Letters (31 page)
Authors: Saul Bellow
But I am writing this letter in order to give you my views on your suggestion (made, I assume, after I left the meeting) that we ask for the release of Ezra Pound. “While the Chairman of this Committee,” you say, “was awarded a prize by the Swedish Government and was given a decoration by the French Government, the American Government locks up one of its best poets.” This is a truly astonishing piece of reasoning. You, Mr. Faulkner, were deservedly honored by these governments. But you did not, to my knowledge, try to overthrow or undermine either of them. Besides, Pound is not in prison but in an insane asylum. If sane he should be tried again as a traitor; if insane he ought not to be released merely because he is a poet. Pound advocated in his poems and in his broadcasts enmity to the Jews and preached hatred and murder. Do you mean to ask me to join you in honoring a man who called for the destruction of my kinsmen? I can take no part in such a thing even if it makes effective propaganda abroad, which I doubt. Europeans will take it instead as a symptom of reaction. In France, Pound would have been shot. Free him because he is a poet? Why, better poets than he were exterminated perhaps. Shall we say nothing in their behalf?
America has dealt mercifully with Pound in recognizing his insanity and sparing his life. To release him is a foolish and feeble idea. It would identify this program in the eyes of the world with Hitler and Himmler and Mussolini and genocide. But I am not so much concerned with the practical side of the matter here. What staggers me is that you and Mr. Steinbeck who have dealt for so many years in words should fail to understand the import of Ezra Pound’s plain and brutal statements about the “kikes” leading the “goy” to slaughter. Is this—from
The Pisan Cantos
—the stuff of poetry? It is a call to murder. If it were spoken by a farmer or a shoemaker we would call him mad. The whole world conspires to ignore what has happened, the giant wars, the colossal hatreds, the unimaginable murders, the destruction of the very image of man. And we—“a representative group of American writers”—is this what we come out for, too? A fine mess!
The Pisan Cantos
—the stuff of poetry? It is a call to murder. If it were spoken by a farmer or a shoemaker we would call him mad. The whole world conspires to ignore what has happened, the giant wars, the colossal hatreds, the unimaginable murders, the destruction of the very image of man. And we—“a representative group of American writers”—is this what we come out for, too? A fine mess!
Sincerely yours,
Bellow had been tapped by
New York Times
journalist Harvey Breit to participate in “People to People,” a committee of writers and publishers established to counter Soviet propaganda and to promote pro-American values abroad. President Dwight Eisenhower had appointed Faulkner as chairman.
New York Times
journalist Harvey Breit to participate in “People to People,” a committee of writers and publishers established to counter Soviet propaganda and to promote pro-American values abroad. President Dwight Eisenhower had appointed Faulkner as chairman.
To Philip Rahv
[n.d.] [Reno]
Dear Phil:
I have been rewriting Wilhelm, and he’s lengthened a little. Not a great deal. A few thousand words, perhaps, which is proportionately not much. I’m supposed to turn the manuscript over to Viking, soon, and as I hear from Volkening that you don’t need copy until the first of June I have asked Covici to send you galleys. I hope everything works out smoothly. I’ve been so long in this desert banishment, I’ve lost all sense of civilized processes. But we’ll be coming out of this soon. I’m calling this story
Seize the Day
. Maybe Tamkin ought to say it in Latin:
Carpe Diem.
That isn’t plausible, however. Anyway, until later in the year, Hail and Farewell. (You can see what a Roman I’ve become in Nevada.)
Seize the Day
. Maybe Tamkin ought to say it in Latin:
Carpe Diem.
That isn’t plausible, however. Anyway, until later in the year, Hail and Farewell. (You can see what a Roman I’ve become in Nevada.)
Best wishes, and many thanks for accepting the story.
To Ruth Miller
[n.d.] [Reno]
Well, honeychild, from first to last, from beginning to end your story is an unbroken and brilliant success. For once you will hear no criticism, nothing but praise and admiration and words of happy pride. Everything you do advances the excitement, the pity, the knowledge. This is what we live for, and when we have suffered and labored for our faults, finally it is given us to say something necessary, and in a world which threatens us with extinction through superfluity, the saying of something necessary is an act of heroic virtue. And this is how I feel towards your story. In order to get the gift and achieve the power you’ve had to go to the hospital more than once. I am sorry for the price. But you’ve well repaid yourself.
The progress of the thing is continual. [ . . . ] Many a wreck takes place before our eyes. Husbands go down. Children. As we swim away from the wreckage we count our blessings.
Kid, God bless you. Take it from me, you have fully deserved his blessings.
Now, comes the practical question: Where will you print it? Have you given it to Henry V[olkening]? I am sure he can place it. Try him with it. Should you be disappointed in him we will try some magazine editors I know.
Have you gotten the wedding announcement? Probably. I shan’t be beside myself twice in the same letter. I shall let a Yiddish word speak for me:
glucklikh
[
53
].
glucklikh
[
53
].
