Saul Bellow_ Letters Part 30

Dear Maggie- I'm troubled about your visit-it seems too soon. Europe has left me with still raw hurts, not likely to heal in a short time. I don't want them reopened, nor do I want you to be hurt again, and my heart tells me to let things ride, to recover first and not to force anything. For the sake of continuing friendship, we ought to keep away from each other.

Love,

To Harvey Swados August 30, 1969 Nantucket Dear Harvey: The novel I have as you say "committed" has kept me busy, and galleys, etc. will continue to keep me busy until October. If it's only advice, mine would be no better than other people's and probably inferior to Candida's. But if you want me to read your book, I can do that in October. I'll be back in Chicago as the nights lengthen. If that does you any good, I am your obedient servant.

As I read your letter I see that we don't share very many basic a.s.sumptions. No other two college Trotskyites can have gotten so very far apart. I doubt that I have more use for Nixon and Johnson than you have. My going to the White House [in June 1965] was nonsense, probably. It pleased no one, myself least of all. I wouldn't have gone at all if I had been obliged by my own obstinacy to mark my disagreement with all parties. First I made my views on Vietnam and Santo Domingo as clear as possible in the Times Times, and then declared that I would go to show my respect for the President's office-the office of Lincoln. I know about Harding, too, and Chester A. Arthur, but I am not at all prepared to secede. I am not a revolutionary. I have little respect for American revolutionaries as I know them, and I have known them quite well. I don't like the Susan Sontag bit about a doomed America. I had my fill of the funnyhouse in Coney Island.

A reliable source tells me that Johnson's view of the White House culture gala was as follows: "They insult me by comin', they insult me by stayin' away." Could Dwight Macdonald have been more succinct? In fact they have a lot in common.

My best to Bette.

Yrs,

To Philip Roth December 12, 1969 Chicago Dear Philip: Your note did me a lot of good, though I haven't known what or how to answer. Of course the so-called fabricators will be grinding their knives. They have none of that ingenuous, possibly childish love of literature you and I have. They take a sort of Roman engineering view of things: grind everything in rubble and build cultural monuments on this foundation from which to fly the Bulls.h.i.t flag.

Anyway, it pleases me greatly that you liked Sammler. Sammler. There aren't many people in the trade for whom I have any use. But I knew when I hit Chicago (was it twelve years ago?) and read your stories that you were the real thing. When I was a little kid, there were still blacksmiths around, and I've never forgotten the ring of a real hammer on a real anvil. There aren't many people in the trade for whom I have any use. But I knew when I hit Chicago (was it twelve years ago?) and read your stories that you were the real thing. When I was a little kid, there were still blacksmiths around, and I've never forgotten the ring of a real hammer on a real anvil.

Do you like Woodstock? I lived across the river for eight years. Was Was it living? But the place was not to blame. It was beautiful. it living? But the place was not to blame. It was beautiful.

Yours,

PART FOUR.

1970-1982.

You know? There's the most extraordinary, unheard-of poetry buried in America, but none of the conventional means known to culture can even begin to extract it. But now this is true of the world as a whole. The agony is too deep, the disorder too big for art enterprises undertaken in the old way. Now I begin to understand what Tolstoi was getting at when he called on mankind to cease the false and unnecessary comedy of history and begin simply to live.

-Humboldt's Gift

1970.

To John Berryman January 19, 1970 Dear John- Without preliminaries, we have a magazine-Harold Rosenberg, Keith Botsford and I, and of course no magazine involving me can work without you. Poems are essential. Could you also, as with Shakespeare at thirty, think of doing Mozart at twenty, or Bach at forty? [ . . . ]

I am going to London for three weeks to escape the book reviews.

Love,

The magazine was Anon, Anon, a single issue of which would appear. a single issue of which would appear.

To Margaret Staats February [?], 1970 [Postcard of "Tippoo's Tiger" at Victoria and Albert Museum]

The sultan had the device wound up, and the British soldier being killed would cry "Help, Mercy." It gave the sultan endless pleasure.

As ever,

To Frances Gendlin [Postmark illegible; postcard of Debre Berhan Sela.s.sie Church, Gondar, Ethiopia]

Dear Fran- Now Ethiopia. Swept through Kenya and Uganda. Minimum of dysentery. Great fatigue. Bought a mine with Peltz. Feeling grand but I miss you.

To Frances Gendlin February 9, 1970 New Avenue Hotel, Nairobi, Kenya Well, the whole mining deal was pure con. Peltz's man w'd not appear. Evidently it was an intercontinental swindle. Hugely funny.

So we are making a safari, and this is written on a bucking plane en route to Kampala, to Murchison Falls. We shall see elephants and crocodiles.

I'd have been very glad if you had joined me, for I do miss you, and no number of elephants and crocodiles can take your place. Nights especially. Forgive me for hoping mildly that the weather is bad in Chicago. African planes are are hot. I'm sweating. But in Africa one must. Imagine: "He toured Africa without sweating" (said of a cold man, and I am not cold). hot. I'm sweating. But in Africa one must. Imagine: "He toured Africa without sweating" (said of a cold man, and I am not cold).

