To Samuel S. Goldberg [n. d.]

When Mark Twain returned from a visit with Harriet Beecher Stowe and found he had called on her without a necktie, he posted the tie to her and wrote, "Sorry we couldn't both be there at the same time." Thus with this check. On Sat.u.r.day, I'm off to Tokyo. There I expect to find some excellent second-hand book stores unraided and undespoiled by S. S. Goldberg. I may find something to your liking. Perhaps one of those s.e.xual scrolls to cheer your lonely hours in the office and strengthen you in honorable dealings with Man and Government.

The pickled trout at Max's was better than ever. I left half a buck for the reddish pudgy woman and went back along Fifth Ave. hoping we might meet.

Yours ever,

I'll settle for the [Lawrence] Binyan Dante, volumes I and II. I have the Paradiso. Paradiso.

Among Bellow's great friends, Samuel S. Goldberg was a Yiddish-speaking lawyer and bibliophile. The two of them could sometimes be spotted in New York's used bookshops, particularly the Gotham and the Strand.

To Frances Gendlin May [?], 1972 [Chicago]

Dear Frances: There are many reasons why I didn't write. For one thing, the jet lag was awful. It took more than ten days to recover. For another, I turned out to be a real or perhaps imaginary celebrity, and immediately began to do seminars, lectures, interviews, radio programs and j.a.panese semi-state dinners, sitting on the floor, using chopsticks and eating raw fish, or trying to eat it. I drank a good deal of sake to help myself sleep, but I kept waking at four A.M., utterly wretched most of the time. My system is sound enough, for a man of my age, but even it was not able to cope with the terrific time and s.p.a.ce changes. After two weeks of this I was allowed to rest in Kyoto, where it was relatively tranquil. Kyoto I thoroughly enjoyed, staying in a j.a.panese inn, old-style, sleeping on the straw mat and lying on the floors half the day, admiring the little moss garden. Being on the floor was childhood again, and childhood is still the most pleasant part of life. A confession of adult failure. Well, I'd better own up. I haven't done too hot, as the old Chicago phrase runs. For three weeks I didn't hear from you at all, and I was quite put out about it. If you wrote a letter you didn't send, I did, too. And then I was disheartened-appalled is a probably more accurate word-to find that I had crab-lice. I felt peculiarly shaky and stupid to make that discovery. I'd had nothing at all to do with women here, except to smile at them over the raw fish held in chopsticks. Going to the doctor was awful. Thinking about it all was awful. Cured now, I feel lousy still. Anti-self, anti-others, but above all the old fool. The world seems to expect that I will do all kinds of good things, and I spite it by doing all kinds of bad ones. They're not terribly is a probably more accurate word-to find that I had crab-lice. I felt peculiarly shaky and stupid to make that discovery. I'd had nothing at all to do with women here, except to smile at them over the raw fish held in chopsticks. Going to the doctor was awful. Thinking about it all was awful. Cured now, I feel lousy still. Anti-self, anti-others, but above all the old fool. The world seems to expect that I will do all kinds of good things, and I spite it by doing all kinds of bad ones. They're not terribly bad bad, either. Striking sins are out of reach. I try to break into the next sector, or find the next development, but nothing comes of this except unhappiness for myself and others. The unhappiness to myself I don't much mind. The effect on others is a curse to me night and day. It's true I haven't taken a shot at [George] Wallace, but there isn't much else I can take credit for. At the end of all this, I can say that I think of you a great deal and lovingly.

I'm flying to San Francisco on the 26th. I suppose I'll be there before the letter arrives and back in Chicago about the first of June.

Love,

On May 15, while campaigning in Laurel, Maryland, presidential candidate and Alabama governor George Wallace had been shot and seriously wounded by Arthur Bremer.

To David Grene June 22, 1972 Chicago My dear David, I had thought to find some rest in j.a.pan but it wasn't like that at all-it never is. I found myself running up and down giving lectures and seminars to widely erudite j.a.panese scholars. Among them there seems to be one of everything under the sun, so that if you call out at Tokyo University for an expert on German armor of the thirteenth century he will appear in a few minutes ready to take sides. Tokyo is a fuming, hissing metropolis, and what G.o.d promised Abraham has come to pa.s.s in Tokyo, not in Jerusalem. They have what Henry James called "numerosity." There are no small gatherings, only mobs-everywhere mobs of every description. It was desolating to see but often funny, too, and I felt myself something of a Gulliver there. The old temple cities, anyway, were very beautiful and I reached them in the right frame of mind: I was exhausted and cast myself down in the quiet of temple gardens. These were all beautifully arranged, each stone in place and every bamboo leaf quivering on cue. Then I rushed back to San Francisco and came down with some sort of fever fever. They were ten very unpleasant days. Then I had a court confrontation with Susan and then went East and collected degrees from Yale and Harvard-a double-header. Daniel and I were to have spent July in Aspen but my case continues and I am not at all sure that I'll be able to get out of here. However, Adam and I will certainly turn up in Ireland toward the end of August. As yet, I don't know precisely when. [ . . . ]

