Saul Bellow_ Letters Part 34

Bellow's self-interview would appear that autumn in the inaugural issue of Ontario Review. Ontario Review.

To Anthony G.o.dwin [n.d.] [Chicago]

Dear Mr. G.o.dwin: Is cosseted cosseted the word? Two days of your proposed program would put me in the hospital, on tranquillizers for a month. When your invitation was conveyed to me by Catharine Carver I thought the visit was to be made British-style, with dignified reticence. But I see you have an American promotional scheme; or go, rather, beyond the wildest promotional fantasies of Madison Ave. I never do the promotion bit here. As Katie can tell you, I shun TV appearances and avoid the speaker's platform. I was willing enough to give a lecture or two, hold one press meeting, tape one BBC program and attend a party. But your lunch parties, trips to Suss.e.x and Edinburgh and "serious" television programs are out of the question. The very thought of them paralyzes me. With half your schedule I could be elected to Congress, and never leave my district. What we need is a compromise. On my terms. I will come for several days and make several appearances, the number to be strictly limited. I don't want my time utilized to the fullest extent. What a terrifying thought! the word? Two days of your proposed program would put me in the hospital, on tranquillizers for a month. When your invitation was conveyed to me by Catharine Carver I thought the visit was to be made British-style, with dignified reticence. But I see you have an American promotional scheme; or go, rather, beyond the wildest promotional fantasies of Madison Ave. I never do the promotion bit here. As Katie can tell you, I shun TV appearances and avoid the speaker's platform. I was willing enough to give a lecture or two, hold one press meeting, tape one BBC program and attend a party. But your lunch parties, trips to Suss.e.x and Edinburgh and "serious" television programs are out of the question. The very thought of them paralyzes me. With half your schedule I could be elected to Congress, and never leave my district. What we need is a compromise. On my terms. I will come for several days and make several appearances, the number to be strictly limited. I don't want my time utilized to the fullest extent. What a terrifying thought!

I am of course delighted to have you publish my books and I appreciate greatly your desire to launch them with flame and thunder. More than once, however, I've seen writers ride bicycles on the high-wire, eat fire, gash themselves open to call attention to their books. They end up with little more than a scorched nose, a broken bone.

Sincerely,

Anthony G.o.dwin was editorial director at Weidenfeld and Nicholson.

To Owen Barfield June 3, 1975 Chicago Dear Mr. Barfield: I've read several of your books-Saving the Appearances, the collection of essays on Romanticism, a long dialogue the name of which I can't remember just now and, quite recently, the collection of essays on Romanticism, a long dialogue the name of which I can't remember just now and, quite recently, Unancestral Voice, Unancestral Voice, a fascinating book. I am not philosopher enough to argue questions of rationality or irrationality, but there are things that seem to me self-evident, so markedly self-evident and felt that the problem of proving or disproving their reality becomes academic. Like you I am tired of all the talk about what matters and avoidance of what a fascinating book. I am not philosopher enough to argue questions of rationality or irrationality, but there are things that seem to me self-evident, so markedly self-evident and felt that the problem of proving or disproving their reality becomes academic. Like you I am tired of all the talk about what matters and avoidance of what really really matters. matters.

I'd be very grateful for the opportunity to talk to you about the Meggid and about Gabriel and Michael and their antagonists. I'm afraid I don't understand the account you give of the powers of darkness. I am, I a.s.sure you, very much in earnest.

Sincerely yours,

P.S. I got your address from Mr. Charles Monteith of Faber.

Owen Barfield (1898-1997), barrister, man of letters, disciple of Rudolf Steiner and expounder of Anthroposophy, Steiner's teaching, published many books including Poetic Diction: A Study in Meaning Poetic Diction: A Study in Meaning (1928) and (1928) and What Coleridge Thought What Coleridge Thought (1971). (1971).