Love, To Frances Gendlin [Postmark illegible; postcard of two lionesses, Uganda]

Dear Fran- This, the Upper Nile, is simply astonishing. If the tsetse fly doesn't bite me I shall never forget it. If it does, give away my Mercedes and burn my bills. I sh'd have asked you along.

Love, To Frances Gendlin [n.d.] Hotel Raphael, Rome I am writing with a ballpoint quill in the lobby of this hotel-an original idea. Why didn't I think of it? The hotel is entirely like that, up-to-date Renaissance. You'd adore it.

I planned to go back to London today, but it's raining fiercely in Rome and I haven't the flying stomach for it after the trips from Addis Ababa to Asmara to Khartoum to Cairo to Athens and here, twelve hours that left me somewhat vacant and pill-bilious (for the troubled gut, for malaria and for sniffles I took a weird mixture of tablets, and Peltz and I drank beer continually, dying of thirst and fearing the water).

This trip I think has met the purpose. I am better, more settled in mind and am willing-no, longing-to come back to 5805 [Dorchester Ave.]. You're a lovely woman, Fran, I've been fortunate, and I've missed you greatly. I'll phone from London in a few days. I expect to depart from Europe about the 26th.

Love, To Edward Shils February 25, 1970 Chicago Dear Ed- The porter at King's [College] said that you were in the U.S. and that you were expected on Thursday, therefore I was certain I would see you in Chicago but we must have missed each other by a few hours, for on Monday (Feb. 23rd) you were already gone.

I didn't want to spend time in Europe: I was eager to get to Africa. It did not disappoint me. Murchison Falls and the White Nile stunned me. With my "civilized" habit of diminishing or scaling down large impressions in advance, I had thought myself ready for Nature's grandeur (having seen the movies) but all my preparations were (luckily) driven away by the actual sight of the great river.

In Nairobi, Peltz and I seem to have acquired an interest in a beryllium mine. Of course it is mere playfulness for me. I did it in a carnival spirit. Peltz I think is very earnest about it. In any case, it absorbed and amused me for a while and helped to clear my mind of shadows.

I'm sorry we missed each other. When will you come again?

Love,

To Jean Stafford [n.d.] [Chicago]

Dear Jean, Since our little visit and since your kind note was written I have flown to and from Kenya, Uganda, Ethiopia, Texas and Florida, and have just returned from DeKalb, Illinois. Next week I must go-Must? How strange these self-imposed musts musts are!-to Lafayette, Indiana, Cincinnati, Ohio, and St. Cloud, Minnesota. Why I am doing all this I can't easily explain. A golf ball may have gotten in among my genes. I am not one of those monsters of ingrat.i.tude of the type you and I have so often met; I was very grateful to you for visiting that cold house with the giddy staircase. I was tempted strongly to buy it but there was only one room that suited me, and it looked out over the swimming pool and all the wild jollity would have a.s.sailed me as I tried to finish a sentence. As you perhaps observed in my last book, I have very nearly given up on sentence endings and matters would only have gotten worse in a noisy house. I have not quite given up on East Hampton. Now I am in touch with people in Montauk and Shelter Island and I am sure to turn up soon. I remind myself of those German commandoes who used to come down in parachutes disguised as nuns or dog catchers. are!-to Lafayette, Indiana, Cincinnati, Ohio, and St. Cloud, Minnesota. Why I am doing all this I can't easily explain. A golf ball may have gotten in among my genes. I am not one of those monsters of ingrat.i.tude of the type you and I have so often met; I was very grateful to you for visiting that cold house with the giddy staircase. I was tempted strongly to buy it but there was only one room that suited me, and it looked out over the swimming pool and all the wild jollity would have a.s.sailed me as I tried to finish a sentence. As you perhaps observed in my last book, I have very nearly given up on sentence endings and matters would only have gotten worse in a noisy house. I have not quite given up on East Hampton. Now I am in touch with people in Montauk and Shelter Island and I am sure to turn up soon. I remind myself of those German commandoes who used to come down in parachutes disguised as nuns or dog catchers.

You are going to receive a very long essay in which I attack everyone. I think you will enjoy reading what I had to say about some of our dear old Village pals.

Much love, Stafford lived in the village of Springs, New York, north of East Hampton. She had done Bellow the favor of going to examine a house he was interested in buying. The all-attacking essay would be "Culture Now: Some Animadversions, Some Laughs," shortly to appear in Philip Rahv's Modern Occasions Modern Occasions.

To William Maxwell March 14, 1970 Chicago Dear Mr. Maxwell, I am greatly honored by your invitation. I am also taken aback by it. For two weeks I have been writing a polemical essay-Contra Tutti. It is intemperate, and names names. I've worked myself into a bad mood. Your kind letter makes me recognize what I have been up to, and how unfit I have made myself for composing a Blashfield Address. If you had asked for fulminations, for wickedness, I'd have been able to accept. It is intemperate, and names names. I've worked myself into a bad mood. Your kind letter makes me recognize what I have been up to, and how unfit I have made myself for composing a Blashfield Address. If you had asked for fulminations, for wickedness, I'd have been able to accept.

