Letters (19 page)
Authors: Saul Bellow
So I told Mr. F. the great analyst of the soul to tell the woman nothing about me, to give no information at all about me or what I was doing or where I was. I told him this in Paris; I told him again in Switzerland and on both occasions the man got shut of her as fast as he could—that ended Montreux for me. She immediately sent all the information back to America. Heartrending letters, cables, etc. with threats of coming to find me, going mad, dying. Then began to come directly to my hotel. I wanted to batter the walls down—the hotel people, who had been very kind to me, charged me three francs extra because I had brought a bottle of wine from outside into the hotel (they have a right in Switzerland to do this) but I took my rage out on them, told them I was leaving the next day, went on a spree, broke windows, plumbing fixtures, etc. in the town, and came back to the hotel at 2:00 AM, pounded on the door of the director and on the doors of two English spinsters, rushed howling with laughter up and down the halls, cursing and singing—and in short
had
to leave.
had
to leave.
I went to Geneva where I stayed a week or so. Meanwhile my book came out in England—I wrote beforehand and asked the publisher not to send reviews because I was working on the new one and did not want to be bothered. He wrote back a very jubilant letter and said the book was a big success and said, “Read these reviews—you have nothing to be afraid of.” I read them, they were very fine, I got in a state of great excitement. He sent me great batches of reviews then—most of them very good ones, some bad. I foolishly read them and got in a very excited condition about a book I should have left behind me months ago. On top of this, and the cables and the letters from New York, I got in Geneva two very bad reviews—cruel, unfair, bitterly personal. I was fed up with everything. I wrote Perkins a brief note telling him goodbye, please send my money, I would never write again, etc. I wrote the English publisher another, I cut off all mail by telegraph to Paris, I packed up, rushed to the aviation field and took the first airplane to Lyons.
It was my first flight, it was magnificent, there is nothing like flying to ease a distressed spirit. The beautiful little farms of the Rhone valley appeared below me, I saw a little dot shoveling manure in a field and recognized a critic, I got to Lyons, ate some good food (there are good restaurants there) and immediately got to work again. A week later I flew to Marseilles. Then I went up to Arles in Provence (God it was hot) then back to Marseilles. Then I flew back over the southern Alps to Geneva where I had left most of my baggage.
It was a grand trip, lasted three weeks and did me an infinite amount of good. All the time I scrawled, wrote, scribbled. I have written a great deal—my book is one immense long book made up of four average-sized ones, each complete in itself, but each part of the whole. I stayed in Geneva one day and of course Mr. F. was on the job, although he had been at Vevey and then at Caux—his wife he says has been very near madness in a sanatorium at Geneva, but is now getting better. (It turned out that she was a good half hour by fast train from Geneva. When I told him I was leaving Geneva and coming to the Black Forest he immediately decided to return to Caux. I was with him the night before I left Geneva, he got very drunk and bitter, he wanted me to go and stay with his friends Dorothy Parker and some people named Murphy in Switzerland nearby. When I made no answer to this invitation he was quite annoyed, said that I got away from people because I was afraid of them, etc. (which is quite true, and which I think, in view of my experiences with Mr. F.
et al
., shows damned good sense). I wonder how long Mr. F. could last by himself, with no more Ritz Bar, no more Princeton boys, no more Mrs. F. At any rate I came to Basel and F. rode part way with me on his way back to Caux. A final word about him: I am sorry I ever met him, he has caused me trouble and cost me time; but he has good stuff in him yet. His conduct to me was mixed with malice and generosity—he read my book and was very fine about it; then his bitterness began to qualify him. He is sterile and impotent and alcoholic now, and unable to finish his book, and I think he wanted to injure my own work—this is base but the man has been up against it, he really loves his wife and I suppose helped get her into this terrible fix. I hold nothing against him now. Of course he can’t hurt me in the end, but I trusted him and I think he played a shabby trick by telling lies on me.
et al
., shows damned good sense). I wonder how long Mr. F. could last by himself, with no more Ritz Bar, no more Princeton boys, no more Mrs. F. At any rate I came to Basel and F. rode part way with me on his way back to Caux. A final word about him: I am sorry I ever met him, he has caused me trouble and cost me time; but he has good stuff in him yet. His conduct to me was mixed with malice and generosity—he read my book and was very fine about it; then his bitterness began to qualify him. He is sterile and impotent and alcoholic now, and unable to finish his book, and I think he wanted to injure my own work—this is base but the man has been up against it, he really loves his wife and I suppose helped get her into this terrible fix. I hold nothing against him now. Of course he can’t hurt me in the end, but I trusted him and I think he played a shabby trick by telling lies on me.
At any rate, I got over my dumps very quickly, sweated it out in Provence, and here I am, trying to finish up one section of the book before I leave here. I may get to England where Reeves my publisher assures me I can be quiet and work in peace. I like him intensely and there are also two or three other people there I can talk to. I have never been so full of writing in my life—if I can do the thing, I want to believe it will be good.
