Letters (47 page)
Authors: Saul Bellow
March 21, 1963 Chicago
Dear Toby—
We see eye to eye about
Bummidge
, thank goodness, and I hope for everyone’s sake that Zero will put his eye where it belongs. The latest news from Joe Anthony is good but not good enough. He wants to direct the play, thinks I’ve solved the main problems, but he’s a very busy man and has about five large projects for next season. We are simply in his stable, and the hay is very tasty but I’m not a vegetarian. Joe is hoping that Zero will accept. He hopes thereby to gain time since Zero is tied up for some months to come.
Bummidge
, thank goodness, and I hope for everyone’s sake that Zero will put his eye where it belongs. The latest news from Joe Anthony is good but not good enough. He wants to direct the play, thinks I’ve solved the main problems, but he’s a very busy man and has about five large projects for next season. We are simply in his stable, and the hay is very tasty but I’m not a vegetarian. Joe is hoping that Zero will accept. He hopes thereby to gain time since Zero is tied up for some months to come.
Now I can easily understand Zero’s position. He may want to continue with [
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum
] and I assume that Hal Prince will offer him a fatter contract for the next year. In that case I could never blame Z. for rejecting
Bummidge
. But if Z. isn’t going to play with us we must have a new director as well as another star, for it would be absurd to wait for Anthony who may—may!—be able to find time in winter of ’64 for us. This is why I must insist on a quick decision by Z. And Z., I know, will grasp the situation quickly. I must ask you to push the matter with impartial zeal—I mean in other words that you must make the thing work for
me
! If this project doesn’t advance it will collapse. One beam is buckling already—Joe—and I’ve told Lyn Austin that I’d like her to find out what Jerome Robbins is up to. Should Joe leave the scene we must be prepared to replace him. But I’d say nothing about this to Zero.
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum
] and I assume that Hal Prince will offer him a fatter contract for the next year. In that case I could never blame Z. for rejecting
Bummidge
. But if Z. isn’t going to play with us we must have a new director as well as another star, for it would be absurd to wait for Anthony who may—may!—be able to find time in winter of ’64 for us. This is why I must insist on a quick decision by Z. And Z., I know, will grasp the situation quickly. I must ask you to push the matter with impartial zeal—I mean in other words that you must make the thing work for
me
! If this project doesn’t advance it will collapse. One beam is buckling already—Joe—and I’ve told Lyn Austin that I’d like her to find out what Jerome Robbins is up to. Should Joe leave the scene we must be prepared to replace him. But I’d say nothing about this to Zero.
Happy Lent.
Love,
Lyn Austin was the Broadway producer Bellow had been dealing with.
To John Berryman
October 19, 1963 Chicago
Dear John—
My advice is to put nothing in your title to color all the poetry from above. You might as well call it “The Spiritual History of America under the Administration of Dwight D. Eisenhower.” Anyway, it’s Henry who belongs on the title page and on the spine. I vote for “76: The Lay of Henry.” But your own judgment is the only important one.
I can’t say that all is well with us. My lifelong friend Oscar Tarcov was carried off by a heart attack on Wednesday. I feel I’d rather die myself than endure these deaths, one after another, of all my dearest friends. It wears out your heart. Eventually survival feels degrading. As long as death is our ultimate reality, it
is
degrading. Only waiting until Cyclops finds us. It is horrible! And it figures that we should be ruled by murderers.
is
degrading. Only waiting until Cyclops finds us. It is horrible! And it figures that we should be ruled by murderers.
But I know you are pleasantly excited by life—Kate, child. I shall keep the rest of my feelings to myself. All except my love,
Berryman’s collection would be called
77 Dream Songs
when it appeared in 1965.
77 Dream Songs
when it appeared in 1965.
To Nathan Tarcov
October 22, 1963 [Chicago]
Dear Nathan—
I am deeply, bitterly, sorry that I couldn’t attend your father’s funeral. Oscar and I had an unbroken friendship for thirty years, and since I was sometimes hasty and bad-tempered it was due to him that there were no breaks. I loved him very much, and I know that no son ever lost such a gentle, thoughtful father as you have lost. This is probably not a consoling thing to tell you but I’m sure it expresses what you feel, as well as my belief and feeling. Oscar’s sort of human being is very rare.
My friendship with him and with Isaac Rosenfeld goes back to 1933, when my mother died. I’m sure I brought to these relationships emotions caused by that death. I was seventeen—not much older than you. If I explain this to you, it’s not because I want to talk about myself. What I mean to say is that I have a very special feeling about your situation. I experienced something like it. I hope that you will find—perhaps you have found—such friends as I had on Lemoyne St. in 1933. Not in order to “replace” your father, you never will, but to be the sort of human being he was, one who knows the value of another man. He invested his life in relationships. In making such a choice a man sooner or later realizes that to love others is his answer to inevitable death. Other answers we often hear are anger, rebellion, bitterness. Your father, by temperament, could make no other choice. Perhaps you wondered why I was so attached to him. He never turned me away when I needed him. I hope I never failed him, either.
