Sincerely,
William Styron
TO GEORGE PLIMPTON
May 22, 1962 Roxbury, CT
Dear George:
Many thanks for your note about the Century.*jj I expect to see Red Warren this Friday night and will bring the matter up, although he is leaving for France for the summer sometime next week.
The party at your place, forever hereinafter to be known as “the Jones Affair,” was certainly a historic blowout, and I hope the damage wasn’t too awful. Anyway, send along the bill at your convenience. I can stand the trauma, being most grateful to you for the use of the premises.
Hope to see you soon. We are making the Vineyard scene as of July First. What are the chances of your paying us a visit up there during the sullen summer months?
Ever yours
B.
TO HOPE LERESCHE
May 23, 1962 Roxbury, CT
Dear Miss Leresche:
As a kind of addendum to my letter of yesterday (which I hope you’ve received by now), I thought I might write a small précis to you about my work, so that perhaps you may be better equipped to talk about it when it comes to dealing with the various people you will be dealing with. I am speaking rather subjectively—a writer is always the last person to know where he himself “stands”—but nonetheless I thought it might be useful to record these observations.
For example, I would suspect rather strongly that at the moment my reputation in America rests largely upon my first novel, LIE DOWN IN DARKNESS. Since it was published in 1951, it has achieved a low but steady renown, and though, for instance, it is nowhere near so well known as THE CATCHER IN THE RYE, it is the only novel which even approaches Salinger’s book in terms of “adoptions” in college English courses. I’m of course speaking of novels by the younger or post-war U.S. writers. It is still fully in print in three editions (the original hardback, one “quality” reprint, and one cheap reprint—the last now in its fifth printing), and there is a steady and large demand for it, especially among college students. In a recent poll, for instance taken among a large group of college English teachers, asked to name the twelve U.S. literary classics of the last twenty years (this was published in the Saturday Review), LIE DOWN IN DARKNESS was one of the four novels named (the other were poems or plays)—the other novels being CATCHER IN THE RYE, Warren’s ALL THE KING’S MEN, and Hemingway’s THE OLD MAN AND THE SEA. In terms of a final literary judgment, of course, this means little, but it does indicate the book’s rather remarkable and enduring popularity. (Forgive me if I seem to be blowing my own horn, but I’m trying to provide a practical guide for you.)
Abroad, LIE DOWN IN DARKNESS is practically unknown, although as you can see it was published in England and in over half a dozen languages. In England the reviews were better than average, generally speaking, but somehow I had the feeling that the book never quite caught on; as Roger Machell once pointed out, it was never even reviewed in several of the most important papers, and the sales were quite small. In France, the book was adequately translated, but was badly published by Del Duca, and made no noise at all. In Germany (so I am told by a few people who read German) it was hideously translated, published in Switzerland (vis-à-vis Germany this is supposed to be limbo), and made even less noise than it did in France. To this day, I have not the slightest inkling what DARKNESS did in the other countries—Sweden, Spain, etc.—but I doubt that it could have been much. Of course, even abroad DARKNESS is a book with which the intellectual in-group (I’m not being snide) is acquainted; and to those to whom contemporary literature is a passionate matter the book is fairly well known. Compared to its relative fame in America the book is just beginning to achieve a foreign reputation. Because of SET THIS HOUSE ON FIRE, Gallimard is planning to bring out a new edition of the book, buying the rights from Del Duca—at least I have a contract to this effect. And in Germany, the book is a belated book-club selection, and Fischer is going to doctor the translation and bring it out in their paperback series. So much for LIE DOWN IN DARKNESS.
The most important part of the history, to date, of SET THIS HOUSE ON FIRE you know yourself—which is the fact that in France it has set all records, critical and otherwise, for American novels, at least those published in the last fifteen years or so. The German reception has been comparable, if not quite so ornate or grand. At the same time, unlike DARKNESS, STHOF achieved what is doubtless a record in America for overwhelmingly malevolent reviews—also in England, I might add (despite the delicious little blurbs that Jamie Hamilton published on the jacket of THE LONG MARCH) the prevalent attitude was that of the guy in the Observer, who spent five columns denouncing this “thoroughly bad novel.”