When can I come back? I wish I knew. Anita still wields her wicked power. She wants money, money, money, money, or failing money, blood. Now she wants to insure my life, too, with a term policy. This is her way of telling me that she is betting I will die soon. No man knows. But not even my death would improve her. The boy writes to me, and I to him. The separation is a bad business.
Do you need the mss. or may I keep it?
And thanks for the pickles.
And tell Irv I take great comfort from his print, and thank him once more.
Love,
I had the h[emorrhoid]ectomy myself, once, and you have my active sympathy. Hope the worst of it is over.
Love from Sondra.
Bellow had married Sondra Tschacbasov in February.
To Granville Hicks
[n.d.] [Reno]
Dear Granville Hicks:
An excellent idea. I have been giving it serious thought and I am very much in favor of such a book and I think no one is better fitted than yourself for the job. I can, however, understand Wright Morris’s hesitation. I too am working at a new novel, as Henry may have mentioned, and it is rather like enjoying the girl and defending her from attackers at the same moment—difficult, very difficult!
Of course we are continually aware, while working, that we are under attack, and so perhaps it is wiser not to pretend that we are a species without enemies. I am familiar with Lionel Trilling’s attitude, of course. It is one of the historical blessings of Jewish birth that one is used to flourish in the face of hostile opinion. I hinted at this last year when Francis Brown of the
Times Book Review
asked me to write a piece. The attitude I took then was that the modern world is full of people who declare that other people are obsolete. Stalin and the Kulaks, Hitler and the Jews and Slavs and gypsies, and Trilling and T. S. Eliot and several others have decided that novels are done for historically. So that one Hegelian posse or another is always riding hard on the heels of practically everyone. Possibly college professors are excepted.
Times Book Review
asked me to write a piece. The attitude I took then was that the modern world is full of people who declare that other people are obsolete. Stalin and the Kulaks, Hitler and the Jews and Slavs and gypsies, and Trilling and T. S. Eliot and several others have decided that novels are done for historically. So that one Hegelian posse or another is always riding hard on the heels of practically everyone. Possibly college professors are excepted.
Anyway, Francis Brown would not print [my essay]. He said it was not “vintage Bellow.” The quote is direct.
Afterwards I thought it over and decided that there is only one way to defeat the enemy, and that is to write as well as one can. The best argument is an undeniably good book. If that doesn’t convince ’em, and it may not for the spirit of denial is very strong, one has at least labored to some purpose in having reached less arbitrary and opinionated souls who have not yet learned of the lamentable obsolescence of fiction. Arguments will be met by further arguments, and victory will always fall to the critics.
But I have no objection to framing my views on the writing of fiction and on the situation of the writer. I do have strong views and there is no use in trying to conceal them. I am entirely willing, even eager, to air them in your anthology. But I greatly fear the enemy will say, “These vanishing Americans deny that they are vanishing.” Or, “These lizards presume to call themselves still dinosaurs.” Of course, lizards are far less extinct than many men I know (like Trilling). But you see it
is
a little awkward to
insist
, and possibly this is what Wright has in mind.
is
a little awkward to
insist
, and possibly this is what Wright has in mind.
Have you thought of Thornton Wilder as possible contributor?
I should very much like to know what you think of my points. Soon my wife and I are returning; we expect to be in New York by mid-June. Perhaps we can have a conversation about this. Henry knows my whereabouts, usually, and he can arrange a meeting.
With very best wishes,
Granville Hicks (1901-82) was a literary critic, teacher, and editor who published, among other books,
Figures of Transition: A Study of British Literature at the End of the Nineteenth Century
(1939) and, in an early Communist phase,
John Reed: The Making of a Revolutionary
(1936). He had proposed that Bellow write an essay on the current state of fiction for an anthology,
The Living Novel: A Symposium,
scheduled for 1957. Bellow’s contribution was “Distractions of a Fiction Writer.”
Figures of Transition: A Study of British Literature at the End of the Nineteenth Century
(1939) and, in an early Communist phase,
John Reed: The Making of a Revolutionary
(1936). He had proposed that Bellow write an essay on the current state of fiction for an anthology,
The Living Novel: A Symposium,
scheduled for 1957. Bellow’s contribution was “Distractions of a Fiction Writer.”
To Pascal Covici
March 16, 1956 Reno
Dear Pat:
You got me into this [
San Francisco
]
Examiner
bother. The Hearst Press, no less! I know you’re an old cynic to whom these things are as the clouds that pass. I myself am beginning to feel like that. Disgusting! Here Nixons, there Eisenhowers, Kefauvers. Bah! Harding was at least funny. But there were people to make fun of him. Now everybody is respectful and fish-headed and utterly, piously stupid. And I’m supposed to go to SF for this piously created cultural occasion. I am a promising writer who wrote a shocking but powerful book and I learned about writing from the New Testament. Me! [ . . . ] I am sure I said that having been brought up to regard the Old Testament as truth, the New Testament looked to me to be fiction. It still does. So now this irony has been turned about for the readers of the
Examiner
so that I sound no brainier than a stove pipe. But pious, pious, pious. Mmm! I pray, I love Jesus and Eisenhower and kiss everyone’s backside with patriotic and worshipful humility. Note: They aren’t even paying me a fee for it. All of this ass-kissing is philanthropic; I do it for culture, for Ike and for you, and for Hearst and beautiful San Francisco, and for book sales.
