B007RT1UH4 EBOK (42 page)

Aside from that, nothing has happened. Nothing.

Except newspapers you know get in, and with them the idiotic haruspicating and scrying going on in My country, warwards. How can grownup men make such fools of themselves? But on
every
level. It seems that nothing else draws nearer. Margaret, heaven knows, does not. Perhaps it’s better, a bonnie over the ocean than one under-foot, wanting to dinner at Fouquets, a drink at the Crillon, tea at Claridges? I don’t know. All I know right now is that things reached such a pass this morning, in the way of trying to straighten out characters, incidents, situations, interviews, and one suicide (but she a very old woman), that I wrote every one a bit of paper, and have spent the afternoon sitting like a simple child making a village of confetti, trying to arrange them in order that will satisfy Aristotle’s theory of dramatic unity, William James’s of pragmatism, the Boston Watch & Ward Society, for Morals, the Catholic Index, the publisher’s for Something New, the reader’s prolepsis and my analepsis. Some must suffer. Boston and the index first. Then Aristotle. I sometimes even imagine cutting it down to myself and the reader. At any rate, it goes on, between balloons.

I hope you both found the rest here to send you back heavily to work there. But how long does that lust last? I feel like I was born here, by this time; it seems as though I’ve spent my life at this machine, at this window, and staring across at the old man they put out on a balcony in the afternoon with a piece of bread, and take him in at night. Some times the hand shakes, and the words (slipping, sliding, perishing) will not stay in place, and I mightily wish you were here for a coffee, or a glass at Boodles’. You did leave quite a vacuum on your departure, and I find myself again talking with myself, getting the same vacant variety of answers. Lord, to be a real, legitimate member of a myth, a screaming Catholic, an Albigensian, a Stuart or Hanover or John D Rockefeller, instead of sitting in one damn hall bedroom after another trying to manufacture one. Though I suppose the rewards are greater when you do finish. Do you finish? I just go on accumulating. (I like a title of a book I’ve never read by Tomlinson,
Old Junk
).

But now I find I’m owed 30,000 francs in Paris, and temptation rises to go there and cut a figure of mean disaster for a few days, then return, be tatooed, and enter the Franciscan orders. Your mill pond looks like it would be rousing cold in winter, and my blood is as thin as sewing-machine oil by now. But how I look forward to stopping there to see you. I’ve so many reasons for wanting to come to London, all good, all self-indulgent, Edwardian enough, they include books and tailors. But I must wait for the Trollop reason (and
no
pun intended here), the summons to the church, the walk hand-in-hand in the heather, . . . tea at Claridges. I don’t like Paris, but may have to go up briefly in October, then return here if there’s no summons to Southampton, and just go right on hoping for the wrong things and praying for the wrong things until the Balloon goes up. Meanwhile I’ll write of any change of scene; thanks again for your patient listening and words here, I need them so much more than I realised, and I’m excited about seeing you again and enlarging on them, asking the questions which have grown from those answers.

All my best wishes to you both,

W. Gaddis

menaced by monsters [...] Risking enchantment: as noted earlier, from section 2 of Eliot’s “East Coker.”

haruspicating and scrying: from part 5 (“haruspicate or scry”) of Eliot’s “Dry Salvages” (1941). a bonnie over the ocean: from the old Scots folk song “My Bonnie Lies over the Ocean.”

William James: American philosopher (1842–1910), author of
Pragmatism
(1907) among other works.

Boston Watch & Ward Society: an organization devoted to censorship, branding objectionable books “Banned in Boston.” Its influence had waned by 1950.

prolepsis and […] analepsis: technical literary terms for foreshadowing and flashback.

words (slipping, sliding, perishing): from section 5 of Eliot’s “Burnt Norton”: “Words strain, / Crack and sometimes break, under the burden, / Under the tension, slip, slide, perish, / Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place, / Will not stay still.”

Boodles’: Boodle’s, a London gentlemen’s club.

Albigensian: member of a medieval heretical sect.

John D Rockefeller: American oil magnate (1839–1937).

Tomlinson,
Old Junk
: a 1918 collection of “stories of travel and chance” by English writer H. M. Tomlinson (1873–1958). 30,000francs: about $775 today.

Trollop: Anthony Trollope (1815–82), English novelist.

the Balloon goes up: an old phrase meaning a clarifying signal.

To Edith Gaddis

Palamós, Gerona

21 september 1950

dear Mother,

Having just had a going over by mail with Margaret, who hadn’t written in some time, I realise it’s some time since I’ve written you. And have had two letters, each containing things I have to thank you for—the books, the prospect of them and of 20$ (and 80 in Paris?)