To Harriet Wa.s.serman July 1, 1975 Casa Alison, Carb.o.n.e.ras, Almeria, Spain Dear Harriet: You'll think it odd that I never wrote to thank you for the magnificent party and the dinner, and it is odd, but I've been oddly tired. This is Sixties Fatigue, and I'm not talking about the last decade. It's only now, after a week in Carb.o.n.e.ras, that I'm able to face a piece of paper. Well, it was a significant party that you gave me, with champagne, Chinese food, big surprises and Roman splendor. I was touched. It's seldom that anyone takes so much trouble over me-say, once in sixty years. I'm not used to it (to say the least!). It gave me joy. It also troubled me somewhat because I thought, "So something like this can can be done by some for others?" I had be done by some for others?" I had heard heard about that. And now it becomes a glorious memory. I feel like the small girl in about that. And now it becomes a glorious memory. I feel like the small girl in Little Dorrit Little Dorrit who couldn't forget the hospital-the " who couldn't forget the hospital-the "orspital," I mean.

It appears I have to run to catch the postman with this, so I'll sign off. Write me a letter.

Love,

To David Peltz July 2, 1975 Casa Alison, Carb.o.n.e.ras, Almeria, Spain Dear Dave: The place is beautiful. I'm not, particularly. I arrived in an exhausted state and have been sleeping, swimming, eating, reading and little else. Let's see if I can get myself flushed out. Life lays a heavy material material weight on us in the States-things, cares, money. But I think that the reason why I feel it so much is that I let myself go, here, and let myself feel six decades of trying hard, and of fatigue. My character is like a taste in my mouth. I've tasted better tastes. But it'll pa.s.s, and one of these days I'll be able to see that the ocean is beautiful. And the mountains, and the plants, and the birds. Life isn't kind to people who took it on themselves to do something about life. Uh- weight on us in the States-things, cares, money. But I think that the reason why I feel it so much is that I let myself go, here, and let myself feel six decades of trying hard, and of fatigue. My character is like a taste in my mouth. I've tasted better tastes. But it'll pa.s.s, and one of these days I'll be able to see that the ocean is beautiful. And the mountains, and the plants, and the birds. Life isn't kind to people who took it on themselves to do something about life. Uh-unh!

Adam is here with us-a marvelous young man, surprisingly good-natured for a son of mine. He smiles at his peevish pa and goes on reading science fiction and thrillers. The queen [Bellow's new wife, Alexandra] is good-natured, too. She's in her parlor eating mathematical bread and honey. Even I have an occasional good moment, and when I've slept myself out I may stop being such a bear.

I want to wish you a happy birthday and to ask whether you found time to stop at the Corbins and pick up the trifles I bought for you. I often think about you and wonder how it is to have lost a father at sixty. Sixty alone is hard enough. But I shan't talk to you about death now. G.o.d knows there's plenty of that in the book. Oddly enough, I don't think much about Humboldt Humboldt . It's like the end of something. I'm like a fat Sonja Henie-no more fancy figures on the ice. Overweight. That's the end of that. I'm hanging up my skates, retiring. If I ever try it again, it'll be in my own back yard for G.o.d's amus.e.m.e.nt. . It's like the end of something. I'm like a fat Sonja Henie-no more fancy figures on the ice. Overweight. That's the end of that. I'm hanging up my skates, retiring. If I ever try it again, it'll be in my own back yard for G.o.d's amus.e.m.e.nt.

Best to Doris, and love,

Bellow had married Romanian-born mathematician Alexandra Ionescu Tulcea the previous autumn.

To Owen Barfield July 15, 1975 Carb.o.n.e.ras, Almeria, Spain Dear Mr. Barfield- That you should come down to London to answer the ignorant questions of a stranger greatly impressed me. I daresay I found the occasion far more interesting than you could. You were most patient with a beginner trying to learn his A-B-C's. I continue to study your Unancestral Voice Unancestral Voice. It's hard going-some forty years of thought and reading condensed-but I have a strong hunch that you are giving a true account of things. In these matters illumination counts for as much as the sort of "hard proofs" we have been brought up to demand, and lately I have become aware, not of illumination itself, but of a kind of illuminated fringe-a peripheral glimpse of a different state of things. This makes little sense to you perhaps.

