Authors: William Gaddis
B007RT1UH4 EBOK (60 page)
William Gaddis
To Katie Sue Black
[
WG eloped with Pat Black, marrying her on 18 May 1955 in Ridgefield, CT. The following is the third draft of a letter to her mother in North Carolina.
]
Massapequa, Long Island
[late May? 1955]
dear Mrs Black,
It is late for me to be writing you, at last, of my marriage to your daughter, and I want first to offer you my deepest apologies for uncertainty and anxiety that you have suffered because of the way we have managed things starting off our life together. Like so many difficult parts of the whole situation, this letter is hardly the way I should want to be doing even now, writing you instead of seeing you, to tell you of what is already accomplished, instead of seeking your good wishes for our plans. All of this does bring home how selfish I have been, or both of us have been perhaps, not in what we have done, but in the way we have done it.
A moment came when it seemed there were so many complications that the only thing to do, and the best thing, was to take matters into our own hands. We have been aware of the complications that would follow and, to some extent of the hurts and disappointments we might cause. My mother had met Pat and of course liked her immediately, but she too found our news rather abrupt, and had a little difficulty adjusting to it so quickly. I know how much she would have wanted to participate in such an important event in her only son’s life, and in spite of how happy she is about us now, I shall always regret causing her that disappointment. I wish that you and she could have met before this, —but I could sit here writing ‘I wish’ all day, and it wouldn’t change any of the anxiety we have caused for others. Except for these things, we are happy, I know we are going to be happy together but I hope never at the expense of others who are, in different ways, equally dear to us.
(dnt wnt to snd apologtc: proud)(come see us, I dnt know when we can get there) (household problems, $, the usual bickering over groceries, the life I hope to give her &c, but I depend on her stability & household sanity, after bachelordom &c)
I was fortunate in meeting your son Bob, and I hope the advantage we took of his stopping here didn’t seem an unfair one, in asking him to carry our news home to you. Never having had a brother or sister myself, that relationship will probably always be strange to me, and I find wonderful how much Pat shares with her brother, even after such a long separation. I also marveled at how he could step out of army life in Alaska straight into new responsibilities, to his return to home and civilian life, and I deeply appreciate how readily he took on what we asked of him, and how well he must have taken care of it.
Now I wish I could go on to say that we were coming down to see you any time soon. But you may imagine we have a good deal of readjusting to do ourselves. For myself right now that involves pulling together enough writing work which I can do at home so that I can be with Pat here in Massapequa, instead of commuting to New York or spending the hot summer there. If I can continue to work this out, she should spend a restful and pleasant summer out here in the country, and be as healthy and ready for the fall as possible. None of this yet is the life I hope to give her, but it is a good start. Meanwhile she is an excellent cook, which isn’t difficult to appreciate after so many years of cooking for myself. But cooking aside, there are qualities in her, of patience, and kindness, and unselfishness, simple consideration and loyalty, which I know that at last I have you to thank for, in the way you brought her up. And as these things go, from generation to generation, I suppose the only way I will be able to show my appreciation will be indirectly to you, by trying to be worthy of them in her, and making her happy.
Looking back at the early part of this letter, I find a constant tone of troubled apology. I repeat it, concerning my feelings and our feelings for you, but I don’t want that to be the whole tone of all this because I am proud to have your daughter Pat for my wife, and grateful, and happy at the prospect of our life together. I hope that it will be something we will be able to share in some ways with you, and that after the anxiety we have given you, you will be proud of us.
To John and Pauline Napper
Box 223
Massapequa, Long Island
[c. 1 October 1955]
dear John & Pauline
Of course hour after hour is spent and wasted, then instead of a letter one writes a
note
—but things are more than usually confused this fall, and for the best but no less frantic reason, Sarah Meares G——, 6 pounds, arrived abord 3 weeks ago, and of course again everything is centered around her, within the house and at all hours and also out in the world, where this year there is no monkey business about it, I have to find warm shelter for 3 and I’m afraid at last a real “job”——so, picture me at this point trudging about New York streets like a college boy seeking his first job (it actually is 9 years since I’ve had a real 9 to 5 office world). And so the possible date of “our sailing” is even further off, now there are 3. Haven’t you yet any plans to visit USA? Sorry I cannot provide & sort rain & weather enough to summon you for the commission, —if I did I’d snatch him first for his “Biography”—not bloody likely. But we do hope to have heated quarters soon where I can sit down and write you; for the moment just this to send our news and love to you both.
