I've rented a room on Rue des Saints-Peres-Hotel de l'Academie-and am scribbling away at a book. I don't know how good it is-will be-but it's a book, and it's my vocation to write books and I follow it with the restlessness of true egomania. I'm preparing the full outline of another, one that I have confidence in but don't feel quite prepared to begin, since it has to do with Americans abroad. So I'm occupied for the time being with the aforementioned. It will be not of the best but, in these dreadful times of low standards, good enough. I hope.

The communications of Guy Henle apropos of the Italian translation are terser and terser. If it pleases G.o.d, I've seen the last. As for Smith College, I've said neither yes nor no and I'm waiting to see what's offered. [ . . . ]

All the best,

Mary McCarthy's brief novel The Oasis, The Oasis, in which Philip Rahv and others are satirized, had been published in in which Philip Rahv and others are satirized, had been published in Horizon Horizon.

To Henry Volkening [n.d.] [Paris]

Dear Henry: No, I have no sardonic comments for Mr. [John Crowe] Ransom for whom my fiery spirit usually makes an allowance of respect. I don't expect him to stop being an editor for my sake and I think he behaves far more honorably than Rahv, that Commissar of Grumps, since I've never heard him represent himself as a snorting radical straight in the line of Prometheus, whereas Mr. Rahv is supposed to handle the Promethean fire as though it were no hotter than liniment, and is a charter-rebel from way back. I'm sending to ask why he didn't tell me his reasons for rejecting the story. He's owed me a letter for about two months and I think I now see why. He'll say, of course, that it is a good story. (He's printed only only good stories these many, many years and mine falls below the good stories these many, many years and mine falls below the niveau general niveau general [ [27].) But I'm going to make things as hard as possible for him because he's too long believed that the avant-garde avant-garde (what a d.a.m.ning idea (what a d.a.m.ning idea avant-garde avant-garde is anyhow) has made its home with him. Like an aunt who once knew Lenin. When a story comes that tears out the nice old borders of sleepy sweet-williams the aunt snaps that of course she wants something wilder, tiger lilies, lilies of Mr. Joyce's breed, such as you see in the conservatory, and prefers the real thing in sweet-williams to impostures in tigers. is anyhow) has made its home with him. Like an aunt who once knew Lenin. When a story comes that tears out the nice old borders of sleepy sweet-williams the aunt snaps that of course she wants something wilder, tiger lilies, lilies of Mr. Joyce's breed, such as you see in the conservatory, and prefers the real thing in sweet-williams to impostures in tigers.

I'm telling him also that I observed with dissatisfaction in somebody else's PR PR-my sub. has been cut off-that "Dr. Pep" is announced as a story. "Dr. Pep" is not not a story. It's something else, a story. It's something else, sui generis sui generis; I don't know what.

Since I want to see "Mr. Green" published and would like to see it published in Kenyon Review Kenyon Review, I'd consent to have dashes in place of that terrible word in most common use all over the English speaking world and the great coagulate verb-noun-adjective of school, bar, factory and army which dominates most conversations.Even Truman allows his use of "son of ab.i.t.c.h" to be quoted. What circ.u.mspect dogs we are, compared to the chief executive. He He knows times have changed. So since my ambition to be President is fruitless anyhow, because I'm Canadian-born, let there be dashes. And then, if Ransom doesn't want it, I think you might give over torturing editors with their limitations and send "Mr. Green" to the showers. I'd like if possible to have Lionel Trilling see it, with the note attached that I'd hoped he'd be able to read it in knows times have changed. So since my ambition to be President is fruitless anyhow, because I'm Canadian-born, let there be dashes. And then, if Ransom doesn't want it, I think you might give over torturing editors with their limitations and send "Mr. Green" to the showers. I'd like if possible to have Lionel Trilling see it, with the note attached that I'd hoped he'd be able to read it in PR PR.

