Steinbeck (56 page)

We lead a very quiet life. Once a week or so we go out to dinner or to the theatre. Once a month or thereabouts people come in. It's much quieter than living in a small town. Very strange but true. People in the city never drop in. They always call first—a manners pattern small towns could well learn.

A fine old bum just went by as he does every day about this time. Apparently he gets drunk every night. Wakes about 3 in the afternoon and goes by eating an enormous piece of bread. I wonder where he gets the money to get drunk. He looks like death. I wonder how he stays alive or why.

I love the winters here. It gets quite cold and people are much more cheerful when it is cold. The first snow is like a holiday. Very good. We have a nice little library with a red rug and big chairs. In winter we build a coal fire in the fire-place and it is a very nice room to be in. I seem to be just flowing out words. But as I said before—it feels good to be writing to you.

I'd better wrap this up I guess. It looks as though it would go on interminably.

So long
John

New York
November 7, 1952

Dear Governor Stevenson:

I hope you will have rest without sadness. The sadness is for us who have lost our chance for greatness when greatness is needed. The Republic will not crumble. But for a little while, please don't reread Thucydides. Republics have—and in just this way.

It has been an honor to work for you—and a privilege. In some future, if you have the time and or the inclination I hope you can come to my house and settle back with a drink and—tell sad stories of the death of Kings.

Thank God for the impeachment provisions.

Yours in disappointment and in hope

John Steinbeck

New York
[December 1952]

Dear Dook:

There is no doubt that this will not be sent for a long time. Elections are over and we lick our wounds and try to find something good. The general has a rough future. I am told he is a very sensitive man who broods over a bad notice. Well—now they have it—let's see what they do with it. There is no excuse about a split Congress or anything.

Your dog sounds interesting and properly come by. Dogs are curious extensions of ourselves. We have two—a cocker belonging to Waverly—Elaine's daughter—a bitch of great appetite—in fact a walking stomach—greedy beyond belief, and also a big French poodle acquired in Paris—the most intelligent dog I've ever seen. I don't need dogs as I once needed them but I like them as much as ever. Once they were absolute necessities to me—emotionally. But if I lived alone I would instantly get one. A house is very dead without a dog. Here in New York we have a little garden. I have made a swinging door of plexiglass so that the dogs can go out when they wish. This removes the New Yorker's necessity of having to walk them. It also makes them much happier.

I'm coming to life again. I like the feeling of the pencil. The second finger of my right hand has a great grooved callus on it into which the pencil fits. And I have an electric pencil sharpener. I use about 200 a day. I love the smooth lead and a sharp point.

You are right about the difficulty of transposing Cannery Row to the stage. I'm not going to do exactly that. I have a whole new story. It will simply be set against the old background. You know Dook—it never gets any easier. The process of writing a book is the process of outgrowing it. I am just as scared now as I was 25 years ago.

I'm talking myself out pretty much. You say you have few friends now. The same is true of me. I have millions of acquaintances and many professional friends but no one to talk basic things to and I'd like to get back to you. You don't have anything against me, do you?

I had never expected to make a living at writing. Then when money began to come in it kind of scared me. I didn't think I deserved it and besides it was kind of bad luck. I gave a lot of it away—tried to spread it around. Maybe it was a kind of propitiation of the gods. It made me a lot of enemies. I was clumsy about it I guess but I didn't want power over any one. Anyway that was the impulse. And it was wrong. But I've done many wrong things. But before I forget it—there is one thing I can do for you that isn't wrong. When you need any books—to buy I mean—I can get them through Viking at 40% discount. Remember that—will you? It makes a very great difference.

I don't have any money problems any more. After living and taxes and alimony, there isn't any left so my problem is solved. We live a good life, quite simple but we don't deny our selves much. We see what theatre we want, and we eat well and sleep warm. I can't think of anything better. Next year we are going to start traveling more. I find I want to see many things.

I do go on, don't I? But it is good to be able to talk—very good. I hope you don't mind.

The play goes on and I'm having fun with it. This should be a danger signal.

I'm going to get this off finally.

love
John

 

I have named the poodle Charles le Chien, le policier de Paris. (puns yet)

New York
December 29 [1952]

Dear Conrad:

I liked Matador for a number of reasons chief of which was that I believed it. I am not informed enough to be an aficionado but that has nothing to do with it. If I had never been near a bull ring I would still have believed it. That makes it good to me. I guess it's communication I'm talking about.

You will be amused at something that happened to me last year. I had very good seats for the week at the Feria in Seville 2nd row sombra right with the newspaper critics. A nice little business type man in a double breasted suit sat next to me all week and he was very kind in explaining many things. My questions were extremely naive and he was very nice to us. Only afterwards did I discover that the little business man was Juan Belmonte.

I am delighted that John Huston is going to do your picture. In addition to his talent, he has such integrity and intelligence that you should be pleased. Give John my greetings. He is an old and valued friend. You couldn't have better.

I am pleased that you like Eden. It is doing better than I had dared to hope. It is our tendency to think when critics do not like our work that they have a scunner. I guess I just don't bring out the best in critics. Maybe I've been around too long. The tradition is that writers of English die young. Maybe that outrages them. The pleasant thing is that people go right on reading the books.

