Speaking of Shriver, we gave a big bash up here for Connecticut fat cats for fund-raising, got Sarge to come, and raised $10,000 in a night, which seemed to me prodigious but was rather disappointing to the state political pros. Cleve and Francine Gray and Freddie and Florence March were among our co-hosts, and they told me to be sure to send their love to you.‖xx Although probably a lost cause, the McG. Campaign is looking considerably more sprightly now than it did in the recent past. The revelations about the Republican party’s criminal dealing are really extraordinary and if truly brought out into the open could turn things around. But this is a wild hope.
Everybody—including us, of course—enormously admired your piece on the London scene in last Sunday’s Times.‖yy It was so preposterously intelligent and articulate in the midst of that sheet (or shit) which usually is such a collection of tired inanities and press-agent pufferies. And I’m delighted to see that you are going to do it on a regular basis. Also David Pearce (God bless him, in spite of all) has sent us some Xerox copies of your pieces in The Observer, to which he subscribes. They’re terribly good and make me believe that I could fall in love with the theatre if I lived in England, even in a non-Elizabethan time. You de bes’ critic, yassuh!
Arthur Miller’s play opened in Boston and though as you know I am very friendly with Arthur maybe it is my budding rivalry as a fellow playwright which makes me interested in the early response.‖zz Danny Bell (we are both on the board of the American Scholar) told me in New York the other night that it may be the worst play he has ever seen. Which would have saddened me several years ago, but now (as a playwright) gives me a small, secret yuk-yuk. Though I hope it’s not all that bad.
I’ve not gotten down to N.H. yet to see the Molière and the Ribman but hope to do so in the next week or so. As a matter of fact, of course, it will be essential. Rose didn’t see the Molière but loved A Break in the Skin. I’ve talked to Alvin several times.‖AA He seems most happy about the way things are going this season and we are getting together within the next few days, to talk about preliminary matters, and I hope I can see both the Molière and the Ribman in his company. I heard a stunning recording of There’s a Star-Spangled Banner Waving Somewhere on the radio, so mawkish that it almost made me come and I learned where to send away for a copy, which should be arriving in a few days, and I want to supply it to Phylis so he can use the song as a curtain-raiser. I’ll consult you further later in regard to your thoughtful advice about a British production. Right now all I want is for the Yale caper to go off well.
You’ve probably heard that Bill Preston and Elsie are Splitsville. It saddens the hell out of me but I can understand why all Nonie (bless her, she’s in good shape) can do is laugh and laugh.
Diabolique was wonderfully sweet during the September days.‖BB We went to Naushon several times and again to Lambert’s Cove a couple of evenings. I’ve mastered the radio, incidentally, and have discovered that you can call anywhere on earth through the New Bedford marine operator, so we actually rang up Roxbury, Conn., while anchored in Tarpaulin Cove. It beautifully weathered a near-hurricane around Labor Day, and Tom Hale has now pulled it up for the winter. I’ll be sending you our bill sometime, but there’s no hurry.
We miss you enormously, your cats and chicks, and will be looking forward to your December arrival with celebration. Kisses, love, stay in touch.
Bill
TO BOB BRUSTEIN
October 30, 1972 Roxbury, CT
Dear Bob:
The enclosed truly gruesome account from the Gazette‖CC is not intended to depress you (as much as it did me) but to impress upon you (as it did me) the incredible value of a ship-to-shore radio-telephone such as we have on Diabolique. The poor wretch in the Gazette story should not, of course, have abandoned the boat because it remained afloat and had he stayed aboard probably the worst consequence would have been an extremely uncomfortable night for all concerned. But had he had a radio like the one we had installed (that kind of boat of his must have cost several thousand more than ours and therefore he should have been able to invest in one) he could have had all sorts of assistance on the spot within minutes. In any case, it’s the saddest story about the sea that I’ve heard of in a long time. Can you imagine what memories this guy has to live with for the rest of his life?