I remember our meeting at Smith. You were the one speaker in that symposium who did not misbehave. I admired, and envied, your conduct.

Sincerely yours,

Novelist, story writer and editor William Maxwell, at this time president of the American Academy and National Inst.i.tute of Arts and Letters, had invited Bellow to deliver the organization's annual Blashfield Address.

To Inge Feltrinelli April 1, 1970 Chicago Dear Inge, Of course I am well. I don't know whether I am happy, and can't undertake the necessary research. [ . . . ] I saw Letizia Ciotti Miller in Rome; she wants to translate Mr. S. Mr. S. I have heard also from Sr. Mantovani, who wrote me a pa.s.sionate letter which I have not been able to answer and which fills me with embarra.s.sment whenever I shuffle through my letters (a most depressing exercise). Paolo Milano prefers Letizia for this job and, since drinking coffee with her, I too favor her. I liked her very much. She is something between a crushed rose and a cabbage-that is to say, large, vegetable, fragrant and damaged. It is up to you to translate my feelings into executive orders, and to satisfy Mantovani, and give the book to Letizia. I suppose, though, that Erich Linder should have something to say about this. I have heard also from Sr. Mantovani, who wrote me a pa.s.sionate letter which I have not been able to answer and which fills me with embarra.s.sment whenever I shuffle through my letters (a most depressing exercise). Paolo Milano prefers Letizia for this job and, since drinking coffee with her, I too favor her. I liked her very much. She is something between a crushed rose and a cabbage-that is to say, large, vegetable, fragrant and damaged. It is up to you to translate my feelings into executive orders, and to satisfy Mantovani, and give the book to Letizia. I suppose, though, that Erich Linder should have something to say about this.

Can't you find a beautiful sanctuary in the Mediterranean for me this summer?

Inge Feltrinelli (born 1931) was president of Giangiacomo Feltrinelli Editore, a position she had a.s.sumed after the death of her husband. Erich Linder (1924-1983), the leading literary agent in postwar Italy, represented Bellow there.

To Stanley B. Troup, M.D.

April 1, 1970 Chicago Dear Dr. Troup: The t.i.tle of your symposium intrigues me greatly, and I should certainly attend if I were free. My duties at the University, however, will keep me here in Chicago.

It was Samuel Johnson who said, "Grief, Sir, is a species of idleness." Though I do not quite agree with the old boy, I think he deserves to be taken seriously. It would certainly do many grievers good. I myself have been braced by it.

Sincerely yours,

Dr. Troup was organizing a conference on grief.

To Melvin Tumin April 11, 1970 Chicago Dear Mel I'm delighted! Thanks. As to how I do it-I suppose I do as my mother did, baking strudel.

Roth has been kind about the book, too. It rather set me up.

As for Life-even at best one feels deprived of something. I'm not of the stuff of which Public Figures are made. You don't want to be ignored, but there ought to be a saner mean.

Or, in Yiddish: Di kale is tzu sheyn? Di kale is tzu sheyn? [ [83]

Much love, To Bracha Weingrod April 24, 1970 Chicago Dear Mrs. Weingrod: Your idea is a fine one but I had to decide years ago whether to write in English or in Yiddish, and when I opted for English the Yiddish began to wither. To members of my immediate family (of my own generation) I still speak Yiddish, and I sometimes read a Yiddish book, but I doubt that I could write a play in mother tongue. If I did my mother would not be amused.

Sincerely yours,

To Sara S. Chapman May 30, 1970 Chicago Dear Miss Chapman: You may be right about Augie March Augie March and the romantic tradition, but I am afraid that I can offer little in the way of support to your theory. When I wrote and the romantic tradition, but I am afraid that I can offer little in the way of support to your theory. When I wrote Augie Augie I had of course read I had of course read Moby d.i.c.k Moby d.i.c.k and the stories of Melville, but I knew nothing then about and the stories of Melville, but I knew nothing then about Pierre Pierre. I am somewhat ashamed of the dark ignorance that enclosed me then. Though I was in a state of great enthusiasm I was not thinking clearly. I wish I had known more about certain matters. But I became absorbed in the Chicago scene, the social history of the late Twenties and the depression, and I had not the insight to realize that the naivete of my hero was very unsatisfactory indeed. To my mind he is more like the Sherwood Anderson gee-whiz ingenue than like the gothic and far more interesting romantic hero of Melville's book. As to romanticism, anyone who attended the public schools of Chicago prior to 1932 was immersed in Long-fellow, Whittier, Bryant, Fenimore Cooper and the Transcendentalists. We were all infected by this New England moralizing and were weighted down by a certain idealism which, in our surroundings, was comically irrelevant-simply funny. Like Gatsby in love.

Sincerely yours,