Have you seen a copy of “Discovery” yet? I haven’t, but E. McKee said she was going to airmail me a copy. Incidentally, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, and if the thing is reviewed at all, I’d appreciate your clipping anything you see about it and sending them to me. I see Time magazine each week, but that’s about all. Marquand, by the way, is presumably due here in Rome at his publication time; I think he wants me to salve his wounds, if there are any, or something. He says he really wants to be in Kenya hunting lions when the book comes, but is now a little leery of the Mau-Mau, so I expect he’ll hunt movie starlets here at the Hotel Excelsior.
Tonight Alexei Haieff (he won the N.Y. Critics Award in music) is giving a party and Truman will be there and so will I. I’m beginning to suspect my self, and that I’m in the wrong set. Best to John and your doll and all the gang at the office.
Love + Kisses—Bill
TO HIRAM HAYDN
February 27, 1953 Rome, Italy
Dear Hiram:
Thanks for the clipping from the Post on Long March. I’ve gotten quite a few letters from people about the story, all favorable, and so in the last analysis, as my old headmaster used to say interminably, I suppose “Discovery” wasn’t too bad a lodging for the piece.
I’m certainly happy to hear that you’re coming to Europe this summer. I’ve already more or less gotten my plans fixed up for the summer, and so you and Mary must come to vist me at Ravello, which is the fantastic town I think I’ve described to you, perched above Amalfi and filled with lemon trees, donkeys, crazy streets and at the moment, unfortunately, a bunch of movie stars, who with their cameras and equipment and attending publicity will no doubt spoil the place for the next seven generations. However this awful piece, starring Humphrey Bogart and Jennifer Jones and written by Truman Capote (whom I saw this past weekend when I was down there scouting for a place to live, and who told me that he “jes writes one crazy scene one day and they film it the next day. It’s all crazy.”) won’t be out for another year or so, the movie stars and their accompanying rabble of seedy-looking beslacked and sodden characters from Beverly Hills will be gone by May, and Ravello this summer will still retain its incomparable beauty … Rose and I are going to share it with another couple. A great guy named Bob White, who is a sculptor and the grandson, incidentally, of Stanford White who built the Academy, and his wife. It won’t matter which one we take because each has a magnificent view, from eight to ten rooms, kitchens and plumbing and terraces and gardens and private groves of lemon trees. God Almighty. And none of them cost over $150 a month, including servants. So this here is an invitation to come down and stay as long as you like.
Incidentally, and to change the subject slightly, I am somewhat peeved by a letter (a form-letter which I received from D. Wolfe and addressed “Dear Author”) which informed me that that Trieste piece I wrote when I was in your class had been chosen to be included in a new anthology that Permabooks is bringing out. You no doubt know of the project.‡H What I would like to know from you is whether you think it’s arrogant of me to be somewhat unhappy over the fact that Wolfe didn’t ask my permission first before including me in. I think I would have given permission all right, provided they append a note or date it anterior to LDID or something, but as it comes out now it will doubtless appear to be something I dashed off this past winter. This whole situation is not important, I realize, in the great scheme of things, and I’m glad to lend my name to something which might help New School writers; but the Trieste piece of prose (although for having been some six years ago I’m not ashamed of it), and I am all in all rather dispirited by the prospect of having people who read this Permabook thing thinking: “ah hah! see what I told you about Styron.” If it is made clear that it’s an early job, that’s best—there’s no indication of such in Wolfe’s letter and I’m inclined to think that any … [Incomplete letter.]
TO WILLIAM C. STYRON, SR.
March 3, 1953 Rome, Italy
Dear Pop,
My story “Long March” seems to be evoking some favorable responses, although there certainly has been a paucity of reviews. Some Hollywood agent liked it enough to send it around to all the studios (though he said there’s fat chance, not only being anti-war but anti-Marine, which in the U.S. is like being anti-Mom), and the editor of Perspectives, the magazine which the Ford Foundation distributes all over the world, called Miss McKee to say that he loved the story but it was too long to reprint. And at the moment I’m in receipt of a letter from Norman Mailer (“The Naked and the Dead”) who tells me “as a modest estimate it’s certainly as good an 80 pages as any American has written since the war.”‡I I’m very touched by that, since Mailer of all my contemporaries is the writer I surely most admire. No need for you to think all this turns my head, as you cautioned. Along those lines Mailer added a word of criticism, implying I suppose that I should have perhaps a slightly more swollen head. “The tendency in you to invent your story, and manner your style, struck me as coming possibly from a certain covert doubt of your strengths as a writer, and you’re too good to doubt yourself.”