Thus you get your queer cultural anomalies. In England I am doubtless best known for THE LONG MARCH, which is little-known in America and as yet unpublished (though forthcoming) in France, and at the same time vaguely recalled as the writer who wrote those dreary and cumbersome novels, LIE DOWN IN DARKNESS and SET THIS HOUSE ON FIRE. In America I am known as the writer of an early masterpiece, LIE DOWN IN DARKNESS, who badly betrayed his talent in a clumsy second work, SET THIS HOUSE ON FIRE. In France I am known as the authentic genius who created an incomparable chef d’oeuvre, SET THIS HOUSE ON FIRE, after an obscure and fledgling attempt called LIE DOWN IN DARKNESS.
Re-reading what I have just written, I don’t know of what possible practical use this can be to you, except to confuse you perhaps. I realize that I have overstated my dilemma in many respects, and over-generalized, because there are many people both here and abroad who are interested in my entire work per se, and do not view my work in terms of these blacks and whites, but consider the faults and virtues of all that I have done as all of an eventual piece—and that is how it should be. In any case, I am most pleased about your enthusiasm, and have set down these random, introverted, probably warped reflections to use as you will or wish.
Best regards,
W.S.
TO WILLIAM BLACKBURN
July 11, 1962 Vineyard Haven, MA
Dear Doctor:
I’m delighted to hear that you’re coming and will be on the lookout for you at the dock in Vineyard Haven on July 26th. The 4:45 train to Wood’s Hole is scheduled to connect with the 5:00 ferry, which arrives in V.H. at 5:45. So I’ll be there. In the unlikely event that there should be a foul-up, keep in mind that our number is Vineyard Haven 625 (also listed in information under my name) and that our house is the Kennedy House on Hatch Road.
I have had an exhausting four days, having flown down to Oxford, Miss. to cover Faulkner’s funeral for Life magazine. It was quite an ordeal, mainly the plane travel which involved a lot of charter flights hither and yon, and an endless flight back home to Roxbury by way of Nashville, Cincinnati and Pittsburgh, of all God forsaken places. Anyway, the piece will be out in next week’s Life and you might want to take a look at it.*kk
Had you decided to come earlier you would have had a presidential treat, for on Sunday night next His Supreme Grace and wife are coming over from Hyannis to take us out on the good ship Honey Fitz.*ll I don’t know exactly what kind of fixation Our Leader has on me (I still think it has something to do with Rose), but anyway I’m willing to string along with it so long as he pays for the groceries.
See you soon!
TO WILLIAM C. STYRON, SR.
July 21, 1962 Roxbury, CT
Dear Pop: Last Sunday’s excursion with the Kennedys was very pleasant indeed. The Marquands and Rose and I were met at noon at the Edgartown Yacht Club by a Navy launch manned by two sailors and a Mr. Hill of the Secret Service. We were told that this boat would meet the Patrick J. (the Honey Fitz’s little sister) off Cape Pogue, which is the eastern tip of the Vineyard; and on the way out the radio was full of such talk as: “Magnet to Rockfish. We will rendezvous at Charlie-2 Area at 1245 hours. Magnet to Rockfish: you’d better be shipshape. Lancer (the Secret Service code name for Kennedy) will want to see your boat in shipshape condition.” That sort of talk. I
t was a gray choppy day, but rainless though a little cool and we floundered around in Charlie-2 area for about a half hour until the Patrick J. approached. It’s a cruiser of about 45 feet and as we came near we saw two guys up on the forward cabin, bareheaded and dressed in Navy flight jacket. One of them waved and as we got closer we saw that it was none other than the President of the United States his self. We came alongside and saw that aside from Jack and Jackie and Caroline there were only two other guests aboard—JFK’s sister Jean and her husband Steven Smith. The boat itself was manned by an affable, aging Navy commander, a Secret Service agent and three or four Filipino messboys. We put on these flight jackets (as I say, it was rather cool) and sat at anchor drinking Bloody Marys. I spent about 15 minutes helping Jackie fix her miniature camera and in the meantime the conversation had turned to politics, Virginia politics in particular. The name Byrd came up, and when I said that this was a name