I don’t know whether opportunity will present itself, but I would like to have the address of that boy Christie knew in Paris, if I’m going to be there for more than a few days I’d like to look him up, like to know at least
one
nice French person. A recent letter from the English painter I met here renews his invitation for me to visit them there. And so I’ve been thinking I well may go on to England in mid-October, after 5 or 6 days in Paris, and possibly stay there for a month or two. I liked it so much when we were there, but that was such a brief introduction. And two months in London would be very well-spent I believe. —Also to have my
teeth
looked at and worked on—I ought to go for that alone.

And all of this of course if nothing comes of these faint possibilities for a job, which I hope to investigate in Paris, and might end up returning to Madrid on that hope.

It’s quite suddenly become fall here, with the north wind which they say makes Palamós very cold in winter. I can imagine that Massapequa is about over for another summer. Well the more I think about it the more I think I’ll be there next summer—unless I’ve got a raving job in Spain, unless Margaret, unless Stalin and General MacArthur—but I should get there to paint the white outside woodwork. And by then I should have this “novel” in shape, too. Well heaven knows. At any rate, while things hang in the air I want to spend some time in London. Unesco has conceeded that they owe me about ½ what I’d expected (having left 7 pieces with them, they’re paying me now for 3)—which will be some good in Paris anyhow. Heaven knows how other things will be there. [...]

Love,

W.

To Edith Gaddis

Palamós

[22? September 1950]

dear Mother,

Just a note, of change of plans. I’ve just had a letter from Juancho, who’s coming to Madrid for some sort of international intellectual congress, writes me to ask me to come to Madrid, saying not to worry about money, that he thinks I can be his guest, or the guest of Panama, or guest of the Society of Spanish-American Culture, or something. So I’m going.

First (now) going to Mallorca, see if I can see Robert Graves (who wrote that book
The White Goddess
which you sent me in Sevilla last year remember?) Will be in Barcelona the 28th, and pick up any mail at the consulate there for me; after that everything to Paris American Express. I hope the 20$ is there by the 28th but if not I’ve enough to get to Madrid, and can repay Juancho in Paris.

May sound like a real wild-goose chase, probably will be; but I might be able to see someone in Madrid about a job possibility. And I was about ready for a wild goose chase anyhow after two months of this country life.

Will write you better from Mallorca in a day or two. I think I’ll stay in Madrid from 3 to 10 days, probably about 5 days, depending on how Juancho feels about it when I actually do take him up on his offer. Many thanks for your letters; I’d expected to answer you more fully, but this has been an over-night decision.

W.

To John Napper

Deya, Mallorca

27 September 1950

dear John,

As I said, becoming less enamoured of Spain. All resulted from trying to do something in a hurry, which you cannot
do
in Spain. But a friend on his way to Madrid wrote to ask me to come there for a few days, so I set out, abandoned Palamós, got to Barcelona, arranged everything—then could not buy a train ticket for Madrid a week in advance. Left in
fury,
vowing never to speak to another Spaniard, never to say a nice thing about Spain again.

So here I am in the smallest room in the smallest town on this small island, getting by until my escape ticket to Paris matures, on 35 pesetas a day. [...] I am going to Paris on the 4th, will be there the 5th, just a week from today. I plan to stay there for a week or 10 days—then, I don’t know. I’m firmly considering life in London for a couple of months, and I’d certainly like to see you about that. Spain has done its work for the moment.

In Paris I suppose I shall stay at my hideous old home, 24 rue de la Chaussée d’Antin (about 2 blocks from the Opera), the 5th floor, and to the right inside a small hallway. Though if not there, since heaven knows what disasters may have occurred in the last 2 months, could you leave a note for me at the American Express, 11 rue Scribe (also near Opera). I do look forward to seeing you in Paris, and you
must
look up that address.

I’ve found Robert Graves, who proves to be extremely pleasant, though a very nervous man, especially when one gets on a topic which interests him, so that I find it difficult to talk with him about White Goddesses, Recognitions, crucifixions, incarnations, saints, what-have-you—easier to go swimming, though I haven’t seen a real (Palamós) beach on Mallorca, all sheer drops to the sea, and small openings where you can descend to the water. Thank God I found Palamós—Palma is still full of French, Dutch, Belgian &c.—all with bare knees, rucksacks, automobiles, ghastly women, motorcycles, buying postcards, castanets, junk junk junk. Enough.

Deya is quite the other extreme. It is all rocks. Everything is rocks. There is one indoor café, with a billiard table, and nothing else but goats and sheep with bells on them, also one rooster, and this morning I saw a snail. Otherwise, it is fairly quiet.