I’m enclosing the accumulated boat bills, some of which date back well into the summer. I’ve deducted from the grand total items which had to do with my personal use of the boat after you left, such as gas and certain things that had to be attended to when the boat filled with water during a wild storm on Labor Day. These total $45.33. If you’ll check on all this and approve it and send me a check for $541.65 I’ll pay off the robbers. God Knows it seems to be a rich man’s sport but, as John Hersey said to me, if you try to balance out the cost against the relatively few man-hours of pleasure you’ll go bonkers—J.P. Morgan’s dictum about yachts applying as well to our little beauty as to Onassis’s or Sam Spiegel’s. The greatest single item, you’ll notice, is the invaluable radio which I had mistakenly thought we’d already paid for. After Mr. Jaeger’s ordeal, I think you’ll agree that it is well worth the cost. And, exorbitant as Tom Hale’s outfit is, they do take care and pride in their work. During that bad storm they were right on top of that boat, cosseting it and pumping it and soothing and nursing it. Also, please fill out the enclosed contract (all it needs is your signature) and send it back to the shipyard as soon as convenient.
We’ve enormously enjoyed hearing from you and savoring vicariously the good London life. As you might know, I’ve had a moderately virulent case of Anglophobia for many years (your ancestors did not fight the motherfuckers as mine did, you immigrant), but you make things sound so pleasant and exhilarating that you could almost entice me into a few weeks in London Towne. Rose was going to come over with Ann Mudge to see the opening of Jay Allen’s musical about Victoria, but at the last minute Mudge got cold feet so Rose also decided not to go. Me, I’ve been working but have been interrupted by a couple of trips to talking engagements I foolishly agreed to—one in New Orleans at L.S.U. which was redeemed by the truly excellent provender that is offered in restaurants all over the city (if the Vineyard had just one of the hundreds of oyster bars that are all over New Orleans it would make living there perfect)—and the other this week at Iowa City, whither I was lured by the crazy Fred Exley (did you read A Fan’s Notes? A curiously brilliant and hilarious book with a lot of torment underneath), who got the University to pay me a lot of money and held out the ultimate enticement, or corruption: after the Iowa stint, a big bash in Chicago at a super suite in the Playboy Towers (Exley is making devious use of Hugh Hefner) with all sorts of rabbits named Flopsy, Mopsy, and Michele.
Alvin Epstein was up here not too long ago to talk about the play. It was fairly rewarding; he wanted me to make some minor dialogue changes, which seemed reasonable enough, so I did. I haven’t been in touch since but I hear they are auditioning for—among others—Magruder; and one of Susanna’s friends, who apparently—at age 17 or 18—was one of the few good things in the film version of A Separate Peace, is trying out for the role … I shall be closer to matters at Yale after I return from Ioway and the bunnies.
Miller’s play as you doubtless know is apparently in even worse shape than when I last wrote you about it. Zoe Caldwell is now in the starring role, after two previous defections, and the same thing goes for the leading man. If anything remotely like this happens to Clap Shack I may be reached c/o General Delivery, Lima, Peru.
We miss you both enormously and send great love and can’t wait for your appearance (you’ve got to come up here) but will mourn Norma’s absence.
Much love from us,
Bill
TO WILLIE MORRIS
November 7, 1972 Roxbury, CT
Dear Brother Willie
I sent a letter on this stationery‖DD to Gene Genovese, telling him that I thought that Nat Turner looked a little like the younger Dick Nixon.
Gene wrote back to say that he really looked like Booker T. Washington. I just got back from reading and talking at the U. of Iowa, returning by way of Chicago where I was a free-loading guest at the Playboy Towers and where everything you can imagine goes on. Or carries on. Happy to have your letter awaiting me, especially since I have tried many many times to call you in the past few months but finally gave up, finding you about as obtainable as Adolf Eichmann must have been when he was hiding out in Argentina. It was great to hear about your book and its down-home heroine and I do hope you’ll let me take a look at it when a manuscript or galleys become available. I sure was sorry to hear about Ichabod Crane, though, and I know how sad it must have made you feel, having lost Tugwell and Beauregard in the same way myself. We gave them a Jewish burial, though, on account of my wife Rose.
