Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch (55 page)

For a while I thought the problem was solved. Emil would be my secretary,
chief butler, private bodyguard and big shoo-fly. He would take care of everything. And so he
did for a while. It was perfect. Then, at my instigation, he took up painting. Soon he was
painting in earnest. One day he came to me and said in all innocence: “I don’t know what’s
wrong. I don’t seem to have time for anything any more. When I first came here I had too much
time on my hands.”

I had to smile. I knew damned well what was wrong. The mail! You can’t answer
letters and do your own work too. I tried to explain it to him, but he wasn’t convinced. He
thought he could paint
and
take care of the correspondence. (And do the kribberyboo
in his spare time.) He never realized what a burden he had
assumed. It
seemed exciting, at first, to be corresponding with so many people all over the world. The
letters of acknowledgment he received were stimulating and fascinating. Instead of
diminishing, the correspondence increased. For a while he enjoyed it. Then slowly it dawned on
him that he was getting enmeshed. And with this realization the desire to paint became
stronger and stronger.

Well, the long and short of it is that I stopped turning my letters over to
Emil to answer. He’s become a painter, and a painter I want him to remain. The hell with the
letters! Let them answer themselves!

And that’s where we are this moment. Only now I have the bright idea that by
writing this pamphlet
*
there will be no more letter writing. I will
just send this.

We’ll see. Something tells me that I’ll be sending out these pamphlets
and
a letter or a postcard. That’s what my wife thinks, anyway. She may be right.
But the only way to find out is to go through with it.

A writer often has two great surprises in store for him: the first is the
lack of proper response to his efforts; the second is the overwhelming nature of the response
when it does come. One is just as bad as the other.

TO ANSWER EVERY LETTER THAT COMES TO HAND IS OBVIOUSLY IMPOSSIBLE.

I could hire a secretary, of course, but I have not the means for that, nor do
I wish to be in the position of needing a secretary.
I am not in business
. I am
making an earnest effort to free myself from a peculiar sort of bondage which I myself
created.

This is an answer
en bloc
, an anticipatory acknowledgment of all the
good wishes, the encouragement, the gifts, the advice, the criticism continually being
showered upon me. I realize with gratitude
that most people who write me
are trying to aid me. Should they not be the first to understand my predicament, to realize
that the only way to acknowledge their manifestations of faith and good will is by continuing
to write books, not letters?

There are many, of course, who write to obtain valid information, and these I
try to satisfy. There are others, men and women who have just embarked upon a literary career,
whose questions I find difficult or impossible to answer. (And is it my business to answer
such questions, just because I am a writer?) It is my belief that each one must find his own
solution to the problems which beset him, and he must find it in his own way. No man can
possibly tell another what or how to write, nor how to combat the hostile, paralyzing forces
which threaten to annihilate him. I feel like replying sometimes: “Why don’t you read my books
again?”

“But won’t you please glance at my manuscript? Can’t you give me a word or
two of advice, at least?”

No, I cannot. Even if I had the time and the energy for it, or the supposed
wisdom, it would be useless. One has to believe wholeheartedly in what one is doing, realize
that it is the best one can do at the moment—forego perfection now and always!—and accept the
consequences which giving birth entails. One’s best critic is oneself. Progress (a bad word),
realization (Cézanne’s bugaboo), mastery (the adept’s goal), these are achieved, as every one
knows, through continuous application, through toil and struggle, through reflection,
meditation, self-analysis, above all through being scrupulously and relentlessly honest with
oneself. To those who protest that they are not understood, not appreciated, not accepted—how
many of us ever are?—all I can say is: “Clarify your position!”

We live in an age when art and the things of the spirit come last. The truth
still holds, however, that through dedication and devotion one achieves another kind of
victory. I mean the ability to
overcome
one’s problems, not meet them head on.

Serve life and you will be sustained
. That is a truth which reveals
itself at every turn of the road.