which made my own father nearly apoplectic with outrage, JFK laughed and said he could understand, all right—if there was ever an obstructionist and an “old buzzard” in the Democratic party it was Harry Byrd. I had a long talk with Jackie. She is utterly charming and is reading STHOF, finds it especially fascinating because she is going to spend the month of August in Ravello, in a villa not far from where Rose and I lived. We were sitting around a big table in the open cockpit and occasionally she would put her feet up in JFK’s lap and wiggle her toes, just like you’d imagine the wife of the President to do. Lunch was served, rather dreary Navy officers’ chow—eggs in aspic and a tasteless salad of some kind—but the hot dogs were good, even if the beer which was served with it had become unaccountably frozen, much to the humiliation of the messboys. It began to get a little rough and every now and then a plate would slide to the deck, also the Flamenco records which were stacked by a record player between Jack and Jackie. There was a rather good cake for dessert, which for some reason was placed in front of me and I had the honor of serving the President a slice (he is always served first, protocol), using my forefinger and thumb. The conversation became literary and although I don’t think JFK has really much profound understanding of literature at all (his tastes are rather square and conventional; he liked Leon Uris’ Battle Cry), he has a remarkable interest in literary matters, as he does in other matters; his mind is wide-ranging and fantastically filled with facts, not a profound mind but an enormously sharp one, and when he asks you a question and you answer him you feel that he is listening to every word you say. In this respect I think he resembles Teddy Roosevelt like no one else. A very vital and magnetic man, whether you agree with him or not. Toward late afternoon the Patrick J. took us back into the Edgartown harbor. We picked up Caroline (who had been taken ashore swimming with her little cousin while we ate) and she came aboard shivering her teeth out, a cute kid, as they say, with Irish written all over her. By this time, word had gotten around and the harbor was jammed with boats filled with people trying to get a look at their Excellencies, but the two outriding Coast Guard picket boats kept them from being run over by the Patrick J. and each other. We were about to pull into the Edgartown Yacht Club (membership composed of the blackest of black Wall Street Republicans) when all of a sudden JFK called to the Captain: “Better not put in there. Go to the town dock.” And he said in an aside to me: “There’s not a Democrat within three miles of heah. They’d resent it for weeks.” Thus I saw, even in such a minor matter as docking a boat, the constant politicking that goes on in the Presidential mind. At any rate, it was a jolly voyage and a good time was had by all.*mm
I’ll write again more when I get a chance. I’m doing a follow-up article on Benjamin Reid for Esquire (his sentence was commuted to life imprisonment) and I have to meet an early deadline. Prof. Blackburn is coming up for a few days’ visit this week.
The kids are all fine and send love to Grandma and Grandpop. Susanna is learning to sail and Polly, of all things, is learning to ride horseback.
Love to all,
Bill
TO JAMES AND GLORIA JONES
October 3, 1962 Roxbury, CT
Dear James + Moss:
I ran across the enclosed photo in a magazine and it so touched me with nostalgia that I thought I’d send it on to you.*nn
I saw where The Thin Red Line has hit #12 on the best seller list and is obviously on its way up. I thought that generally speaking, except for one or two pissants, the reviews were really pretty good. As usual, very few of them were actually intelligent but I would feel very pleased by the overall favorable tone. Time, of course, was predictable; so far as I know, they haven’t given a good review to any important writer since at least 1945. As for Geismar, Rose and I saw him not long ago and he was still bubbling with real enthusiasm for the book; all in all, I think he did the best job, insofar as a book review means anything in the long run.*oo Most importantly, though, I’ve heard a lot of really fine private talk about the book, from people I generally respect, and that is infinitely more important than any reviews, pro or con. So if I were you, I’d rest easy in case you aren’t already.
