Selected Letters of William Styron (8 page)

I’m still on the scrounge for an apartment, and the prospects are looking better. Ed Hatcher, a Duke friend who is now working at Bobbie’s old job at Carbide, + I are collaborating to get a place, and have a sure thing that we may occupy on Oct. 15
^th
—a 25 × 17 room on west 84
^th
street with kitchen and bath—only the price is fairly steep—$100 a month—and we
hope to get something better before then.
^K
I firmly believe that I’ll be able to write something once I have a place to stretch out in. That, I suppose, is rationalization, but I still believe it.
One
incentive I know I’ll have is the fact that I have enrolled at the New School to take a course in Creative Writing under Hiram Haydn who, as you may remember, is Blackburn’s friend and Editor over at Crown publishers. He taught writing at W.C.U.N.C. for a while, and when I wrote him asking to be allowed to take his course, he wrote back saying that Blackburn had already told him of my record, and that I
Belonged
in the course. Since I’m taking the course under the G.I. Bill, I’ll have to keep my grades up to get a reimbursement and, by the same token, will
have
to do some writing.

I received Eliza’s Chicago letter, and am glad to hear that she finds the city fairly agreeable at least. Tell her I will write her soon.

I wish I knew where I was going to be ten years from now; I suppose everyone does. The world situation doesn’t tend to make one sit down and write deathless prose, but I suppose that with the passing of the years, with effort, I’ll be able to figure at least part of the things out that bother me now. Right now I have the feeling that I’m about to undergo a change which will put me more at rights with the world. Perhaps I’m changing right this minute. At any rate, I know that I will never compromise when it comes to my ambition to put something down on paper that is true and meaningful. Perhaps, when I understand more fully my capabilities, my aspirations will not be so vaunted, ethereal, and vainglorious, but at least they will still be there.

I should close now. Give my regards to everyone, and write soon.

Your son,

Bill

T
O
G
UY
D
AVENPORT

September 24, 1947 Whittlesey House

Dear Guy:

Brice tells me that Loomis tells him that you have finished a novel.
^L
Blackburn gave me the same intelligence while we were riding on a train to Washington, and it would please me very much, for business reasons as well as for personal, if you would give me the opportunity to take a look at it. As you might know, Edward C. Aswell, who was Tom Wolfe’s editor at Harper’s after Wolfe left the Scribner fold, is now Editor-In-Chief over here, and Whittlesey House has great plans for a distinguished list—a necessary component of which is good books.

I have just today started reading Tom Greet’s novel
STUPIDITY STREET
, which was sent to us by his agent, Diarmuid Russell, at Tom’s suggestion. I don’t know whether you have engaged the services of an agent or not, or whether you plan to do so, but—in case the book is not in the hands of an agent—if you will send it directly to me I will see to it that the novel is examined with particular care. And, in case an agent is now handling the book, and in case you care to have me take a look at it, I would suggest that you ask the agent to pass it along to Whittlesey House, as Greet did with his novel. At any rate I hope that in one way or another I may get to see your work soon.

I hope that you have a good year at Duke and that you find the Blackburn influence, as ever, enriching. Please give my best to Loomis.

Best regards,

William Styron

T
O
W
ILLIAM
B
LACKBURN

October 18, 1947 1453 Lexington Avenue, New York

Dear Professor Blackburn,

Please forgive me for not having written you sooner. A number of things have happened lately which have prevented my being the correspondent I should be.

First, as Brice has undoubtedly informed you, I lost my job at Whittlesey House. It seems that I lacked the experience that Aswell, the new editor, required, so, with a rather frosty benediction, he let me go. An element of nepotism I’m sure, entered into the thing, but as it is I’m not really sorry, or vindictive, for I am now standing, not perhaps firmly, but still standing upon the road that I’ve got to take. I’ve at last started writing, and am living with Hatcher—a totally admirable if hard-to-get-to-know character—in the basement of a brownstone house on Lexington with
three
cocker spaniels. I get up at 9:00 every morning, write well into the afternoon, and then at night I drink a few beers and start reading the books I should have read long ago. I’m doing well, I think; I’m wracked, as ever, with all sorts of despair and indecision, but at least my anxiety is palliated through the mere fact that I’m writing. I’m happy, I’m terribly morose and despondent, but I take heart in the fact that I’m headed in the direction I’ve ultimately got to go.