I speak with inner conviction because I have been through
the struggle. What I am trying to emphasize is that, whatever the nature of the problem, it
can only be tackled creatively. There is no book of “openings,” as in chess lore, to be
studied. To find an opening one has to make a breach in the wall—and the wall is almost always
in one’s own mind. If you have the vision and the urge to undertake great tasks, then you will
discover in yourself the virtues and the capabilities required for their accomplishment. When
everything fails, pray! Perhaps only when you have come to the end of your resources will the
light dawn. It is only when we admit our limitations that we find there are no
limitations.

Here I must make a confession. Perhaps the true reason why the correspondence
has become such a staggering problem is that I like nothing better than to write letters. It
is almost a vice. I shall never forget how one day, upon receipt of an exceptionally big batch
of letters, a friend of mine who had glanced through the mail, observed: “I see nothing here
that demands answering.” The remark flabbergasted me. To be sure, this friend was a person who
detested writing letters; now and then he would dispatch a postcard, couching his message in a
telegraphic style which lacked even the semblance of warmth. (When I send a postcard, on the
other hand, I feel so apologetic that I usually follow it up with a long letter the next day.)
The point, however, is that where my friend saw nothing to worry about, I saw at least three
days’ work.

No, it is not indifference which prompts my desire to curtail incoming mail.
It is something more, something quite other. Let me say, to make my meaning clearer, that the
effect of a single letter is often sufficient to unbalance me for the rest of the day. My
impulse is to answer such a letter immediately. Often I think it imperative to telegraph an
answer. (If I were a millionaire I would certainly burn up the wires.) There are occasions
when I find it difficult to believe that the person who has written me can wait for my reply.
It sounds like sublime egotism, does it not?
And yet…. Well, this is one
of my failings, or delusions, if you like, this naive belief that the answer must be given
immediately
. But my nature is such that I am perpetually overflowing: my response
is always disproportionate to the stimulus. To live more intensely, to participate more fully,
to keep all channels of communication open—this seems to be my bent…. And then there is the
remembrance of times past, when every effort I made to be heard proved to be nothing more than
spitting against the wind.

It is the person you most want to hear from who never bothers to write. The
complacency, if it’s that, or the indifference, of such individuals is exasperating; it can
drive one frantic sometimes. This sense of frustration can and does persist until the day one
makes the discovery that he is
not
alone,
not
cut off, and that it is
not
important to receive an answer. Until the realization dawns that all that
matters is to give, and to give without thought of return.

Some whom I once vainly expected answers from I later discovered were in the
same predicament I now find myself in. How wonderful it would have been, had I known it then,
to write and say: “Don’t bother to make answer. I simply wanted you to know how indebted I
feel to you for being alive and spreading creation.” Today I occasionally receive such
messages myself. Such is the way of love, which uses the language of faith and absolution.

Why, then, do I not stop thinking about those who put the pressure on me?
Because of my own weakness, probably. Could there be this feeling of pressure if I knew for a
certainty that I was giving my all? Always there is this residue of “unfinished business.”
Always this feeling that perhaps my aid
is
indispensable. How silly of me to appeal
to my tormentors for pity or consideration! I should
not
be trying to protect myself.
I should be so absorbed in whatever I may be engaged in that I would have no mind for anything
else.

The answer which I am about to make is really an answer which I wish to make
to myself. In my best moments I believe that my
responsibility toward
others begins and ends with the work of creation in which I am involved. It has taken me
considerable time to reach such a decision. Like other men, better men than I, I have
alternately been swayed by a sense of duty, a feeling of pity, a natural consideration for
others, by a hundred and one different emotions. What precious hours I have squandered
answering the thousands of pleas and inquiries addressed to me! I will do so no longer. From
now on I intend to devote the best hours of the day, the best part of myself, to the best that
is in me. That done, I intend to enjoy a few hours of leisure. Loaf in peace and tranquillity.
Should I wish to paint—I often do when I am not in the mood to write—I will paint. But I will
not answer letters! Nor will I read the books or write prefaces for the manuscripts which are
hurled at me. I will do only what pleases me, what nourishes my spirit.

