Letters (66 page)
Authors: Saul Bellow
My wife and I happily congratulate you.
On October 5, 1978, I. B. Singer became the first—and, in all probability, last—Yiddish-language writer to receive the Nobel Prize for Literature.
To Julian Behrstock
October 9, 1978 Chicago
Dear Julian:
I didn’t see the item in the British paper, so I don’t know whether the sum was accurately reported. But it was stupendous, and the legal fees, two hundred thousand, also stupendous. If these judgments hold, I will be where I was in 1937 on the campus, living on an allowance of three bucks a week. I may ask the President to revive the WPA for my sake. When it happened, my lawyer called me and said, “You’ve got to bite the bullet.” So I bit for one, two, three months. Now it’s back in my cartridge belt. What’s the point of biting bullets? I shall go back to writing books. I may not publish the books, because they will produce money, and the Philistines will be after me again. Samuel was right to be furious with Saul because he did not deliver all the Philistine foreskins on demand. It was wrong of Saul to be so soft-hearted. We are paying for this, now. Come—oddly—to think of it, most of the fellows who have ganged up on me are fully and legitimately circumcised. Well, to hell with it. I’m always happy to hear from you. I’m glad you’re feeling pretty good despite the wife-mistress setup. I can say nothing to you today about the Chicago-Jewish sensibilities.
Yours affectionately,
Julian Behrstock (1915-1997), an old friend from Northwestern days, had after the war moved permanently to Paris where he worked at UNESCO.
To Louis Lasco
October 19, 1978 [Chicago]
Dear Arkady Ivanovich:
I grieve to hear of your diminishing sex drive. Are you really giving up women for art? I remember a time when Chicago was one of the great cultural centers of the world, and elderly Jewish physicians used to announce that they were going to lay down the scalpel and take up the pen. For pen, read Remington. But what are you laying down?
Could I induce you to send a copy of your manuscript here? As one who has admired you for fifty years, I feel I have the right to make such a request.
Yours ever,
Taras Bulba
1979
To Elisabeth Sifton
January 23, 1979 Chicago
Dear Elisabeth:
I, too, am sad at leaving Viking. For thirty years I was a Viking author. It was there that whatever feeling I had for monogamy expressed itself most completely. And I don’t want you to think that my decision to move implied any criticism of you. You were in all respects an excellent editor, and certainly the most attractive of them all. I shall miss the good advice and the attractions. After Pat Covici died and Katie Carver entered the spirit world and Denver Lindley retired there came a hiatus during which I went it alone. Then you came along, and I wouldn’t for a single instant have you think that you failed me as an editor. You have nothing to do with my decision to go elsewhere. I shall miss you too and I wish you well, and there is no reason why we shouldn’t continue to laugh together when we meet.
My affectionate best,
To Barnett Singer
February 12, 1979 Chicago
Dear Barney:
Stone walls may not a prison make but I have enough manuscripts here for a lockup. Today I was presented with three, yours and two others of the same dimensions, all required reading
sous peine d’amende
[
89
]. When am I supposed to cook curry, wash the dog or examine my toes? I do expect to be in Chicago on the 25th of March and if I have not disappeared under hundreds of reams of paper I’ll be glad to talk. In moderation. I don’t grudge you the time but I don’t want to be discomfited by your hurricane breeziness. You probably don’t know what I’m talking about but I will give you a clue: My father, an old European, was incensed when one of my brothers complained to him (my father was then in his seventies) that he had never been a pal to his sons. My father justifiably exploded, “Pal! Has he gone mad? Has he no respect for his father?” I was taught to be deferential to my seniors. If a historian can’t understand that, who can?
sous peine d’amende
[
89
]. When am I supposed to cook curry, wash the dog or examine my toes? I do expect to be in Chicago on the 25th of March and if I have not disappeared under hundreds of reams of paper I’ll be glad to talk. In moderation. I don’t grudge you the time but I don’t want to be discomfited by your hurricane breeziness. You probably don’t know what I’m talking about but I will give you a clue: My father, an old European, was incensed when one of my brothers complained to him (my father was then in his seventies) that he had never been a pal to his sons. My father justifiably exploded, “Pal! Has he gone mad? Has he no respect for his father?” I was taught to be deferential to my seniors. If a historian can’t understand that, who can?
