Letters (75 page)
Authors: Saul Bellow
Day 2: Hitler and Stalin: Writers in the world of totalitarianism. It would be best if this were to be a discussion not only of persecution and the resistance to persecution, but also of writers’ involvement with such regimes and especially of the forms art adopts under them. Does art seek only to preserve itself, or does it try to make changes, and what are the effects upon art of either choice? I am asking Alexander Sinyavsky to present the paper at this session and would like you to comment.
Day 3: Weak-Sister Democracy: Is it possible for the writer to be serious—serious as compared to his East European fellows—in soft, easygoing commercial societies? Is he inevitably self-indulgent or does his freedom from killing pressures give him special opportunities for development. I shall give the paper at this session, and ask Federico Fellini to comment on it.
On days two and three some special attention would be given to the writer’s audiences in the three worlds.
Day 4: Political Themes: To what extent are political themes necessary to literature? Has the disappearance of the great political figure as the central actor diminished the scope of literature? I hope V. S. Naipaul will give the paper and Ruth Prawer Jhabvala the commentary.
Day 5: The distinction between the Aesthetic and the Moral: Is such a distinction real? Is it, as Nietzsche claims, a sign of decadence? What is the relation of an artist’s moral commitment to his art? Heinrich Böll will be asked to deliver the paper and Werner Dannhauser will comment on it.
I would expect that the papers should last from thirty to fifty minutes and the comments from fifteen to twenty. Presumably, these are questions with which all of us have some familiarity. I reiterate that the outline is tentative and open to revision. It is hoped that a small volume would emerge from the proceedings to form a basis for public discussion.
I can offer you the small honorarium of two thousand dollars, in addition to travel and accommodations. Southern Vermont, where I have my summer home, is particularly beautiful at that time of year and would provide an appropriate setting for the individual meetings which would be one of the primary benefits of our gathering. I can assure you that you will be comfortably lodged and well fed.
In addition to the persons mentioned, there will be one or two more writers and a group of about a dozen serious students who would participate in our sessions.
I hope you can join us. It would be personally gratifying to me. Inasmuch as time is getting short, I would appreciate your response as quickly as possible.
Sincerely,
To Joan Ullman Schwartz
April 9, 1984 Chicago
Dear Joan,
I am whirling about at such a rate of speed that to write letters is out of the question, but your last communication was so intelligent and gentle that I am impelled to send a brief note, which will be very much to the point. Not long ago, I remembered what Alexander Pope had written to a lady named Arabella Fermor about “The Rape of the Lock.” I looked it up, and there it was. Pope said: “The character of Belinda . . . resembles you in nothing but Beauty.” He adds that all the passages in his poem are “fabulous,” and that “the Human persons are as fictitious as the Airy ones”—here he refers to the Airy Sylphs by whom Belinda is surrounded. I feel extremely lucky to have found in a great master the total clarification of a diabolically complex problem.
I hope that everything is going well (or better), and that you are more happy than not in New York. On your next visit to Chicago let’s have a friendly drink together.
All best,
Joan Schwartz, for many years Harold Rosenberg’s mistress, had recognized herself as the original of Katrina Goliger, mistress to the Rosenberg-like Victor Wulpy in “What Kind of Day Did You Have?”
To Sophie Wilkins
April 18, 1984 Chicago
Dear Sophie,
I hope you won’t mind my enclosing this note in the same envelope with the one I’m sending to Karl. Your letter did me a world of good, especially the utterance of these great words: “
Yasher Koach!”
[
100
] You might also have said, “
Khazak!”
[
101
]
—
God’s first word to Joshua. I am afraid that the gossips have pounced upon Victor and Katrina [in “What Kind of Day Did You Have?”] and that I am besieged by the forces of recrimination and outrage. For this the appropriate Hebrew is “
Gam zeh ya’avor
”—“this too shall pass.” But this has to be qualified by a sad piece of incontrovertible French wisdom: “
tout passe
” and also “
tout casse
” [
102
]. Prudential writes no kind of insurance against any of this, and what the Hebrew fails to tell you is that the ultimate form of “
ya’avor
” is kicking the bucket.
Yasher Koach!”
[
100
] You might also have said, “
Khazak!”
