Outside of Teppis (who really, I suppose, figures in a relatively minor role) your best character is Eitel. His final corruption is complete, and you portray his finish with power and a great deal of sympathy. Even he is depressing though, for since he is the only really “nice” character in the book one hopes desperately for his triumph and is deeply depressed by his finale. It really is an appalling picture you paint, appalling and truthful, and the book, I suppose, is so unpleasant—and so fascinating—to read, because the truth is so appalling. It is the apotheosis of total vacuum. Yet out of that vacuum I wouldn’t doubt but that you’ve created the most piercing study of Hollywood that’s been written. I only personally wish I “liked” the book more, that for all of these glittering creatures which you’ve skewered with such real art and insight I felt more heartbreak.
Some minor things: The party at the beginning is wonderful—the dialogue there is as good as any I know. Sergius doesn’t quite come off as a character (as someone else—I think Loomis—pointed out) and I wonder whether really that’s at all important, and whether that should worry you, if it does at all. It seems to me that first person narrators rarely if ever come off, and perhaps it’s better that they don’t but remain (like Nick Carraway in The Great Gatsby) shadowy and unobtrusively in the background, even though they participate in some of the action. At any rate although Sergius did seem elusive to me, I reflected while reading that it didn’t seem to bother me much—perhaps because I came to accept him pretty much merely as a window through which to observe Eitel and Lulu and the rest. You worked some sort of magic, too, in the transitions, so that I found that I accepted motivations and actions even when Sergius wasn’t on hand to observe them. The curious thing about first-rate writers is that they can ignore the iron-clad conventions and rules and get by with it.
Here, then, is my final pompous verdict: you’ve written a book like sour wine, a lethal draught bitter and unlikable, but one which was written with a fine and growing art, and about which I think you can feel proud. It doesn’t have the fire of “Naked” but I think has primer and maturer insights. It is not an appealing book, but neither does it compromise, and for that alone you should be awarded a medal. If lacking the large universe of “Naked,” it doesn’t have “Naked” ’s impact, it is also a book which burns with a different, somehow keener light. I don’t like the book, but I admire the hell out of it, and I suppose that’s all I have to say for the moment—or until I can talk to you face to face. What is really important is that the book is a solid one, with a deep sense of morality.
So I haven’t written you all this before because I seem to finally have become gripped by the creeping paralysis which has taken hold of me within the past year or so, and which has extended even to letter-writing. My mornings (12 noon +) are agony, and the daily Angst is hell. I look forward each day with the same hopeless ardor that a monk must envision paradise to the time when I’m free of this thing that constricts me, to the time when I’m “liberated” enough to be able to sit down and write 25 consecutive words without fear and trembling. It must be my liver, though it might be the heat—which has been terrible—and withal, no doubt, booze is heavily to blame. Anyway, it can’t last too much longer, for I’ll simply have to throw it all up and become a druggist or something. One thing, Rose is going to have a baby (I hope it’s a baby) next March and that might have the quality of snapping me out of my neurotic antics. It is strange, too, how on the weekends, when we go to see people in L.I. or in Conn., a sheer euphoria takes hold of me. I’m self-analytical enough to realize that my murderous anxiety mornings here in the city is because I’m faced with the ridiculous responsibility of creating a masterpiece, whereas the weekends have me gaily unburdened.
After you left, Maloney went temporarily off his rocker, drunkenly attempted suicide with his seconal, and ended up for a week in Bellevue.§r He’s all right now, but is going to lose his job, and God knows where he’ll eventually end up—the Bowery, probably. We are all by now sorely tempted to go on and let him slide down to limbo. We had supper with Larry and Barbara last night—a pleasant time. I read his novel finally; it’s really got some good things in it, though awfully spotty.
Say Hello to Lew Allen for me, will you? I owe him a letter from way back. His matador girlfriend got a lot of space recently in the N.Y. paper.
Ars longa. I think we perhaps flagellate ourselves too much. I hope my little critique made some sense to you; at any rate, believe me when I say that everything I said was as honest as I know how. Rose sends her love to both of you and requests that at one time or another you pick an orchid for auld lang syne. Catch me up on everything when you get time.
As ever, Bill
TO NORMAN MAILER
September 28, 1954 [Roxbury, CT]§s
Dear Norm
I am writing this from Roxbury, Conn., where Rose and I have set up housekeeping for the past couple of weeks in my agent’s house while she is in California.§t It has been a fairly depressing time, since I started out with high hopes of getting a lot of work done, only to come down with bronchitis, which necessitated my taking aureomycin, which in turn acts violently and horribly upon the system, and seems to reduce the “liver functioning” to nil. At any rate, I’ve recovered somewhat by now, and it might interest you to know that we have bought a big house near-by, a real New England dwelling with an orchard and 11 acres and a dammed-up spring which makes a swimming pool.§u I’ve been alternately elated and appalled by this place, the hideous responsibilities it presents, but having spent a footless and transient existence so far I am hoping that the place will give me some mild sense of rootedness and permanence. It’s 2½ hours from New York, distant enough to give a feeling of isolation and to be removed from the dreary station-wagon community belt, but close enough so that the delights, such as they are, of Manhattan are not too difficult of access. We plan to move in sometime in November or December, and we are hoping that you and Adele and your daughter will favor us with many a weekend; I think you might like the joint.