After moving into our new pied-à-terre on 61st street, the other night, I pulled your cheap trick and went to P.J. Clarke’s, planning only to have a couple of snorts, but got ensnared in the clutches of Danny himself—a nice guy, I must say—who so kept plying me with free booze that I didn’t leave until 5:30 A.M. Davis Grubb was there, and Trezynski—naturally—and Jones Harris who, at risk I’m sure of alienating you, I find one of the most dreadful little pricks I’ve ever encountered.*pp It was the height of the mess in Mississippi, which is bad enough God Knows, but on top of that I had to have this hysterical little cocksucker screaming at me because I’m a Southerner and presumably responsible for everything that goes on south of the Potomac river.*qq I came very close to punching his little demi-fag’s-teeth out. Forgive me, since I know he’s a pal of yours, but his charm eludes me. Anyway, Davis was in fine form and it was otherwise a very pleasant evening, but it will be my own death sentence if I start going there often during my nights in town, riding home at dawn with Trezynski, or however you spell it, locked in my hot embrace …
Love,
B.
TO C. VANN WOODWARD
December 9, 1962 Roxbury, CT
Dear Vann:
The enclosed photostat is from an old book on Virginia—exact date uncertain but I suspect between 1840 and 1850.*rr Jerusalem (where Nat was tried and hanged) had its name changed to Courtland in the 1880s. Don’t bother to send this back, since the excerpt from Nat’s confession simply duplicates a full copy which I already have. I’m pretty sure that the pure facts in Nat’s “Confession” are accurate, but as you can see there is a very phony and manufactured quality about the way of telling. I hardly think Nat would have said “gratify our thirst for blood.”
I hope you find that book at Yale. In case you’ve forgotten, the title is “The Southampton Insurrection” by William S. Drewry (Washington D.C., 1900). I think you will find its fin de siècle attitudes toward the Negro quite fascinating.
Best regards
Bill Styron
TO JAMES JONES
December 27, 1962 Milford, CT
Bennett Cerf knows what it all means but he won’t tell us.
Bill, Rose, Susanna, Polly, Tom
TO C. VANN WOODWARD
January 16, 1963 Roxbury, CT
Dear Vann:
Many thanks for letting me read this book, which I did at one long day-long sitting.*ss Mainly because it is inscribed, I am hastening to send it back to you. I shouldn’t want anything to happen to it.
All in all, I think it’s a splendid job. Every now and then I must confess I got a little hung up on some of the more recondite psychoanalytic allusions, but this was more than overbalanced by Erikson’s own almost intuitive insights. In terms of Nat Turner the effect is, as you surmised, quite startling. Read for instance the paragraph I have marked on p. 66 (I have left your margins otherwise intact): if you substitute the word “master?
?? for “father” and think of the passage in terms of a rebellious slave rather than Luther, then Erikson’s last phrase—“a deadly combination”—has connotations which send a chill up the spine.
At any rate, my very great thanks. I’m sorry you couldn’t make it this week-end, but either Rose or I will be in touch again very soon.
Best regards,
Bill
TO ROBERT PENN WARREN
January 22, 1963 Roxbury, CT
Dear Red:
Thanks for the communication about the National Institute.*tt If it’s O.K. with you, I’ll sort of gradually ease up on it, and assemble some quotable quotes from the thick-headed critics. So far as I know, they’ve never said anything nice about me in England (seriously), but as for France—quelle merveille! Anyway, I’ll try to get them arranged, and I do appreciate your thinking about me in this way.
Yours in Christ,
B.
PS: The poems were truly fine. Rose, indeed, was so bemused and impressed that she stayed up half the night writing a poem of her own.
TO JAMES JONES
April 22, 1963 Roxbury, CT
Dear James:
Mainly on account of the fact that I’ve got to get Nat Turner done, and I write so exceedingly slow, I’ve decided to forgo Plimpton’s invitation to Lago di Como, although the prospect of being there with you would be very pleasant. I had great fantasies of dallying with Moss on the poop deck of a little barca while you were bubbling away somewhere in the depths of the lake. But art comes before pleasure, and so I have regretfully and manfully made this decision. Is there any chance you will be coming through New York on your way to the Caribbean, or on your way back. We’d like to get a chance to see you.
I was at an awful sort of literary festival at Princeton this past weekend, full of pimply sophomores and dew-snatched little girls from Vassar waiting for the Answer. Why I do this sort of thing is beyond me. I also saw Mailer at a party. We didn’t speak but at one point he sort of jostled me, and muttered “Excuse me”—a pointless bit of 10-year-old childish hostility. Fuck him.