Otherwise, all is fine, and Italy is blossoming out all over with spring. It’s really a great land, and my stay here has been enhanced by a lot of travel, all of it in a little Austin which I bought, which has squeaky brakes. The Academy itself, of course, is frightful, being populated by myopic archaeologists, bone-pickers, and other spinsters, but it’s a convenient headquarters and they do a nice job on my laundry. This summer I’m renting a villa down in Ravello, which is a place of fantastic beauty, and then I suppose I’ll head back to the States next fall—in order to be able to keep in sociological touch with Eisenhower land. By that time I’ll probably have such a tan that I’ll be excluded under the McCarran act.
I really would like to see that Nation piece, Max, and any advice you might have about total paralysis would be greatly valued. Meanwhile, here’s hoping that all goes well with you, and Ann, to whom also I send warmest greetings.
Bill Styron
P.S. I hope you won’t let my remark about critics, in The Paris Review, disaffect you. I love the good ones.
TO WILLIAM BLACKBURN
Spring, 1953‡S Paris, France
I am the one on the right eating a sandwich and that is Barbara on the left with bubble-gum on her chin.
Bill
And we’re looking down on all the Parisians and laughing
Bobbie
And Paris in the spring is toujours gai, just like they say
Bobbie and Bill‡T
TO WILLIAM C. STYRON, SR.
April 8, 1953 Rome, Italy
Dear Pop,
I am enclosing two items which may be of interest to you: (a) a clipping from last week’s Newsweek, which you may or may not have seen (I’ve asked E. McKee, incidentally, to send you a copy of The Paris Review) and (b) a recent picture taken at a party.‡U Reading from left to right the characters are Samuel Barber, the famous American composer who is visiting here; young Elliott Braxton, who came to Rome and is now gone, but with whom I had long talks about Newport News and vicinity; a young lady named Mrs. Marge Allen who with her husband lives here in Rome; yours truly, who somehow here looks sick and disheveled, but who is actually the picture of health and whose sour appearance in the photograph can only be blamed upon the light and bad Italian gin; another composer, Alexei Haieff, who just won the N.Y. Critics’ Award for the best musical composition of 1952; a young lady from Baltimore named Rose Burgunder, accent on the second syllable; and Tom Guinzburg, a good friend who is the managing editor of The Paris Review and whose father owns the Viking Press.‡V
I think it will probably interest you further that I am going to get myself married to the girl named Rose, second from right. I won’t go into a lot of sentimental double-talk about how I think she’s the most wonderful girl in the world—because I do—but suffice it to say that she’s the girl from whose presence I get the greatest sense of well-being and fulfillment that I’ve ever had, and for whom I have the greatest affection, and I’m happy to think that you will see why, when you meet her. I imagine we will get married sometime in May, here in Rome. Incidental to this, I wonder if it would be possible for you to prevail upon Aunt Edith to send me, by registered air express, that fine engagement ring which, I gather, reposes in some safe-deposit box up in Uniontown. I remember your having often mentioned this to me, and you know of course that I would be greatly honored to be able to give it to Rose. I would appreciate it, and be greatly indebted to you, if you could arrange this as soon as possible.‡W
Needless to say, I’m delighted at the fact that you have a European trip in prospect, and am looking forward to being able to extend you and Elizabeth the hospitality of Ravello. Just let me know in advance your itinerary and all that, so that I’ll be able to stock up on gas coupons and drive you both around this miraculous land. It’s a trip, I’m sure, which you won’t regret.
No further news. I wrote to Mrs. Ferguson and received a nice note in reply from Isobel. My writing project at the moment seems to be confined to an article for a symposium in The Nation, on “What I Believe,” to appear later this spring.‡X It’s a stern order, that sort of thing, to state one’s philosophy in “25 words or less.” Perhaps, though, it will give me the impetus for another long short story which has been slowly germinating in the back of my mind.
Best to all, and write soon.
Your son,
Bill
P.S. “LDID” has been accepted for translation in the German, which makes 7 languages in all.