San Francisco
]
Examiner
bother. The Hearst Press, no less! I know you’re an old cynic to whom these things are as the clouds that pass. I myself am beginning to feel like that. Disgusting! Here Nixons, there Eisenhowers, Kefauvers. Bah! Harding was at least funny. But there were people to make fun of him. Now everybody is respectful and fish-headed and utterly, piously stupid. And I’m supposed to go to SF for this piously created cultural occasion. I am a promising writer who wrote a shocking but powerful book and I learned about writing from the New Testament. Me! [ . . . ] I am sure I said that having been brought up to regard the Old Testament as truth, the New Testament looked to me to be fiction. It still does. So now this irony has been turned about for the readers of the
Examiner
so that I sound no brainier than a stove pipe. But pious, pious, pious. Mmm! I pray, I love Jesus and Eisenhower and kiss everyone’s backside with patriotic and worshipful humility. Note: They aren’t even paying me a fee for it. All of this ass-kissing is philanthropic; I do it for culture, for Ike and for you, and for Hearst and beautiful San Francisco, and for book sales.
This little trip will cause a short delay in the delivery of those stories. I have written another new, long one. Now in Henry’s hands. It looks like a piece of my Joshua novel, the bootlegger’s son’s memoirs, and it represents my first real effort to create a heroine. I seem to have done it. I’ve at least convinced myself. I’m hoping the
New Yorker
will buy it. For since the
Holiday
fiasco (it turns out that I wasn’t pious enough about Carl Sandburg and Marshall Field or somebody) I’m rather short of money. Though, like a well-heeled writer I’m donating my services to the
San Francisco Examiner
together with Ilka Chase and Irving Stone—note well those names, dearest Covici!—yes, just like a penniless Polish baron who has nothing but his moustache and his pride.
New Yorker
will buy it. For since the
Holiday
fiasco (it turns out that I wasn’t pious enough about Carl Sandburg and Marshall Field or somebody) I’m rather short of money. Though, like a well-heeled writer I’m donating my services to the
San Francisco Examiner
together with Ilka Chase and Irving Stone—note well those names, dearest Covici!—yes, just like a penniless Polish baron who has nothing but his moustache and his pride.
Africa [i.e.,
Henderson the Rain King
] is about half completed. Shall I send you five or six chapters for safekeeping? I have the carbons. It may be a good idea. But I must ask you not to show the stuff to anyone.
Henderson the Rain King
] is about half completed. Shall I send you five or six chapters for safekeeping? I have the carbons. It may be a good idea. But I must ask you not to show the stuff to anyone.
I must be in one of those hornet’s moods of mine. I always manifest them to people I love. Others would bat me down. But, you see, I have to monkey with my old stories; I have to speak in San Francisco. And I have to wait here until my settlement is completed. None of these things do I want to do. Hence the temper. Please forgive me.
One serious remark: I have a feeling that the African thing is going to be very good.
Best to Dorothy and the children.
Love,
To Ralph Ellison
April 2, 1956 Reno
Dear Ralph:
How goes your—I am on the point of saying exile, but it’s I who am exiled, while you’re in the middle of everything. Was there so much to be apprehensive about? A good long look back to this side is probably what you’ve needed for some time. God knows it doesn’t bear too much looking at when it’s right on top of you. One close look a month is about enough for me, when I buy
Life
and see that Faulkner is threatening a second Civil War, and if one of the best has become such a damned fool, imagine what the worst are like. I began to miss the great world after a few months here in the desert, and then some real or pretended GI sold me a subscription to
News-week
and conned me out of nine bucks. The thing has never come, and perhaps I’ve made a double gain. In three weeks of desert any city boy can become hayseed green.
Life
and see that Faulkner is threatening a second Civil War, and if one of the best has become such a damned fool, imagine what the worst are like. I began to miss the great world after a few months here in the desert, and then some real or pretended GI sold me a subscription to
News-week
and conned me out of nine bucks. The thing has never come, and perhaps I’ve made a double gain. In three weeks of desert any city boy can become hayseed green.
I hope it’s been a good year for you and Fanny; for Sondra and me it’s been a remarkable one. You wouldn’t have known me, Ralph, with my casting outfit and a new reel pulling in rainbow trout. Sitting a horse, too. But this doesn’t mean any Hemingway conversion. I like fish, but after you’ve pitted your brain against theirs for an afternoon, the interest begins to give out. I’m fonder of horses. But you can’t kid yourself. The jets go over the sky with a clap of air after them, and there goes your primitive moment.
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