Best wishes to everyone, Yours affectionately,

To John Haffenden June 27, 1972 Chicago Dear Mr. Haffenden: Berryman's last letters to me are still scattered about my flat. I haven't had the heart to gather them into an envelope and put them away. Where would I put them? The relationship is still open, as it were. This may serve to explain why it has been difficult for me to answer your inquiry.

Sincerely yours,

Haffenden was beginning research for The Life of John Berryman The Life of John Berryman, which would appear in 1982.

To the Committee on Admissions of the Century a.s.sociation September 29, 1972 Chicago [ . . . ] I understand that Mr. William Phillips has been nominated for membership in the Century Club. My purpose in this letter is to make clear my very strong reasons for opposing this. I am convinced that Phillips has done great harm to American literature over the last ten or fifteen years. The Partisan Review Partisan Review of which he has been an editor from the first was once important and valuable. It continued the cultural line set by of which he has been an editor from the first was once important and valuable. It continued the cultural line set by The Dial, Transition The Dial, Transition and the best of the little magazines. It published Malraux and T. S. Eliot, Silone and Koestler and George Orwell and Edmund Wilson and Robert Lowell and John Berryman [ . . . ]. But, the founding editors resigning for one reason or another, William remained in charge, and William lost no time in selling out. He betrayed and, intellectually and artistically, bankrupted the magazine. Over the last ten years and the best of the little magazines. It published Malraux and T. S. Eliot, Silone and Koestler and George Orwell and Edmund Wilson and Robert Lowell and John Berryman [ . . . ]. But, the founding editors resigning for one reason or another, William remained in charge, and William lost no time in selling out. He betrayed and, intellectually and artistically, bankrupted the magazine. Over the last ten years PR PR has become trivial, fashionable, mean and harmful. Its trendiness is of the pernicious sort. It despises and, as much as it can, damages literature. The values held by early editors like Philip Rahv and Delmore Schwartz it has repudiated entirely. I think it has become the breeding place of a sort of fashionable extremism, of the hysterical, shallow and ignorant academic "counter-culture." It trades on the reputation of the magazine, and readers who still a.s.sociate the old names and standards with it are deceived into reading the harmful trash it now prints. In the early days William helped to build the old has become trivial, fashionable, mean and harmful. Its trendiness is of the pernicious sort. It despises and, as much as it can, damages literature. The values held by early editors like Philip Rahv and Delmore Schwartz it has repudiated entirely. I think it has become the breeding place of a sort of fashionable extremism, of the hysterical, shallow and ignorant academic "counter-culture." It trades on the reputation of the magazine, and readers who still a.s.sociate the old names and standards with it are deceived into reading the harmful trash it now prints. In the early days William helped to build the old Partisan Partisan but he is also responsible for its decay. Standards have become rather soft, I know, but it's nevertheless difficult for me to understand how anyone who has looked into recent numbers of but he is also responsible for its decay. Standards have become rather soft, I know, but it's nevertheless difficult for me to understand how anyone who has looked into recent numbers of PR PR could think of its editor as a member of the Century Club. could think of its editor as a member of the Century Club.

Yours sincerely,

The Century a.s.sociation, an exclusive Manhattan club, grants members a period in which to support or oppose any candidate standing for membership. Once read by the admissions committee, "red letters" (as negative appraisals are called) are destroyed. Bellow had retained a carbon copy.

To Barnett Singer November 9, 1972 Chicago Dear Barney Singer- [ . . . ] When I visited Seattle in 1951, I lived in something called the Hotel Meaney and made the rounds with [Theodore] Roethke whom I adored, and Dylan Thomas whom I admired and pitied. I couldn't keep up with them, though, for I'm not a real drinking man.

Thanks for your note.

Barnett Singer (born 1945) has for many years been a professor of history at Brock University, St. Catharines, Ontario. He is the author of, among other works, Maxime Wiegand: A Biography of the French General in Two World Wars Maxime Wiegand: A Biography of the French General in Two World Wars (2008). (2008).

1973.

To Nicolas Nabokov February 20, 1973 Chicago Dear Nicolas, Your Stravinsky recollections are delightful. Your mss. gave me nothing but pleasure. To read it made made my evening. my evening.