I hope by summer to be done with a mss. of about two hundred pages which Viking might be willing to bring out, not as the contract novel, which I'll begin as soon as this first thing is out of the way. Again, in this present book, the subject is not cheery but the matter, page to page, is very comic and perhaps Kenyon Kenyon would like the first chapter of thirty pages since it is- would like the first chapter of thirty pages since it is-je le dis moi-meme [ [28]-rather funny. The subsequent book will be, according to my lights (and you may think them dark lights), altogether a comedy. [ . . . ]

Please remember me to Mr. Russell and Mrs. Volkening.

Best,

To J. F. Powers March 30, 1949 Paris Dear Jim: About two months ago I came back from the magnificence of Rome to the impressiveness of Paris, felt myself all over, found I was just about the same, except perhaps a little more spoiled and lazy, and have been on a strict regime ever since, writing daily. I'm about half done with a book; the subject's a gloomy one but the book is funny, a combination I can trust you to understand. The t.i.tle I've chosen for it is The Crab and the b.u.t.terfly The Crab and the b.u.t.terfly, which I think does the tendency justice, and if I don't go anywhere-it isn't likely; the slack has just about been run out of Mr. Guggenheim's bounty-I ought to be done with it in the summer. A bad time, as everyone knows, to finish a book. A book ought to be finished in the spring. [ . . . ]

I read Mr. Waugh's review of your book [Prince of Darkness and Other Stories], and seeing a statement he made to Time Time (which runs after him with basins) I was able to understand it. He told the interviewer that his favorite American writer was Earl Biggers, or something like that. What I most disliked in his review was his failure to make it implicit (I didn't expect him to put it in so many words) that you were a better writer than he. As for [John] Lehmann, he's the best of publishers but he is a publisher and is bound to give the wrong reason; and what sort of review is it that starts out with the publisher's claims? I loathe that. I loathe sn.o.bs and Waugh is one of the worst sort. I've met a good number of sn.o.bs here; the best of them redeem themselves with profligacy. It shows they have a rather generous, helpless side. But sn.o.bbery (which runs after him with basins) I was able to understand it. He told the interviewer that his favorite American writer was Earl Biggers, or something like that. What I most disliked in his review was his failure to make it implicit (I didn't expect him to put it in so many words) that you were a better writer than he. As for [John] Lehmann, he's the best of publishers but he is a publisher and is bound to give the wrong reason; and what sort of review is it that starts out with the publisher's claims? I loathe that. I loathe sn.o.bs and Waugh is one of the worst sort. I've met a good number of sn.o.bs here; the best of them redeem themselves with profligacy. It shows they have a rather generous, helpless side. But sn.o.bbery and and piousness? I have an Old Testament eye for abominations, a little reddened by this one. piousness? I have an Old Testament eye for abominations, a little reddened by this one.

You ought to do the piece for Partisan Partisan. Partisan Partisan has been kind of lean since it became a monthly. That's partly has been kind of lean since it became a monthly. That's partly Partisan Partisan's fault. I'm sure that PR PR, Kenyon Kenyon and some of the branch publications of the and some of the branch publications of the Journal of Philology Journal of Philology like the like the Hudson Hudson or or Sewanee Sewanee turn down enough good material every month to make one fine number. But it is partly our fault, too. There ought to be more doing, more kinds of things written. A little guild life. [Leslie] Fiedler has the right idea, don't you think so? He does all kinds of writing. Well, perhaps it's because he's in Montana. Subst.i.tute for social life. [ . . . ] turn down enough good material every month to make one fine number. But it is partly our fault, too. There ought to be more doing, more kinds of things written. A little guild life. [Leslie] Fiedler has the right idea, don't you think so? He does all kinds of writing. Well, perhaps it's because he's in Montana. Subst.i.tute for social life. [ . . . ]