I found a great batch of letters and telegrams when I got back from exile. Reeves was very upset by my letter, and was wiring everywhere—he sent me a wonderful letter, he said the book had had a magnificent reception and not to be a damned fool about a few reviews. And Perkins wrote me two wonderful letters—he is a grand man, and I believe in him with all my heart. All the others at Scribner’s have written me, and I am ashamed of my foolish letters and have resolved not to let them down.
I know it’s going to be all right now. I believe I’m out of the woods at last. Nobody is going to die on account of me, nobody is going to suffer any more than I have suffered—the force of these dire threats gets a little weaker after a while, and I know now, no matter what anyone may ever say, that in one situation I have acted fairly and kept my head up. I am a little bitter at rich people at present, I am a little bitter at people who live in comfort and luxury surrounded by friends and amusement, and yet are not willing to give an even chance to a young man living alone in a foreign country and trying to get work done. I did all that was asked of me, I came away here when I did not want to come, I have fought it out alone, and now I am done with it. I do not think it will be possible for me to live in New York for a year or two, and when I come back I may go elsewhere to live. As for the incredible passion that possessed me when I was twenty-five years old and that brought me to madness and, I think, almost to destruction—that is over, that fire can never be kindled again.
A pure fantasy, of course. Fitzgerald had been dead for nearly a decade.
1949
To David Bazelon
[n.d.] [Paris]
Dear Dave:
Without a prod I had sent you, I swear, a note before your letter came. It’s true that I hadn’t written to anyone. Last summer, there were so many knives drawn round me that it’s taken several months to get the dazzle of them out of my eyes. I’ve been silent to knifers and non-knifers alike. The only exception was for Isaac; to an old friend—it’s nearly twenty years that we’ve known each other—one goes on writing. Seven times seven. Apparently I’ll never get it through my stupid head that it’s no use.
The man to address at Minn.—if you really mean to go there—is Samuel Monk, Falwell Hall, the new head of the Dep’t., replacing Beach, and a very decent, generous and intelligent guy. Say that you’re writing at my suggestion, explain what you’ve been doing the last five years and why you think you’d be happy in a university. The less bull the better. How? That’s your
tsores
[
23
]. Myself, I recently mailed in my resignation. I will probably—it’s not settled—stay in Europe another year.
tsores
[
23
]. Myself, I recently mailed in my resignation. I will probably—it’s not settled—stay in Europe another year.
So Oscar has a car! I’ll be damned! Everybody is becoming so serious.
Paris
is
savage. Wonderfully beautiful but savage in an unexpected quarter; in its calculating heart. The secret of the whole affair—it’s revealed in Balzac, but no one seems to read him seriously—is a certain grotesque arithmetic. The wit of the city is a branch of addition and subtraction. Every American boy brought up in a good bourgeois atmosphere breathes the air of home in Paris.
And in addition, it is Paris.
Terribly important. It is now blameless to be a bourgeois. So what can be more delightful for an American? No, I must confess that’s excessively hard on Americans. It’s often said that Americans are less materialistic than Europeans. My feeling is that Americans are attached
in principle
to things. They seem to own them for symbolic reasons. With the French, on the other hand, there is no metaphysical universe about it—it’s the things they want, the more hereditary the lovelier for snobbish rather than sentimental or innate reasons. And that is a kind of symbolism, I admit, but it’s limited. More briefly, and with all that it spiritually implies, the Frenchman is always turned homeward, to his cozy, shutter-drawn nest, and the American is always running away from home. But each home, after its kind, is perfect. Italy’s a much healthier country than either, relatively free of budget-fever, pride and American chase.
is
savage. Wonderfully beautiful but savage in an unexpected quarter; in its calculating heart. The secret of the whole affair—it’s revealed in Balzac, but no one seems to read him seriously—is a certain grotesque arithmetic. The wit of the city is a branch of addition and subtraction. Every American boy brought up in a good bourgeois atmosphere breathes the air of home in Paris.
And in addition, it is Paris.
Terribly important. It is now blameless to be a bourgeois. So what can be more delightful for an American? No, I must confess that’s excessively hard on Americans. It’s often said that Americans are less materialistic than Europeans. My feeling is that Americans are attached
in principle
to things. They seem to own them for symbolic reasons. With the French, on the other hand, there is no metaphysical universe about it—it’s the things they want, the more hereditary the lovelier for snobbish rather than sentimental or innate reasons. And that is a kind of symbolism, I admit, but it’s limited. More briefly, and with all that it spiritually implies, the Frenchman is always turned homeward, to his cozy, shutter-drawn nest, and the American is always running away from home. But each home, after its kind, is perfect. Italy’s a much healthier country than either, relatively free of budget-fever, pride and American chase.