TO JOHN P. MARQUAND, JR.
April 17, 1953 Rome, Italy
Dear Jack:
I received your telegram, and I must say that Rose and I feel that there would be nothing more delightful than to play Byron with you for a while, and we were especially intrigued by the line which said a special tour was being arranged, or would be arranged, “in our honor,” which conjured up visions of open, bullet-proof sedans, police escorts, and jonquils being thrown into our faces by a frantic populace. It would indeed be nice. But we have talked this thing over and have decided that in view of the fact that we will probably be getting married within the next few weeks, and that Rose’s brother and wife are expected at any moment, it would put a strain on our nervous resources to come, at least my nervous resources, already depleted by a soggy, constant drunkenness brought on in part by the prospect of marriage, by insomnia, by clots, and by a general spiritual enervation resulting from the realization that already, going on 28, I am a wash-up as a writer and fit only to do the “Recent & Readable” part of the book section in Time. In other words, I will be going through a crisis this spring and although I don’t doubt that Greece is an excellent place to weather such a storm, I hope you can understand my position. I hope also, by the way, that when you finish diddling your Greek lady-in-waiting you will come back to Rome in time to take part in the shoddy ceremony which is due to be enacted in the city hall. That will be some time toward the end of this month, no doubt, or the first week or so in May.
Meanwhile Guinzburg has gathered his clots together and has gone back to Paris after a long stay here—which he alternated between the Academy and the Condons. He was the picture of health as he took off for Nice; I still haven’t gotten my tire.
None of the charter subscribers have received copies of The Paris Review and are kicking like hell. I don’t know who’s responsible for this fuck-up. Did you see the big spread on the rag two weeks ago in Newsweek?
The Matthiessens have given birth to a big manchild named Luke. We talked to them on the phone and they said it was as easy as pie. They’ve decided to come to Ravello in June. Why don’t you, too?
You’ve been selling quite handsomely, according to the Times bestseller list—this you no doubt know. I never got above No. 7, but of course I had that prick Salinger as competition. Pretty soon you’ll have more money than Bing Crosby. Lots of people reading it in Rome, according to the Lion Bookshop.
Irwin Shaw is living here, ensconced in the most hideous apartment in Parioli. He promises me a wedding shindig, so you’d better be here for the blowout.
In the meantime most of the creeps have crept away from the academy for their spring bone-hunt, leaving it clean except for a couple of seedy art historians and myself, who is struggling manfully with his destiny, and who, along with Rose, is looking forward to seeing you again sometime soon.
Best—
WCS.
TO WILLIAM C. STYRON, SR.
May 6, 1953 Rome, Italy
Dear Pop,
After incredibly complicated dealings with the Italian bureaucracy, Rose and I were married on Monday afternoon (the 4th) in truly gala style, at the Campidoglio, which is Rome’s city hall. It was a very nice ceremony, unlike the equivalent in an American city, I’m sure, since the little room where it was performed was covered with wonderful crimson brocade and the officiating judge (in Rome the marrying judgeship is a high civic honor and our man, Signor Marconi, is Italy’s Samuel Goldwyn) was dressed in a beautiful green and red sash. On hand for
the ceremony were a few Academy friends, Irwin Shaw and his wife, Jack Marquand, who came from Athens especially for the wedding, and Peter Matthiessen and Tom Guinzburg (my Paris Review friends), who flew down from Paris, also especially. Afterwards, the Shaws had a big reception for us in their apartment, with cake and champagne, and after that we had a big dinner in a restaurant, with fettuccini and chicken alla diavolo. It was just fine. Best man was Bob White, whom I’ve mentioned; and his wife wrote a poem which she sang at the reception to a special tune written by Frank Wigglesworth, who accompanied her on a recorder. This sounds extremely corny, but I assure you it couldn’t have been more touching, to be surrounded by so many fine friends. No honeymoon, since it won’t be long before we decamp for Ravello.
