Letters (68 page)
Authors: Saul Bellow
June 12, 1980 Chicago
Dear Walter,
Your letter arrives as I am poised for departure, about to launch myself from my wire, too heavy to be a bird, too sinful to be any sort of angel (but somehow I continue to view myself as a flier). Will you come for dinner or for a longer visit? I can tempt you with an unpublished manuscript. Please call us when you arrive. I shan’t ask you to bring George Bush when you come—I have nothing really against Mr. Bush, his standing with me improves now that I learn he was one of your pupils, but if he is running on the Reagan ticket as Vice-President he will be too busy to dine with us. The country
does
need a President but where is it to find one? Maybe the office should be abolished for the next four years.
does
need a President but where is it to find one? Maybe the office should be abolished for the next four years.
Yours ever,
To Dean Borok
June 17, 1980 West Halifax, Vermont
Dear Mr. Borok—
I at length answer. I always meant to, but my wife and I were in Pasadena until mid-April and then came back only to prepare to leave again. These are (unnecessarily) busy days, and life grows more complex with the years. I had expected it to be simpler.
I took the liberty of showing your letter to my brother Sam, seeing no reason why you should mind. He was moved by it—he, too. (We both found it curious that you should be in Montreal, where we started out; I was born in Lachine.) Neither of us could form a picture of the life you’ve led. But that’s hardly strange when you think that we have no clear picture of our eldest brother’s life, either. He sees none of us—brothers, sister, or his two children by his first marriage, nor their children—neither does he telephone or write. He had no need of us. He has no past, no history. His adopted children do not seem to care for him. His present wife? An enigma. He probably has some money—he’s thought about little else all his life. But he’s old now—seventy-three. And ill; he’s had a coronary bypass. I tell you all this to warn you about the genes you seem so proud of. If you’ve inherited them (it’s possible you have) many of them will have to be subdued or lived down. I myself have had some hard going with them.
If you can find the right way to do it, perhaps you should write the story of your life. To get rid of it, as it were. In writing it successfully, you will forgive everyone in the process. Yes, all those who sinned against you will be forgiven. (That’s what I would call a successful effort to get one’s life down on paper.)
Thank you for writing.
I wish you happiness,
Borok, out-of-wedlock son of Maurice Bellows, wrote to Bellow after he read
The Adventures of Augie March
, having realized that a version of his own birth is narrated in the novel.
The Adventures of Augie March
, having realized that a version of his own birth is narrated in the novel.
To Hymen Slate
July 22, 1980 West Halifax
Dear Hymen—
I’d be a better correspondent if I weren’t writing all the time. You have to be a graphomaniac to spend hours on a manuscript and then turn, for relaxation, to letters. A critic, years ago in Paris, said I had bureaucratic tendencies. He offended me then. Now I’m inclined to see it his way. I learned to organize my daily life for a single purpose. There
was
one other drive, the sexual one, but even that presently gave way. My erotic life was seriously affected, too, in that I diverted myself with a kind of executive indiscriminateness—without a proper interest in women.
was
one other drive, the sexual one, but even that presently gave way. My erotic life was seriously affected, too, in that I diverted myself with a kind of executive indiscriminateness—without a proper interest in women.
(Why is it that as soon as I sit down to write to you I find that I am busily examining my character. In another existence you must have been my confessor.) Vermont is exquisite, and I am doing here what I am supposed to do (or what I intended to do) but I miss our Sunday gabfests. I am glad to discover this. Sometimes I suspect I have too few dependencies. [ . . . ]
I hope your health is good. I have a small case of arrhythmia or tachycardia. Not serious.
Love,
To William Kennedy
August 22, 1980 West Halifax
Dear Bill—
I’m not what you’d think of as a drifter but I do drift in a real (i.e. barely conscious) sense—a sort of desert rat with a Smith Corona instead of a prospector’s mule. Not even the Committee on Social Thought fully remembers me. Just as well.
Your letter, which delighted me, finally reached Vermont where I’ve been dug in writing (what else?) a small book—something of a cherry bomb or small grenade, I like to think.
I’ve seen some of your writing. I liked one of your books a lot (I can’t recall the title; sclerosis probably gaining on me). I didn’t see
Billy Phelan
, but I was stirred by your Upstate outlaws and molls. Did I recommend you for a grant after reading that (which probably you didn’t get)? I suspect occasionally that a favorable letter from me is the kiss of death.