I’ve done some work, but I haven’t been killing myself. It takes time, you know, to accustom oneself to, etc. I have a mild case of copper-curse. Isaac and Trilling warned me against it. Neither did a lick of work last year. [ . . . ]
Love,
To Henry Volkening
January 2, 1949 Paris
Dear Henry:
The letter from Mrs. [Katharine] White is very gratifying to an old ego-maniac like me. Also to an old mold-shatterer. Sooner or later people are bound to reach an adult state with respect to writing and permit the common use of words already in most common use in family magazines. And it’s salutary now and then to admit that one does
not
print the things one thinks well of, freely and always.
Mais passons
[
24
].
not
print the things one thinks well of, freely and always.
Mais passons
[
24
].
Rahv always pays when the piece is set up, at the rate of two-and-one-half-cents-a-word. That, as an old stoic of my tribe says, is better than nothing. To which you will reply, but still not much. However, I am very pleased and thankful to you for sending “Dr. Pep” out. I will write to Phil in a day or so—you must forgive his laconic manner; that, from him, was high praise; usually he says, “I have accepted yr. piece for near pub.”—and ask him to send the proofs to me and the check to you. I may even begin to bargain for a special rate. After all, I hear he gives one to Gide.
We’ve had a very pleasant holiday on the Riviera, at Nice and San Remo, and I am beginning to think of getting back to the mill and pile together my grist for a novel. Meanwhile, I’ll continue to putter with stories. The mss. of one on which I had counted has disappeared and I may try to do it again from memory.
Happy New Year to you and your family and to Mr. Russell.
Best,
Maybe you ought to try “Mr. Green” in the
Kenyon
or
PR
?
Kenyon
or
PR
?
Katharine Sergeant Angell White (1892-1972), a founder of
The New Yorker
in 1925, was for many years its chief fiction editor.
The New Yorker
in 1925, was for many years its chief fiction editor.
To Henry Volkening
January 5, 1949 Paris
Dear Henry,
[ . . . ] So far my fishing has been rewarded by only one nibble, from Harvard. I believe I could get a job there, but I’d have to teach English for one thing and live in Cambridge for another. Is it not better to stay in Paris, you ask? Well, perhaps it is; for some, for most, perhaps, it would be a fatuous question to put to oneself. Monroe Engel wants to know what the devil I want to return for. Well, the fact is that foreign residence becomes rather emptying after a while. You do your work and see your few friends, read French books, admire the Seine and the Tuileries, get to know hidden squares and unavailable (to the Many) restaurants and bistros. Presently you find yourself with fewer human contacts than you had in Minnesota. Next, “What human contacts will there be in Cambridge?” God spare us! Cambridge!! So, I’m stalling Cambridge for a while. Till I’ve felt around a little more, anyway. Do you think I could get the thin end of myself in Queens where they’re starting a “creative writing” program? There’s a man called—I think—Robertson who runs the English Dept. NYU is out, I guess—my friend Rosenfeld teaches there and I don’t want to horn in on him; he’s got troubles enough. Maybe I ought to start a nightclub, or become a press agent.
Do you ever see Alfred Kazin? He may have some ideas, he always does. And then, of course, I do have about ten untried stories in my kit, and parts of
Augie
and the novel I put by are quite publishable. What I need is time. And a
pied-à-terre
, which is where Mr. [Harold] Guinzburg [owner of The Viking Press] comes in. But for the time being I think it best to stall, stall everyone except Augie.
Augie
and the novel I put by are quite publishable. What I need is time. And a
pied-à-terre
, which is where Mr. [Harold] Guinzburg [owner of The Viking Press] comes in. But for the time being I think it best to stall, stall everyone except Augie.
I’m sending about six chapters of the latter in to Mr. Moe at the Guggenheim Foundation, and I’ll ask him to send them on to you and Monroe Engel. They’re first-draft, but very full, and I think will enable you to answer my previous questions about one installment or two for Viking.
I don’t think Moe likes me well enough to come across with a second fellowship. Here, again, Alfred would know, and if you have an opportunity soon I’d take it very kindly if you’d ask him.
All the very best
voeux
for the New Year,
voeux
for the New Year,
To Oscar, Edith, Miriam, and Nathan Tarcov
[Postmark illegible; postcard of Michelangelo’s
Pietà
]
Pietà
]
Other books
Presently Perfect (Perfect #3) by Alison G. Bailey
Deceived by Stella Barcelona
Garden of Lies by Amanda Quick
Amor bajo el espino blanco by Ai Mi
Die for the Flame by William Gehler
Some Like It Hot by Lori Wilde
Warfare: Rise Of Mankind Book 2 by John Walker
Sunset Ranch by A. Destiny
Six Easy Pieces by Walter Mosley