Before I left Whittlesey House I asked Diarmuid Russell to let me be the first to read Guy Davenport’s novel.
^M
The other day it came in and Dorothy Parker, one of the editors and a friend of mine, let me have it to read.
^N
I stayed up for seven hours last night reading it, and I think it’s an overwhelming, sorrowful, beautiful job of writing and I frankly went to bed at 5:00 in the morning disturbed, shaken, and humble in the light of its unmistakable signs of true, burgeoning genius. It is certainly not a great novel—there is much about it that is immature—but I am so convinced
of its youthful truth and passion and genuine loveliness that I can only look upon Guy Davenport with the greatest awe and respect. If Guy doesn’t become, within the next decade or so, one of America’s best writers, then my faith in whatever grim and fickle god who so capriciously guides the destinies of sad, golden men—men like Guy Davenport—I will be shattered forever. Such poetry, such beauty! I am amazed and thankful, and a bit embarrassed at my effusion. Quite frankly I am unable to say what the book’s chances for publication are, since it is not the sort of book, I know, that the average publisher takes to; and since I’m no longer a “publisher” I can’t exert even mild pressure and opinion in the right places. But I will commend it as highly as possible to the people I know at Whittlesey House, and will hope for the best. The astute publisher and editor, I know, would accept it
per se
—with all of its faults—just to get their hands on such a promising talent. I’ll do my best.

It is, then—in view of Mr. Davenport’s work—with a considerable feeling of inadequacy, that I submit a short story for your appraisal. I am taking Hiram Haydn’s writing seminar and this is one of the stories he read in class. He liked it. In fact, he praised it in the most glowing terms, said all sorts of things—including the induction of a dark sort of symbolism which I really didn’t intend—which embarrassed me and troubled me and made me very happy. If I didn’t know, from having attended other classes, that he is a rather harsh critic, then I would take his words lightly. He thinks the story should be published. My self-critical faculties are very dull, and I would greatly appreciate your letting me know—quite objectively—whether or not you think the story stands a chance, before I try it out on the magazines.
^O

There will, one day—and I say this with hope and with candor and with, believe me, the utmost sincerity—be a school of writing known, perhaps, as the Blackburnian “school” of writing. It will not be—as in the manner of Ruskin or of Pater or of any of that vast crew of pontificates and precious fathers—a “school” formed out of style or manner or mannerism or substance, but will be—God and the world willing—a group of people
who—talented, gifted perhaps, but “not as great as Chaucer”—shall have derived from the founder of the school a certain grace, a certain wisdom, a certain understanding, without which their meager talents would have been lost. And the product of their search and wonder—an end indeed as perishable as the flowers, or any other thing—will nevertheless have been enriched and ennobled, and the way made more plain, through their having known one man, for a moment, who was gentle, wise, honest and good. Some do not know it—others, who know, will not speak it—and I for one know it, and say this with all certainty and humility.

I would appreciate your giving me an opinion of the story, and hope to hear from you soon.

As ever,

Bill S.

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

October 28, 1947 New York

Dear Pop,

I received your letter the other day, and was glad to hear that we are both coming into a little cash.
^P
Your borrowing half of my share is perfectly all right with me—better, in fact, since it assures me, for a time, of a steady income each month. I am now listed with the New York State bureau as a “self-employed” veteran and will be receiving $80 a month from that department which, along with the $60 you send me, will make a tidy $140—about the same as my starting salary at McGraw-Hill.

I was also happy to hear that you are coming to N.Y. next month, and I’ll certainly be on hand to give you a big welcome. I wrote Aunt Edith and told her when you are coming, and expressed the hope that she would be here at the same time, so we could all do the town together.