Let's hear from you,

To David Bazelon April 10, 1949 Paris Dear Dave: Yah, I'll write to Huntington Brown [of the Minnesota English Department] for you. I hope it does good, for Huntington and I had difficult times with each other. He's the archetype of the learned idiot. He's a Harvard Ph.D., conservative to the flap of his long underwear, collects p.o.r.nographic poetry, has a pistol range in his bas.e.m.e.nt, knows how to mend a dog sled in driving snow and is an Admiral Peary manque manque, is president of the burial society of Minneapolis, and takes vitamin B1 all summer long on the belief that mosquitoes will not bite a man whose perspiration is saturated with it. And that's not all. But the man I'm going to send the hottest plug to is Sam'l Monk himself, a very sweet and intelligent guy who is head of the department and one of the dozen or so people in Minneapolis that I miss. [ . . . ]

Of course, one sees a number of collapsed Americans here, but their inflation could not have been very high at home. There's Jimmy Baldwin, for instance, who seems to be down and out and is sponging mercilessly. He hasn't applied his sponge to me yet. He doesn't do a great deal. Whenever I pa.s.s the Flore and the Deux Magots he's in company, drinking beer. Then there's [Milton] Klonsky, who is verschwunden, spurlos, versenkt verschwunden, spurlos, versenkt [ [29]. He hated Paris, like every good American-that's practically the litmus test; said he was driving off to Nice with some creep. He may be in Nice, he may be in Italy. Who knows? He was very low in spirits. I was a little low myself when he arrived, but in the Empyrean by comparison; hence no company for him. Besides, I was working. Do I say "besides"? That was the ray that blights, for Milton. Anyway, he's gone and I haven't heard from him. As for [Lionel] Abel, he's in the Vaterland and thinks of Eighth St. as the verfluchte Kameroons. verfluchte Kameroons. [ [30] [ . . . ]

What news? What are you really going to do next year? How is my friend Rosenfeld? Since starting with the [Wilhelm] Reich he has nothing to say to me. Coldness of the happy cured to their sinful and sickly old friends.

Love,

Milton Klonsky (1921-1981) was an essayist, historian and William Blake scholar best known for The Fabulous Ego The Fabulous Ego (1974). (1974).

To Henry Volkening April 13, 1949 Paris Dear Henry: I've just about touched the halfway mark in this book (called The Crab and the b.u.t.terfly The Crab and the b.u.t.terfly, tentatively). It's writing itself very quickly and it's certainly full of astonishing things-I mean things that astonish me. I'm hunting for point of view with a long gun and shoot at anything that moves, especially Henry James. The first draft ought to be finished in June, the final one early in the fall. I won't have done so badly, then, my first year out of the professoriate. The six months it took me to get started perhaps make me step all the livelier.

Smith College was a bubble. It's just as well because Anita has got a very fine job as medical social worker with an American agency for DPs and there's no special hurry about my becoming employed. With a book to show, I can apply in 1950 for a Guggenheim renewal; my chances will be better. Jim Powers was turned down on his application for a second ride. Too many meritorious applications. But if he had had a large amount of work to show I think Moe wouldn't have refused him. Poor Jim is au pied du mur au pied du mur [ [31] with two kids to support.

Monroe Engel sent me a huffy-sounding note saying that he was going to Florence and I could conduct future business with Covici. Did he mean that I could go to h.e.l.l? I'm sorry I haven't written more to him but if he thinks I'm going to tell him over my shoulder every so often what I'm going to do in the next chapter, he's crazy.

Comment ca va? How is beautiful South Bend? How is beautiful South Bend?

Best,

Monroe Engel (born 1921) was Bellow's editor at Viking, with which he' d signed after breaking ties with James Henle at Vanguard.

To Henry Volkening [n.d.] [Paris]

Dear Henry: Note the new address. Another. We had to leave Marbeuf about a week ago; the old auto-racer and his wife came back from the Cote d'Azur and we had to go into a small hotel. Now we have the Rue de V [erneuil] until the first of October when we will have to find other landlords who want their long holiday in the Riviera paid for. The people from the Rue de V. are going to Biarritz for the season. But sufficient unto the day. Meanwhile the two concierges have done their best to lose our mail for us. I know of three letters that have been sent back to the States, and one of them may have been yours. If one was, I hope no good news of the sort that can't wait was in it.

