Letters (37 page)
Authors: Saul Bellow
I’m sending the manuscript out to the other eds. There are two, and I think I can promise you they’ll agree with me.
Much love,
Herbst had submitted “The Starched Blue Sky of Spain,” her memoir of the Spanish Civil War. Considered today among the best accounts of that conflict, it would run in the inaugural issue of
The Noble Savage.
The Noble Savage.
To John Berryman
[Postmarked Minneapolis, Minn., 8 September 1959]
Dear Pal—
Take it from a well-known lover of beauty—you have the goods.
As for poem-reading—simply append yr note to the editors so that they choose with your consultation. Simple.
As for money—not knowing what funds we command but standing ready to share all, I have asked Meridian to send you in partial payment two hundred fifty dollars.
See you soon.
Nil desperandum
[
59
],
[
59
],
To Ralph and Fanny Ellison
October [?], 1959 Minneapolis
Dear Ralph and Fanny—
Sash and I are no longer together—not by my choice. You saw us together all summer, so you probably understand her decision as well as I. She has no complaint to make of me this time. All she has is a decision. She says she likes me, respects me, enjoys going to bed with me—and no longer wants to be my wife. I have no explanations to offer, only the facts. I don’t know what she may have to say. I have to say only that I’m in misery, and especially over Adam.
Please don’t speak of this to anyone. She has filed for divorce and I have reason to be glad I’m going away, now. I’ll be in Yugoslavia when the divorce becomes final, and I’m grateful to be spared the public part of this, anyway.
Love,
To Keith Botsford
October 15, 1959 Minneapolis
Dear Keith—
By now you’ll have heard from Jack [Ludwig]. I have something to tell you with the understanding that it remain
entre nous
. No one here knows that Sash and I have been going through another very bad—a desperate—period. I tell you this because I owe you the truth. You’re understandably depressed and you deserve an explanation of my silence. Just now I can’t think about the
NS
, nor about writing, mine, yrs, anyone’s.
entre nous
. No one here knows that Sash and I have been going through another very bad—a desperate—period. I tell you this because I owe you the truth. You’re understandably depressed and you deserve an explanation of my silence. Just now I can’t think about the
NS
, nor about writing, mine, yrs, anyone’s.
We don’t understand each other well, but we can come to understand each other, and deeply. The capacity is there, and so is the desire. You must not think of Jack and me as a faction. We agree upon very little. Personal relations between us are virtually nonexistent. As for Jewishness, Jack calls what he is Jewish and that makes me un-Jewish by definition. For the first time I am trying to ascertain what my Jewish parentage and upbringing really signify. But that, too, is for future discussion, and there will be many discussions. I have great hopes for our friendship.
Yesterday Sash cut her hand so badly with a coffee can that I thought her finger was severed and phoned an ambulance. The gash went to the bone. Five stitches and insanely painful. I’m taking care of Adam now. The [illegible] is not yet. Please forgive me for this note, and please say nothing even to Ann.
Much love,
To Pascal Covici
November 1, 1959 Minneapolis
Dear Pat:
She may not have loved me at all. She certainly doesn’t love me now, and perhaps even hates me. When I was weaker there was some satisfaction for her in being the strong one. But when I recovered confidence and loved her more than before, even sexually, she couldn’t bear it. So last summer when things seemed at their best they were really, for her, at their worst. Because now she was the sick one. I don’t know why she waited until we were settled down in Minneapolis, holding a lease, etc. I guess she leaned somewhat on her psychiatrist. With his support, she was able to tell me she didn’t and couldn’t love me, and perhaps had never loved anyone except as a child. The psychiatrist doesn’t approve of what she’s doing, but he’s bound to help her and so she’s able to make use of him. Anyway she walked into the living room with icy control about three weeks ago and told me she wanted a divorce. There’s no one else involved. There doesn’t need to be. She does everything on principle, a perfect ideologist. The divorce papers are signed. I’m to pay a hundred fifty a month for the baby, and till the end of the year I’ll maintain the house, since it was rented for a year. If she were to change her mind again, I wouldn’t change mine. It isn’t that I don’t love her. I do. But she’d only take the rest of my life, and I’m not ready to part with that. Not yet, even though I’ve lost her, lost the boy, lost almost everything.
