Letters (21 page)
Authors: Saul Bellow
Monroe Engel sent me a huffy-sounding note saying that he was going to Florence and I could conduct future business with Covici. Did he mean that I could go to hell? I’m sorry I haven’t written more to him but if he thinks I’m going to tell him over my shoulder every so often what I’m going to do in the next chapter, he’s crazy.
Comment ça va?
How is beautiful South Bend?
How is beautiful South Bend?
Best,
Monroe Engel (born 1921) was Bellow’s editor at Viking, with which he’ d signed after breaking ties with James Henle at Vanguard.
To Henry Volkening
[n.d.] [Paris]
Dear Henry:
Note the new address. Another. We had to leave Marbeuf about a week ago; the old auto-racer and his wife came back from the Côte d’Azur and we had to go into a small hotel. Now we have the Rue de V [erneuil] until the first of October when we will have to find other landlords who want their long holiday in the Riviera paid for. The people from the Rue de V. are going to Biarritz for the season. But sufficient unto the day. Meanwhile the two concierges have done their best to lose our mail for us. I know of three letters that have been sent back to the States, and one of them may have been yours. If one was, I hope no good news of the sort that can’t wait was in it.
The first writing of
The Crab
should end in June, as I predicted. It has been a little slow these last two weeks for various reasons, one of them being that I have been unable to hold back from
The Life of Augie March
, a very good thing indeed. I’ve done a considerable piece of it, a piece good enough to be published as it is. I’m very enthusiastic about it, and though I will finish
The Crab
because I hate to have unfinished novels on the table, it might not be a wrong plan to publish
Augie
first. It will be quite long, but worth the delay. In any case, I’ll be returning with two books,
ce qui me plaît beaucoup
[
32
].
The Crab
should end in June, as I predicted. It has been a little slow these last two weeks for various reasons, one of them being that I have been unable to hold back from
The Life of Augie March
, a very good thing indeed. I’ve done a considerable piece of it, a piece good enough to be published as it is. I’m very enthusiastic about it, and though I will finish
The Crab
because I hate to have unfinished novels on the table, it might not be a wrong plan to publish
Augie
first. It will be quite long, but worth the delay. In any case, I’ll be returning with two books,
ce qui me plaît beaucoup
[
32
].
I did a short piece for my friend Lionel Abel who has (had, rather) a little periodical called
Instead
. Do you recall? Well,
Instead
has had its back broken by the times and I sent the thing to John Lehmann who had been asking me for something. Lehmann’s going to print it in
New Writing #35
. What he aims to do about the money—it will be insignificant—I know not. If he sends it to me, I’ll tell you the amount. But since he knows you represent me, he’ll probably know what to do.
Instead
. Do you recall? Well,
Instead
has had its back broken by the times and I sent the thing to John Lehmann who had been asking me for something. Lehmann’s going to print it in
New Writing #35
. What he aims to do about the money—it will be insignificant—I know not. If he sends it to me, I’ll tell you the amount. But since he knows you represent me, he’ll probably know what to do.
As for the Viking installments, I have a feeling that I ought to take them while the taking’s good. True, Anita has a job now, but living in Paris abolishes every cent of it and we’ll be coming back to New York pauperized as well as homeless. [ . . . ] What do you think? Shouldn’t we ask Viking to turn on the cornucopia? [ . . . ]
We hear nothing but bad news from the States. You’d be doing me a great favor by sending some good.
All the best,
Nothing from Ransom?
If
he still wants “Mr. Green,” I’d like to re-write the last three pages before he sets it up.
If
he still wants “Mr. Green,” I’d like to re-write the last three pages before he sets it up.
To Henry Volkening
June 10, 1949 Paris
Dear Henry:
The explanation of the John Lehmann mix-up is as follows: I wrote you last winter that my friend Lionel Abel had asked me for a piece; he was editing a magazine called
Instead,
and his pay was all that was supporting him in Paris. Since he’s a good sort of guy and the cause worthy, I re-wrote a speech, something on the order of “Dr. Pep” and gave it to him. Then I sent a copy of same to Lehmann, who accepted it. But
Instead,
by a caprice of the lady who was paying for its publication, folded and Lionel is now out of a job and the last state is worse than the first. So “The Thoughts of Sgt. George Flavin,” as this thing is called, won’t be published in America. Unless Phil Rahv, who liked “Dr. Pep”
à outrance
[
33
], doesn’t mind publishing it from
New Writing #38.