Billy Phelan
, but I was stirred by your Upstate outlaws and molls. Did I recommend you for a grant after reading that (which probably you didn’t get)? I suspect occasionally that a favorable letter from me is the kiss of death.
And yes, I understand about poor Tom Guinzburg, a poor D.P. with loads of money.
I’d love to see you again and have a talk. We had good talks at Rio Piedras but we were bush-league prophets (or futurologists, not to overload the great word “Prophet”). [ . . . ]
Very glad to have heard from you.
Yours ever,
To George Sarant
[Postmarked Chicago, Ill., 11 September 1980]
Dear George—
Let’s not make too much of this. Quite simply, what happened was that Wm. Phillips, always a devious rat, called me (
most
solicitous and considerate!) to say he was about to publish Isaac’s journals. He had said wounding things about me—did I mind? Of course it was weird—a voice from the grave. And of course I said the journals should be printed, uncensored. Canny old William was worried about libel suits. I promised that I would not go to law. Let the dead man have his say.
most
solicitous and considerate!) to say he was about to publish Isaac’s journals. He had said wounding things about me—did I mind? Of course it was weird—a voice from the grave. And of course I said the journals should be printed, uncensored. Canny old William was worried about libel suits. I promised that I would not go to law. Let the dead man have his say.
For me this was a turn of events charged with emotion. I was glad to have so much high feeling over Isaac—a bonus, as I saw it. I was
very
curious. And of course I’m now too old for “hurt feelings.” No, it was, Let’s hear Isaac’s dear voice again. I expected no horrid revelations. I knew quite well what he thought and felt about me—pro and con. I was aware also that his peculiar adaptation of W[ilhelm] Reich was bringing up material from the psychic drainage system—that Isaac felt he owed it to
truth
to bring it to the surface and let it spin and be purified, etc.
very
curious. And of course I’m now too old for “hurt feelings.” No, it was, Let’s hear Isaac’s dear voice again. I expected no horrid revelations. I knew quite well what he thought and felt about me—pro and con. I was aware also that his peculiar adaptation of W[ilhelm] Reich was bringing up material from the psychic drainage system—that Isaac felt he owed it to
truth
to bring it to the surface and let it spin and be purified, etc.
Again
W. Phillips called—this time to say that fear of libel had made him decide not to publish. He wanted me to know (“act of friendship” etc.—the usual bullshit or, in his case, rat-shit). [ . . . ]
W. Phillips called—this time to say that fear of libel had made him decide not to publish. He wanted me to know (“act of friendship” etc.—the usual bullshit or, in his case, rat-shit). [ . . . ]
Isaac’s journals made sad reading. He
was
in bad shape, wasn’t he? I think he would have recovered. But enough of that. What I didn’t like was that you had put the journals into the hands of [———], a nasty opportunist, mean-spirited, a brewer of low-grade troubles and a
shtunk
. As he had taken a cut or two at me in print, to bring me down to size, I did not think well of your handing Isaac’s notes over to him. I didn’t expect you to consult me, but I had no reason to think you had
inadvertently
given him more ammunition.
was
in bad shape, wasn’t he? I think he would have recovered. But enough of that. What I didn’t like was that you had put the journals into the hands of [———], a nasty opportunist, mean-spirited, a brewer of low-grade troubles and a
shtunk
. As he had taken a cut or two at me in print, to bring me down to size, I did not think well of your handing Isaac’s notes over to him. I didn’t expect you to consult me, but I had no reason to think you had
inadvertently
given him more ammunition.
But you tell me it was done innocently, and I choose to believe you. I don’t want to exaggerate, make swellings and breed stupid disagreements.
Perhaps you’ll pay me a visit, one of these days (years).
Remember me to your sister.
Yours ever,
George Sarant (1947-94), a Reichian psychoanalyst, was the son of Isaac Rosenfeld and Vasiliki Sarantakis Rosenfeld; in early manhood he had taken an anglicized version of his mother’s family name.
To John Auerbach and Nola Chilton
October 17, 1980 Chicago
Dear John:
A mild gray October morning: We fly to Washington (I’m lecturing to a Brandeis meeting) and instead of making my last will and testament I write to you. We’ll post the letter at O’Hare. I miss you greatly. I can’t get used to the changed distances, and still move to the telephone to call you in Newton, but in Newton there’s only [Milton] Hindus at the other end [whose house John and Nola had rented]. I seldom have occasion to call Hindus. No matter how I squeeze the material he’ll never in the real world resemble you.