Yours in candor,
To Bernard Malamud
March 25, 1979 Chicago
Dear Bern,
By direct inheritance from my old man I have the habit of attending to certain necessities before going on a trip—I then find out what I consider most necessary. Alexandra and I are about to leave for Washington to attend the signing of the Egyptian treaty and I can’t go without thanking you for
Dubin’s Lives
. I was glad to get it, delighted to be moved by good writing, by intelligence, style, into a better articulated and ordered world than the one I’ve been living in. A first-rate book develops organs in me which I carry about in a state of latency or blindness. I’ve been
seeing
better since I read
Dubin
. Your Nature-intimacy took me by surprise, glad surprise. You weren’t moved to it by the demands of a book. It’s something you’ve done to yourself, you’ve achieved it. For Jews from Chicago or New York this has to be done later in life. It’s not a birthright.
Not
to be cheated of flowers and landscapes, living and dying under subway gratings or elevated trains—that’s what it is.
Dubin’s Lives
. I was glad to get it, delighted to be moved by good writing, by intelligence, style, into a better articulated and ordered world than the one I’ve been living in. A first-rate book develops organs in me which I carry about in a state of latency or blindness. I’ve been
seeing
better since I read
Dubin
. Your Nature-intimacy took me by surprise, glad surprise. You weren’t moved to it by the demands of a book. It’s something you’ve done to yourself, you’ve achieved it. For Jews from Chicago or New York this has to be done later in life. It’s not a birthright.
Not
to be cheated of flowers and landscapes, living and dying under subway gratings or elevated trains—that’s what it is.
The Lawrence theme didn’t do much for me. I read him very closely at one time. Devout admiration, yes; not sainthood though, by a good bit. Anyway, I drove through the Lawrence territory with my dims on. What impressed me very deeply was the nasty winter, the paralyzed writer. That was all too damn real. I’ve never suffered from the fatal “block.” I’ve been in despair, in hell, but if I’d been asked what was happening it would never occur to me to describe it as “a block.”
I had great sympathy with the wife, less with Fanny. But I tell you this naively, not critically. How could I be critical? I am too grateful for the pleasure you gave me. Perhaps I’ve known too much of that sort of sexual sadness to be able to judge it dependably. I am disqualified, therefore; I don’t trust myself in this department and I hope you won’t take my uneasiness as fault-finding. Your book delighted me.
Affectionately,
To Ann Birstein
April 12, 1979 Chicago
Dear Ann:
So Alfred thought that living with you was like living with me! I can’t quite define my reaction, I never took the slightest sexual interest in him. The best I could do was to appreciate his merits. But esteem, you know, is far from attraction.
Hearing that he was at South Bend, I wrote to him in a Christian spirit (what a pity the Christians have a corner on the Christian spirit; isn’t there some way to break the monopoly?) and gave him my telephone number and he called me, but we were both too much in demand to make a date, and then we were snowed in for some months, so we haven’t seen each other yet. I’m going to try again now that strolling weather is nearly here.
No, I didn’t know that you and he had finally separated. Inevitably, I had heard rumors, but gossip can never damage you—I don’t mean anybody, I mean you specifically. After three divorces I can’t say that I am ever pleased to hear of a divorce. In your case, however (you will forgive me if I tell you this), the delay must have been very damaging. But one can never really regret the course one’s life has taken. There are always perfectly sound reasons why it couldn’t have gone any other way. It’s only my fondness for you (I remember still how Isaac and I were taken with you when you became Alfred’s fiancée; I’ve never changed my mind) that makes me speculate sentimentally.
I take it as a sign of health that you have written a novel. I want to read it when Doubleday begins to send out copies.
Love,
To John Cheever
May 2, 1979 Chicago
Dear John,
Do you realize we haven’t seen each other’s dear faces in nearly a year? I have seen you in the papers pulling down one award after another and that has given me great satisfaction. I am somewhat sorry for you because you have only the occasional satisfaction of remembering me. We ought to do something about this, especially as it has not been a happy year, and it would do me good to see you. [ . . . ]
Atop the Hyde Park Bank building in Chicago thirty years ago there was a Russian nightclub called the Troika where they sang “Don’t Forget Me,” a sentimental
Lied
which applies to us.
