley copy long before that, probably sometime in May. So far three very big literary people have promised to read the book and to give a comment, if they like it, for the jacket. They are Robert Penn Warren, Allen Tate, and Van Wyck Brooks.*N Haydn also expects comments from the following: Edmund Wilson, Louis Kronenberger, Budd Schulberg, Lionel Trilling, Alfred Kazin, Joseph Wood Krutch, Mark Van Doren, and John P. Marquand. Quite a list, no?*O I might even get rich; if so, how about a new Pontiac for you?
I hope it won’t disturb you, as I heard that it did, to tell you that I’m marking time, resignedly, for my re-entrance into the Marine Corps.*P Last time I didn’t mean to give an impression of abject anything—terror or despair. I just really felt then (heighte
ned by the sudden shock), as I do now, a sort of disgust with the whole business. One can’t feel overjoyed at the prospect of being, in the prime of one’s life, militarized indefinitely. Communism and its threat (acknowledged), or the fact that I’ve already spent three years at it before, with or without combat—these have not so much to do with my disgust as that of being faced with a civilization apparently going stark raving mad. I urge you to read a book called 1984 by George Orwell. It pictures beautifully the situation toward which we seem to be headed, and will reach unless people quit their mad lust for power. I despise Soviet Communism in any of its forms, but I equally believe that America is—at the moment, at least—far from guiltless and perhaps even a little criminal in its foreign policy. You understand I’m not speaking as a marine-to-be, but as a citizen. “My country right or wrong; but always my country”—these are fallacies that should have been shattered long ago, in a nation potentially as great in its democratic ideals as this one. I realize that we face a hideous threat, and it’s not the Marines or our foreign policy or possibility of combat which I protest so much as, again, being involved in a sort of zombie world where the only music is the sound of marching feet. Please don’t let this personal attitude affect you. As usual we aren’t taking it lying down; but the young people of today who do any sort of thinking do feel, I can assure you, somehow tricked and cheated. I feel lucky. I’ve written a book, my words are “graven with an iron pen and lead in the rock forever.”*Q But what about the ones who want to write, and won’t have a chance?
You’ll get a copy of the jacket and the proofs sometime in May and I hope you enjoy it—especially since you’ll have the knowledge that you, mostly, made it possible. Because of more work I won’t be able to see you before I go to Lejeune, but I’m sure I’ll be able to see you on the weekends and furloughs thereafter.