I don’t think—the old song—any other magazine would care for something not-a-story, not-an-essay or anything recognizable.
Instead,
and his pay was all that was supporting him in Paris. Since he’s a good sort of guy and the cause worthy, I re-wrote a speech, something on the order of “Dr. Pep” and gave it to him. Then I sent a copy of same to Lehmann, who accepted it. But
Instead,
by a caprice of the lady who was paying for its publication, folded and Lionel is now out of a job and the last state is worse than the first. So “The Thoughts of Sgt. George Flavin,” as this thing is called, won’t be published in America. Unless Phil Rahv, who liked “Dr. Pep”
à outrance
[
33
], doesn’t mind publishing it from
New Writing #38.
I don’t think—the old song—any other magazine would care for something not-a-story, not-an-essay or anything recognizable.
In a letter that may have been lost en route, I asked you not to pass around “Mr. Green” anymore because I’ve re-read it and decided to re-write it. I have a fresh idea about it. When this overhauling will take place I can’t say, because my hands are full at the moment with the two books. One is almost done—the first draft—and another is in the first stages. I feel that the second,
From the Life of Augie March,
is the best thing I’ve ever written. The first is a book such as I might have done two, three or five years ago—a good book but nothing transcendent. Also a very grim book. This is why I’ve had the notion that it would be better to publish
Augie
first. I’m writing it very rapidly and can easily meet Viking’s deadline of June 1950 with enough material for a book. I have the feeling that it’ll turn out long enough for two volumes, but of this I’m not positive. Anyhow, I’ll send you the first chapter shortly. It may be publishable separately.
From the Life of Augie March,
is the best thing I’ve ever written. The first is a book such as I might have done two, three or five years ago—a good book but nothing transcendent. Also a very grim book. This is why I’ve had the notion that it would be better to publish
Augie
first. I’m writing it very rapidly and can easily meet Viking’s deadline of June 1950 with enough material for a book. I have the feeling that it’ll turn out long enough for two volumes, but of this I’m not positive. Anyhow, I’ll send you the first chapter shortly. It may be publishable separately.
Monroe has signaled me from his hilltop villa in Florence. I’ll say nothing to him about two books, as you advise. Perhaps I’ll return to Italy in August to visit him and other people. [ . . . ]
I don’t hear much about literary life in America, except the Pound controversy. I haven’t seen a
Times
book section since December and can’t say I feel privation. Is Harvey [Breit] still on the job? Give him my kindest regards, please.
Times
book section since December and can’t say I feel privation. Is Harvey [Breit] still on the job? Give him my kindest regards, please.
[ . . . ]
Best,
Owing to Ezra Pound’s treasonable and anti-Semitic broadcasts from Rome during the Second World War, a number of writers, including Bellow, were furious when he received the first Bollingen Prize from the Library of Congress in 1949.
To Henry Volkening
July 27, 1949 [Paris]
Dear Henry:
The heat is slaughterous in Paris. People ask me whether it’s hotter in the States. Since it seems to give deep satisfaction, I always say yes. Generally I let them come out ahead and believe the beans are better, the beer hoppier, the soap more lathery
und so weiter
[
34
] in Europe. By the front page of the
Tribune
, I know what sort of summer’s day you’ve had and can always be sure, whatever the comparative temperatures, that yours was grittier and sootier. But it’s with no sort of pleasure.
und so weiter
[
34
] in Europe. By the front page of the
Tribune
, I know what sort of summer’s day you’ve had and can always be sure, whatever the comparative temperatures, that yours was grittier and sootier. But it’s with no sort of pleasure.
The mornings are cool enough, and I manage to do my stint before the worst of the day. How it reads, ask not, however, because I can’t see and won’t be able to until the fall.