Meanwhile, I seem to have struck a slight snag in my work and have done really nothing of any value since Christmas. I’m not actually worried at this impasse, however, though my inactivity irritates me and seems to make much of life weary, flat, stale and unprofitable, or whatever the hell it was that Hamlet said.‡J I’m only really happy when I’m working. This I’ve finally realized in looking back over the periods when I was engaged in writing, those periods which seemed at the time so painful and full of drudgery and toil; actually upon a sort of Proustian type of reflection I can see that they—those hours of concentration, and slow scribbling—they are the moments of true delight. So, if only in a therapeutic vein, I intend to start into work again soon. The Nat Turner thing, for the moment, lies idle; Lord knows when I’ll wrestle with that, perhaps not for years.
I hope you got my recent card. Since then I’ve been to Ravello—that town of magnificent and craggy beauty on the Amalfi coast. We drove down just for a couple of days, a young lady from Baltimore of whom I’m very fond and a sculptor named Robert White and his wife—superb people, he’s the grandson of Stanford White, the architect who had a hand in building the Academy and of whom, of course, much has been written. Riding in Italy, especially around Naples, is a blood curdling experience, what with the absolute unconcern the natives have for any motorized vehicle and what with the incredible procession, still, of carts and wagons. However, the highways here seem to be much safer than in the U.S., perhaps because of necessity drivers appear to be more cautious and wary. In Ravello we stayed a day and two nights in a villa of an old Countess, a friend of the Whites, and I’m afraid I could never describe either the munificent, regal quality of the place or the breathtaking view of precipitous rocks and cerulean blue water over 1,000 feet straight down below. On our scouting expedition we explored half a dozen or so villas which we hope to occupy this summer, finally settling on one which has nine beds, two baths, a view of course, terraces, gardens, a private grove of lemon trees, and a couple of servants thrown in. All for what amounts to about $170 a month. Divided among three or four people this is peanuts. I hope to send you some pictures of it soon. Speaking of pictures, the only sour note in Ravello last weekend was the presence of Humphrey Bogart and Jennifer Jones and an entourage of Hollywood creatures, on location for a movie which will no doubt provide enough publicity as to spoil the place for the next 50 generations.‡K O tempore, O mores!‡L But they won’t be there this summer. Hope all goes well at home, and drop me a line soon.
Your son,
Bill
TO NORMAN MAILER‡M
March 4, 1953 Rome, Italy
Dear Norman:
Your letter, of course, certainly flattered me—elated me, indeed, about as much, or more, as any compliment I’ve ever received, and we won’t turn this into a mutual admiration society by my wondering if you know how much or often certain shades and nuan
ces from Naked have crept into, from time to time, my own work. However, they have, much and often—I don’t know how visibly—and we’ll let it go at that.