The first writing of The Crab The Crab should end in June, as I predicted. It has been a little slow these last two weeks for various reasons, one of them being that I have been unable to hold back from should end in June, as I predicted. It has been a little slow these last two weeks for various reasons, one of them being that I have been unable to hold back from The Life of Augie March The Life of Augie March, a very good thing indeed. I've done a considerable piece of it, a piece good enough to be published as it is. I'm very enthusiastic about it, and though I will finish The Crab The Crab because I hate to have unfinished novels on the table, it might not be a wrong plan to publish because I hate to have unfinished novels on the table, it might not be a wrong plan to publish Augie Augie first. It will be quite long, but worth the delay. In any case, I'll be returning with two books, first. It will be quite long, but worth the delay. In any case, I'll be returning with two books, ce qui me plait beaucoup ce qui me plait beaucoup [ [32].

I did a short piece for my friend Lionel Abel who has (had, rather) a little periodical called Instead Instead. Do you recall? Well, Instead Instead has had its back broken by the times and I sent the thing to John Lehmann who had been asking me for something. Lehmann's going to print it in has had its back broken by the times and I sent the thing to John Lehmann who had been asking me for something. Lehmann's going to print it in New Writing #35 New Writing #35. What he aims to do about the money-it will be insignificant-I know not. If he sends it to me, I'll tell you the amount. But since he knows you represent me, he'll probably know what to do.

As for the Viking installments, I have a feeling that I ought to take them while the taking's good. True, Anita has a job now, but living in Paris abolishes every cent of it and we'll be coming back to New York pauperized as well as homeless. [ . . . ] What do you think? Shouldn't we ask Viking to turn on the cornucopia? [ . . . ]

We hear nothing but bad news from the States. You'd be doing me a great favor by sending some good.

All the best,

Nothing from Ransom? If If he still wants "Mr. Green," I'd like to re-write the last three pages before he sets it up. he still wants "Mr. Green," I'd like to re-write the last three pages before he sets it up.

To Henry Volkening June 10, 1949 Paris Dear Henry: The explanation of the John Lehmann mix-up is as follows: I wrote you last winter that my friend Lionel Abel had asked me for a piece; he was editing a magazine called Instead, Instead, and his pay was all that was supporting him in Paris. Since he's a good sort of guy and the cause worthy, I re-wrote a speech, something on the order of "Dr. Pep" and gave it to him. Then I sent a copy of same to Lehmann, who accepted it. But and his pay was all that was supporting him in Paris. Since he's a good sort of guy and the cause worthy, I re-wrote a speech, something on the order of "Dr. Pep" and gave it to him. Then I sent a copy of same to Lehmann, who accepted it. But Instead, Instead, by a caprice of the lady who was paying for its publication, folded and Lionel is now out of a job and the last state is worse than the first. So "The Thoughts of Sgt. George Flavin," as this thing is called, won't be published in America. Unless Phil Rahv, who liked "Dr. Pep" by a caprice of the lady who was paying for its publication, folded and Lionel is now out of a job and the last state is worse than the first. So "The Thoughts of Sgt. George Flavin," as this thing is called, won't be published in America. Unless Phil Rahv, who liked "Dr. Pep" a outrance a outrance [ [33], doesn't mind publishing it from New Writing #38. New Writing #38. I don't think-the old song-any other magazine would care for something not-a-story, not-an-essay or anything recognizable. I don't think-the old song-any other magazine would care for something not-a-story, not-an-essay or anything recognizable.

