Selected Letters of William Styron (7 page)

There is, I think, little need for rationalization. After four trying years of college I finally have my degree (an end, I think, in itself) and I can only foresee a modicum of knowledge to be gained from three stretched-out and ineffectual months at Duke. I am doing nothing here now but boring myself, drinking beer, and wasting time better wasted somewhere else. Duke, as you know, in all of its aspects, has pained me to a certain degree always, and I have only been happy in this environment through a suspension of reason and through the utmost exertion of will. Consequently, having obtained the much sought-for sheepskin, I see little reason why I should irritate myself any longer. In short, I quite frankly think that I’m wasting my time now in, for the most part, unattractive surroundings and that—though my mental bewilderment and unrest is not contingent upon Duke alone—I should definitely begin to try my luck in another and perhaps more auspicious climate.

So I will be home sometime within a week—will wire you the exact time. I realize, as you do, that my being at home for any length of time is a rather nervous and uncertain business, so I hope you’ll believe me when I say that I hope to get a job lined up elsewhere soon. I also hope, though, that it’ll be all right if I can plan upon staying at home until I do get straightened out.

This move I am making—though I perhaps, egotistically, exaggerate its import—is not conventional and is, at the same time, an important decision. But it is not impetuous. I have given it good thought.

Without, I believe, having approached the neurotic stage, my mind is in as much a ferment as it ever has been or ever shall. Though the seer saith “The Kingdom of God is within thee,” I know I need a change of some sort; therefore I’m leaving Duke in the vague hope that in a different place—wherever that may be—I may gradually gain the perspicacity enough to sit me down and read and write, become mature in
mature surroundings
, and do those things which, undone, shall make me live only partially. I mean
writing
, a field in which I know I can become supreme if I can only develop the discipline and strength and love.

I’ll see you soon and I hope I’ll be able to explain things further. I’ll see Dr. Blackburn tomorrow, who I’m sure will greet my decision with some dismay, and equivocal mumblings, and who will give me his dear and always cherished benediction.

Your son,

Bill

Styron moved to New York City in late March 1947
.

T
O
W
ILLIAM
B
LACKBURN

May 29, 1947 Whittlesey House

Dear Professor Blackburn,

I trust that by now you’ve finished your war with the exams and term papers and are ready for a rest of some sort before going to Tennessee. Brice informs me that you’re going to teach down there this summer, and I certainly hope that you find it both pleasant and interesting.
^B

Two weeks after beginning work here I came down with a mild case of jaundice which kept me in bed and under Bobbie’s kindly and patient ministrations for nearly a month. It was certainly no way to start out impressing
the employers but, being understanding souls, they forgave me and let me read mss in bed.
^C
Now I’m back at work again, and I find the job quite agreeable, occasionally boring, but for the most part very interesting. I am what is euphemistically known as an editor, and I do most of the fiction reading for the house. It is often very exasperating work, for the quality of the novels which pass through my hands is generally not the sort which would reap critical garlands, even from an
Archive
reviewer. But, having a taste for asperity, I find it quite an eloquent gesture indeed to cast a sheaf-full of junk aside and, with a look of revulsion on my face, toss off a wry and bitter ms report full of contemptuous phrases regarding the general unsavoriness of American letters.
^D
I remember one time you cautioned me against getting into publishing, and I think you were pretty correct in saying that the field exercised a rather stultifying influence on folks who want to write. However, I certainly don’t plan to stay in this sort of work forever and for a year or so I don’t think that it’s too bad a sort of work, since it compels me to both read and write a certain amount each day—besides the fact that I am learning something about the hokum and machinations which go on in the publishing world, a dubiously enriching sort of knowledge, but interesting nonetheless.

What I really want to do still is go to Europe—France or Italy—to study and wander, and I hope, write. Do you still happen to have any information on schools in France—or the name and address of the man or agency here in N.Y. that I can get the information from? I never did get the address from Tom Greet when I was at Duke.