Yours affectionately,
To Toby Cole
December 3, 1963 Chicago
Dear Toby—
What a time . . . I’m confused, myself
.
.
(To begin again.) I’ve had a conversation or two with Lyn [Austin]. She’s just stalling me pleasantly until Joe has time to think about this play. So, I’m still of the same mind ab’t Lincoln Center, and I’ve rather expected to hear from you. Arthur Miller was much interested. Of course you may feel bound by “agent’s ethics” not to go into it with Miller or [Harold] Clurman but there’s not much to be said against
my
investigating the matter. I’ve taken a very considerable runaround from Zero first (on Joe’s say-so) and then from Joe himself, and I’m a bit fed up.
my
investigating the matter. I’ve taken a very considerable runaround from Zero first (on Joe’s say-so) and then from Joe himself, and I’m a bit fed up.
Love,
“What a time” here means “What times we live in.” President Kennedy had been assassinated eleven days earlier.
1964
To Richard Stern
July 21, 1964 Martha’s Vineyard
Dear Dick,
After dinner, the Spaniards say, Don’t budge!
Ni un sobrescrito leer
. Not even to read a superscription. At the Vineyard, we’re in an Irish kind of mist, everything is green. As I recall, the Pacific puts you to sleep, like a blessing. The Atlantic braces. So I go once a day and souse myself, and study eternity. Nice that the organism still can feel keen pleasure.
Ni un sobrescrito leer
. Not even to read a superscription. At the Vineyard, we’re in an Irish kind of mist, everything is green. As I recall, the Pacific puts you to sleep, like a blessing. The Atlantic braces. So I go once a day and souse myself, and study eternity. Nice that the organism still can feel keen pleasure.
I thought California would give you the answers you needed. You took your stitch there in time. But be a little careful with California’s speciality—the grotesque. Just before I left Chicago, I read the introduction Wright Morris has written for
Windy MacPherson’s Son
(in that Chicago novel series at the Press) and he had a lot to say about [Sherwood] Anderson and the grotesque. But he didn’t say enough, or rather, loving the grotesque himself, he didn’t have it right. I don’t either, and I’ve been pursuing the subject. Maybe it’s a taste for Gothic detail (minus cathedrals). But I think it’s an important part of the American literary method to EXPOSE the SEEMING. So at bottom it may be Calvinism. “So-and-so
seems
to be one thing but I shall
show
you what he is.” The exposed may be Tom in
Gatsby
or marriage in Albee. Or just American “normalcy.” Anyway, American novels (this week) are dramas of EXPOSURE! and the grotesque is just one of the methods. It also means the writers accept the challenge to compete with experience by being as grotesque and . . . don’t mind my lectures; they’re just a sign of affection.
Windy MacPherson’s Son
(in that Chicago novel series at the Press) and he had a lot to say about [Sherwood] Anderson and the grotesque. But he didn’t say enough, or rather, loving the grotesque himself, he didn’t have it right. I don’t either, and I’ve been pursuing the subject. Maybe it’s a taste for Gothic detail (minus cathedrals). But I think it’s an important part of the American literary method to EXPOSE the SEEMING. So at bottom it may be Calvinism. “So-and-so
seems
to be one thing but I shall
show
you what he is.” The exposed may be Tom in
Gatsby
or marriage in Albee. Or just American “normalcy.” Anyway, American novels (this week) are dramas of EXPOSURE! and the grotesque is just one of the methods. It also means the writers accept the challenge to compete with experience by being as grotesque and . . . don’t mind my lectures; they’re just a sign of affection.
Eager to see you, and the book. When do you come East?
Yours ever,
To Alfred Kazin
July 22, 1964 Martha’s Vineyard
Dear Alfred—
Your friends the [Justin] Kaplans received us in splendor with whiskey, wine and lobster,
two
desserts and beautiful views of the Atlantic. I thought they were splendid. She looks like one of Goya’s blue-eyed ladies in the Prado (where I put in several
kulturny
weeks in 1947). After dinner we sat eagerly about the TV to listen to Goldwater’s acceptance speech, which gave me unpleasant sensations of a blood-pressure sort, toothaches, liberal
leyden
[
*
]. Then we went home to our sandy beds. Deceptive gains now make life worthwhile—for instance, I have weaned myself from the pills I was taking during the final months of
Herzog
, and this improvement in my nights will set me up metaphysically for at least a year; life is after all simple, decides a complicated mind.
two
desserts and beautiful views of the Atlantic. I thought they were splendid. She looks like one of Goya’s blue-eyed ladies in the Prado (where I put in several
kulturny
weeks in 1947). After dinner we sat eagerly about the TV to listen to Goldwater’s acceptance speech, which gave me unpleasant sensations of a blood-pressure sort, toothaches, liberal
leyden
[
*
]. Then we went home to our sandy beds. Deceptive gains now make life worthwhile—for instance, I have weaned myself from the pills I was taking during the final months of
Herzog
, and this improvement in my nights will set me up metaphysically for at least a year; life is after all simple, decides a complicated mind.