[
101
]
—
God’s first word to Joshua. I am afraid that the gossips have pounced upon Victor and Katrina [in “What Kind of Day Did You Have?”] and that I am besieged by the forces of recrimination and outrage. For this the appropriate Hebrew is “
Gam zeh ya’avor
”—“this too shall pass.” But this has to be qualified by a sad piece of incontrovertible French wisdom: “
tout passe
” and also “
tout casse
” [
102
]. Prudential writes no kind of insurance against any of this, and what the Hebrew fails to tell you is that the ultimate form of “
ya’avor
” is kicking the bucket.
Well, never mind the buckets. That you and Karl feel like twins separated at birth and reunited forty years later is an observable phenomenon, and too marvelous to be envied. Thank God that such things happen.
All the best,
To Karl Shapiro
April 18, 1984 Chicago
Dear Karl,
How nice it was in the days of our youth when, if the fighting writer was decked, he naturally expected to be back on his feet in a matter of minutes, as well as ever, if not better. To age is to understand that the powers of total recovery are gone, are no longer anticipated (except by those who, having lost their marbles, no longer know what to anticipate). So, I am better, but I can’t find it in me to assert that I am well and I have begun to think that exaltation is the only possible comeback. Your letter, and also Sophie’s, heartened me more than I can say. In return—small compensation—I am asking Harper & Row to send you a copy of
Him with His Foot in His Mouth.
I think you may like the concluding story, “Cousins,” written last summer under the trees in Vermont. [ . . . ]
Him with His Foot in His Mouth.
I think you may like the concluding story, “Cousins,” written last summer under the trees in Vermont. [ . . . ]
Do you think we might organize the haters of Hugh Kenner into a club? Fifty years ago, with my friend Isaac Rosenfeld, I used to join clubs of this sort. I remember that we formed a Faerie Queene Club to which nobody could belong who had read
The Faerie Queene
. When I read the first canto I was put on probation, and when I read more I was expelled. But no one could ever dislodge me from a Hate Kenner Society. [ . . . ]
The Faerie Queene
. When I read the first canto I was put on probation, and when I read more I was expelled. But no one could ever dislodge me from a Hate Kenner Society. [ . . . ]
Yours affectionately,
To Zipporah Dunsky-Shnay
May 14, 1984 Chicago
Dear Mrs. Dunsky-Shnay,
I wish it were possible for me to accept your very kind invitation, but I am not returning in triumph and delivering speeches in Montreal. I am making a sentimental pilgrimage to old scenes. I shall be seeing elderly cousins and friends of my childhood. To accept an invitation from the Jewish Public Library might give offense to my hosts in Lachine, who have what people in Hollywood call “an exclusive.” From 1918 to 1924 I was a child of Saint Dominique Street, and was sent to a basement
cheder
on Milton Street. I have good Jewish credentials in Montreal, which I am happy to acknowledge, but am not free to give lectures.
cheder
on Milton Street. I have good Jewish credentials in Montreal, which I am happy to acknowledge, but am not free to give lectures.
Sincerely yours,
To Barley Alison
May 25, 1984 Chicago
My dear Barley,
The considerable success of
HWHFM
should make you feel rather good about
Him
’s future in England. Of course one never knows. English book reviewing is even more desolate these days than our own, and professional book reviewers may not be ready to open their stony hearts to emanations of warmth from Chicago. Still, I’m rather inclined to think that they may welcome a change from cold-storage porridge and the awful porno material our two countries have been exporting to each other.
HWHFM
should make you feel rather good about
Him
’s future in England. Of course one never knows. English book reviewing is even more desolate these days than our own, and professional book reviewers may not be ready to open their stony hearts to emanations of warmth from Chicago. Still, I’m rather inclined to think that they may welcome a change from cold-storage porridge and the awful porno material our two countries have been exporting to each other.
My efforts to get the book out and to please Harper & Row by doing promotional chores have tired me out. There seem to be galvanic batteries under my bed that make me twitch in the night, and although I am not yet like Evelyn Waugh’s poor noodle in
The Ordeal of Gilbert Pinfold
who drugs himself with sleeping potions until he hears imaginary voices, I do need to go into dry dock in Vermont. (Alexandra, by the way, has been waiting for you to set the date for your eagerly anticipated descent from the skies.)
The Ordeal of Gilbert Pinfold
who drugs himself with sleeping potions until he hears imaginary voices, I do need to go into dry dock in Vermont. (Alexandra, by the way, has been waiting for you to set the date for your eagerly anticipated descent from the skies.)