Try to get over here sometime very soon. My daddy (just turned 85) sent me a fantastic Wayco (Wayne County) ham from Goldsboro, N.C., and we’ll fry it up and have it with grits, red-eye gravy, and Jack Daniels. Also, I’ll have a ticket to Clap Shack for you if you come over—that’s December 15 …
Bill
TO BOB BRUSTEIN
November 15, 1972 Roxbury, CT
Dear Bob: Received your lively letter which was much appreciated, also the boat check which is sent on to the M.V. Shipyard. We’ve all enormously enjoyed your accounts of London goings-on. They gain special luster when juxtaposed against your dispatches in the Sunday Times: that last one—comparing the privacy of England with our state of affairs here—was truly excellent. We look forward to those pieces with great anticipation.
Alvin led the first reading of The Clap Shack a couple of days ago and I think it went off terribly well, given the fact that it was held on the third floor of The Blossom Shop right up from David Dean Smith and all the traffic hubbub from below made it a little difficult to concentrate. Jeremy Geidt—as you may know—is Dr. Glanz and I think he’ll be fine for the role, despite the British accent. He seems also to relish the part and likes the play a lot. I think we came up with a rather remarkable “find” in the lad playing Magruder. His name is Miles Chapin (son of Schuyler Chapin, the new head of the Met. Opera), is 18 years old with some past acting experience, is the very soul of wistfulness and innocence, rather plump with his hair parted in the middle and wears granny glasses. His reading was quite good (though as Alvin points out, he will need considerable work) and has mastered a nice, authentic-sounding mid-South accent. I was frankly very pleased with the boy and think that he will be a hit once he gets fitted into the role. Paul Schierhorn is playing Budwinkle and is doing a fine job—at least the reading was fine … Lineweaver is being done by Nick Horman who is good but for my money doesn’t play (or didn’t read) the part nearly as flamboyantly or as “campy” as it should be. Alvin assures me, though, that Horman is a good actor who—once he gets into the role—will be able to turn on all the necessary fruity mannerisms, so that reassures me. Joe Grifani, naturally, is fine as Stancik, as is Michael Gross as Dadaris. The only part missing at the moment is Schwartz, which Joe read but, being a wop, was really unsuited for. Alvin is now engaged in a search for the Jew-boy. All in all I was very pleased and excited by the potential that was shown at the reading and am looking forward to your appearance at the last rehearsals because I know you will want to add a few of your very special licks to the production.
Strange to admit, I am getting a little of those pre-production jitters. I thought that I would be able to go through all this with more sang-froid than I might fail to display, let us say, upon the publication of a novel, but am just as nervous about this baby as I am about a book. People with names like to go along with your impression that the play might be a little too American for a British audience. Arthur Miller is going to see it this coming Wednesday with Francine and Chris Gray, and I’m interested in knowing his reaction.
But enough about the play. Suffice it to say that I’m considerably more [unknown] than I was when I wrote you the early news. Random House will have its version soon—complete with photographs—and I’ll send you the first copy.
I’m delighted that you enjoyed Africa, despite the customary annoyances. I had the feeling that it would turn you on as it did me. It’s astounding how Africa imprints itself on the memory in a way that no other place seems capable of doing.
Your Sunday Times articles continue to be greatly enjoyed. Our Man in London does an exceedingly good job. I was especially taken by the piece on Arden. What a wild tale, and you told it exquisitely.
Meanwhile, I keep working away in this amazingly mild and temperate winter, as much as I can eschewing the streets of New York, which more and more are beginning to resemble some hideous habitat of hyenas in the Ngonogoro Crater.
We miss you all and are looking forward to your early arrival on the Vineyard and picnics on Naushon, and other island delights. Al says she now wants to give Danny an all-over body massage while he reads to her from Playboy, which has become her favorite quality lit.
