Selected Letters of William Styron (27 page)

I don’t know what got me off on that item. Maybe because I was thinking, god knows why, of Brice, who wrote me a monstrously long letter recently, which was an identical transcript of an earlier, just as lengthy letter he had written, describing his trip to New York, all the sex that went on in the room adjacent to his at the YMCA, the boys who tried to pick him up at Mary’s, etc. Poor Brice, so infinitely small is his tiny little mind that he can write two letters, weighing half a pound each, and containing the exact, trivial contents.

Have you seen a copy of “Discovery” yet? I haven’t, but E. McKee said she was going to airmail me a copy. Incidentally, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, and if the thing is reviewed at all, I’d appreciate your clipping anything you see about it and sending them to me. I see
Time
magazine each week, but that’s about all. Marquand, by the way, is presumably due here in Rome at his publication time; I think he wants me to salve his wounds, if there are any, or something. He says he really wants to be in Kenya hunting lions when the book comes, but is now a little leery of the Mau-Mau, so I expect he’ll hunt movie starlets here at the Hotel Excelsior.

Tonight Alexei Haieff (he won the N.Y. Critics Award in music) is giving a party and Truman will be there and so will I. I’m beginning to suspect my self, and that I’m in the wrong set. Best to John and your doll and all the gang at the office.

Love + Kisses—Bill

T
O
H
IRAM
H
AYDN

February 27, 1953 Rome, Italy

Dear Hiram:

Thanks for the clipping from the
Post
on
Long March
. I’ve gotten quite a few letters from people about the story, all favorable, and so in the last analysis, as my old headmaster used to say interminably, I suppose “Discovery” wasn’t too bad a lodging for the piece.

I’m certainly happy to hear that you’re coming to Europe this summer. I’ve already more or less gotten my plans fixed up for the summer, and so you and Mary
must
come to vist me at Ravello, which is the fantastic town I think I’ve described to you, perched above Amalfi and filled with lemon trees, donkeys, crazy streets and at the moment, unfortunately, a bunch of movie stars, who with their cameras and equipment and attending publicity will no doubt spoil the place for the next seven generations. However this awful piece, starring Humphrey Bogart and Jennifer Jones and written by Truman Capote (whom I saw this past weekend when I was down there scouting for a place to live, and who told me that he “jes writes one crazy scene one day and they film it the next day. It’s all crazy.”) won’t be out for another year or so, the movie stars and their accompanying rabble of seedy-looking beslacked and sodden characters from Beverly Hills will be gone by May, and Ravello this summer will still retain its incomparable beauty … Rose and I are going to share it with another couple. A great guy named Bob White, who is a sculptor and the grandson, incidentally, of Stanford White who built the Academy, and his wife. It won’t matter which one we take because each has a magnificent view, from eight to ten rooms, kitchens and plumbing and terraces and gardens and private groves of lemon trees. God Almighty. And none of them cost over $150 a month, including servants. So this here is an invitation to come down and stay as long as you like.

Incidentally, and to change the subject slightly, I am somewhat peeved by a letter (a form-letter which I received from D. Wolfe and addressed “Dear Author”) which informed me that that Trieste piece I wrote when I was in your class had been chosen to be included in a new anthology that Permabooks is bringing out. You no doubt know of the project.
^‡H
What I would like to know from you is whether you think it’s arrogant of me to be somewhat unhappy over the fact that Wolfe didn’t ask my permission first before including me in. I think I would have given permission all right, provided they append a note or date it anterior to
LDID
or something, but as it comes out now it will doubtless appear to be something I dashed off this past winter. This whole situation is not important, I realize, in the great scheme of things, and I’m glad to lend my name to something
which might help New School writers; but the Trieste piece of prose (although for having been some six years ago I’m not ashamed of it), and I am all in all rather dispirited by the prospect of having people who read this Permabook thing thinking: “ah hah! see what I told you about Styron.” If it is made clear that it’s an early job, that’s best—there’s no indication of such in Wolfe’s letter and I’m inclined to think that any … [Incomplete letter.]