I’m leaving Minneapolis the week of the 15th, and I’ll be in New York Thanksgiving week. I expect to fly to England right after the holiday. Due in Warsaw on the 11th of Dec. There I may see misery enough to take my mind off my own grief. It may as well be made useful.
Love to Dorothy—Yours,
To Richard Stern
November 3, 1959 Minneapolis
Dear Dick—
Delighted with your review, which at last—at first—establishes that it was my aim to make ideas and actions interchangeable. As to whether
Henderson
works, your view is as good as mine. Last night reading Blake, the lost children and especially “A Little Girl Lost,” I began to suspect he must have sunk deeply into my unconscious. Add innocence (the second innocence) per experience, passing by way of lions. But really only one book is worth writing now. If we have only to say “humanity stinks in our nostrils” then silence is better, because we have heard
that
news. Our own bones have broadcast it. If we have more than this to say, we may try but never require ourselves to
prove
“—oh, no, that is not shit but the musk of the civet; it smells bad because it’s so concentrated. Diluted, it’s the base of beautiful perfumes.” No amount of assertion will make an ounce of art. So I took a chance with
Henderson
. I can tell you what I wished it to be, but I can’t say what it
is
. Every ability was brought to it except one—the talent for self-candor which so far I have been able to invest only in the
language
of what I’ve written. I should be able to do better than that. People are waiting. My own soul is waiting.
Henderson
works, your view is as good as mine. Last night reading Blake, the lost children and especially “A Little Girl Lost,” I began to suspect he must have sunk deeply into my unconscious. Add innocence (the second innocence) per experience, passing by way of lions. But really only one book is worth writing now. If we have only to say “humanity stinks in our nostrils” then silence is better, because we have heard
that
news. Our own bones have broadcast it. If we have more than this to say, we may try but never require ourselves to
prove
“—oh, no, that is not shit but the musk of the civet; it smells bad because it’s so concentrated. Diluted, it’s the base of beautiful perfumes.” No amount of assertion will make an ounce of art. So I took a chance with
Henderson
. I can tell you what I wished it to be, but I can’t say what it
is
. Every ability was brought to it except one—the talent for self-candor which so far I have been able to invest only in the
language
of what I’ve written. I should be able to do better than that. People are waiting. My own soul is waiting.
Anyway, I love your review. It comes very, very near the real issues, and it’s written in the style I approve of (Biedermeier of ideas).
Now a personal note: I’m having an ugly time—suffering no end. Sondra and I are both in despair over the course things have taken and I
don’t
expect a happy ending. This is private. For your eyes only. There are no frigidities, impotencies, adulteries, only miseries. Poor little Adam doesn’t know he’s about to be sentenced. I can’t help him because it has nothing at all to do with me. I love Sash and respect her. But she has drawn the sword, and is just
meshuggah
enough to swing it. And perish by it, maybe. I trust you to say nothing of this anywhere. It would be terrible to have the families drawn into it. [ . . . ]
don’t
expect a happy ending. This is private. For your eyes only. There are no frigidities, impotencies, adulteries, only miseries. Poor little Adam doesn’t know he’s about to be sentenced. I can’t help him because it has nothing at all to do with me. I love Sash and respect her. But she has drawn the sword, and is just
meshuggah
enough to swing it. And perish by it, maybe. I trust you to say nothing of this anywhere. It would be terrible to have the families drawn into it. [ . . . ]
I take off for Poland in mid Nov. May stop in Chicago.
Eternellement
,
,
Born in 1928, Richard Stern is the author of many novels including
Golk
(1960),
Europe or Up and Down with Baggish and Schreiber
(1961),
Stitch
(1965),
Natural Shocks
(1978),
A Father’s Words
(1986)
and Pacific Tremors
(2001). His review of
Henderson the Rain King
had appered in
The Kenyon Review
.
Golk
(1960),
Europe or Up and Down with Baggish and Schreiber
(1961),
Stitch
(1965),
Natural Shocks
(1978),
A Father’s Words
(1986)
and Pacific Tremors
(2001). His review of
Henderson the Rain King
had appered in
The Kenyon Review
.