Mme. Wm. A. Bradley who acts for Vanguard has “sold”—the quotes are for effort—my two books to Gallimard (NRF), which also asks an option on the next three. How lovely and divine is confidence. It’s all right with me, since Gallimard is the best publisher in France. But is it all right with you, with Viking? I am going to see Mme. Bradley on Friday in her elegant house at 18 Quai de Béthune; I shall tell her what I think and ask her to stand by for word from you.
We’re not going to Italy this summer, as planned. It’s awful of me to say so, I know, given what Italy is and what I am, but I haven’t got the time. Besides it’s too damned hot.
All the best,
To Monroe Engel
October 24, 1949 Paris
Dear Monroe:
Except for a short vacation in Spain, in August, I’d been working faithfully and hard, and had reason to be cheerful when I saw Guinzburg, for I’d done a good deal. But then I read over carefully what I’d done and saw that the book I’d been rather confident of was not what I thought it was. I’d opened something new and, I think, infinitely better in the last part of it; the first was simply not of the same order and had to be raised or scrapped. I didn’t have it in me at this time to attempt this, so I’ve dived into something else I had started. On this, I’ve for some reason been able to work much faster than I’ve ever been able to work before. I do one fairly long chapter a week, and I expect to have the length of a book in first draft by Christmas. By the length of a book, I mean something like a hundred thousand words, not by any means the full length of what I plan. In any case, the first chapter is coming out in
PR
presently (November, they tell me), and if you’d like to see more I can send you carbons.
PR
presently (November, they tell me), and if you’d like to see more I can send you carbons.
How’s your own work going? I trust you’ve had better luck. I was in a state when I read over what I had written. All my cherished pride in being a steady performer took a belly-whop.
Do you see Isaac and Alfred? Please give them my love.
Best,
To David Bazelon
November 20, 1949 Paris
Dear Dave:
I know you’re a loyal friend of mine, none more, and that you speak up for me whenever the axe is unsheathed. Therefore you’ll understand what difficulties you put me in by writing as you did about Margaret [Bazelon’s woman friend, living in Paris], also a friend of mine, though by no means so near. But I do like her; she’s in some ways irresistible, as you know. You shouldn’t have spoken as you did about her even if you felt what you said to be true, and I’m not sure you did. Because such is not the way to speak of anyone, so despisingly; it’s the ruin of intercourse, that sort of bolshevism. One wry grin and you throw away the subject as Nedick’s do a squeezed orange. You were speaking of a person and a not inconsiderable one; moreover, someone who admired and loved you a good deal. For I’m sure Margaret wanted to marry you and gave you as much opportunity to ask her to as she could. Since you didn’t, all that you have to blame her for is wishing to get married. Now if you think marriage is an abject state for anyone, man or woman, and have something more
digne
[
35
] to propose than the black and hypocritical rags of matrimony, you can preach and publish your gospel in Hebron. But if you will agree to see anything at all normal in the human couple, it’ll be hard to make a wrathful case against Margaret, some thirty years old, tired of living alone or with other women and of mere sleeping around.
digne
[
35
] to propose than the black and hypocritical rags of matrimony, you can preach and publish your gospel in Hebron. But if you will agree to see anything at all normal in the human couple, it’ll be hard to make a wrathful case against Margaret, some thirty years old, tired of living alone or with other women and of mere sleeping around.
Anyhow, I observed some protocol. I didn’t go to her wedding for reasons of loyalty, but I did go to dinner, accepting a
fait accompli
. Frankly, I couldn’t figure out, for the life of me, what conduct you would have laid on me and saw nothing treasonable in a plate of borscht, anyhow. Her husband is a reasonably good guy, sturdy, of apparently nice temper, Norwegian, of northern equableness.
fait accompli
. Frankly, I couldn’t figure out, for the life of me, what conduct you would have laid on me and saw nothing treasonable in a plate of borscht, anyhow. Her husband is a reasonably good guy, sturdy, of apparently nice temper, Norwegian, of northern equableness.