The story I mentioned in my last letter was read in Hiram Haydn’s seminar at the New School. Haydn, as I think I told you, is editor of Crown Publishers and also editor of the extremely respectable
American
Scholar
, journal of the Phi Beta Kappa organization. Haydn, who is a fairly harsh critic, said that the story was “terrific,” “powerful,” and “certainly publishable,” all of which delighted me no end. I also sent a copy to Blackburn and Brice, both of whom thought the story was excellent. Brice suggested that I send the story to
The New Yorker
, which I have done (no answer yet) and then to the various literary quarterlies.
The New Yorker
is very particular about the names of their authors, and I doubt seriously if they will accept it; but both Blackburn and Brice are convinced that I can get the thing published somewhere so I’m going to keep trying until I get an acceptance.

I’m very glad that you see eye to eye with me about my present attitude concerning my attempts at writing, and about the loss of my job. I realize that I’ve finally come to grips with myself, and that the job was in reality merely a delaying action. Writing for me is the hardest thing in the world, but also a thing which, once completed, is the most satisfying. I have been reading the letters of Joseph Conrad, and really feel a kinship—if nothing but in spirit—with the late master, for one discovers in the letters that writing, for Conrad, was the most despairing, painful job in the world.
^Q
It most definitely is that way for me. But someone—I think it was Henry James—said that only through monstrous travail and agonizing effort can great art be brought forth from those who, like himself (James), are not prodigies or, like Shelley, spontaneous founts of genius. Anything less than unceasing toil will produce nothing or, at best, facility. I am no prodigy but, Fate willing, I think I can produce art. For me it takes much girding up of loins and an almost imbecile faith in my potentials—but I suppose that’s part of the satisfaction.

I’d better close now. Give my love to Eliza, and I’ll see you soon.

Your son,

Bill jr

T
O
W
ILLIAM
B
LACKBURN

December 10, 1947 1453 Lexington Avenue, New York

Dear Professor Blackburn,

I have been most terribly dilatory in writing letters lately, but I hope you won’t lay it to thoughtlessness, since scarcely a day goes by that I don’t think of you—and think of writing you.

I am progressing at about the same level as I have been during the last few months. The writing proceeds in a slow, somewhat haphazard manner—but I really believe I can see signs of better quality, more precision, more discipline. As I wrote Brice yesterday, I have just finished a story of about 4500 words, which I have turned over to Hiram Haydn and which I hope I shall hear criticized in class tomorrow night. If the report seems to be favorable—as I hope and believe it will, since I have quite a bit of faith in the story—then I shall take the liberty of sending it to you for the benefit of a final assessment. The Trieste story, having been turned down nicely by
The New Yorker
, is now at
The Atlantic Monthly
, where it has been resting for nearly six weeks.
^R
I like to think that they are giving it “careful consideration,” but I imagine that it’s just gathering dust on somebody’s shelf. Do you think I should keep sending it out and, if so, where?
Story
, perhaps? Incidentally, Mr. Haydn informs me that the story is under consideration by a Dr. Wolfe for possible inclusion in an anthology, like
One and Twenty
, of prose and poetry by New School students. Which is something of a boost to my morale, anyway.

Mac Hyman stayed with us for about a week while he searched for a job and an apartment. He located both: the job with Doubleday’s Book Store at 39
^th
+ 5
^th
avenue, and the apartment in Brooklyn. His wife came up here a few days ago, and both seem quite content and happy. Already they have invited Hatcher and I over for Christmas dinner, which will indeed be a pleasure since, due to a number of complications too numerous and unimportant to mention here, both Hatcher and I will probably be evicted from our present diggings by then.

We have bought one of the cocker pups from our landlord. His Kennel name is Mr. Chips, to which we added the words “of Shropshire,” because
he’s such a mournful adolescent. I also have a record player now and five albums, including the Beethoven Violin Concerto and the Haydn Cello Concerto. Are you familiar with the latter? I think it’s a beauty.