I have a few remarks to offer, not to be taken as criticisms but only as suggestions for improvement. First, then, let me say that to address Stravinsky in the second person is confusing and unnecessary. There are long pa.s.sages of exposition during which the device is forgotten, and then one is jolted by the return of the "you." I think it would be far better to say Stravinsky or, for informality, Igor Fyodorovich. What you have to tell us is so lively that it needs no grace notes. A second suggestion is that you cut much of the technical discussion of Les Noces. Les Noces. On the whole your musical discussions are rueful and illuminating but this one is too lengthy and unless you could dramatize your meeting with the pedantic musicologists it would be better to cut. About my third and last point you may be rather sensitive-it has to do with Robert Craft, whose image in the end is not entirely clear. One feels how much is left unsaid. Perhaps other people, possibly Auden, would not mind being quoted. But when Craft is mentioned, you fall into psychological diplomacy, ambiguity, etc. This is very different from the free mordant observation which makes the rest of your memoir so delightful. [ . . . ] On the whole your musical discussions are rueful and illuminating but this one is too lengthy and unless you could dramatize your meeting with the pedantic musicologists it would be better to cut. About my third and last point you may be rather sensitive-it has to do with Robert Craft, whose image in the end is not entirely clear. One feels how much is left unsaid. Perhaps other people, possibly Auden, would not mind being quoted. But when Craft is mentioned, you fall into psychological diplomacy, ambiguity, etc. This is very different from the free mordant observation which makes the rest of your memoir so delightful. [ . . . ]

Yours affectionately,

To Louis Lasco March 5, 1973 [Chicago]

Esteemed Zahar Neoplasmich: The famous columnist [Sydney J. Harris] appears in my hometown paper. Should I, wishing to glance at the Final Markets or the Obituaries, read a few of his lines by mischance, my feet begin to swell. He gives me edema. Still, I am grateful for your good intentions and your wish to share your delight with me.

You will be interested to hear that when I recently spoke at the University of Missouri in Kansas City, Benny Shapiro's brother Manny turned up with his frau and an elegant young son in a Smith Bros. beard. We reminisced about old times on Cortez St. I mentioned that I had heard from you. We decided that if you were still going to Las Vegas it was a heartening sign of virility, and the fires of life had not been banked in L. Lasco. The young man asked what he should do to become a writer. I said, "Shave!" He was much offended, nettled, and turned away from me.

They said that Benny was selling electrical supplies. Now that capital punishment has ended he's probably selling old electric chairs. There's a story for you, a promoter who tries to peddle old electric chairs to South American dictators. For a small percentage, I give you this idea. I'm always glad to hear from you. I send you fraternal greetings.

S. B. Pamunyitzoff

To Zero Mostel March 16, 1973 Chicago Dear Zero, I can't recall that I was ever able to persuade you to do anything anything but the University of Chicago wants me to try, so here goes: Would you be willing to come to Chicago in May to give a lecture on a subject close to your heart-Painting, for instance? The University has a series called the William Vaughn Moody Series. Only very eminent persons are asked to deliver Moody Lectures (I suppose I mean people like W. H. Auden). The students have a festival of the arts in May and spring has not yet drowned in dust. Harold Rosenberg will be there and you'll have a jolly time, I'm sure. but the University of Chicago wants me to try, so here goes: Would you be willing to come to Chicago in May to give a lecture on a subject close to your heart-Painting, for instance? The University has a series called the William Vaughn Moody Series. Only very eminent persons are asked to deliver Moody Lectures (I suppose I mean people like W. H. Auden). The students have a festival of the arts in May and spring has not yet drowned in dust. Harold Rosenberg will be there and you'll have a jolly time, I'm sure.

Yours, with best wishes, A decade earlier Mostel had declined to star in The Last a.n.a.lysis, The Last a.n.a.lysis, signing instead to play Tevye in signing instead to play Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof. Fiddler on the Roof.

To Frances Gendlin April [?], 1973 Monks House, Rodmell, East Suss.e.x Well, it's beautiful and spooky, the gardens are grand, the house cold, everything creaks but I was not haunted by the ghost of Virginia. I am exhausted, but well. I have no telephone and as yet no car, but I sh'd get the car. The phone is doubtful.

Can you ask Esther to mail me some Committee on Social Thought stationery, immedjiat immedjiat?

I miss you.

Love,

Bellow was at the start of a six-week residency in East Suss.e.x at what had been the country house of Virginia and Leonard Woolf.