I appreciate, too, your comments concerning certain things which I do to my prose every now and then which seem to reveal that I don’t know how good I am. As for that, I think you may be right, having suspected it from time to time myself; but I think I’m arriving at a point which more and more I’m conscious of the mannerisms, and therefore tend to avoid them and go instead more directly to the point. It’s a hell of a hard process, but I take to it more instinctively than the other way around: the brawny method, like a big guy bellowing his way through a crowd. I wonder, for instance, to paraphrase your comment, if Jim Jones knows how really bad he is. I don’t know why I single him out, but really dreadful stuff like that piece in the second New World Writing‡N seems to me to be indicative of the method of a writer who is so dazzled by the vision of his own strength, so earnestly wanting to think deep and write strong, that the result is an achingly conspicuous gaucherie with no significance for either writer or reader. Of course there’s a middle ground in prose, between the tenuous, mannered web of the young lady writers, both male and female, who, whether they have or haven’t anything to say, can’t just quite squeeze it out—and the Older Boys, who always say what they have to say too loudly, too often, and not carefully enough. All this of course is cliché. But it’s simply remarkable to me how so few writers who call themselves serious are unaware of the simple fact that a piece of prose, complex or written in the simplest, most unpoetic language, is akin nonetheless to poetry in that it’s supposed to move men—to laughter or tears, at least to something—and it will very rarely do this unless it approaches this queer middle ground, where the reader can marvel at the excellence of the style and the power of the thing being said, without being really conscious of either. You feel that these boys are never really initially moved by the thing they want to say, or, if they are moved, rush in with flailing arms and without ever having considered the various wheres and whens and whys with which to move the reader. I suppose it would be impossible to explain to someone like Jim Jones where this middle ground is; you’ve been solidly encamped there ever since Naked, even in Barbary Shore which had strange and wonderful stretches.‡O I swear, I can hardly read any of our contemporaries. I’m either deafened by them, or find them practicing onanism in the corner.
At any rate, apologizing for this chatter, I want to thank you again, Norm, for your letter. I can’t tell you how it pleased me. I would like to hear from you from time to time, and hope you’ll drop me a line whenever you feel in the mood. I’ll be in Ravello this summer, surrounded by lemon trees and an almost overpowering quaintness, and if you come to Italy, by any chance, I hope you’ll give me a visit. Best, Bill
TO JOHN P. MARQUAND, JR.
March 9, 1953 Rome, Italy
Dear Jack:
I suppose that by now you’re somewhere in the darker recesses of the mysterious East, smoking hashish, wrapped in a burnous, and in general acting like some character out of Paul Bowles.‡P But when this reaches you, it’s to acknowledge your letter and to tell you that as usual you are welcome at Rose’s and my poor hearth when you come back to Rome. Also, it’s meant to prevail upon you, if you will, to spend some time with us down in Ravello this June. The Whites, Rose and I all drove down there weekend last to size the joint up and not only sized it up but were so smitten by the place that we’re going to take a villa, with terraces, a magnificent view, and a private grove of lemon trees. After the beauties of Greece this is all no doubt old hat to you, but I can assure you that there’s enough second-rate wop beauty down there to satisfy even a world-traveler, Micky Yelke–type character like yourself. So far, and by remote control we’ve persuaded the Matthiessens to spend June there and there’s more than enough room for you, too, if you’d like to come. I think it would be a fine way in which to terminate the old European whirl.
I still haven’t done any work, and am content these days to read only Time magazine, a pleasure which, however, I’ve cut down to only two re-readings per issue. My clots seem to have disappeared; I expect them back at any time, though. We’ve seen neither hide nor hair of Guinzburg and have five or six letters waiting for him, among them yours. I suspect that he and Buffington are outdoing even you in the Paul Bowles motif and are trekking in some abysmal, sex-ridden caravan through Tunisia—which is where he was the last I heard from him.
At any rate, both Rose and I are looking forward to seeing you when you come back to Rome, and hope you’ll consider Ravello.
Best,
Bill
P.S. Matthiessen was here for a couple of days after you left, very smug in his W.C.T.U. kick, I must say, but he’ll probably outlive us all by two decades.
TO ROBERT LOOMIS
March 16, 1953 Rome, Italy
Dear Bob,
I wrote to Sigrid for Mac Hyman’s address, and I’m writing you for it, too. Not that she’d fail to send it, but just in case that she didn’t know his address, while you might. It’s been a long time since I’ve had any news of old Mac; I hope he’s not torturing himself as usual and this time will come to grips with the unsettling problem of living in the big city, and writing.