This is my answer.

If my words sound callous and unreasonable, ponder over them before you
condemn me utterly. I have been giving thought to the problem a long, long time. I have
sacrificed my work, my leisure, my obligations to friends and family in order to make answer
where I thought answer was due. I no longer believe in making such sacrifices.

If, however, you can propose a better solution, I shall not spurn it. I do not
look upon mine as the perfect answer. It is the best I can give at the moment. It is from the
heart, if that means anything. As for the doubting Thomases, to them no adequate answer can
ever be made.

It is always possible, of course, to penetrate the thickest coat of armor. To
those who question my sincerity let me suggest that they turn their attention to a book now
out of print but obtainable if one really makes a search for it:
The Maurizius Case
,
by Jacob Wassermann.
*
Pages 357 to 370, wherein is recorded the
visit of Etzel Andergast to his favorite author, state the case. Etzel is in
a dilemma, a tragic dilemma. But the author, Melchior Ghisels, is in an even greater
dilemma. The situation, I may add, is not unique; there are many similiar ones to be found in
the biographies of famous individuals. I cite this one because it seems classic. And because
it is forgotten over and over again.

True, now and then there is a desperate soul who believes he must see you or
die. A delusion, of course, but I sympathize with such individuals. I have been on the edge of
suicide a number of times, and I know what the feeling is like. The best remedy, however, is
not to look to another for solace but to lay hands on a gun, a knife, or a bottle of poison.
The fear of death cuts sharper than words.

“God wants us to be happy,” said Nijinsky. Likewise an author hopes that in
giving himself to the world he will enrich and augment life, not deny it or denigrate it. If
he believed in direct intervention, he would be a healer and not a writer. If he believed that
he had the power to eliminate evil and sorrow, he would be a saint, not a spinner of words.
Art
is
a healing process, as Nietzsche pointed out. But mainly for those who practice
it. A man writes in order to know himself, and thus get rid of self eventually. That is the
divine purpose of art.

A true artist throws the reader back upon himself, aids him to discover in
himself the inexhaustible resources which are his. No one is saved or healed except through
his own efforts. The only genuine cure is the faith cure.

Whoever uses the spirit that is in him creatively is an artist. To make living
itself an art, that is the goal.

I said a moment ago that I enjoy writing letters, that it is a veritable
passion with me. What grieves me is that I seldom find time to write those with whom I should
enjoy regular communication.
I mean my intimate friends, those who speak
my own language. These letters I usually reserve till the last horn, till I am virtually worn
out. Not to write these individuals more freely, more frequently, is in the nature of a
deprivation, one result of which is that I find myself writing to them in my sleep. I could
fill a page with the names of all those I would dearly love to keep in touch with.

Then there are writers with whom one would like to open communication. Reading
a book, or a literary review, I suddenly find myself all afire. “Write him immediately!” I
exclaim to myself. (If only to say Amen.) But I don’t. I think of all the letters lying
unanswered on my desk. The same old battle—between duty and desire. I limp along with the poor
in spirit instead of romping with the gay old dogs. How I curse myself now and then!

Every so often I break out. Of a sudden I will take it into my head to write
someone at the other end of the world—someone in Mozambique, Lahore, Cochin-China. I know in
advance I shall never get a reply. No matter. It does the soul good. Obeying such impulses, I
have written at odd moments to men like Keyserling, Céline, Giono, Francis Carco, Hermann
Hesse, Jean Cocteau. Sometimes an answer
is
forthcoming, and then I am overwhelmed.
Then it was a good day, a red-letter day. Then I thank Uncle Sam for the service he renders
us: I bless the pilots in the stratosphere who deliver the goods, come wind, hail, snow, rain,
sleet, frost, fog or rot.