Thank you for coming to talk to me.

Sincerely,

To Owen Barfield July 24, 1975 Carb.o.n.e.ras, Almeria, Spain Dear Mr. Barfield: Your letter was very welcome. I'm glad you saw some merit in Herzog. Herzog. At the Athenaeum [Barfield's London club, where he and Bellow had lunched] I was a totally unknown quant.i.ty and felt that I had failed to show why I should be taken seriously. I continue to pore over At the Athenaeum [Barfield's London club, where he and Bellow had lunched] I was a totally unknown quant.i.ty and felt that I had failed to show why I should be taken seriously. I continue to pore over Unancestral Voice Unancestral Voice and it is most important that you should be willing to discuss it with me. I can readily see why you would take little interest in contemporary fiction. Those who read it and write it are easily satisfied with what your Meggid calls lifeless memory-thoughts. For some time now I have been asking what kind of knowledge a writer has and in what way he deserves to be taken seriously. He has imagination where others have science, etc. But it wasn't until I read your book on Romanticism that I began to understand something about the defeat of imaginative knowledge in modern times! I don't want to labor the point which you yourself have brought to my attention; I only want to communicate something in my own experience that will explain the importance of your books to me. My experience was that the interest of much of life as represented in the books I read (and perhaps some that I wrote) had been exhausted. But how could existence itself become uninteresting. I concluded that the ideas and modes by which it was represented were exhausted, that individuality had been overwhelmed by power or "sociality," by technology and politics. Images or representations and it is most important that you should be willing to discuss it with me. I can readily see why you would take little interest in contemporary fiction. Those who read it and write it are easily satisfied with what your Meggid calls lifeless memory-thoughts. For some time now I have been asking what kind of knowledge a writer has and in what way he deserves to be taken seriously. He has imagination where others have science, etc. But it wasn't until I read your book on Romanticism that I began to understand something about the defeat of imaginative knowledge in modern times! I don't want to labor the point which you yourself have brought to my attention; I only want to communicate something in my own experience that will explain the importance of your books to me. My experience was that the interest of much of life as represented in the books I read (and perhaps some that I wrote) had been exhausted. But how could existence itself become uninteresting. I concluded that the ideas and modes by which it was represented were exhausted, that individuality had been overwhelmed by power or "sociality," by technology and politics. Images or representations this this side of the mirror have indeed tired us out. All that science did was to make the phenomena technically (mathematically) inaccessible, leaving us with nothing but ignorance and despair. Yes, psychoa.n.a.lysis directed us to go into the Unconscious. From the dark forest-a sort of preserve of things unknown-painters and poets like good dogs were to bring back truffles . . . side of the mirror have indeed tired us out. All that science did was to make the phenomena technically (mathematically) inaccessible, leaving us with nothing but ignorance and despair. Yes, psychoa.n.a.lysis directed us to go into the Unconscious. From the dark forest-a sort of preserve of things unknown-painters and poets like good dogs were to bring back truffles . . .

Tomorrow my Spanish holiday ends. My wife and I are returning via London and will be there for about ten days. I hope you will be kind enough to give me a few hours more of your time.

It was very good of you to send me the Steiner book. Will you have lunch with me (as my guest this time) in London? You speak of yourself as the servant of your readers, but this reader, though eager to talk with you, hesitates to impose himself.

Sincerely yrs,

To Philip Roth August 8, 1975 [Chicago]

Dear Philip, As your Czechoslovak-writers-aid program was to have run for only one year and, as Mrs. [Esther] Corbin tells me, that year is coming to a close, I should like to know whether you propose to continue. For my part, I'd be glad to go on sending fifty bucks a month.

The party last June was the one and only party in memory that felt to me like a real party. I didn't know what I was saying or doing. It was bliss. I do remember trying to talk to you about The Jewish Writer but I was quite drunk and you were wasting your time. So let's try again.