I was pleased when they put you in charge of the foreign contingent [at Kibbutz S’dot Yam] and very unhappy to hear that you would wash the dishes instead. I have put myself in your place as a mental substitute—I don’t mind the dishes, but there’s a whole kibbutz to wash for. That is highly undesirable, and I think you ought to resist it, but I know that you won’t. I hope the
chaverim
[
90
] are not being spiteful. But Nola can be depended upon to protect you from excesses. She must be unhappy about your assignment.
chaverim
[
90
] are not being spiteful. But Nola can be depended upon to protect you from excesses. She must be unhappy about your assignment.
But enough of these bad things. I now collect amusing subjects for you in and around Chicago. Here’s one of them: A man from the Illinois Arts Council pursued me with messages for several weeks. He wanted to give me a medal for my services to the arts. (One of my services to them was to keep away from him.) I never called. The messages were left with Alexandra at Northwestern—she didn’t really pay much attention to them. Then fuller messages and complaints were left. I was to go to Danville, Ill. to be decorated by the Governor himself.
That was different. The Governor when he was the crusading US Attorney had prosecuted my brother [Sam] and sent him to jail for ninety days. For this reason alone the occasion began to seem worthwhile, enjoyable, splendid. I would whisper something outrageous to the Governor as he pinned on the medal. On other occasions he had steered clear of me. Once we were in the same box at the Lyric Opera, guests of the company, and he disappeared after the first act, before the lights were on, avoiding embarrassment. But none of this was clear until the very last moment. By now the man from the Council was angry. He told the secretaries at Northwestern that this was the most distinguished award I had ever received. Higher than Pulitzers, greater than Nobels. But Danville is a town two hours away on undistinguished roads. I didn’t want to stay overnight. Arrangements should have been made earlier. Alexandra refused to let me take the small plane from Meigs Field. All the usual noise and anxiety. In the end, I had to call the gentleman from the Council and say I couldn’t come. Apologies were made—and perhaps even accepted. Someone else would accept the award for me, which turned out to be a book of poems by Illinois poets. I think most of them were in real estate and public relations. In next day’s paper the event was reported and the names of the other winners were announced. Among them was Susan [Glassman Bellow]’s longtime lover, a sculptor named Hunt.
He
would have been the top slice of this ironical sandwich. He’d have had more fun at my expense that I could ever have gotten out of the Governor.
He
would have been the top slice of this ironical sandwich. He’d have had more fun at my expense that I could ever have gotten out of the Governor.
I am being called on the house phone. I have just time to address this and send both of you our love.
One of Bellow’s most significant correspondents, John Auerbach (1922-2002) was a Warsaw Jew who had survived the war on false papers, working as a stoker on German ships. Arrested while trying to flee to Sweden, he was imprisoned in Stutthof concentration camp. From the summer of 1945 Auerbach worked with Mossad Aliyah B in the transport of Jewish refugees to Palestine. Arrested by British police, he served three years’ detention on Cyprus. At the founding of the State of Israel, Auerbach settled in Caesarea at Kibbutz S’dot Yam where he skippered a fishing fleet. Following the death of his son in the 1973 Yom Kippur War, Auerbach retired from the sea and began to write. Twelve books appeared in Israel during his lifetime.
1981
To William Kennedy
January 7, 1981 Chicago
Dear Bill,
There is only one reason why I haven’t been replying: I spend my mornings cantering and galloping on the typewriter, the afternoons in revision and my nights in what Shakespeare called the restless ecstasy. We would say threshing about. I got off a corking reference for the Guggenheim. I thought of sending you a copy but it’s strictly against the regulations and I didn’t feel like Xeroxing forbidden papers. I’m still willing to do an interview. All I need is Time. It keeps getting scanter and scanter. I’m sorry your wife’s shop has burned—what a way for me to find out that she
had
a shop.
had
a shop.
I didn’t take Mark Harris to heart at all. I haven’t read his book and I rather enjoy the pummeling he’s getting in the press. For once I am a contrast gainer and even getting some sympathy. I don’t want that either. I turn my back on it all and wish that I had a back like one of Rodin’s burghers of Calais—a big bronze back.
New Year’s greetings and all best,
Mark Harris had just published
Saul Bellow: Drumlin Woodchuck
.
Saul Bellow: Drumlin Woodchuck
.
To Allan Bloom
[n.d.] [Brasenose College, Oxford]
What is there to say? Without you, it’s only approximately perfect. Fatigue, passing off in waves, reveals a lump of wicked passions that had been ignored by the work-forces—bypassed. Your observations would be invaluable.
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