Your last letter was very amusing, especially the strange sort of Old Will–Rare Ben Jonson business that’s going on at that place I seem never to have heard of: what’s it called, the White Horse?‡Q It sounds perfectly horrible, especially with that fine team of Raoul Beaujolais and Harry Eimerl. To tell you truth, I think the whole lot of them, including and especially Leslie Flatt Belker, are a bunch of literary dead-beats. It’s a miracle to me that with Raoul Beaujolais running things Discovery ever got out at all and I thank E. McKee for insisting that he send me galley proofs of my story, for if I hadn’t gone over them carefully, the piece, with its swarms of mistakes and typos, would have read like a Swedish Army manual. As it is, the thing has at least five errors. Thanks for the reviews, incidentally; the book certainly doesn’t look as if it’ll compete with Marilyn Monroe in popularity. Speaking of this dreadful rash of magazines, you probably know from John that that horrible ass Don M. Wolfe is up to his old tricks again. I’ve been burning up the mails with protestations and cries, but apparently all is lost, and this Cross Currents, or whatever it’s called, especially in its introduction, with its picture of Sigrid and me in blue jeans and boondockers, bravely hammering at our typewriters, is as fearsome as the yearbook of Elon College. I’d love to hear Handel on the subject; according to Elizabeth both he and John are frothing at the mouth.
Rome has been dark and rainy and I’ve been utterly paralyzed and unable to write a line. It’s no great spiritual crisis or anything like that; it’s just a damnably annoying inability to get passionate enough or excited enough about anything to want to sit down and do anything about it. So I’m perfectly in sympathy with you when you mention retyping chapter heads and character lists; I haven’t been able even to do that, but am praying that the advent of spring will give me strength. The maid here points her finger at me and giggles, every day calling me uomo vecchio, which means old man; I think that she thinks that with my sallow skin and melancholy attitude, I’m not long for this world. It’s probably simply too much spaghetti. But the social life is still pretty entertaining: last week I drove down to Ravello to shop for a villa for this summer. A wonderful place. I ran into Truman C., who is writing the script for a movie which is being shot there. Humphrey Bogart, Jennifer Jones, and Zsa Zsa Gabor all over the place, looking very wan and dispirited, as if they all wished they were a million miles from the wops and back in the pool at Palm Springs. Truman makes, he was quick to inform me, $500 a week, and is rooming with John Huston, though I must say that combo leads to spinechilling speculations. I found a villa, incidentally, with a private grove of lemon trees, a couple of servants whose obsequiousness would make Uncle Remus look like a Prussian, and with more rooms than I can count. I certa
inly wish it were possible for you and Gloria, John, Mandel, and the whole crew to come over and spend the summer.
I trust that everything is going O.K. at Rinehart and that you are staying reasonably sober. Mrs. Luce is undoubtedly going to cut off my pipeline to the embassy whiskey supply, but I can make do, if I have to, with the good Chianti. Best to all, and give me the latest news when you get a chance.
Yrs In the Bond. Bill
TO MAXWELL GEISMAR
March 24, 1953 Rome, Italy
Dear Max:
I got word just recently from my friends in Paris that you had done a job on Discovery in The Nation.‡R I hope you had a good word to say for my story, because the Geismar-Nation combination is certainly one in which a writer wants a bit of praise. I wonder if you would do me a favor and send me a clipping of that review, if there’s one easily available. That story took me a couple of months last summer in Paris to write, and when it was done I certainly felt that I had gotten something off my chest. I don’t think Discovery, from the copy I’ve seen, will win too many honors, but my story was much too long and too heavily laden with 4-letter words to be published elsewhere. All in all, though, I can’t complain because I suppose these pocketbook ventures have pretty wide readership.
Since finishing that story, unhappily, I’ve done practically nothing and this fact seems to be making neurotic inroads upon my personality. (I used to snicker when I read about the anguish writers had whenever they found themselves bone-dry, but I snicker no longer.) It’s hell the way these days go by with nothing accomplished and, seemingly, with nothing to anticipate in the future. I am as inspiration-less as a newt. And yet there’s something in me which absolutely refuses to allow myself to sit down and turn out some sort of automatic drivel. Nothing is more tedious in this world than to read anything that’s second-rate, and practically all second-rate stuff (and there’s so much of it) comes, it seems to me, from a writer writing something without having anything particular to say, feeling that perhaps if he isn’t constantly in print he won’t become rich and famous. Of course, a lot of second-rate stuff comes merely from second-rate writers. At any rate, here I am high and dry in Italy, sweating it out; maybe you have a few words of psychiatric advice, gleaned from your many researches among the diseases of writers.