You can't have better than Elizabeth Otis. She has the sharpest mind for story I know of. And no matter how popular you get, she'll still return a story if she doesn't like it. Still does to me. She is wonderful.

Do come to see us.

Sincerely
John Steinbeck

I have a motto you might like to share—se no quieres volar, cuidado con las alas! (“If you don't want to fly, beware of wings.”)

J. S.

[New York]
January 2, 1953

Dear Conrad:

This is a note somewhat in answer to your good letter of this morning. Did I tell you my wife and I are going to St. Thomas? It would be pleasant if you should come down while we're there. I'll throw a line in the water. A fish is not my destiny any more than a bull is but I can understand how either or both could be. But I have no competitive spirit. Don't even care for gambling. There's no sense in it if you don't feel tragic when you lose or triumphant when you win. I like bullfights, because to me it is a lonely, formal, dignified microcosm of what happens to every man, sometimes even in an office strangled by the glue on envelopes. In the bullring he survives for awhile sometimes. Also there's a fierce, unbeaten acceptance of final defeat in the bullring and I love gallantry above all virtues. It is the prime virtue of the individual and the only occidental invention, and being lost as the individual gets lost.

Do you know Annie Laurie Williams? She said a wise thing to me one time. I am reminded of it by your saying you were afraid to get away from the bulls. She said—“I can always tell the work of a young writer learning his trade because his drama is set off by an act of Nature—a storm, volcano, accident. After years he learns to find it in a simple clash of personality with experience.” That's interesting isn't it?—and you can find all kinds of loopholes in it.

The bull is surely the pure symbol of dramatic fate, but within a scope, it is repetitious, purposely so just as the Hail Mary is. On the other hand chess is not. I don't favor either one over the other but you will do well with the incredible corrida where men and women battle poverty (or riches), fear, hurt, insult, triumph, and finally the great bull, Death. There's a piedras negras for you.

I'm tired. I'm going to look down into the sea and watch little animals doing it for two weeks.

See you soon.

J.S.

 

You're lucky in your first name. There was another good writer with your last.

New York
[March 1953]

Dear Miss Geffen:

Will you send me some buttons? My kids pulled mine apart to see how the crinkle got in the ribbon. I deplore it but I always wanted to know too, so I had the double pleasure of finding out and punishing them at the same time.

Have you heard of the left bank painter who fell in love and left his café and friends for his beauty?

One of the two maggots visited him and found to his horror that the girl had three eyes.

“But she's dreadful,” he cried.

“Academician!” said the lover.

 

No offense

J. S.

New York
March 13, 1953

Dear Val:

It was a very nice thing to get your letter and I am glad you like the work. I surely moved around with a manure fork, I suppose, in doing it, and I was amazed at how much I was able to remember and I suppose I didn't remember a great deal.

I have had no reaction from Salinas regarding the book, but I have had previous experience which would indicate to me that the Salinas reaction would not be good. When I wrote Tortilla Flat, for instance, the Monterey Chamber of Commerce issued a statement that it was a damned lie and that no such place or people existed. Later, they began running buses to the place where they thought it might be.

When I did Cannery Row, I had not only a charge from the Monterey Chamber of Commerce, but from the Fish Canners Association which came to the defense of Cannery Row people with a knightly intensity. They later reversed themselves, too. So I should imagine Salinas is waiting to find out what the reaction of the rest of the country is before they decide whether they will approve of me or disapprove of me. I do not think they approve of me very highly.

It occurs to me that probably the most heartbreaking title in the world is Tom Wolfe's “You Can't Go Home Again”—it's literally true. They want no part of me except in a pine box.

I am terribly interested in what you say about my father and mother. I think no one ever had more loyalty than I had from my parents. This was—or must have been—particularly painful to them, in that I was doing something that the town considered nuts and bad taste. Being intelligent people, my parents knew that my chances of making a living at writing were about one in a million—horse racing is a sure thing compared to it. A couple of years ago I came across a story about my father which I think might interest you. When my first book came out, I didn't know it, but he apparently tried to get a few of my townspeople to buy a copy or so of it. They were not very much interested in so doing, but, as you know, we lived in Pacific Grove part of the time, and my father went to Mr. Holman of Holman's Store, and asked him if he wouldn't lay in a few copies of it—the book was called Cup of Gold. Mr. Holman said that if people wanted it and ordered it, he would certainly send for it, but he didn't think that he could go out on a limb and put any in stock, and so he did not. Well—many years later, Mrs. Holman began collecting my work, and she had to pay $78.00 for a copy of the book which, remaindered, could have been bought for 2c. or 3c. a copy. She blamed Mr. Holman for not having literary taste and she resents very much having to pay such a premium. It was a surprise to me that my father had tried to sell books for me. He did not succeed, but I honor him for having tried.

There is nothing I would rather do than to stop by and drink some of your grappa. Do you make it yourself? I wonder if I could still have the stomach for it. I remember we used to drink it out in Alisal and it had a distinct kerosene taste and the rule was then not to light a match within three minutes of having had a drink of it.

Thank you for writing. It's good to hear from you.

Yours very sincerely,
John