Letters (46 page)
Authors: Saul Bellow
Revolutionary greetings,
Toby Cole (1916-2008) was a Los Angeles-based theatrical agent and activist well known for her advocacy of blacklisted talents such as Zero Mostel. In later life, she was a frequent presence on Pacifica Radio. Legendary director Giorgio Strehler (1921-1997) co-founded the Piccolo Teatro in Milan soon after the war and ran it for many years.
To Oscar Tarcov
October 30, 1962 Chicago
Dear Oscar—
Having fled defeated from the scene of my own disorganization, I am here, organizing a new chaos. I can send you the details soon—I’ll enjoy doing it. [ . . . ]
We’ve found an apartment at 1755 E. 55th St. which is being painted and can be occupied next week. Meantime you (or Zara) can reach me at the University. (It’s
very
curious. I am not interfered with at all. My only work has been my own:
Herzog
. I should be finished soon. But Chicago is both depressing—dreadful!—and exhilarating. I am waiting to find out
why
I came here.)
very
curious. I am not interfered with at all. My only work has been my own:
Herzog
. I should be finished soon. But Chicago is both depressing—dreadful!—and exhilarating. I am waiting to find out
why
I came here.)
Susie and I could be happy on an ice floe.
It’s too early to say how Greg is doing. His first enthusiasm for the school was great but it’s wearing off as he settles down to the academic grind. He brings a very
personal
attitude to every class. If he likes his teacher he does well. If the man doesn’t meet his personal requirements the results are awful.
personal
attitude to every class. If he likes his teacher he does well. If the man doesn’t meet his personal requirements the results are awful.
We miss you,
To John Leggett
November 12, 1962 Chicago
Dear Jack:
[ . . . ] My wife read your last note and wanted to know
whom
you had seen me with in Central Park. I don’t take girls to Central Park. At my age a man needs steam-heated love. [ . . . ]
whom
you had seen me with in Central Park. I don’t take girls to Central Park. At my age a man needs steam-heated love. [ . . . ]
Yours for propriety,
Jack Leggett (born 1917) was an editor at Houghton Mifflin and Harper & Row who left publishing in 1969 to run the Writers’ Workshop at the University of Iowa. He has published, among other books,
A Daring Young Man: A Biography of William Saroyan
(2002).
A Daring Young Man: A Biography of William Saroyan
(2002).
To John Berryman
November 13, 1962 Chicago
Dear John:
Just now in
Poetry
I read four Dream Songs, and wish to say, this being the hour when strength is low, thank you. We keep each other from the poorhouse. If it hadn’t been for you there would have been many a night of porridge and a thin quilt, cocoa made with water. I will try to return the favor. With
Herzog
.
Poetry
I read four Dream Songs, and wish to say, this being the hour when strength is low, thank you. We keep each other from the poorhouse. If it hadn’t been for you there would have been many a night of porridge and a thin quilt, cocoa made with water. I will try to return the favor. With
Herzog
.
Of the eminent names above [on the Committee for Social Thought masthead] I know only half. I love Ed Shils (have you read any of his books?) and David Grene is splendid—rides a horse in the Forest Preserves and teaches Greek and Latin. He also has a farm in Ireland.
Susie and I are settling slowly. Susie is a perfectionist and must have plenty of time. She’s an adorable woman.
Greg is on the cross-country team here and takes courses in mathematics and political theory. Life
is
very long.
is
very long.
Greet your wife, and much love,
To Edward Shils
November 21, 1962 Chicago
Dear Edward:
If [Samuel S.] Goldberg did show up, I hope he wasn’t too much trouble. He was traveling with my former father-in-law, Tschacbasov the painter, one of the stranger formations of nature in its recent experiments. The thought that they might have appeared together before you in Cambridge [England, where Shils was in residence at King’s College] visited me like a nightmare. Not even a student of life like yourself ought to be exposed to so much of it at one time.
