Steinbeck (86 page)

Marion, strange things happen. I think I know the beginning of the break between Dook and me—the point from which no return was possible. It was due to a stupidity of mine but I have been guilty of many. I'll tell you about it. I don't think I've ever told anyone else because of a flood of shame at my own lack of sensitiveness.

There were the years of the rejected work and the published books that were financial flops and they went on so long that it became the normal life. Then without warning my books began to sell and money began to come in. It scared the hell out of me because there was not and is not any payment which relates to the work in a book. So I gave the money away in all directions. And then I got my ill-conceived plan, and I worked it out in detail by myself. Dook was to go on with his formal education—Oxford or Cambridge for a Master's and the University of London for his Doctorate. It seemed so simple. I had the money. It didn't seem to be my money. Dook was broke. He was academic material and I wasn't. Well, I took the finished plan to him stupidly thinking he would be glad. His rage was cold and fierce. I see it now, and I see why now. But I swear to you that I had no feeling of charity, only of sharing. And a coldness set in that has never been overcome. Oh! I see now how he felt. From my misguided impulse both of us got hurt feelings and suspicions. He felt insulted and I felt slapped down. And there were no words for either of us for the truth. And by the time we were ready for truth, the drift had taken place and you can't do anything about drift. If we hadn't both been bruised, we might have fought against it.

And I think that's where it started—in my clumsiness. Since then I've learned what a dreadful weapon or tool money is but then, I'd had no experience with it. It was bright stuff and I wanted to spread it around, overlooking the brighter stuff of human feelings. Isn't it remarkable how suspect good intentions must be? If I had it to do again, I think I would still find the plan good and valid but perhaps I will have learned the technique of giving without wounding. Of course Dook had the much harder row—that of receiving and he wasn't any more prepared for receiving than I was for giving. It seems to me a little sad that we are only prepared to live at about the time of leaving life. Now I don't think I have ever told that to a soul before because I was ashamed and when one is ashamed, he builds a wall of defenses and justifications. And on such small ineptnesses and accidents lives are changed and destinies directed.

I would not have you think I am complaining. I've had a good, full, painful life. I've thoroughly enjoyed my work. I believe that is one of the critical charges leveled against me. I've tried to write the truth as I saw it and I have not held on to a truth when it became false. When the tap came, I was ready—too ready—even anxious. But on inspection this seemed wrong to me and I closed that door and I can't ever open it again. And it hasn't seemed long, but sometimes it seems endless. And then the radishes come up and there are baby rabbits on the lawn and a small delighted conceit becomes a sound of a book and the whole world is fresh and new and wonderful again. So if there is any overtone of regret in this letter, ignore it. I regret my stupidities but only as I might regret my big ears and shapeless nose. They are all a part of me and I could no more cut off my stupidities than my nose to spite my face.

This, which intended just to be a note—has turned into a sluggish muddy essay. But thanks to you for writing. Your letter opened a room which needed airing.

Love to you
John

1961
Began ten months' trip abroad with his family.

1962
Travels
with Charley
published. Steinbeck received Nobel Prize for Literature.

The Dorchester
London
September 19, 1961

Dear Elizabeth:

News of D.H.'s [Dag Hammarskjöld] death so devastating it's hard to think. Two weeks ago last night I had dinner with him.

My hand is shaking pretty badly, isn't it? Guess Dag's death hit hard. I'm all shaky inside. Have been reading the appraisals of his character in the paper and I guess I knew a different man than they did. He was neither cold, cool, dispassionate nor neutral. He was a man passionate about what he was doing. He wrote letters all over the world to people he wanted me to talk to. That last night I asked him what I could do for him and he said, “Sit on the ground and talk to people. That's the most important thing.” And I said, “You keep well. That's the most important.” He said, “I'm all right. Don't worry about me.” And as I was leaving he repeated that—“I'm all right! Don't you worry!” Is that a cold man?

I just can't seem to write a coherent letter today. I'll do better later. I'm all shook up.

Love to all there,
John

London
September 23, 1961

Dear Adlai:

I had a letter from a friend today which ended thus—“Poor Mr. Stevenson—he must feel like God's Last Good Man. Wish I could send him a word of cheer.” And so do I. And so I try.

You must have awakened with a sentence in your mind as though it had been spoken. The night after the crash I had such an experience and the words were odd—“Baldus is dead! Loki has won again—but Baldus does not remain dead.”

Once Emiliano Zapata, the Mexican revolutionary, said, on being warned that he would be assassinated—“Then that's the way it must be and perhaps better, for some men find their real and permanent strength there. I think,” he continued, “of Benito Juarez, of Abraham Lincoln, of Jesus Christ. Death only kills little men.” And he was illiterate.

Friday next we start our wandering. But if you have some small wish for service from me, I can be found through Elizabeth Otis.

Yours,
John

The Blue Ball
Bruton, Somerset
October 1, 1961

Dear Elizabeth:

Sunday today and Elaine and the boys churchifying. Wonderful to come back to Somerset.

Terrence is locked in mortal combat with Thorn who has brought out his great arsenal for resisting learning anything. I don't know who is going to win but he can't escape a good try this time. But it's a sad thing to watch.

The weather is that fine combination of sun and rain, probably the best time of the year. We had lunch at Discove yesterday and after went up to our cottage. It looked very pretty and we were very emotional about it. Kai Leslie [of Discove Manor] laid on a great luncheon of Scotch grouse and farmhouse cheddar. The whole thing is like coming home.