In a letter that may have been lost en route, I asked you not to pa.s.s around "Mr. Green" anymore because I've re-read it and decided to re-write it. I have a fresh idea about it. When this overhauling will take place I can't say, because my hands are full at the moment with the two books. One is almost done-the first draft-and another is in the first stages. I feel that the second, From the Life of Augie March, From the Life of Augie March, is the best thing I've ever written. The first is a book such as I might have done two, three or five years ago-a good book but nothing transcendent. Also a very grim book. This is why I've had the notion that it would be better to publish is the best thing I've ever written. The first is a book such as I might have done two, three or five years ago-a good book but nothing transcendent. Also a very grim book. This is why I've had the notion that it would be better to publish Augie Augie first. I'm writing it very rapidly and can easily meet Viking's deadline of June 1950 with enough material for a book. I have the feeling that it'll turn out long enough for two volumes, but of this I'm not positive. Anyhow, I'll send you the first chapter shortly. It may be publishable separately. first. I'm writing it very rapidly and can easily meet Viking's deadline of June 1950 with enough material for a book. I have the feeling that it'll turn out long enough for two volumes, but of this I'm not positive. Anyhow, I'll send you the first chapter shortly. It may be publishable separately.

Monroe has signaled me from his hilltop villa in Florence. I'll say nothing to him about two books, as you advise. Perhaps I'll return to Italy in August to visit him and other people. [ . . . ]

I don't hear much about literary life in America, except the Pound controversy. I haven't seen a Times Times book section since December and can't say I feel privation. Is Harvey [Breit] still on the job? Give him my kindest regards, please. book section since December and can't say I feel privation. Is Harvey [Breit] still on the job? Give him my kindest regards, please.

Best,

Owing to Ezra Pound's treasonable and anti-Semitic broadcasts from Rome during the Second World War, a number of writers, including Bellow, were furious when he received the first Bollingen Prize from the Library of Congress in 1949.

To Henry Volkening July 27, 1949 [Paris]

Dear Henry: The heat is slaughterous in Paris. People ask me whether it's hotter in the States. Since it seems to give deep satisfaction, I always say yes. Generally I let them come out ahead and believe the beans are better, the beer hoppier, the soap more lathery und so weiter und so weiter [ [34] in Europe. By the front page of the Tribune Tribune, I know what sort of summer's day you've had and can always be sure, whatever the comparative temperatures, that yours was grittier and sootier. But it's with no sort of pleasure.

The mornings are cool enough, and I manage to do my stint before the worst of the day. How it reads, ask not, however, because I can't see and won't be able to until the fall.

Mme. Wm. A. Bradley who acts for Vanguard has "sold"-the quotes are for effort-my two books to Gallimard (NRF), which also asks an option on the next three. How lovely and divine is confidence. It's all right with me, since Gallimard is the best publisher in France. But is it all right with you, with Viking? I am going to see Mme. Bradley on Friday in her elegant house at 18 Quai de Bethune; I shall tell her what I think and ask her to stand by for word from you.

We're not going to Italy this summer, as planned. It's awful of me to say so, I know, given what Italy is and what I am, but I haven't got the time. Besides it's too d.a.m.ned hot.

All the best,

To Monroe Engel October 24, 1949 Paris Dear Monroe: Except for a short vacation in Spain, in August, I'd been working faithfully and hard, and had reason to be cheerful when I saw Guinzburg, for I'd done a good deal. But then I read over carefully what I'd done and saw that the book I'd been rather confident of was not what I thought it was. I'd opened something new and, I think, infinitely better in the last part of it; the first was simply not of the same order and had to be raised or sc.r.a.pped. I didn't have it in me at this time to attempt this, so I've dived into something else I had started. On this, I've for some reason been able to work much faster than I've ever been able to work before. I do one fairly long chapter a week, and I expect to have the length of a book in first draft by Christmas. By the length of a book, I mean something like a hundred thousand words, not by any means the full length of what I plan. In any case, the first chapter is coming out in PR PR presently (November, they tell me), and if you'd like to see more I can send you carbons. presently (November, they tell me), and if you'd like to see more I can send you carbons.

How's your own work going? I trust you've had better luck. I was in a state when I read over what I had written. All my cherished pride in being a steady performer took a belly-whop.

Do you see Isaac and Alfred? Please give them my love.