To Keith Botsford
November 5, 1959 Minneapolis
Dear Keith—
No, there’s really nothing I can do—no remedy that pride prevents me from applying. Nothing can change Sasha’s mind. It’s she who’s doing this, cutting me off, taking away Adam. I can’t say for what failures of mine. Not the ordinary ones like money, sex, rivals or any of that. But maybe
because
there have been no such failures. If I were miserably weak, she would pity and protect me. It’s what I am that’s unbearable to her. The essence of me. So there’s no hope. For if my wife doesn’t want
that
, what am I to do? Sasha is an absolutist. I think I’ve loved even
that
, in her. I believe I learned with her to love a woman, and I can’t see where or how my heartsickness will end.
because
there have been no such failures. If I were miserably weak, she would pity and protect me. It’s what I am that’s unbearable to her. The essence of me. So there’s no hope. For if my wife doesn’t want
that
, what am I to do? Sasha is an absolutist. I think I’ve loved even
that
, in her. I believe I learned with her to love a woman, and I can’t see where or how my heartsickness will end.
Perhaps I could name other subtler failures—I failed to master my own freedom or to interpret the world to the satisfaction of her mind. But for such inadequacies a husband might reasonably expect compassion from his wife. If she loved him. But she doesn’t love me.
Your letter made me feel, not for the first time, the bond between us. If I need you, I’ll come without hesitation. If you should ever need me (never in this way, I hope) you’ll find me reliable.
Much love,
And to Ann. She’s silent but I’m aware of her feelings.
To Pascal Covici
November 10, 1959 Minneapolis
Dear Pat—
I wanted to phone, and perhaps I will yet. You know what a thorough sufferer I can be. I not only hit bottom, I walk for miles and miles on it. Instead of growing less my capacity for staying below increases as I grow older. I try very hard to hate Sondra, and I have good grounds, many, many wounds to hate her for. But I’m not very good at it, and I succeed best when I think of her as her father’s daughter. For she is Tschacbasov. She has a Tschacbasov heart—an insect heart. But really I love her too much and understand her too well to feel the murderous hatred that would help me (therapeutically). And there’s the child. There’s no therapy for that. To recover a little happiness will never help me. I need a big victory. It’s not inconceivable that I will win—all the small bridges behind me have been burnt.
I’m leaving here Sat. the 14th, and I have to spend a few days in Pittsburgh with Ted Hoffman—to speed through the rest of the play. Must get that over with. I have a book to write, and I must clear the decks. [ . . . ]
Please hold whatever mail you get for me. I’ve given your address. And send the new Act I to Hellman. Did you receive it?
Thank God, I’ll be out of this by Sat., teeth filled, pockets empty.
Much love,
To Richard Stern
December 15, 1959 [Bonn, W. Germany]
Dear Dick—
I’ve blown into Bonn with wind and snow. It’s colder than Poland, more comfortable than Chicago, richer than Croesus and prouder than Sondra. In fact, my travels in totalitarian lands have taught me more about marriage and “love” than Franz Alexander could. I go to round out my studies in Yugoslavia and Italy. Then I’m going to have a two-week holiday in Israel.
Is life treating you?
Bitte vergessen Sie mich nicht
[
60
].
Bitte vergessen Sie mich nicht
[
60
].
Yours,
Franz Alexander (1891-1964) was a prominent psychoanalyst at the University of Chicago.
To John Berryman
December 17, 1959
[Postcard from Bristol Hotel Kempinski
Berlin W15—Kurfürstendamm 57]
Dear John—
[ . . . ] Greet my friends and check on mine enemies. Lecturing is for the birds. St. Francis understood.
Love,
PART THREE
1960-1969
B
ecause, you see, intelligence is free now (he said), and it can start anywhere or go anywhere. And it is possible that he lost his head, and that he was carried away by his ideas. This is because he was no mere dreamer but one of those dreamer-doers, a guy with a program. And when I say that he lost his head, what I mean is not that his judgment abandoned him but that his enthusiasms and visions swept him far out.
ecause, you see, intelligence is free now (he said), and it can start anywhere or go anywhere. And it is possible that he lost his head, and that he was carried away by his ideas. This is because he was no mere dreamer but one of those dreamer-doers, a guy with a program. And when I say that he lost his head, what I mean is not that his judgment abandoned him but that his enthusiasms and visions swept him far out.
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