W. G.
To the Editor,
The Spectator
18 February 1956
Dear Sir:
I have only now come upon your issue for 9 December 1955, with its article ‘Printers’ Censorship’ by Norman St John-Stevas. In his reference to a current American novel of “over 900 closely packed octavo pages” which is “at this moment seeking another publisher,” I gather that he spoke of
The Recognitions
. I do appreciate Mr St John-Stevas’ approach to the problem he writes of, and his attention to this book in particular. But may I, as its author, submit that through no fault of his own Mr St John-Stevas has been led to give a somewhat distorted picture of the reasons for the book’s failure to appear in its originally-projected English publication, when all of the onus is placed upon the printers for their refusal to print a book which “for 2 per cent. of its total length, describes sexual incidents in coarse language.”
Incidentally, I should be inclinded to take exception to this generous estimate. The novel itself is about a half-million words in length; and however inconsequential 2% of anything may appear, it amounts in this case to some 10,000 words. As I believe a reading of the book would show, there are comparatively few ‘sexual incidents’ in it and they, when they do occur, are generally described quite obliquely. ‘Coarse language’ on the other hand is, when given voice (and it scarcely occurs in narrative), almost consistently divorced from such intimate activities. Though it was not at any time suggested that I cut ‘coarse language’ to make that originally-scheduled English publication possible, I do believe that even if it were all or largely eliminated, the ‘sexual incidents’ in the book would remain quite demurely intact. And they do, I still feel, have their place there, since the novel is, for the most part, about human beings.
Subsequent to signing my agreement with the ‘well-known publisher’ noted by Mr St John-Stevas, I was given to understand that certain printers in England had declined the job. But are we to infer, from Mr St John-Stevas’ article, that English printing is an essential for English publication? Surely there are alternatives, open to a British publisher for a book he believes in? There must be such, for they were discussed in connection with
The Recognitions
. And I may add that, at the time of my original agreement with the ‘well-known publisher’, I was given in all good faith to believe that this novel would with little difficulty have won in any obscenity action brought against it in your courts.
I must suggest that, when Mr St John-Stevas notes in passing “its price in the English market would not be less than 35 shillings,” he comes rather closer the reason for the impasse which
The Recognitions
finally reached with its originally-intended London publisher. Because of the book’s length, it was of course evident at the outset of our negotiations that it must likely come out there as a 35/– novel, a brave step for a British publisher certainly. But the suggestion to cut the book, or let it be cut, came along just 5 months after that publishing agreement had been signed, and 5 days before publication date here in America: time, that is, when the strained reception which the book was to receive in various quarters, notably our aching popularly-dependent ‘literary’ press here, was becoming apparent. And that abrupt, one might have thought capricious entreaty to cut the novel for its Englsih debut, embraced neither ‘sexual incidents’ nor ‘coarse language,’ nor indecent concerts of the two; essentially it concerned length, which is to say, costs. Such a last-minute ultimatum was of course not be countenanced, however it might pose upon artistic grounds. Now it may be that the artistic purpose of the book would be better served at half its present length; but I had not felt this to be so when I submitted the finished out-size manuscript to my publishers here, nor did they welcome grounds to decline publication when the unexpected size and complexity of the manuscript, and consequently necessary high price of the book, made it quite likely that no ‘best-seller’ list was going to make up for their very considerable investment. Needless to say I had found that early experience of good faith gratifying indeed.
The ethics which dictated that your correspondent refrain from spelling out the title of the book, like the good intentions of the reference itself, are appreciated. So far as I know,
The Recognitions
is still seeking an English publisher, and I’ve no objection to its title being strung out in rubrics. Though there may be a perverse pleasure in finding one’s work referred to as that of ‘near genius’, whatever the motivations for such a try-on, it’s a chill substitute for publication as you may imagine.
Please forgive my going on at such disproportionate length to the reference in your column, but such ravelings demand it if they are to be picked up at all.
Yours
William Gaddis
To Pat Gaddis
[
WG and his wife had first moved to an apartment at 223 E. 96th St.—which he later used for storage (in real life as well as in
J R
)—and was now in the process of moving while his wife and daughter were out of town. He expresses interest in Civil War material that would later result in his unproduced play,
Once at Antietam
.
]
[13 August 1956]
Dear Pat,
I was so cheered to find your letter here this evening. I wrote you some whiling-away foolishness this morning from the ‘office’ . . . my, for what I got done here today I might as well have spent the time in a pool-hall. But I’d got somewhat discouraged (purely endoctrinal I believe), and went up to 96 to get another handful of odds and ends, none of any of it making much sense. [...] But the picture of Sarah holding my letter and saying Papa! Poppa! . . . makes up for everything honestly. [...]