Because of my matrimonial involvements (I’ve also bought four tailored suits) I haven’t had much time to write, but I did go to the American Express, as you requested, and was told very definitely that it would be far better if you arranged the travel from Havre to Italy through their New York or Washington office, rather than go through the procedure of lots of complicated air mail letters to you from Rome or Paris. I really think this would be much better. As a matter of fact, Rose’s family, who do a lot of traveling, use a very good travel agent in Baltimore. The woman, whose name is Miss Ethel C. Einstein, runs the Metropolitan Tourist Agency (North Charles St.) and is a very influential person, apparently, in the travel field. She is also a personal friend of Mrs. Burgunder, Rose’s mother. I suggest that you write this lady, tell her who you are, and include information on where you want to go, how long you want to stay, how much you want to pay, etc. I have a feeling that she’ll fix you up much better than American Express.‡Y
That’s about all for now. Hope everything goes well, and I’m certainly looking forward to seeing you this summer.
Your son,
Bill …
TO ROBERT LOOMIS
May 18, 1953 Rome, Italy
Dear Bob,
Thanks many times for your felicatory letter upon my nuptials. I suppose that by now John has received my letter describing the wedding day activities and has filled you in on the details. Both your and John’s letters have amused me greatly (John’s was really an encyclopedia of a letter) and it has only been the pre-wedding confusion, which involves, among other things, buying rings, flowers, new suits (4), struggling with the fantastic Italian bureaucracy, that has kept me from writing you all sooner. I can’t understand, though, why this event should top your list of unlikely happenings. I am now practically 28 years old, I have two faintly healthy gonads, and Rose, to me, is an enormously appealing girl. Practically everybody that both you and I know (and presumably including yourself) is either (a) married, (b) has been married, or (C) going to get married. I don’t know what qualities of potential celibacy I’ve ever exhibited to make you believe I’d stay a bachelor all my life. As Jack Marquand wrote me, marriage is no doubt not particularly desirable but it is nonetheless inevitable; and the fact of the matter is that it seems to me far more desirable than I ever thought it would be, and I hope you will take it in a spirit of good old fraternal Phi Delt advice when I suggest that you certainly won’t go wrong in taking the plunge yourself, providing you have the right girl—and from what I’ve heard and seen you seem to have the right girl. This is not the talk of the man in the trap who wants to get all of his buddies trapped, too. Marriage must have its points, or else so many people wouldn’t get into it. I think people like you and I, being of the so-called artistic temperament, have felt perhaps too much that this matrimonial business encroaches on our personal freedom; this attitude is perfectly valid, of course, and only becomes selfish and, to my way of thinking, wrong, when one’s interest has been for so long, in simply fucking that they allow this interest to warp their outlook when the right girl comes along. I don’t mean to sound priggish or All-American, and I probably sound confused. What I’m trying to say is this, and I’ll shut up: that (a) fucking is wonderful and even marriage doesn’t put a halt, alas, to a desire to get into a million new women, but an endless round of fornications and “affairs” is, at our advanced age, both wearing on the mind and body, and infantile; (b) that if you’re lucky and I think I am, the girl you marry far from even trying to impinge upon your intellectual and artistic independence will indeed go so far out of her way to let you alone that it’s almost embarrassing, so that you have to whistle, from time to time, for her to come back. Besides, if you’re lucky, you simply like to be with her. End of lesson.
I didn’t mean to go on at such length; I just wanted to unload upon you some first impressions, I guess. Meanwhile, in a couple weeks we’re going down to Ravello for the summer and I trust that by September I’ll have written solidly and true, as Papa would say, and that when I get back to New York I’ll have both a MS to show off in the way of a “novella”‡Z and the beginnings of a novel, besides a pretty wife. Let me hear how your Gloria business is developing. I got a long, wistful letter from Suzie the other day; for God’s sake see if you can’t fix her up with a nice big man!