Best, To David Bazelon November 20, 1949 Paris Dear Dave: I know you're a loyal friend of mine, none more, and that you speak up for me whenever the axe is unsheathed. Therefore you'll understand what difficulties you put me in by writing as you did about Margaret [Bazelon's woman friend, living in Paris], also a friend of mine, though by no means so near. But I do like her; she's in some ways irresistible, as you know. You shouldn't have spoken as you did about her even if you felt what you said to be true, and I'm not sure you did. Because such is not the way to speak of anyone, so despisingly; it's the ruin of intercourse, that sort of bolshevism. One wry grin and you throw away the subject as Ned.i.c.k's do a squeezed orange. You were speaking of a person and a not inconsiderable one; moreover, someone who admired and loved you a good deal. For I'm sure Margaret wanted to marry you and gave you as much opportunity to ask her to as she could. Since you didn't, all that you have to blame her for is wishing to get married. Now if you think marriage is an abject state for anyone, man or woman, and have something more digne digne [ [35] to propose than the black and hypocritical rags of matrimony, you can preach and publish your gospel in Hebron. But if you will agree to see anything at all normal in the human couple, it'll be hard to make a wrathful case against Margaret, some thirty years old, tired of living alone or with other women and of mere sleeping around.

Anyhow, I observed some protocol. I didn't go to her wedding for reasons of loyalty, but I did go to dinner, accepting a fait accompli fait accompli. Frankly, I couldn't figure out, for the life of me, what conduct you would have laid on me and saw nothing treasonable in a plate of borscht, anyhow. Her husband is a reasonably good guy, st.u.r.dy, of apparently nice temper, Norwegian, of northern equableness.

This may be as good a place as any to say that I approved very much of your article on women in Commentary Commentary.

Now to speak of more freylikh freylikh [ [36] things: What have you been doing? Do you like your job, and does teaching agree with you? I trust you'll have something good to say for it, since it looks as if I'm going to have to put myself under the pedagogue's yoke again next year. I suppose I could stay in Europe for another year. But a third! Nay. I have to come back to the States, if for no other reason than I feel myself more and more an Amerikaner Amerikaner, and the place of such is more or less in Amerika Amerika. I badly miss American energy, even that of Minneapolis where hardly anybody at all is cultured. Here most everybody knows the year of Moliere's birth and what Francois I said to Henry VIII on the Field of Cloth of Gold, but it's a weary satisfaction. Really weary. The working cla.s.s round the Place de la Bastille has life, but it's not greatly different from what you find in Gary and Whiting, take away the berets and subst.i.tute beer for wine and television for concertinas. The rest is increasingly like museum custodianship, it appears to me.

You'll be seeing Klonsky again, soon. He hath fled and no doubt will louse me around, for we ended in collision; but I could tell you some pretty stories too. Which I won't, for reasons adumbrated in paragraph one.

Let's hear from you soon.

Best,

About the [D. H.] Lawrence Tales Tales: They're pretty expensive and I'm somewhat strapped, so will you enclose a ten-dollar bill in your next? I think that'll do for two copies. If there's a surplus I'll buy you something else of his you can't get in N.Y.

To David Bazelon December 3, 1949 Paris Dear Dave: I'm answering you somewhat against my inclination, for your letter was horrible and wolfish, and ought not to be answered. But having set off your stuff you appear to feel, at the end, that everything can now be as before, which decidedly it can't.

Of course I don't know what went on between you and Margaret, but I don't remember having taken any airs of expertise expertise. I know your letter on her marriage made her wretched, while what you wrote to me about it was what I called it. When you say of a woman I know, or indeed any woman, that she has a stripe of white paint where her c.u.n.t ought to be, I think it is wrong; it is what I call bolshevik, not unjustifiably. Though I have often put up with your thinking me so, I am not stupid; when I say bolshevik I am thinking of a certain kind of destructiveness of which I have had some personal experience and of which I have also read a good deal in the polemical literature of Lenin, Trotsky and the Stalinists. I have a fairly well developed ear for tones and years' experience of manners of a different kind for contrast.