Since you heard from me I have finally come to the point where I think I can hazard the statement that my next novel is under way. I never thought that a project could be so hellishly difficult or seem to stretch out so aimlessly and vainly toward the farthest limits of the future, but I am embarked, at least, and can begin to hold … I remember your once asking me if it was to be a “major effort”; I don’t know what I said in reply, only now I’m beginning to realize that it is a major effort—major in the sense that it has become impossible for me to write anything without making it a supreme try at a supreme expression. I don’t want to sound pretentious; it’s only that I’m so unprolific, frightened, and paralyzed most of the time that, once I do start writing, I feel that I owe it to myself to give it my all. The technical problems of this one are not minimized, or enhanced either, by the fact that it’s written in the first person, which, as you once mentioned, rather severely limits what you can do and makes it hard to end up with that quality of richness which you get in the third-person, omniscient narrative. But this one “feels” like a first-person story, and I’m following my instincts. And, incidentally, I took great heart from your encouragement, which reminded me to struggle along while I’ve got “lead in me pencil.” I think probably the saddest thing in life is to reach a certain age and look back and think of all the wasted, ruined time.
I got a letter from Vance two or three weeks ago, asking me if I would read his novel.§v I sent him back a note saying I would, but heard nothing after that. Has Vance gone coo-coo? I think your remarks about him were most apt—and also about Tina, who seems to wear better with time. I think Vance’s main trouble, which you described as “gloating over his petty triumphs,” is simply a sort of dreadful self-centeredness which severely restricts his outlooks and intercourse with others, and which might be mildly tolerable if he were at all talented, but which in his daze makes him only seem pompous and a bit ridiculous. I suppose he’s too old to be put wis
e.
I saw in the Times that “Naked” is being made into a movie.§w I certainly hope it’s a good one, and I hope you’ll take me to the premiere so that I can wear my tux and ride in a Cadillac … also that “Rebel Without A Cause” was bought by Warners and is coming out next year? Rose and I were out at East Hampton in August and on the way back stopped in to see the Lindners at Peconic.§x We had a fine time except for the presence of a horrible person named Chandler Brossard, of whom Bob, so he says, is one of the three friends Chandler has left in the U.S.A.§y
Parts of The Deer Park still keep coming back to me. It’s amazing how solid a book it is, in the sense that its effect hangs on, even if you don’t particularly want it to. I think this is because there is in the book an unremitting determination to be truthful, and that beautifully distinguishes it from most of the novels which are coming out these days, the writers of which have become so bewilderingly entangled in the dishonesty and million-dollar-hokum of contemporary American life that they’ve lost their point of view entirely, so that their slickly cynical distortions are accepted as realism and truth. Most every form of expression in America is now keenly attuned to the second-rate, if not third-rate (Michener, Rodgers + Hammerstein, “Mr. Roberts,” “Teahouse of the August Moon,” “Battle Cry,” Dr. Norman Vincent Peale, etc.) and God Knows how we will find our way out of the wilderness.§z Mediocrity which succeeds is the norm and, as Louis Kronenberger says, “personality” replaces “character.”§A Let us hope that posterity, at least, will redeem us.
Rose and I are looking forward to your return in the cold New York autumn, and send our fondest to you and Adele. Please give my best to Lew Allen and our love to all the brave bulls. And also let us know when you expect to arrive.
As ever,
Bill
The Styrons purchased their farmhouse and eleven acres in Roxbury, Connecticut, in October 1954.
TO MAC HYMAN
February 2, 1955 Roxbury, CT
Dear Mac:
Deep congratulations on coming through on siring a man-child. I knew you could do it if you worked at it long enough. This way you’ll be able to keep some of the wealth in the family, instead of seeing it go to some adventurer who one day will be cruising after the girls. Tell Gwen I’m right proud of her, too. As for Rose, the new recruit for the Young Communist League hasn’t yet arrived, but we expect it within 3 or 4 weeks. I hope it’s a girl, because I hear (whether rightly or wrongly) that they’re a lot less fuss and bother. Anyway, with a girl I won’t have to take her camping or teach her to build fires or any of that sort of rugged stuff.
I think I know what you mean about pulling up stakes and moving to new ground. Although we have a very fine place up here in Conn., it’s already making me uneasy, and I have a feeling that before too long the size of the place, and all the possessions that go along with it, will be giving me a pain in the ass. There’s a lot to be said about marital bliss, but there’s no doubt that it also clutters up life a lot. With all the worldly goods we seem to acquire every day I sometimes get the feeling of a man walking around in 30 lb diver’s shoes. But I guess that’s man’s fate on earth, and there’s not a hell of a lot that can be done, except possibly write about it and even that isn’t a big consolation.