Yrs in the bond,
Bill
TO NORMAN MAILER
June 1, 1953 Rome, Italy
Dear Norman:
I note that you began your last letter: “I’ve been kind of depressed lately,” and by way of preface to this letter I should say that I’ve been both depressed and elated since you last heard from me—elated at having just married a most admirable girl (perhaps you’ve gotten an announcement) and depressed because for roughly your own sort of reasons—an inability to get going again at this writing game. To complicate the situation, a few days ago, barreling down the Autostrada in an effort to catch up with Irwin Shaw’s Ford convertible (we had been on a two-car picnic at Angio) I smacked into a motorscooter going full tilt and glued an Italian all over the front end of my car.§a The guy was made of brick and will survive with nothing more than lacerations, and fortunately for the legal end of the thing it was his own fault (he was a moron, for one thing, and for another had been driving with a glass eye) but such incidents always leave me spookily aware of just how vulnerable we all are. Perhaps they’re valuable as such from an ah-tistic point of view, but I doubt it.
At any rate, having descended from my earlier manic phase, I can easily appreciate your present difficulties. In waiting for my car to recover from its wounds (which were much more grievous than the Italian’s) so that we can go to Ravello, I’ve been futilely trying to get started on something—another novelette, I think—and the complications arising from the thing certainly support that old saw about the more you go along in writing the more difficult it gets. I admire your tenacity; at least in this book you’re doing you seem to be plunging ahead. As for me, if I don’t feel that my very first page is a real sockeroo then I tend to give up in anguish—which is an attitude that is fatal and will, if anything, if I don’t snap out of it, be my downfall. It certainly justifies your earlier comment about a peculiar tendency I have to invent and manner the style; indeed, I’m beginning to see that everything I write and my whole timorous approach to writing is of the same rough pattern of my day-to-day life—that being one of caution, trepidation and cowardly fears. No self-confidence. How do you beat it? Perhaps I’ll change some as I get older but it seems to me that life (and I wonder how closely it parallels the experience of other men) is a long gray depression interrupted by moments of high hilarity. No wonder Time magazine is forever complaining about young writers re-writing their own tangled neuroses. However, I should add (in a brief flicker of exaltation, and bugger Time) that any writer worth 10¢ has written out of nothing much more than his own neuroses; and I have no doubt that this summer—prompted by the absence of whiskey (most of us drink too much), a set of tennis each day, and wife who will rout me out of my slothful, womb-like sleeping habits sometime before noon—I’ll do that novelette somehow, cautious and fearful as it may turn out to be when it’s finished. Incidentally, while I think of it, I’m flattered about your su
pposition about reading my book; I reread part of it for the first time again not long ago, and while I’m certainly not ashamed of lots of it, I can realize why quite a few of the critics took it to task, for much of it is dreadfully self-indulgent, and cluttered up with all these fears and cautions I have. Not that I’m going to start writing big, hopeful books for Harrison Smith, but there seems to me now to be far too much agonizing in it: Anyway, I shouldn’t feel timid about reading it if I were you, who, as I said before, are one of the tiny number of contemporary writers who have a solid, unshakable, recognizable style. By the way, these lousy war novels still seem to be coming out, don’t they? “Battle Cry.” “By a man who loves the Marines.” Jesus!§b
Your problem of point-of-view confronts me, too. You’re right about the 3d person and the world-view, yet I should think that after so effectively achieving a welding of the two in Naked that it shouldn’t be too rough on you now. I know too, though, how one’s attitudes change. Me, I’ve never been successful with 1st person, mostly for the reasons you describe. One gets to love-scenes, for instance, and if the “I” happens to be the hero-narrator, as is often the case, the result is: “I took her in my arms and felt her responsive belly scalding mine; she looked at me with adoration and desire and with a tremendous whimper of love said ‘Darling Bill,’ and slid onto my pulsating pecker.” Which seems self-centered. Anyway, Norm, I shouldn’t worry about the “fundamental poverty of imagination” you assign to yourself; that’s the kind of talk I indulge in. Keep at it, and let me hear how things are going. My address after the 10th will be c/o Hotel Palumbo, Ravello (Salerno) Italy. Best to you, and to all.