As for me—for us—Chicago has opened its arms. I’d like it to stay that way—open arms, not a closed embrace. Susan is very happy here. It would have been unfair and even dangerous to try to keep her on the farm. She has a taste for solitude, like me, but shouldn’t be encouraged. Here she has many friends, and isn’t dependent on mine as she would be in the East. As for me, I haven’t the smallest complaint to make of Chicago; my life here has been altogether pleasant if disordered—but that’s normal with me. I’ve been working very hard, perhaps harder than I should, to finish
Herzog
. I don’t know whether the poor fellow can stand as much attention as I’ve devoted to him. The Committee has been splendid. I float in and out, have a talk with Father Kim. He tells me why he didn’t become a Communist; I tell him about modern literature. Then I walk on the Midway for the fresh air, and in the stacks for the stale, gaze at the bare shelves in the office and wonder what books [Friedrich von] Hayek kept. I see his cane, like a prop from Sherlock Holmes, hanging on the wall . . . They say he loved mountain climbing. He has left behind a Schnitzlerian flavor which I very much enjoy. Elsewhere in the city, a certain number of spooks occasionally rise to haunt me. Bitter melancholy—one of my specialties—but sometimes I feel that certain of these old emotions have lost their hold. I realize they no longer have their ancient power. Good idea for a story: the Limbo of terrors which have lost their grip. [ . . . ]
Herzog
. I don’t know whether the poor fellow can stand as much attention as I’ve devoted to him. The Committee has been splendid. I float in and out, have a talk with Father Kim. He tells me why he didn’t become a Communist; I tell him about modern literature. Then I walk on the Midway for the fresh air, and in the stacks for the stale, gaze at the bare shelves in the office and wonder what books [Friedrich von] Hayek kept. I see his cane, like a prop from Sherlock Holmes, hanging on the wall . . . They say he loved mountain climbing. He has left behind a Schnitzlerian flavor which I very much enjoy. Elsewhere in the city, a certain number of spooks occasionally rise to haunt me. Bitter melancholy—one of my specialties—but sometimes I feel that certain of these old emotions have lost their hold. I realize they no longer have their ancient power. Good idea for a story: the Limbo of terrors which have lost their grip. [ . . . ]
Yours, as ever,
Edward B. Shils (1910- 95), preeminent University of Chicago sociologist and fellow at King’s College, Cambridge (1961-70), and Peterhouse, Cambridge (1970-78). His many books include
Ideology and Utopia
(1936) and
The Calling of Sociology
(1980). At the Committee on Social Thought, Bellow had moved into the office formerly occupied by Friedrich von Hayek, influential Austrian-born economist and political philosopher, author of
The Road to Serfdom
(1944).
Ideology and Utopia
(1936) and
The Calling of Sociology
(1980). At the Committee on Social Thought, Bellow had moved into the office formerly occupied by Friedrich von Hayek, influential Austrian-born economist and political philosopher, author of
The Road to Serfdom
(1944).
To Ralph Ross
November 26, 1962 Chicago
Dear Ralph:
I’m afraid John Berryman is overboard again. Monroe Engel just phoned from Cambridge to say that John and his wife came up from Providence, and it’s the same sad story—poetry, drink, etc. Nothing for it but to sigh. It’s the only way he gets a little rest and comfort, poor John. He came to Tivoli to see us last October, and seemed better than usual. With a child coming, his poise was astonishing. I figured it not to last—safe bet . . . Last year when I talked to the people at Brown I told them he’d be slightly irregular. I hope he’ll soon be out. You may want to send him a note. The address is:
McLean Hospital
1075 Pleasant St.
Belmont, Mass.
(It’s always Pleasant St., Golden Valley, Lotus Island.)
Meanwhile we sturdier citizens go on. I haven’t had a bad fit since I left Mpls. and even then, as you subsequently observed, I wasn’t altogether insane. Ludwig and Sondra had really laid a terrible burden on me. [ . . . ]
Anyway, we’ve put that behind us. Though it may be dangerous to say it, I’m extremely lucky in my new wife Susan.