I’m glad your oil well is still booming. Incidentally I know Ed Trzcinski, the Stalag 17 man; I met him in Rome, a very nice guy, and I think he’ll do well by the play.§B As for getting sort of fed up with all the post-publishing crap and talk that attends a successful book, I think that’s natural; there are a lot of bullshitters in the world and they can make life miserable. It is obviously better, though, to be in a position where these things happen, than to have none at all, as is most often the case, and that, too, is a sizeable consolation. I think it will all pretty much fade away in your mind when you start on Opus #2 for if you are at all like me you will suffer such contortions on your second book as to make your first one seem like something that happened to someone else. Actually it’s been a solid year just getting started on my first chapter—thinking and moaning and suffering every day—and the only really joyful thing in my life within the past month or so is that finally I seem to have seen the light, the first chapter and the whole book are taking shape. Actually you may have no trouble at all, and if so you can consider yourself fortunate. But if you do have trouble I’d like to offer you the small contentment of knowing that there are others who have been in the same boat. God Knows, writing can be a pleasant and rewarding thing when it’s moving along well; but the business of first trying to figure out how to give order, shape, and movement to the things you want to say can be distilled hell.
Rose and I are moving back to N.Y. on Feb. 7th for two months while she has a baby. We have a large apt. at 430 East 57 St., where you can reach me after that date. I hope maybe you can make it up to the big city for a few days in February. If things are going well with Rose you’re certainly welcome to stay with us, and if I know Rose things will be going well with her. Our phone no. is MUrrayhill 8-9299, so give us a ring if you come up. We’ll have a party and I’ll fix you up with a nice hangover like the last one you had, plus maybe a hot number I know in the chorus line at the Copacabana (you think I’m kidding?).
Give my best to Blackburn when you see him and tell him I’ll write him at length when I get this maternity business in the groove.
All the best,
Bill
Susanna Styron was born on February 25, 1955.
TO WILLIAM BLACKBURN
April 20, 1955 Roxbury, CT
Dear Doctor:
Now that I have given birth to a child (a girl child named Susanna), now that the gray, grimy winter’s lying-in in New York is over, now that I have moved 2½ tons of equipment out to the permanent home, now that spring has begun a tentative foray into my life, and now that I’ve made the first successful stab toward conquering a sort of incipient and dreary alcoholism into which for seven or eight months I was threatening to fall, now that my Presbyterian conscience has finally asserted itself and I have begun the attack on another masterpiece of 20th Century prose—now that all these are out of the way, I feel that I can sit down and write you a rational sort of letter, along with tendering you my apologies for having been silent so long.
The girl child is quite handsome, I think, although she is so far completely inarticulate and has all of the moist habits of one so young. It could not have been an easier process for Rose, who went through her accouchement with the practiced grace of Mrs. Dionne. We are now all installed in our pseudo-farm in Roxbury, which is in real honest-to-God country about 2 hours from New York. I say pseudo, because my efforts along agricultural lines have so far been limited to the planting of a few early radishes and onions around our back door, but with spring in evidence it is a lovely place and we hope that someday before long you will see it. We have a sort of swimming-pool—this will be my damnation as a writer, but I don’t care, and about eight acres of untarnished woodland to trample in or on. Also a television set (it came with the house), a huge stone fire-place, and all sorts of other bourgeois comforts.
I had been told that the second novel often posed quite a problem, but I had no idea that it could actually lead one to toy with the idea of suicide. However, as I say, I’ve passed the hour of crisis with a hair’s breadth to spare, and am at least “embarked.” I honestly believe sometime that I should have concentrated on business administration at Duke. These are really ridiculous times for the writing of fiction. A fifth-rate entertainer on TV has more tangible and satisfactory rewards than a novelist. I know in a sense that sounds ridiculous (tell Mac when you see him that I’ll write him soon) but it’s more than half-way true. I suppose the only answer—without wishing to sound pretentious—is to write with the idea that you’re writing for the generations unborn and not for Lewis Gannett.
Hiram, as you probably know, is now top banana at Random House and the difference between it and Bobbs-Merrill is like the difference between
the Little Acorn and the Tour d’Argent. For one thing, Hiram has already persuaded Bennett Cerf to publish LDID in the paperback Modern Library, which is beginning to appear; for another, I have started to feel like an author, rather than someone who published a book.§C I went to lunch a few weeks ago with Hiram and the maître himself, Mr. Faulkner of Oxford, and the conversation, while not exactly glittering, was worthwhile. Mr. Faulkner had one whiskey sour; he allowed as how he was glad to be going to the Ky. Derby under the auspices of Mr. Luce’s Sports Illustrated. They were sending him down in a chauffeured limousine, and since he had never ridden so far in a chauffeured limousine before, he thought that would be a right nice experience. As for Mr. Capote, his writing reminded Mr. Faulkner of a “big flea.” He didn’t elaborate. I got the impression that Mr. Faulkner had begun to like the New York whirl right well.