T
O
W
ILLIAM
C. S
TYRON
, S
R
.

March 3, 1953 Rome, Italy

Dear Pop,

My story “Long March” seems to be evoking some favorable responses, although there certainly has been a paucity of reviews. Some Hollywood agent liked it enough to send it around to all the studios (though he said there’s fat chance, not only being anti-war but anti-Marine, which in the U.S. is like being anti-Mom), and the editor of
Perspectives
, the magazine which the Ford Foundation distributes all over the world, called Miss McKee to say that he loved the story but it was too long to reprint. And at the moment I’m in receipt of a letter from Norman Mailer (“The Naked and the Dead”) who tells me “as a modest estimate it’s certainly as good an 80 pages as any American has written since the war.”
^‡I
I’m very touched by that, since Mailer of all my contemporaries is the writer I surely most admire. No need for you to think all this turns my head, as you cautioned. Along those lines Mailer added a word of criticism, implying I suppose that I should have perhaps a slightly more swollen head. “The tendency in you to invent your story, and manner your style, struck me as coming possibly
from a certain covert doubt of your strengths as a writer, and you’re too good to doubt yourself.”

Meanwhile, I seem to have struck a slight snag in my work and have done really nothing of any value since Christmas. I’m not actually worried at this
impasse
, however, though my inactivity irritates me and seems to make much of life weary, flat, stale and unprofitable, or whatever the hell it was that Hamlet said.
^‡J
I’m only really happy when I’m working. This I’ve finally realized in looking back over the periods when I was engaged in writing, those periods which seemed at the time so painful and full of drudgery and toil; actually upon a sort of Proustian type of reflection I can see that they—those hours of concentration, and slow scribbling—
they
are the moments of true delight. So, if only in a therapeutic vein, I intend to start into work again soon. The Nat Turner thing, for the moment, lies idle; Lord knows when I’ll wrestle with that, perhaps not for years.

I hope you got my recent card. Since then I’ve been to Ravello—that town of magnificent and craggy beauty on the Amalfi coast. We drove down just for a couple of days, a young lady from Baltimore of whom I’m very fond and a sculptor named Robert White and his wife—superb people, he’s the grandson of Stanford White, the architect who had a hand in building the Academy and of whom, of course, much has been written. Riding in Italy, especially around Naples, is a blood curdling experience, what with the absolute unconcern the natives have for any motorized vehicle and what with the incredible procession, still, of carts and wagons. However, the highways here seem to be much safer than in the U.S., perhaps because of necessity drivers appear to be more cautious and wary. In Ravello we stayed a day and two nights in a villa of an old Countess, a friend of the Whites, and I’m afraid I could never describe either the munificent, regal quality of the place or the breathtaking view of precipitous rocks and cerulean blue water over 1,000 feet straight down below. On our scouting expedition we explored half a dozen or so villas which we hope to occupy this summer, finally settling on one which has
nine
beds, two baths, a
view
of course, terraces, gardens, a private grove of lemon trees, and a couple of servants thrown in. All for what amounts to about
$170 a month. Divided among three or four people this is peanuts. I hope to send you some pictures of it soon. Speaking of pictures, the only sour note in Ravello last weekend was the presence of Humphrey Bogart and Jennifer Jones and an entourage of Hollywood creatures, on location for a movie which will no doubt provide enough publicity as to spoil the place for the next 50 generations.
^‡K
O tempore, O mores!
^‡L
But they won’t be there this summer. Hope all goes well at home, and drop me a line soon.

Your son,

Bill

T
O
N
ORMAN
M
AILER
^‡M

March 4, 1953 Rome, Italy

Dear Norman:

Your letter, of course, certainly flattered me—elated me, indeed, about as much, or more, as any compliment I’ve ever received, and we won’t turn this into a mutual admiration society by my wondering if you know how much or often certain shades and nuances from
Naked
have crept into, from time to time, my own work. However, they have, much and often—I don’t know how visibly—and we’ll let it go at that.