To Frances Gendlin [n.d.] [Cambridge]

Cara mia Francesca, To meet you (but on which of two dates?) I can come into London. It means staying overnight at Barley Alison's, but that's feasible. It involves a backgammon tournament, with me rolling disgusting dice. Even worse than in Chicago. I look forward to your arrival (not because of the backgammon). Anyway we can speak on the phone now. This A.M. I am in Peterhouse, Cambridge, black tie unused-an amusing story which I will tell you after more important things (which I have terribly missed).

Lewes is one hour from London. I leave the car and take the train. Then getting to the airport isn't easy, so I'll come a day earlier. Phone me.

Love,

To Frances Gendlin June 16, 1973 Belgrade Dear Fran: Like a Western sheriff with guns drawn, ready to shoot anything that moves-that's [Samuel S.] Goldberg with his dollars. "How much-what is it?" Bang bang. Yesterday he bought four heavy rare volumes of American history. He has them at home in paper, but this edition is worth forty bucks. How will he get them home!? The Serbs have never heard of book-rate postage to the US. So we tote the hilarious bundles while Sam scouts for a Hermes shop. All the old broads in his office have commissioned him to buy perfume, which I daresay they desperately need. Today I'm dragging him off to visit unbuyable monasteries. But we look forward to cheap strawberries.

I'm well but tired, and miss you and my Dorchester [Avenue] comforts. And Daniel. I had my troubles with Adam. I think I told you I was not "received" by his mother-should say not vouchsafed an audience. But soon there will be bills. [ . . . ]

Much love,

To Ralph Ross August 14, 1973 Aspen Dear Ralph: The subject was painful but your letter was very pleasant. I don't know what we survivors should do with this slaughter-legacy our old friends have made us (I think of Isaac, of Delmore Schwartz). Maybe my little foreword made things too easy. It had the conventional charm for which John himself had a weakness or talent. I was sincere enough, but there were terrible things to say, and I didn't say them. You touched on some of those in your letter. John telling you that he'd never drink again, that he wanted more love affairs. At the same time he knew he was a goner. One moment the post-tomb Lazarus, the next Don Juan, and much of the time someone who merely looked like John, as you put it. I knew that feeling.

Having written a few lines about him I now have the "privilege" of observing the att.i.tudes of people towards the poet and his career. There's something culturally gratifying, apparently, about such heroic self-destruction. It's Good-old-Berryman-he-knew-how-to-wrap-it-up. It's a combination of America, Murderer of Poets, and of This Is the Real Spiritual Condition of Our Times. Perhaps you've seen Boyd Thomes's review of Recovery Recovery. Maris [Thomes] sent me a copy. It may not have reached you, so I'll quote a few sentences.

"This combination of erudition and progressively more suicidal chaos has become his subject matter, and it was his artistic triumph to create a style sufficiently flexible and powerful to express it . . . John did more to elevate the potential of paranoia than anybody of our generation."

Then he speaks of John as a "poetry-making machine" and so forth. Boyd's all right, one of the Minnesota pals and all of that, but there's something amiss with John's disaster as confirmation of the views on life and society of a sophisticated medical gentleman-"elevating the potential of paranoia." It rather scares me to see how very satisfactory John's life and death can be from a certain point of view.

On this green and sunlit Colorado afternoon, that'll be enough of that.

You're entirely right about these great s.p.a.ces and the psychic damage they do. Let's repair some of this damage in November. Gregory and his wife are making a grandfather of me then and I shall come out [to California]. Herb and Mitzie will be gone, but the rest of us can, and should, have a grand party. I'll keep in touch.

Yours affectionately,

Bellow had contributed a foreword to Berryman's unfinished, posthumously published novel, Recovery Recovery (1973). Boyd Thomes, M.D., was Berryman's doctor in Minneapolis. (1973). Boyd Thomes, M.D., was Berryman's doctor in Minneapolis.

To Margaret Staats September 14, 1973 [Chicago]

Where am I? I wish I knew. I'm going to be in New York next week. What about Sat. afternoon? I'll telephone.

I hear that [-] is a women's lib fighter. So is Susan Bellow. I am glad that these poor abused women are fighting back. I am for them a hundred per cent and think their demands should be met in full and at once. In court last week I pleaded for eight hours. I wanted the judge to realize that Susan is a freedom fighter. She belongs to some sort of national women's organization.

Only she doesn't agree with the alimony plank in the platform.

Love and kisses,

To Evelyn [?] [?]

December 14, 1973 Chicago Dear Evelyn- I was visiting with cousin Louie Dworkin the other night, and when he spoke of you I found that I could recall you vividly. You had one blue eye and one brown eye, and you were a charming gentle girl in a fur (racc.o.o.n?) coat. I thought you might like to know how memorable you were, so I asked cousin Louie (who loves you dearly) for your address, and I take this occasion to send you every good wish.