My wife is going to Jerusalem to give mathematical lectures. I shall be carrying her lecture notes. We will stop in New York en route (about the 8th of November). Shall we try to have a sober conversation or let well enough alone?

Yours sincerely,

To Margaret Staats September 15, 1975 [Chicago]

On the death matter: With me or without, the preoccupation would have returned. After that night [ . . . ] I cried with relief but psychically the death (in the shadow-style of the psyche) took place. Many times (Yeats isn't the first to tell us) we die, many times rise again. As for the terror, it drives us to think-it has its function. We don't go go without that. without that.

I don't know how I ever came to believe that a death-comedy had to be written. Perhaps it was Measure for Measure Measure for Measure that put it into my head. Charlie [Citrine, narrator-protagonist of that put it into my head. Charlie [Citrine, narrator-protagonist of Humboldt's Gift Humboldt's Gift] himself is in and out of the grave continually. Of course I might have spared you but we were bound together in this comical-death complex, were appalled together and laughed together. We wore the same team cap for a few years. It didn't occur to me that you would be affected so strongly.

But here I am, writing to you on Yom Kippur!

Early this morning Samuel S. Goldberg telephoned and asked whether I had read the review in The New Yorker The New Yorker by that "anti-Semitic p.o.r.nographer." And I remembered that you had mentioned Updike. If I hadn't taken Daniel to see by that "anti-Semitic p.o.r.nographer." And I remembered that you had mentioned Updike. If I hadn't taken Daniel to see Jaws Jaws I suppose I might have been upset. I suppose I might have been upset. Jaws Jaws gave me perspective. No one has ever accused me of writing bad English-I'm sure I slipped up here and there, in a book of more than five hundred pages that would be inevitable. This morning I'm actually frozen, covered with a thick ice of Jewish inhibitions. Shall I write my next book in Yiddish? But perhaps the grammatical lapses were all Charlie's. Besides, did H. W. Fowler ever write an American novel? gave me perspective. No one has ever accused me of writing bad English-I'm sure I slipped up here and there, in a book of more than five hundred pages that would be inevitable. This morning I'm actually frozen, covered with a thick ice of Jewish inhibitions. Shall I write my next book in Yiddish? But perhaps the grammatical lapses were all Charlie's. Besides, did H. W. Fowler ever write an American novel?

Send me a comforting note. Forgive me for making D[emmie]'s plane crash.

Love,

In Humboldt's Gift, Humboldt's Gift, Demmie Vonghel, a character unmistakably based on Maggie, dies in an airplane crash. In Demmie Vonghel, a character unmistakably based on Maggie, dies in an airplane crash. In The New Yorker The New Yorker, John Updike had criticized Humboldt Humboldt as overwrought and shapeless, comparing it unfavorably to as overwrought and shapeless, comparing it unfavorably to The Adventures of Augie March The Adventures of Augie March.

To Mark Shechner September 30, 1975 Chicago Dear Mr. Shechner: I liked your Rosenfeld lecture very much. I agreed with most of it. Perhaps I wouldn't write to you about Isaac even if I were not running because I am still thinking about his life, his character, his thoughts and his death and am not yet ready to discuss him. But I will say this: He combined all the reticence and shyness of a small sickly Jewish boy from Chicago with heroic ideas about destiny. And after all, history would not have been history without these apparently timid and inconspicuous Jewish children.

May I keep your essay to refer to another time or do you want it returned? I am leaving Chicago for a few months but my secretary, Mrs. Esther Corbin, will return it if you need it.

Many thanks for letting me see it.

Sincerely yours,

Mark Shechner (born 1940) edited Preserving the Hunger: An Isaac Rosenfeld Reader Preserving the Hunger: An Isaac Rosenfeld Reader (1988) and has written numerous books including (1988) and has written numerous books including The Conversion of the Jews and Other Essays The Conversion of the Jews and Other Essays (1990). (1990).