We’ve seen a bit of Island Society. Styron is our leader, here in little Fitzgeraldville. Then there is Lillian Hellman, in whom I produce symptoms of
shyness
. And Phil Rahv who keeps alive the traditions of Karl Marx. I’m
*
Yiddish: pains very fond of Philip—he’s
mishpokhe
[
71
]—and he gives us a kind of private Chatauqua course in
Hochpolitik
[
72
] from which I get great pleasure. Why can’t we forgive each other before we become harmless?
shyness
. And Phil Rahv who keeps alive the traditions of Karl Marx. I’m
*
Yiddish: pains very fond of Philip—he’s
mishpokhe
[
71
]—and he gives us a kind of private Chatauqua course in
Hochpolitik
[
72
] from which I get great pleasure. Why can’t we forgive each other before we become harmless?
Much love to you both,
To Alfred Kazin
[n.d.] [Chicago]
Dear Yevgeny Pavlovitch:
You know me, Yevgeny, and my Russian lack of organization. I am a poor lost woof from the kennel of Fate looking for a dog to belong to. So, do I have that letter from the man? Of course not. And what difference does it make? I will give the same speech anyhow, no matter what they call it. A good speech, but the one for that day, and how do I know in advance what to call it? Pick me a title, like Oliver Twist’s name,
und fertig
[
73
].
und fertig
[
73
].
How is the beautiful Ann Borisovna? Is her pale beauty as always? I am certain.
I am so bold as to send you my new remark: “Now there are no more frontiers, only borderline cases.” This paragraph has nothing to do with the preceding. I yield to no man in my admiration.
You missed a very lively party. For a dull play, no doubt.
Ach, be well. Love and kisses from your crotchety friend,
The Last Analysis
had opened on Broadway on October 1, starring Sam Levene in the role of Bummidge.
had opened on Broadway on October 1, starring Sam Levene in the role of Bummidge.
To Dorothy Covici
November 5, 1964 Chicago
Dear Dorothy,
[ . . . ] Dr. Glassman (Frank, I mean) is recovering from a cerebral aneurysm. He had surgery last week—I won’t go into detail—but he’s going to be all right, the doctors say. I flew back last night, and Susie and Daniel will come home on Sunday.
I have a note on my desk from Keith Botsford, very grieved at the news of Pat’s death. He wants to be remembered to you.
Much love,
A baby boy, Daniel, had been born to the Bellows in March. Pascal Covici had died of a heart attack on October 14.
To Leonard Unger
December 4, 1964 Chicago
Dear Leonard—
I’ve been thinking of you since September, when I got your letter. Evidently there is something in me that insists upon “making something” of suffering. The living, I suppose, can only extend life insofar as they
are
the living. The state is uneven at best, and this last year has not been at all good—some of my dearest friends have died, and I feel not so much spared as stripped. You’ve been on my mind. I keep thinking of your sister, and your old parents, and asking myself what I might do to express solidarity and friendship at a time when I feel the lines slipping out of
my
fingers. At last I decided simply to be “heard from.” I can’t make anything of suffering just now.
are
the living. The state is uneven at best, and this last year has not been at all good—some of my dearest friends have died, and I feel not so much spared as stripped. You’ve been on my mind. I keep thinking of your sister, and your old parents, and asking myself what I might do to express solidarity and friendship at a time when I feel the lines slipping out of
my
fingers. At last I decided simply to be “heard from.” I can’t make anything of suffering just now.
Say hello to my friends,
1965
To Adam Bellow
[n.d.] [Chicago]
Dear Adam-
Here are some stamps. Countries sometimes disappear and leave nothing behind but some postage stamps. But Papas and Adams go on and on.
Papa
To Toby Cole
January 23, 1965 Chicago
Dear Toby,
I haven’t heard from you in a dog’s age, so I assume there’s nothing stirring to hear. The Stevenses phone me every few days to tell me how marvelously they attend to my interests, to which I reply uh-huh. It seems that a lady named Nancy Walker has been reading my dramatic works, and wants to direct “The Wen” on Bleecker Street, in a loft. And that is probably where it belongs. I told Annie, however, that she’d have to find excellent actors. The hams I have seen would turn it into an obscenity. It’s borderline anyhow. From the Guthrie I got some satisfaction, but have nothing substantial to tell you as yet. Peter Zeisler was here. I like him very much, and he took the play with him and has written me very cheerfully about it. Still I don’t know what his intentions are. Nor have I heard anything from the other side of the water. By now I am powerfully convinced that all stories about the British sense of humor are true as far as they go, but that they don’t go far enough. British reviews of
Herzog
are solemn to the point of stupidity. I suppose we shall be hearing soon from the French, and from the Wops, my only spiritual brethren. Do drop me a line one of these days. I begin to think that the theater and I will never hit it off, and in all likelihood I shan’t be bothering much more with it.
Herzog
are solemn to the point of stupidity. I suppose we shall be hearing soon from the French, and from the Wops, my only spiritual brethren. Do drop me a line one of these days. I begin to think that the theater and I will never hit it off, and in all likelihood I shan’t be bothering much more with it.
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