Do you ever pass through Chicago? We’re at 1755 E. 55th St., Butterfield 8-2530. It’s the Committee on Social Thought, the most beautiful of all my employers.
Greetings to Alicia, and to you my warmest and best,
To Edward Shils
December 17, 1962 Chicago
Dear Ed—
I’ve put myself in the Bulletin for spring with a vague course title. This winter I’m offering something called “Comic Literature from
Rameau’s Nephew
to Abram Tertz’s ‘The Icicle.’”
Rameau’s Nephew
to Abram Tertz’s ‘The Icicle.’”
Susie and I thrive in Chicago, though it has been gloomy. I’m becoming accustomed to the
blitzed
look of Hyde Park. The vast amount of writing I’m able to do makes me immune to the Stygian darkness. There are of course bright beacons here and there, which beckon. Jean Malaquais, Erich Heller and Stephen Spender are at Northwestern, but these beckoning beacons have not tempted me from my desk. [ . . . ]
blitzed
look of Hyde Park. The vast amount of writing I’m able to do makes me immune to the Stygian darkness. There are of course bright beacons here and there, which beckon. Jean Malaquais, Erich Heller and Stephen Spender are at Northwestern, but these beckoning beacons have not tempted me from my desk. [ . . . ]
Merry Xmas to you and Adam,
1963
To Edward Hoagland
January 7, 1963 Chicago
Dear Ted:
Unfortunately the career of
The Noble Savage
is ended, so I’m sending back your article to Asher in the hope that he may remember the name of your agent. It is gone from my mind. The disappearance of the
Savage
makes it suspiciously easy to say that I would have printed your article—I really would have though, because I agreed with it largely and see that you’re a writer, and the magazine existed to print writers. Malamud’s book [
A New Life
] soured me; it was mixed up between comedy and earnestness and I suspect he was going by some modern system of critical logarithms and not by his own sort of reckoning. Nor do you prove to my satisfaction that distance from the social issues is more desirable. If there is Baldwin here writing an abominable novel on the issues of the day, Italy provides the example of a Silone who wrote
Bread and Wine
after the outbreak of the Ethiopian War. But of course you recognize yourself that what is wrong is the stridency of writers like Baldwin and their tone of personal injury, at times nothing but an infant cry. The jazz musician in Baldwin’s last book sobs to the heavens, “You motherfucker, ain’t I your baby too?” He seems to be asking for a nice comfy layette just like the white chilluns have. Perhaps it’s the fact that Malamud and Hawthorne have severed themselves from infancy that impresses you. That is significant, in American literature. Hawthorne of course lights out for old age as soon as the bonds are cut, streaking away for palsied eld.
The Noble Savage
is ended, so I’m sending back your article to Asher in the hope that he may remember the name of your agent. It is gone from my mind. The disappearance of the
Savage
makes it suspiciously easy to say that I would have printed your article—I really would have though, because I agreed with it largely and see that you’re a writer, and the magazine existed to print writers. Malamud’s book [
A New Life
] soured me; it was mixed up between comedy and earnestness and I suspect he was going by some modern system of critical logarithms and not by his own sort of reckoning. Nor do you prove to my satisfaction that distance from the social issues is more desirable. If there is Baldwin here writing an abominable novel on the issues of the day, Italy provides the example of a Silone who wrote
Bread and Wine
after the outbreak of the Ethiopian War. But of course you recognize yourself that what is wrong is the stridency of writers like Baldwin and their tone of personal injury, at times nothing but an infant cry. The jazz musician in Baldwin’s last book sobs to the heavens, “You motherfucker, ain’t I your baby too?” He seems to be asking for a nice comfy layette just like the white chilluns have. Perhaps it’s the fact that Malamud and Hawthorne have severed themselves from infancy that impresses you. That is significant, in American literature. Hawthorne of course lights out for old age as soon as the bonds are cut, streaking away for palsied eld.
Of myself, no defense. I have done the things I ought not to have done and left undone etc. in the regular Pauline form.