Lied
which applies to us.
Love,
To Hymen Slate
June 28, 1979 West Halifax, Vermont
Dear Hymen,
A note. So that I don’t disappear through the trapdoor until September. When we got here, I discovered that I wasn’t so well. It is a beautiful place but I was too tired and dejected to like it. I had no idea that I was in such bad shape. You don’t know until you begin to relax the tensions and feel the accumulated fatigue. For two weeks I was extremely depressed—depleted. I couldn’t even try to pull myself together. If I took a sleeping pill I paid later with insomnia for the night’s sleep I got, so I stopped taking the pills. Alexandra went on doing mathematics. She had a paper to prepare for the conference she’s attending now in Germany. I was very pleased. The one good thing that was happening. Her youthful vitality, like my own at her age . . . I can remember how quickly I was able to pull myself together after exhausting exertions. Curiously, I seem to have made secret arrangements to enjoy myself through her. In restaurants I ask her to eat desserts I can no longer order for myself.
I miss our Sundays. I hope you’re not in the dumps.
Love to you both,
To Allan Bloom
August 10, 1979 West Halifax
Dear Allan,
Splendid, then we’ll run a tutorial on any afternoon convenient to you. I refrain from coming to campus in the morning. My habit is to work until noon at whatever I happen to have in hand and then seek refreshment in Hyde Park. We should have a splendid time with Stendhal and Flaubert, against a background of Jean-Jacques. There must be a few students in the Committee who read French. During the winter Alexandra and I will be at Cal Tech, so we’re going to have to crowd everything into a single quarter.
We return shortly after Labor Day and there should be plenty of time to lay our schemes. Whenever I taught with David [Grene], there was always a preliminary session for the two of us—at Jimmy’s, naturally. You and I can find another suitably grimy spot, if Jimmy’s is too much for you. Some people can’t take it.
With great expectation,
Ever yours,
Bloom and Bellow would teach seminars together until Bloom’s death, in 1992.
To Owen Barfield
August 15, 1979 West Halifax
Dear Owen—
It’s been a long time—one thing and then another. It was kind of you to send the C. S. Lewis book, but I’ve not been able to read it as attentively as I’d like. Shortly after it came we were called to Bucharest. Alexandra’s mother was dying. The circumstances—well, I shall spare you the full description, but my wife was allowed to see her mother no more than three times in ten days. Then death, and another mysterious struggle with the bureaucracy about property. Alexandra came back sick with grief. Some three months of illness—and then more difficulties. I know it’s not kind of me to speak to you of difficulties. You have so many of your own which, with English restraint, you don’t speak of. But I am only trying to tell you why there have been no letters. I continue to read your books and to think about you, and to go on reading Steiner and working at Anthroposophy. I wouldn’t like you to think that I am fickle and that I’ve dropped away. No, it’s not at all like that. I am however bound to tell you that I am troubled by your judgment of the books I’ve written. I don’t ask you to like what you obviously can’t help disliking, but I can’t easily accept your dismissal of so much investment of soul. It may have come out badly, but none of it was ever false, and although I can tolerate rejection I am uneasy with what I sometimes suspect to be prejudice. And my “heaping of coals,” as you expressed it in a letter last year, quite turned me off. I didn’t know what to say to that. You don’t like novels? Very well. But novels have for forty years been my trade; and if I do acquire some wisdom it will inevitably, so I suppose, take some “novelistic” expression. Why not? A juggler “illuminated” would go on juggling, wouldn’t he? I find some support in Steiner: “. . . if a man has no ordinary sense of realities, no interest in the details of others’ lives, if he is so ‘superior’ that he sails through life without troubling about its details, he shows he is not a genuine seer.” (
Anthroposophy: An Introduction,
p. 202)
Anthroposophy: An Introduction,
p. 202)
Having gotten that off my chest, I want to tell you that my affection for you is very great, and I am sure you know how much I respect you. For my part, I feel safe with you—i.e., I know you will forgive my idiocies.
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