This may be as good a place as any to say that I approved very much of your article on women in
Commentary
.
Commentary
.
Now to speak of more
freylikh
[
36
] things: What have you been doing? Do you like your job, and does teaching agree with you? I trust you’ll have something good to say for it, since it looks as if I’m going to have to put myself under the pedagogue’s yoke again next year. I suppose I could stay in Europe for another year. But a third! Nay. I have to come back to the States, if for no other reason than I feel myself more and more an
Amerikaner
, and the place of such is more or less in
Amerika
. I badly miss American energy, even that of Minneapolis where hardly anybody at all is cultured. Here most everybody knows the year of Molière’s birth and what François I said to Henry VIII on the Field of Cloth of Gold, but it’s a weary satisfaction. Really weary. The working class round the Place de la Bastille has life, but it’s not greatly different from what you find in Gary and Whiting, take away the berets and substitute beer for wine and television for concertinas. The rest is increasingly like museum custodianship, it appears to me.
freylikh
[
36
] things: What have you been doing? Do you like your job, and does teaching agree with you? I trust you’ll have something good to say for it, since it looks as if I’m going to have to put myself under the pedagogue’s yoke again next year. I suppose I could stay in Europe for another year. But a third! Nay. I have to come back to the States, if for no other reason than I feel myself more and more an
Amerikaner
, and the place of such is more or less in
Amerika
. I badly miss American energy, even that of Minneapolis where hardly anybody at all is cultured. Here most everybody knows the year of Molière’s birth and what François I said to Henry VIII on the Field of Cloth of Gold, but it’s a weary satisfaction. Really weary. The working class round the Place de la Bastille has life, but it’s not greatly different from what you find in Gary and Whiting, take away the berets and substitute beer for wine and television for concertinas. The rest is increasingly like museum custodianship, it appears to me.
You’ll be seeing Klonsky again, soon. He hath fled and no doubt will louse me around, for we ended in collision; but I could tell you some pretty stories too. Which I won’t, for reasons adumbrated in paragraph one.
Let’s hear from you soon.
Best,
About the [D. H.] Lawrence
Tales
: They’re pretty expensive and I’m somewhat strapped, so will you enclose a ten-dollar bill in your next? I think that’ll do for two copies. If there’s a surplus I’ll buy you something else of his you can’t get in N.Y.
Tales
: They’re pretty expensive and I’m somewhat strapped, so will you enclose a ten-dollar bill in your next? I think that’ll do for two copies. If there’s a surplus I’ll buy you something else of his you can’t get in N.Y.
To David Bazelon
December 3, 1949 Paris
Dear Dave:
I’m answering you somewhat against my inclination, for your letter was horrible and wolfish, and ought not to be answered. But having set off your stuff you appear to feel, at the end, that everything can now be as before, which decidedly it can’t.
Of course I don’t know what went on between you and Margaret, but I don’t remember having taken any airs of
expertise
. I know your letter on her marriage made her wretched, while what you wrote to me about it was what I called it. When you say of a woman I know, or indeed any woman, that she has a stripe of white paint where her cunt ought to be, I think it is wrong; it is what I call bolshevik, not unjustifiably. Though I have often put up with your thinking me so, I am not stupid; when I say bolshevik I am thinking of a certain kind of destructiveness of which I have had some personal experience and of which I have also read a good deal in the polemical literature of Lenin, Trotsky and the Stalinists. I have a fairly well developed ear for tones and years’ experience of manners of a different kind for contrast.
expertise
. I know your letter on her marriage made her wretched, while what you wrote to me about it was what I called it. When you say of a woman I know, or indeed any woman, that she has a stripe of white paint where her cunt ought to be, I think it is wrong; it is what I call bolshevik, not unjustifiably. Though I have often put up with your thinking me so, I am not stupid; when I say bolshevik I am thinking of a certain kind of destructiveness of which I have had some personal experience and of which I have also read a good deal in the polemical literature of Lenin, Trotsky and the Stalinists. I have a fairly well developed ear for tones and years’ experience of manners of a different kind for contrast.
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