Steinbeck (39 page)

Well, I will be writing to you often now. There are times of verbosity and times of silence. And I may try to fill up one lack with you and you must not mind that. Whenever I thought of a good thought or picture—I wondered what Ed would think of it and how would he criticize it? The need is there. Maybe you who have taken part of that will have to take all of it now, at least for a while.

Let me ask you to answer to the address on this paper. Because my intellectual life is here now.

So long for now.

Jn

New York
May 25, 1948

Dear Toby:

You are not the most episcotory thing in the world these days but I hope you will be able to bring me from time to time some kind of progress report of what happens out there. As you know Ed was very close to me and meant very much to me. I liked him and I would have done anything in the world for him and when ever it was possible I did what I could. The laboratory without Ed is just a run down piece of real estate and any attempt to maintain it or hold it together is either a piece of morbid wishful thinking or an attempt to use the place simply as a place to live.

Now, there is something else that I want you to look into. I loaned Ed a thousand dollars very recently. I have his correspondence on it and he was to have signed a note for it as he indicates in his letters. This thousand was to be his share of the expenses for the book we were going to do together. That I will have to get back some how. He may have spent it on other things. I know he was pretty strapped and that his beer bill alone was more than he was making.

In spite of what people generally consider, I do not have any money. I have no savings at all and the last couple of years I have joined the great majority and gone into debt at tax time. I spend on trips and things like that only such things as are clearly and legally deductible in the carrying out of my writing. What I am getting down to is that the money must be returned because I haven't got it and I will have to borrow it next year to pay my taxes and pay interest on it. This is what I wanted to tell you.

I think you know that I put a high value on friendship. I have been kicked in the behind quite a bit on this account and that is perfectly all right and I would do it again but there are a number of reasons why I have to toughen up. I have a long book to write, a three year job. There are other situations arising which I will not go into now but that is the one firm and unalterable thing I have. That god damned book is going to get written. I'm forty-six now and if I am going to be a writer I'd better god damned well get to it. I've piddled away a great deal of my time and I haven't an awfully lot left. I don't think you can find anybody in my acquaintance to whom I have not loaned money and that is all right but now I need help in the way of indulgence and support and I am asking for the kind of support I have given to everyone else. Jim Brady used to say that it was fun to pay off if you could afford it, and so it is but I can't afford it any more. I've got trouble coming and bad trouble and I have the book to write and I am going to have to have at least the spiritual support of my friends if I have any.

affectionately
John

New York
May 27, 1948

Dear Ritch and Tal:

There's been a lot of thinking to do. By some intelligence greater than our own, we were able to stay drunk enough or withdrawn enough during the immediate thing. But that comes to an end and I have been sitting alone in my hotel room for some days now. Impact is not sharp now—all dulled out. It would be interesting if we all flew apart now like an alarm clock when you pry off the mainspring with a screw driver. Wouldn't it be interesting if Ed
was
us and that now there wasn't any such thing or that he created out of his own mind something that went away with him. I've wondered a lot about that. How much was Ed and how much was me and which was which.

And another strange thing, I have a great feeling of life again. It's not the same but it is vital and violent. Almost as though I were growing new tissue. Do you feel that at all? There were times of cold terror about doing it alone but now the prop is out and I have a feeling that I can. It won't be the same but it will be done. Do you feel that at all? You know how sometimes in candle light, the room darkens and then lights up again and seems to be brighter. It's kind of like that. I haven't yet got used to the unreality of this new reality but I am sure now it is going to be all right. I remember Ed's words for it even—“This species has experienced channels for all pain and all sorrow and all happiness possible. They are ready when they are needed.”

Then there's another thing. The rock has dropped in the water and the rings are going out and God knows where they will go or for how long or what patterns they will change obliquely. I have to tell this to someone and I guess you are the ones to tell. Nothing about me is the same. It is all changed. Tightening up now but in a different way. Almost a relief to be alone. As though some kind of conscience were removed and a fierceness I haven't had for many years restored. I'm going to work now as I have never worked before, because for the time anyway, that's all there is.

I've been going back over everything. Surprising how many tiny things you can remember—gestures, attitudes, words, expressions and a million incidents. I have wanted to do them once and then put them away for good. And let go.

Don't tear yourselves to pieces so. That's not good nor useful to anyone.

Summer is coming. There's heat in the air today. And I haven't really anything to say, I know.

So long
John

Bedford Hotel
New York
June 19, 1948

Dear Bo:

I had your cable and your good letter but they arrived while I was in Mexico. I am going to write a moving picture while I get on my feet. It is about one of the greatest men who ever lived. His name was Emiliano Zapata. It will be unbearably hard work and that will be a good thing. I have to do that. Gwyn is taking the children to California tonight to stay with her mother for a couple of months. I will stay here and work. It would have been nice to go for a rest but I don't think I could have stood it. After a while I will rest or maybe never. It doesn't much matter. A certain amount of energy must be poured out from one fire or another and then it is done. This Zapata job is worth doing. It can be very fine. I sent you the Pearl recently. I hope it arrives.