I have started a short story, which, so far as I have written, reads pretty smoothly. It concerns the brutality and meanness of certain people in wartime, and I hope I can summon up the courage to work it over and finish it. The one about the frustrated old maid I have completed about 2,000 words on, and I have, for some reason—lack of sufficient insight, probably—left it hanging, awkward and useless. I’ll finish it someday when I know more.

I’m sorry the bonding company bothered you with their forms but, as usual, I used your name in reference. I don’t know why in hell they should worry about me running off with any of this garbage I have to read.

I understand from Bobbie that Mary April is coming up here sometime soon. I think Bobbie has written her, and we’ll be sure to have entertainment on hand when she comes. New York is vast, hideous, and strewn with the wrecks of lost and fidgeting souls. It’s a trap, venomous, and woe to the person who stays here too long.

I’ll try to be a better correspondent in the future. Drop me a line and give my best to Mrs. Blackburn.

As ever,

Bill

P.S. Since I live in a gloomy dung-heap down in the Village—a place which I avoid like the plague—perhaps it would be better for you to write me at the above address.

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

August 20, 1947 Whittlesey House

Dear Pop,

I hadn’t realized that time passes so fast, for when I looked at the date on your last letter I found that our last communication was nearly three weeks ago. Life is progressing here about the same. New York has been fiercely hot during the past few weeks but has moderated during the last couple of days. The weatherman, however, promises that a two-day heat wave will begin anew tomorrow. I haven’t made definite plans yet, but think I might run down to see Bobbie in Washington tomorrow for the week-end. But, since I had planned to see her Labor Day week-end, I don’t know if I’ll splurge to the extent of seeing her both times. Bill Bowman wants me to go down to Urbanna with him on Labor Day, and I’m considering that, too. I haven’t been down to the old place in a long time, now.

New York can get painfully monotonous, especially on Saturday and Sunday, when there’s no place especially to go. Most of the people I knew
here when I first came up have flown the coop, so I have to more or less shift for myself when it comes to entertainment. But then some wise man said that an educated man is one who can (1) entertain a new idea, (2) entertain his friends, and (3) entertain himself. The last is the hardest to do for me, but with the aid of things like books I am gradually developing to the point that I don’t of necessity need people around me all the time—or beer! At the present I’m reading a new novel
Under the Volcano
, by Malcolm Lowry, which got excellent reviews. I haven’t gotten far enough into it to deliver any opinion, but it certainly looks, so far, as if it’s really something. The books I’ve been reading at Whittlesey House have been uniformly bad—or mediocre. I had the pleasure the other day of delivering an opinion on a book by Walter B. Pitkin (“Life Begins at 40”) which he sent in as a possibility. It was a manuscript called
ON YOUR WAY AT 20
, directed toward young boys who, denied college, have to get out on their own. Mr. Scheaffer, the editor, wanted my judgment of the book, and I wrote what I thought—a platitudinous pep-talk, full of the same worship of spurious values which made
LIFE BEGINS AT 40
such a success. Mr. Larned, the director, read the report, liked it, and I’m pretty sure that Mr. Pitkin’s phony blandishments are doomed as a result of my report, at least as far as Whittlesey is concerned.
^E

No results on an apartment yet, although Bill Bowman and I have signed up together for an apartment in Peter Cooper Village, Metropolitan Life’s new development on the East River.
^F

They didn’t promise us anything over there, but said that we stood a fair chance of getting something before Christmas. I don’t think I’m a complete sybarite, but I believe that even a Jesuit would find it gloomy business living in the box I live in. Imagine a room the size of the big bathroom upstairs at home, ill-lighted, decorated with muddy wall-paper, and subjected to a ninety degree temperature all summer, and you’ll get an idea of my nocturnal mode of living.

Continuing our genealogical discussion, I would be most happy if you would send me any information or anecdota concerning Beaufort County, the Clarks, Styrons, or anything else that you think might form germinative
thoughts in my mind and get me started on a saga of Eastern North Carolina. I’ve got lots of ideas and theories but, like Sinclair Lewis, I’ll have to search through records to find a family framework upon which to hang my story.