I hope your work is going well. Europe has excited you, and your marriage has made you happy. I am happy for you and send you best wishes,
The “abominable” Baldwin novel was
Another Country.
“Palsied eld” is from Shakespeare’s
Measure for Measure:
“for all thy blessèd youth / Becomes as agèd, and doth beg the alms / of palsied eld.”
Another Country.
“Palsied eld” is from Shakespeare’s
Measure for Measure:
“for all thy blessèd youth / Becomes as agèd, and doth beg the alms / of palsied eld.”
To John Berryman
January 7, 1963 Chicago
Dear John:
Congratulations! How I envy your daughter! If I thought I’d get a similar result I’d start now to persuade Susan; renew the covenant, show our trust in the species (what have I done for it lately?!). What a lucky man you are, for all that comedy about the drained and seedless bag. The biological order lets us know (“Don’t call me, I’ll call you”).
Recently there drifted into reach as I rocked in the ocean of life a copy of
Encounter
with more of your poems. Henry is the only prophet left, the last true child of Jeremiah. Texas will not heed him nor learn from him, but we Bible students are in your debt forever.
Encounter
with more of your poems. Henry is the only prophet left, the last true child of Jeremiah. Texas will not heed him nor learn from him, but we Bible students are in your debt forever.
I have put aside
Herzog
for a while to write a comedy—Old Bummidge is on the threshold of production. Let us hope he will utter some words of truth to the occupants of ten-dollar seats.
Herzog
for a while to write a comedy—Old Bummidge is on the threshold of production. Let us hope he will utter some words of truth to the occupants of ten-dollar seats.
Susan is well and joins me in sending love to you both,
To Henry Volkening
February 25, 1963 Chicago
Dear Henry—
If the article in
Perspectives
had been about you, I would have had the same feelings. When I do the mental balance of what people playfully call my “career,” I find that my love for H. Volkening is among the biggest of the credits. You can never get into the Freifeld class. He’s a sort of brother I must always be prepared to make allowances for, dependably incompetent Sam. He’ll
never
understand. You, on the other hand, are always far ahead of me. So we have a good balance.
Perspectives
had been about you, I would have had the same feelings. When I do the mental balance of what people playfully call my “career,” I find that my love for H. Volkening is among the biggest of the credits. You can never get into the Freifeld class. He’s a sort of brother I must always be prepared to make allowances for, dependably incompetent Sam. He’ll
never
understand. You, on the other hand, are always far ahead of me. So we have a good balance.
I see very little here of Sam. I’m still under the curse of busyness. Last week I finished re-writing the play. The experts predicted it would take six months. It took twenty days of very hard work. Since Joe Anthony was pleased with Act I, he won’t dislike Act II—they’re remarkably consistent. I’m not too busy to brag a bit. This is as sweet a piece of work as I’ve ever done. What the
team
will do with it we can’t foretell, of course, but I’ve acquitted myself honorably. Now back to Moses [Herzog] and Britannica. I’ve had what mouse-psychologists call a “closure.” The eighth note of the scale has been played at last and I’m enjoying this sense of completion.
team
will do with it we can’t foretell, of course, but I’ve acquitted myself honorably. Now back to Moses [Herzog] and Britannica. I’ve had what mouse-psychologists call a “closure.” The eighth note of the scale has been played at last and I’m enjoying this sense of completion.
It makes me feel stronger.
I’ve all the money I need, besides, so let’s not let Rusty get sassy with us. I suggest you pin him down this week.
Susie and I are driving to Austin, Texas on March 2nd, returning to Chicago about the 12th of the month.
Yours, as ever,
Joseph Anthony (1912-1993) would indeed direct
The Last Analysis
on Broadway. “Rusty” was L. Rust Hills (1926-1983), longtime fiction editor at
Esquire.
The Last Analysis
on Broadway. “Rusty” was L. Rust Hills (1926-1983), longtime fiction editor at
Esquire.
To Toby Cole
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