Harriet tells me that copies of the English edition are now available, and I should like to ask you to send books to the following: Mr. Andrew Nobile, Mrs. Hildegard Nicholas (wife of the master of Brasenose) and Mr. Rudi Lissau. You will undoubtedly have sent copies to Terry Kilmartin, Richard Mayne, and young Amis. I shan’t ask you to send a book for me to Keith Botsford, because I know that you would not oblige me. So I shall have Harriet ship one from New York. But please, do give a copy to Michael and Susan-Mary [Barley’s brother and sister-in-law]. I don’t remember now the name of the spirited gloomy gentleman we lunched with who gave me such burning, penetrating glances, and spoke with such taste, care and reticence that I could scarcely understand him. He needs a salutary and friendly shaking up. I liked him actually. Send
him
a copy, too.
him
a copy, too.
Love and kisses from your old friend,
To Margaret Staats
August 6, 1984 W. Brattleboro
Not many opportunities, with a house full of guests, but I wanted to say a few necessary things: I have never been treated with such extraordinary consideration, such feminine generosity. And you are aware that I know how extraordinary you are—that I am one of the few who
can
know what your nature is. And you do need someone to know this, for it is something that demands to be known.
can
know what your nature is. And you do need someone to know this, for it is something that demands to be known.
There’s the phone, and I’m off. More to come.
Yours ever,
To Margaret Staats
September 16, 1984 Chicago
When you come right down to it, and I am down to it, forced to consider the prospect in detail, going abroad doesn’t give me great happiness. In going there I am still dragging here behind me, six thousand miles of melted cheese strung out over the Atlantic. There are things urgently to be done and I’d be better off beginning, somehow, to make a frontal attack on the cheese itself. I have to promise all my friends to have a good time. Everybody’s dream of a marvelous holiday pops up when the facts are stated. “Thou hast conquered, O
Holiday Magazine
.” But one of my friends tells me, truly, that I am the solitary of solitaries, a combination of a glacier and a volcano, that I have perfected the power to be alone. Well, then, it doesn’t matter where one goes. Still, I have powerful connections, known only to me, and to the connections. You are one of the principal ones, as you should know. It seems that I never have accepted my condition. The making of an artist; seven decades of work without being reconciled to the essential facts of my condition. Really, I am a wimp—of considerable distinction, but inarguably wimpy.
Holiday Magazine
.” But one of my friends tells me, truly, that I am the solitary of solitaries, a combination of a glacier and a volcano, that I have perfected the power to be alone. Well, then, it doesn’t matter where one goes. Still, I have powerful connections, known only to me, and to the connections. You are one of the principal ones, as you should know. It seems that I never have accepted my condition. The making of an artist; seven decades of work without being reconciled to the essential facts of my condition. Really, I am a wimp—of considerable distinction, but inarguably wimpy.
My greatest worry is that if I am found out my lady will have a nervous breakdown. I don’t exaggerate. That is what most bothers me, I discover, and I owe the discovery to you. It was through you that I became able to pity rather than fight her. And the whole thing is a pity, a pity, a pity! Where a woman’s warmest sympathies should be there is a gap, something extracted in the earliest years of life which now is not even felt, not recognized as absent.
Well, I’m not going to change anything now.
She wants us both to visit a shrink. That’ll be great fun, you bet. The answer is yes. Of course. I’ll go anywhere, do anything. I have a singular advantage in that I can use almost anything that happens. Do you suppose that that’s what “Whatever is is right!” really meant?
1985
To Richard Lourie
January 12, 1985 Chicago
Dear Mr. Lourie,
Writers are dilatory, you say so yourself in your novel [
First Loyalty
], so I can hope to be forgiven for being so slow.
First Loyalty
], so I can hope to be forgiven for being so slow.
I have just read your excellent mixture of thrills and exotic facts about our great enemy the USSR and about the émigrés of the eastern seaboard and I found it vigorous, fresh, sassy, and stirring. It’s not for me, a common reader, to say how sound your scientific facts are. I am comfortable and safe with them and don’t care whether they are accurate or whether the NYPD will fault you for your portrait of Solly the Detective—these are mere questions of expertise. I was interested in your millenarian or apocalyptic dialogues because they were probably perfectly characteristic and it didn’t at all concern me to examine them as historical theses. I didn’t care, and neither will other uncaptious readers, to apply a stern test to your account of the present state of civilization. You are located somewhere between James Bond and Heidegger, and the Bond elements, thank God, prevail. [ . . . ]
Some of the teachings of Master [Andrei] Sinyavsky, against realism and so forth, have been commendably absorbed. It’s a lively book and gave me a most enjoyable evening.
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