I appreciate, too, your comments concerning certain things which I do to my prose every now and then which seem to reveal that I don’t know how good I am. As for that, I think you may be right, having suspected it from time to time myself; but I think I’m arriving at a point which more and more I’m conscious of the mannerisms, and therefore tend to avoid them and go instead more directly to the point. It’s a hell of a hard process, but I take to it more instinctively than the other way around: the brawny method, like a big guy bellowing his way through a crowd. I wonder, for instance, to paraphrase your comment, if Jim Jones knows how really
bad
he is. I don’t know why I single him out, but really dreadful stuff like that
piece in the second
New World Writing
^‡N
seems to me to be indicative of the method of a writer who is so dazzled by the vision of his own strength, so earnestly wanting to think
deep
and write
strong
, that the result is an achingly conspicuous gaucherie with no significance for either writer or reader. Of course there’s a middle ground in prose, between the tenuous, mannered web of the young lady writers, both male and female, who, whether they have or haven’t anything to say, can’t just quite squeeze it out—and the Older Boys, who always say what they have to say too loudly, too often, and not carefully enough. All this of course is cliché. But it’s simply remarkable to me how so few writers who call themselves serious are unaware of the simple fact that a piece of prose, complex or written in the simplest, most unpoetic language, is akin nonetheless to poetry in that it’s supposed to
move
men—to laughter or tears, at least to something—and it will very rarely do this unless it approaches this queer middle ground, where the reader can marvel at the excellence of the style and the power of the thing being said, without being really conscious of either. You feel that these boys are never really initially moved by the thing they want to say, or, if they are moved, rush in with flailing arms and without ever having considered the various wheres and whens and whys with which to move the reader. I suppose it would be impossible to explain to someone like Jim Jones where this middle ground is; you’ve been solidly encamped there ever since
Naked
, even in
Barbary Shore
which had strange and wonderful stretches.
^‡O
I swear, I can hardly read any of our contemporaries. I’m either deafened by them, or find them practicing onanism in the corner.

At any rate, apologizing for this chatter, I want to thank you again, Norm, for your letter. I can’t tell you how it pleased me. I would like to hear from you from time to time, and hope you’ll drop me a line whenever you feel in the mood. I’ll be in Ravello this summer, surrounded by lemon trees and an almost overpowering quaintness, and if you come to Italy, by any chance, I hope you’ll give me a visit. Best, Bill

T
O
J
OHN
P. M
ARQUAND
, J
R
.

March 9, 1953 Rome, Italy

Dear Jack:

I suppose that by now you’re somewhere in the darker recesses of the mysterious East, smoking hashish, wrapped in a burnous, and in general acting like some character out of Paul Bowles.
^‡P
But when this reaches you, it’s to acknowledge your letter and to tell you that as usual you are welcome at Rose’s and my poor hearth when you come back to Rome. Also, it’s meant to prevail upon you, if you will, to spend some time with us down in Ravello this June. The Whites, Rose and I all drove down there weekend last to size the joint up and not only sized it up but were so smitten by the place that we’re going to take a villa, with terraces, a magnificent view, and a private grove of lemon trees. After the beauties of Greece this is all no doubt old hat to you, but I can assure you that there’s enough second-rate wop beauty down there to satisfy even a world-traveler, Micky Yelke–type character like yourself. So far, and by remote control we’ve persuaded the Matthiessens to spend June there and there’s more than enough room for you, too, if you’d like to come. I think it would be a fine way in which to terminate the old European whirl.

I still haven’t done any work, and am content these days to read only
Time
magazine, a pleasure which, however, I’ve cut down to only two re-readings per issue. My clots seem to have disappeared; I expect them back at any time, though. We’ve seen neither hide nor hair of Guinzburg and have five or six letters waiting for him, among them yours. I suspect that he and Buffington are outdoing even you in the Paul Bowles motif and are trekking in some abysmal, sex-ridden caravan through Tunisia—which is where he was the last I heard from him.