The car we have rented is a Ford station wagon but even then we have too much luggage. We shall be out of touch to a certain extent for a time. We are going to try to reserve at Chagford on the edge of Dartmoor on next Wednesday. Tomorrow we will all go to Glastonbury and Wells and the next day move down toward Cornwall.

Love,
John

Dublin
October 17, 1961

Dear Frank and Jo:

In the dark the other night I wrote in my head a whole dialogue between St. George and the Dragon. Very close relatives those two. Neither could exist without the other. They are eternally tied together—actually two parts of one whole. I guess the Greek had the truest conception of that in the centaurs, the man only partly emerged from the beast. But you will notice that centaurs steal and screw only women, never fillies. So the urge is toward man and away from beast. So St. George must always kill the dragon and it must be repeated because if the dragon were finally killed, there would be no St. George—only a lonely man looking for something to do.

I still want to write a story about Greece. Maybe you Frank, might like to help. It's about something that happened a little while ago. Some strange fishermen at a harvest festival stole Miss Grape Leaf of 1956 with her help. But she was engaged to the local strong boy. Well, he got his friends and his creditors and his relatives together because not only were his feelings hurt but who could feel safe when strangers steal your dame? So they went to the island where those sponge divers lived and after a lot of pretty dirty fighting they tore the place apart and got the girl back and so right triumphed and everybody got destroyed. And it was fine.

Then there is another one I started a long time ago. Max Anderson and Kurt Weil and I worked on it together but we never got it finished. It's about a negro soldier demobbed in the north and he wants to go home only the Okefenokee Swamp is in his way. He meets a little old conjure woman and he meets a big son of a bitch with one eye and he meets a pretty nice yellow girl but he still wants to go home. And he does and nobody knows him but a coon hound. Kurt started to write the music of an ode to a hound dog but he never finished it. And Max went haywire and both of them died. But it was my idea in the first place.

So maybe you and I should do it. You always like to do wandering stories and you've got the call away in everything you do. But if you
are
away, the call would be for home. The call is always for where you aren't. Would you like to do that? You've got a great big hit now and if you're anything like me, and you are a little, you'll have to do penance for it. Whenever a book of mine gets too biggety, I feel I've failed some way. This doesn't mean I don't like hits. I love them but I don't trust them. They carry a poison gland. Anyone can survive a flop but a great big hit has to be paid for with humility and grandeur.

And as you can feel from all this, I do hear the low rumble of poetry. The greatest stories are the oldest ones because they didn't fall down. We go to see cathedrals, great, freestanding marvels, but there were lots of others that fell down and aren't there to see. And there's never been anything truer than Hector coming out to meet Achilles with all the women on the walls watching. And suddenly he got scared and he turned and ran away and Achilles killed him. But that only happened when he found he couldn't get away and turned to fight. It happened to me when I was a little kid. There was a big black parson's boy named Laguna and he was after me. I used to sneak home from school to get in our house but I made a wrong turn and he cornered me in our side yard where there was no exit. I was so scared of him that I went mad with fright. My sister Beth pulled me off him. I was on top of him hitting him on the head with a half brick. And if Beth hadn't saved me, I would have killed him out of pure fear. So I can understand Hector very well. Homer said his blood turned to water, and so did mine. And I guess everyone has lived all of the great stories and that's why they are great.

Love to you both,
John

Dublin
October 17, 1961

Dear Elizabeth:

We had a note from Tom Guinzburg [son of Harold Guinzburg, Steinbeck's publisher] this morning saying that Harold was dying. We've just called Tom and he says it is very soon, perhaps in twenty-four hours. This is a numbing thing. I can't grow used to the thought. In March we went diving with aqualungs. I guess it's the speed of the thing. There is no milestone for comparison. It seems uncalled for. But I realize that none of those sentences make any sense whatever.

The fact of the matter is that people of our generation are coming of the age to die. Nothing strange or unusual about that unless we find it strange. The boys had a serious and private meeting and reported that if we wanted to fly home, they would carry on. And they would and would do it well too. Of course the main worry is for Alice [Mrs. Harold Guinzburg]. She has little experience in taking care of herself. Only I suspect that she is much tougher than she looks or seems to be.

[unsigned]

Dublin
October 17, 1961

Dear Pat

We had the appalling news about Harold this morning and it has stunned us. Of course we knew long ago it was inevitable but the speed and ferocity of the attack was not anticipated and we haven't even come by a way to think about it yet.

We came across to Dublin where we have never been. It's a city of smells and darkness and now we'll never know how much of the darkness we have brought to it. We talked to Tom this morning and he told us it would be very soon. There doesn't seem to be any way to prepare for it. People in the Middle Ages surrounded themselves with the symbols of death and I wonder whether they succeeded. But this particular opponent seems to fight like an enemy. It would be good if one could fight back. Failing that one is left with a kind of rage.

Elaine bewails the fact that we are not there to help. I can't think what we would help with but probably she would find a way. I guess it's just putting one foot in front of the other and moving on. That's the way it's done until it is over. But here we seem cut off and very far away.

love
John

The George
Chollerford,
Northumberland
October 23, 1961

Dear Alice—

The times of the most agonizing need for communication are those when there is nothing that can be said in words.

You know how much we are with you and have been, and that the wounds are mutual. I can't offer any of the usual sops. They don't mean anything. We love you is about the only thing that has any meaning, even if a small one.