To Ruth Miller [n.d.] Mishkenot Sha'ananim, Jerusalem Dear Ruth: That was a welcome letter. I haven't forgotten you, either. If I was your first teacher, you were my first pupil, and my heart hasn't altogether turned to stone. I've often reproached myself for my impatience towards you. I mitigate nothing by telling you that I'm like my poor father, first testy then penitent. One must free one's soul from these parental influences. Poor Papa's soul was his, after all, and mine is mine, and it's sheer laziness to borrow his behavior. We all do that, of course. He did it, too. Only he was too busy with life's battles to remove his his father's thumbprints and cleanse the precious surfaces. We've been luckier. We have the leisure for it. father's thumbprints and cleanse the precious surfaces. We've been luckier. We have the leisure for it.

I read [Louis] Simpson's piece in the Times Times before your letter came, and I didn't quite know how to deal with it. It was cheap, mean, it did me dirt. I had thought Simpson was paying no more attention to me than I've paid to him over the years. One can't look into everything, after all. I was indifferent to his poetry and it was only fair that he should pay no attention to what I wrote. I had no idea that he was in such a rage. But age does do some things for us (nothing comparable to what it takes away) and I have learned to endure such fits. I don't ask myself why the before your letter came, and I didn't quite know how to deal with it. It was cheap, mean, it did me dirt. I had thought Simpson was paying no more attention to me than I've paid to him over the years. One can't look into everything, after all. I was indifferent to his poetry and it was only fair that he should pay no attention to what I wrote. I had no idea that he was in such a rage. But age does do some things for us (nothing comparable to what it takes away) and I have learned to endure such fits. I don't ask myself why the Times Times prints such miserable stuff, why I must be called an ingrate, a mental tyrant, a thief, a philistine enemy of poetry, a narcissist incapable of feeling for others, a failed artist. Nor why this must be done in the Sunday prints such miserable stuff, why I must be called an ingrate, a mental tyrant, a thief, a philistine enemy of poetry, a narcissist incapable of feeling for others, a failed artist. Nor why this must be done in the Sunday Magazine Magazine for many millions of readers. Such things are not written about industrialists, or spies, or bankers, or trade-union leaders, or Idi Amin, or Palestinian terrorists, only about the author of a novel who wanted princ.i.p.ally to be truthful and to give delight. It doesn't stab me to the heart, however. I know what newspapers are-and what writers are, and know that they can occasionally try to destroy one another. I've never done it myself, but I've seen it done, often enough. [ . . . ] Louie's hatred and my discomfort are minor matters, comparatively. He can't for many millions of readers. Such things are not written about industrialists, or spies, or bankers, or trade-union leaders, or Idi Amin, or Palestinian terrorists, only about the author of a novel who wanted princ.i.p.ally to be truthful and to give delight. It doesn't stab me to the heart, however. I know what newspapers are-and what writers are, and know that they can occasionally try to destroy one another. I've never done it myself, but I've seen it done, often enough. [ . . . ] Louie's hatred and my discomfort are minor matters, comparatively. He can't kill kill me. He's only doing dirt on my heart (by intention-he didn't actually succeed). [ . . . ] me. He's only doing dirt on my heart (by intention-he didn't actually succeed). [ . . . ]