Love to all,
Willie
TO FREDERICK EXLEY
November 30, 1972 Roxbury, CT
Dear Fred:
I received my fancy shirts in good shape, for which many thanks, also for the “Iowan” dispatches and your various communications. I thought Sharla did a very nice job indeed—despite the “homespun philosopher” tag, which vaguely makes me feel like James Whitcomb Riley—and I will write her a thank-you.‖EE
I’ve had time to reflect on our Iowa and Chicago escapade and feel it was an enormous success—especially the tab we laid onto Hugh Hefner. But those Playboy guys were genuinely nice and, God knows, generous and hospitable. I hope you had a good time again in Chicago on Thanksgiving. Terry Southern once told me about how, during the filming of Dr. Strangelove, Slim Pickens (the cracker Texas pilot who had really never left Texas or California before) arrived via BOAC in London where he was met by a Rolls-Royce full of J. Arthur Rank, button-down, very Oxford proper types. After being seated in the Silver Cloud, one of the flunkies, in a very proper British voice asked what Mr. Pickens would like to look forward to in London in terms of creature comforts. His reply: “Gennamun, all a man needs when he goes anywhere is three square meals a day, lots of tight pussy, and a warm place to shit.” Thereby cementing Anglo-American ties.
That thing about Linda and her poem and her hang-up is truly baffling, though. However, it doesn’t seem to me too surprising. Remind me, when next I see you, to tell you some wise thoughts I have on the matter, gleaned from experience.
It doesn’t look as if we’ll be able to touch base on Christmas or thereabouts because of geography problems. However, do keep in close touch. My wife Rose tells me to remind you (she’s a great fan, pardon the expression, of yours) that you must come here and be a guest and we’ll throw you a party that will curl your toes. Also the Taft School nearby definitely wants you in the spring to be on the memorial program I told you about.
Kiss all the groupies for me.
Your pal in Jesus,
Bill
Styron’s play, In the Clap Shack, premiered on December 15, 1972, at the Yale Repertory Theatre.
TO BOB BRUSTEIN
January 2, 1973 Roxbury, CT
Dear Bob:
I trust you are back safe and sound from your African adventures. Let me know how it all went, as I am eager to learn whether your experience was as fine as mine when we went to Kenya and Tanzania with H.R.H. Khan several years ago. It was totally unforgettable and I hope you had the same kind of time.
Opening night for the “Shack” was a laff riot. Unbelievably hideous weather—mercifully no snow—and the curtain was 20 minutes late due to the fact that the busload of theatregoers I had invited up from New York got stranded somewhere on Bruckner Boulevard for a long time. Mercifully, they had plenty of booze and arrived only five minutes after the delayed curtain. Being classically nervous, I saw little of the show, skulking in the lobby or spending most of the time at the Ol Heidelberg do
wning doubles to soothe my psyche. But I was told on good authority that it was a fine performance and that the audience loved it. The party at your place was a huge success. The caterers turned out a smashing supper and everybody (over 100 head) got drunk and it cost a fortune but what the hell. The busload of drunks got back to N.Y. at 3:30 AM during which trip my friend Bobby White tried to attack six of the lady guests, and I was told that Joe Fox indecently exposed himself.
I expect you’ve seen the clinker of a review by Clive Barnes.‖FF I suppose I should be grateful to him for “admiring” me as a writer, but I found it pretty ghastly that the review was so totally negative. As I think you are aware, I had no ambition to write King Lear but I do think the play has some virtues, including a fairly original theme, some sharply drawn characters and a lot of moments of both pathos and comedy. The laughter I heard that night—and it was considerable—certainly didn’t come from a machine. Then what possesses a reviewer like Barnes that he offers not a solitary word of approbation, that he saw no value whatever in the work?… Rose and Susanna have been in Guatemala looking at the Mayan ruins and the other kids have been skiing. Meanwhile, Alexandra made the trip by plane alone from New York to Baltimore.