I see in the papers that the Terminal Leave bonds of veterans may be cashed any time after September 1
^st
. You are holding one for me, I believe, and I wish you would send it to me some time before that date so I may add it to my savings account. It’s written out for about $225—with a picture of Carter Glass on it—and I’d rather cash it and add it to my account, since in the form of a bond it doesn’t pay interest, as the War Bonds do.
^G

That’s about all the news for now. I’m glad to hear that you are coming up in November, and I’ll see that you are properly feted, as they say in the society columns. Tell Eliza that I’m glad she is continuing on with the story, and hope she sends it to me. I’ll write her soon.

Your son,

Bill

P.S.
Peace of Mind
is gratis. After all, we in the publishing business have to get
something
at discount.

T
O
T
OM
G
REET
^H

August 22, 1947 Whittlesey House

Dear Tom:

Our dear and mutual friend, William Blackburn, dropped in on me this morning, we had lunch together, and I was pleasantly regaled with the late goings-on at Duke this past semester, amid which it seems that you and Mac and Mr. Davenport have certainly been creditably acquitting yourselves in the literary field.
^I
I wish I had your pertinacity.

Blackburn informed me also that he had taken your manuscript to Diarmuid Russell, spoke very kindly of Mr. Russell, and suggested that I get in touch with him in regard to sending your manuscript over as a possibility for Whittlesey House. I did so, and he told me that, although he had sent the chapters and outline to one publisher, you had not definitely decided whether you wanted the manuscript to go to another publisher—in case the first was not interested—or whether you wanted to do some more work on it first. I’m sure you’re your own best critic—as Dr. Baum was wont to say—but should the first publisher not be encouraging (which I hope he won’t, for your sake), I do hope you’ll remember that I’m interested in your work and that you’ll ask Mr. Russell to put Whittlesey House high on the list of publishers next to see the manuscript. When I last saw you, your novel—at that time a short story, I believe—was still in the germinative stage, but it sounded promising and I never did get the chance to see how it turned out. Blackburn is enthused to say the least, and I hope that you and Mr. Russell will arrange it so that we might take a look.

The Professor and I are going down by train together to Washington this afternoon—I for a week-end and he for a bit of scholarship at the Folger Library. I know I’ll pick up some wisdom along the way. I hope you’ll drop me a line and let me know how you are progressing on the book, and in case you get up to New York any time soon I’ll consider it an affront if you don’t give me a call.

Best regards,

William Styron

Associate Editor

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

September 19, 1947 Whittlesey House

Dear Pop,

A belated letter finally, and I’m sorry that I didn’t write sooner. I have been deluged by mss since Mr. Aswell took over—seems like every beginning author in America wants him to be their editor, so I have to do the dirty work.
^J
The quality is improving greatly, too, so that I have to concentrate a little harder on work that was formerly merely weeding out the trash.

The weather here is much better, and it’s positively amazing but I feel that a great load has been lifted from my shoulders. The heat here was enormous during the dead of summer—almost a palpable thing—and I’m beginning to realize now that what I thought was a hangover from the jaundice was really the sun and the humidity. But Autumn is a wonderful season anywhere, I suppose.

My social activities have been somewhat circumscribed of late, but I’m gradually coming to meet some genuine people. Prof. Blackburn—I don’t know if I told you or not—came through here on his way down from Boston and I, of course, was greatly calmed and pleased by his conversation. We’re kindred souls, I believe. Bobbie has been up here for a week—she’s staying with a friend of hers in the village—and we have had a pretty good time together. Last night I went out to Jamaica to see Hank Simons and his family, had dinner, and thoroughly enjoyed myself. Dr. Simons, incidentally, is submitting us a ms on the diseases of the kidneys, written for the layman. I’ve read portions of it, and think that we might publish it.