But I was upset to find you mentioned in his piece, and this is why I say that I didn't quite know how to deal with it. I wondered why you you should find it necessary to testify against me and say that I was an artist should find it necessary to testify against me and say that I was an artist manque. manque. After many years in the trade, I'm well aware that the papers twist people's words and that at times their views are reversed for them by reporters and editors. But you After many years in the trade, I'm well aware that the papers twist people's words and that at times their views are reversed for them by reporters and editors. But you were were angry with me, and Stony Brook angry with me, and Stony Brook isn't isn't exactly filled with my friends and admirers. Nor do I, from exactly filled with my friends and admirers. Nor do I, from my my side, think of Stony Brook as a great center of literary power in which a renaissance is about to begin, led by Kazin and Jack Ludwig and Louie. (Not that I've written reviews and articles about side, think of Stony Brook as a great center of literary power in which a renaissance is about to begin, led by Kazin and Jack Ludwig and Louie. (Not that I've written reviews and articles about them them.) So I didn't expect you to say kind things about me. But I didn't expect unkind things in print, and I was shocked by the opinion attributed to you that Humboldt Humboldt was my confession of utter failure. Louie I could dismiss. A writer who doesn't know quality when he sees it doesn't have to be taken seriously. A reader who doesn't see that the book is a very funny one can also be disregarded-one can only wonder why the deaf should attend concerts. But you I don't dismiss. And I thought, "I've steered Ruth wrong. What has this girl from Albany Park gained by ending up in Stony Brook? It is was my confession of utter failure. Louie I could dismiss. A writer who doesn't know quality when he sees it doesn't have to be taken seriously. A reader who doesn't see that the book is a very funny one can also be disregarded-one can only wonder why the deaf should attend concerts. But you I don't dismiss. And I thought, "I've steered Ruth wrong. What has this girl from Albany Park gained by ending up in Stony Brook? It is possible possible that she should have become one of these killers?" that she should have become one of these killers?"

I began to compose a few Herzog notes in my mind. But I wouldn't have sent any of them. You might not not have been guilty of any offense. I do have been guilty of any offense. I do not not defend myself anymore (in the old way). I have other concerns, now. But then your letter arrived. And you are what I always thought you were, and I am still your old loving friend, defend myself anymore (in the old way). I have other concerns, now. But then your letter arrived. And you are what I always thought you were, and I am still your old loving friend,

Louis Simpson's attack on Bellow in The New York Times Magazine The New York Times Magazine was "The Ghost of Delmore Schwartz." was "The Ghost of Delmore Schwartz."

To Edward Shils December 8, 1975 Mishkenot Sha'ananim, Jerusalem My dear Ed: [ . . . ] The Committee [on Social Thought], though you may not agree, is a very useful thing; it has developed several extraordinary students in recent years. It is no small achievement to turn out Ph.D.s who know how to write English and are at home in several fields-intelligent people who have read Thucydides and Kant and Proust and who are not counterfeits or culture sn.o.bs. They will not disgrace the University of Chicago. I've met many graduates from other departments of whom the same cannot be said. I myself have not done all that might have been done for the Committee. I had books to write and problems to face, many of these arising from my own unsatisfactory character, but I have nevertheless taken my duties seriously. Now I think it's the University's turn to be serious and to demonstrate that it considers the Committee to be something more than a celebrity showpiece. The celebrities are beginning to dodder in any case. Unless new appointments are made the Committee will cease to exist. In about five years it'll be gone.

As for that other dying inst.i.tution, Encounter, Encounter, I'll contribute five hundred dollars for the coming year, and five hundred more in 1977, if there should be a 1977 in I'll contribute five hundred dollars for the coming year, and five hundred more in 1977, if there should be a 1977 in Encounter Encounter's destiny. I think Mel Lasky should write to Thomas Guinzburg of Viking Press (Viking and Penguin have just merged) and say that I have told him that I'd be greatly disappointed if Viking didn't make a contribution.

I wish we had the time to stop in Holland en route. I'd love to see you and to talk with you about Israel and other matters. A conversation with you is all-too-rare a pleasure, these days. But my son Gregory is in Chicago for the holidays and we want to see him before he goes back to California.

With most affectionate good wishes for the New Year,

1976.