I am out of sadness and into fierceness now. That is natural to the organism that feels under attack I guess.

I'm getting this off to you now but in a little while I will write you a long and detailed letter.

So long and I wish I could have rested.

John

New York
June 24, 1948

Dear Bo:

I got back from Mexico last week. Went there to set up research on the life of Zapata which I want to do as a film. This will be very hard work and that is what I need. I should have it done by Christmas and it is a very large job.

I haven't really the slightest idea what is going to happen, Bo. I just have to wait and see. It is a highly complicated thing—as complicated as yours, only different in some ways and there are no exits. I guess you know how that might be. You will simply have to use intuition. There is no second person. In that respect it is unlike yours. The last 10 days I have been drinking too much—not drunk but drinking. That is about over now. It was kind of “between two things” drinking. This is not a sad letter and I don't want it to sound that way. I may be a little vague, however—but I don't think even that. Blood is flowing in my veins again instead of buttermilk.

I wish I could have gone to Sweden but it was not in the cards. Resting I could not do. I need violent work, and violent play, and I am going to have both.

Very strange thing—I had a kind of crack-up over the weekend. It seems to be all over now but it was a little frightening. Got too tired I guess with too many things. Most things are going smoothly. Research is moving and the story line smoothing out. I have a way to beat the fatigue now which is to go into a closed room and shut the door for 24 hours. That seems to work.

Affectionately,
John

58 West 58th Street
New York
August 16, 1948

Dear Bo:

After over four years of bitter unhappiness Gwyn has decided that she wants a divorce, so that is that. It is an old story of female frustration. She wants something I can't give her so she must go on looking. And maybe she will never find out that no one can give it to her. But that is her business now. She has cut me off completely. She feels much relieved now that she has done it and may even be a good friend to me. She will take the children, at least for the time being. And I will go back to Monterey to try to get rested and to get the smell of my own country again. She did one kind thing. She killed my love of her with little cruelties so there is not much shock in all of this. And I will come back. I'm pretty sure I have some material left. But I have to rest like an old dog fox panting beside a stream. I have great sadness but no anger. In Pacific Grove I have the little cottage my father built and I will live and work in it for a while. Maybe I'll come to see you next winter and we'll “sing sad stories of the death of kings”—with herring.

I suppose Gwyn will quarrel over property settlement but she will have to quarrel with lawyers. It is very strange. She did it, wanted it, is upset by it. She will have to have a lot of money until she remarries or makes some other arrangement. It doesn't matter. I really need very little. It is amazing how little I do need.

I don't know whether I ever told you about my little house in Pacific Grove. My father built it before I was born. It has only three rooms and a little garden. But it's a pleasant little house with big trees and I think I will go back to it. Carol and I lived in it for years. I don't for a moment think I will be unrestless there but I'll be restless and lonely anywhere. But at least it will be a place for the transition time and a place to work and I can always leave it. I'll try to get to Sweden maybe next spring or maybe for Christmas. That will be a bad time for me this year and maybe we could raise a little hell to cover up. You see I really do not have any plans. It's all mixed up.

I'll close now and write again when I am a little more settled. I'm pretty much bruised now.

Affectionately,
John

[New York]
[August 17, 1948]

Dear Toby:

This letter is privileged material—all of it. After four years of bitter unhappiness, Gwyn has decided that she wants a divorce. I am inhibiting her and she can't stand me. Now that she has decided, she seems much relieved. There need be no trouble and I can try to build back some of the things that have been torn out of me. This will be a clean one, I think. She will take the children, at least for a while. All of this, however, will be arranged.

I have a little life yet to lead. I'm pretty banged up. In fact I have been for quite a long time as you know. I've got to build back and at the same time I have a lot of work to do. I think I will go back to Monterey to do it—not out of nostalgia but simply because I think I can get rested there. I would like to have my cottage back.

I'm not rushing but sometime soon after the first I will probably be out to see you.

I have a feeling I can get some rest and simplicity in that house. And maybe just fixing the garden up will be good for me.

Please let me hear from you as soon as you can at the address on this envelope. We'll have some good times yet.

Affectionately,
John

 

Please don't mention any of this. Maybe we can keep this clean. Gwyn wants to also.

New York
August 1948

Dear Bo:

Since I wrote a day or so ago I have been thinking and thinking in circles, and it comes out the same. I'll go home for a while and then to Mexico for the picture, and then I would like to spend Christmas with you. And then it should be time for me to start on my long book and maybe a little ease may have set in. Only one thing—by my settlement I am going to be very broke for a very long time and that may limit my movements to some extent.