To Owen Barfield February 25, 1976 Chicago Dear Mr. Barfield: It's not a case of out of sight, out of mind. I think often of you and compose quite a few mental letters. But I have no progress to report; much confusion, rather. I mustn't be altogether negative; there are trace-elements of clarity. I continue to read Steiner and to perform certain exercises. I am particularly faithful to the I Am, It Thinks meditation in the Guidance book you so kindly gave me. From this I get a certain daily stability. I don't know what causes so much confusion in me. Perhaps I have too many things going on at once. I had promised myself a holiday after finishing the last book. I think I told you last summer that I was going to Jerusalem with my wife. She gave some lectures at the Hebrew University in Probability Theory. My intention was to wander about the Old City and sit contemplatively in the gardens and churches. But it is impossible in Jerusalem to detach oneself from the frightful political problems of Israel. I found myself "doing something." I read a great many books, talked with scores of people, and before the first month was out I was writing a small book about the endless crisis and immersed in politics. It excites me, it distresses me to be so immersed. I can't mention Lucifer and Ahriman, I don't know enough for that. Neither can I put them out of my mind.

I didn't mention Humboldt's Gift Humboldt's Gift to you because I thought you weren't greatly interested in novels. I thought it might even displease you. Besides I tend to think of a book just completed as something that has prepared me to do better next time. You asked me, very properly, how I thought a writer of novels might be affected by esoteric studies. I answered that I was ready for the consequences. That was a nice thing to say, but it wasn't terribly intelligent. It must have struck you as very adolescent. You asked me how old I was. "Sixty," I said. Then you smiled and said, "Sixteen?" It was the one joke you allowed yourself at my expense, and it was entirely justified. It's a very American thing to believe that it's never too late to make a new start in life. Always decades to burn. to you because I thought you weren't greatly interested in novels. I thought it might even displease you. Besides I tend to think of a book just completed as something that has prepared me to do better next time. You asked me, very properly, how I thought a writer of novels might be affected by esoteric studies. I answered that I was ready for the consequences. That was a nice thing to say, but it wasn't terribly intelligent. It must have struck you as very adolescent. You asked me how old I was. "Sixty," I said. Then you smiled and said, "Sixteen?" It was the one joke you allowed yourself at my expense, and it was entirely justified. It's a very American thing to believe that it's never too late to make a new start in life. Always decades to burn.

As if this weren't enough, we've had to travel a great deal, my wife and I. In the last month we've been to San Francisco, Boston and Miami. We had promises to keep. We'd been away for three months, and couldn't put things off until spring.

I'm a bit ashamed to present such a picture of confusion. You probably knew it wasn't going to be easy to change from one sort of life to another. This is not a very satisfactory letter but I feel that I owe you some account of myself-I feel it because I respect you and because you tried so generously to help me.

Best regards,

The book about Israel that Bellow had set to work on, To Jerusalem and Back To Jerusalem and Back, would appear first in back-to-back issues of The New Yorker The New Yorker in July, then in book form in the autumn. in July, then in book form in the autumn.

To Walter Hasenclever March 3, 1976 Chicago Dear Walter, We were delighted to see you in Jerusalem-the best sort of bonus, the unantic.i.p.ated and undeserved. It isn't altogether true that I had recovered my spirits in Jerusalem-I was still suffering from my concluding efforts with Humboldt Humboldt. Teddy Kollek kept telling me that I must have a holiday. But to have a holiday in Jerusalem is something like consummating a marriage in a laundromat. I'm glad to hear that K[iepenheuer] & W[itsch] approves your translation [of Humboldt's Gift Humboldt's Gift]. I'm sure they are right. The yeoman in Ivanhoe Ivanhoe was right too: "A man can do but his best." It was only Sir Walter who was not doing at all well. Now you had better get a good rest in the Austrian mountains because you will soon be facing a new task, my short book on Jerusalem. I spend half the night boning up on my subject, half the day writing; the rest of my time I'm free to devote to my wife, my children, the University of Chicago and my business affairs and my duties as an unpaid cultural functionary. was right too: "A man can do but his best." It was only Sir Walter who was not doing at all well. Now you had better get a good rest in the Austrian mountains because you will soon be facing a new task, my short book on Jerusalem. I spend half the night boning up on my subject, half the day writing; the rest of my time I'm free to devote to my wife, my children, the University of Chicago and my business affairs and my duties as an unpaid cultural functionary.