Now as for the wedding, it's true that I needn't have stayed away. But because, as you say, I didn't know a great deal about your relations with Margaret I had to depend on her to a large extent to furnish clues to your feelings. I gathered from her att.i.tude that you might feel it unfriendly of me to attend. But this is all trifling. The important thing is that after nearly ten years of friendship you should discharge such a load against me for a rebuke that wasn't unjustified and in any event wasn't harshly made.

Did I say to you that you loyally defended me from literary attacks? You're completely mistaken. I was thinking of what Alvin had often told me, that you spoke well of me when others spoke unkindly. In general. Now you tell me "it isn't worth the effort" and you are speaking entirely of my writing. Had our friendship rested, childishly, on "literary loyalty" we'd have been through long before this. You must think me an idiot if you believe I haven't known for years what att.i.tude you took toward it. I shouldn't say that you had ever covered me with laurels, and you've all too obviously spared me your opinion of what I've published since The Victim The Victim. Any writer naturally likes to have the things he does appreciated, but when have I ever twisted your arm for this? Now you "reveal" something that you think will crush me, as though you had spared me long enough, whereas in fact I had long ago come to terms with your estimate of my work, your reasons for it and the right and wrong of it, because I felt there were sympathies and attachments of greater importance than either the writing or your criticism. I don't try for salvation through writing. From lack of foresight, I have no better profession. I'll apply elsewhere for salvation, when I find the right place.

No, you don't belong to polite society, but you belong to a society all the same and have more of a membership in it than I have in any. It hasn't inculcated very good things in you. There's no need to describe these. I want no part of them, that's all I want to say.

Sincerely, To Oscar Tarcov December 5, 1949 Paris Dear Oscar: [ . . . ] I was overjoyed at your thick letter. In the first place, we hadn't heard from anyone in weeks and were beginning to feel really in goles goles [ [37]. And in the second, with it there came plenty of others, but what others! Junk, madness, haughtiness, injury. Enough to provoke a man to abjure all intimacy and withdraw to a tent as far as possible from sea-level, whence life came, and live on snow and hawks.h.i.t. Presently I'll tell you about this. But you can see that something sane and kind, in the nick of time, saved me from absolute despair.

Speaking generally, I'm in an enviable position. On n'a pas lieu de se plaindre On n'a pas lieu de se plaindre [ [38]. I'm in France, comfortable, comfortably employed, and want for nothing except some extremely necessary things which nearly everyone else lacks too. When I come back from seeing Spanish cities or speak with deportees and survivors, I know there's nothing in my private existence that justifies complaint, or melancholy for myself, and that Hamlet Hamlet is a luxury item in the life of mankind and adumbrates the difficulties we will all face after bread is plentiful. Save in America and this small fringe of Europe, it isn't. After all, we're incredibly wealthy, and if we look for a parallel to our problems I think we can find it, historically, in the annoyances of the surfeited rich. Or in Hamlets who have everything except what they really require of others and themselves. It's a horrible thing to be Hamlet and not born a prince, Jean Genet says. I'd say, answering with the voice of the middle cla.s.s, that the first is a misfortune which makes the second insignificant. Frankly, I'm sick and tired of all that sort of melancholy and boredom. France has given me a bellyful of it, France alone, not counting Chicago and New York. I'm out for is a luxury item in the life of mankind and adumbrates the difficulties we will all face after bread is plentiful. Save in America and this small fringe of Europe, it isn't. After all, we're incredibly wealthy, and if we look for a parallel to our problems I think we can find it, historically, in the annoyances of the surfeited rich. Or in Hamlets who have everything except what they really require of others and themselves. It's a horrible thing to be Hamlet and not born a prince, Jean Genet says. I'd say, answering with the voice of the middle cla.s.s, that the first is a misfortune which makes the second insignificant. Frankly, I'm sick and tired of all that sort of melancholy and boredom. France has given me a bellyful of it, France alone, not counting Chicago and New York. I'm out for sursum corda. sursum corda. Lift up the heart. Still, the bad tidings keep coming in and that makes it a kind of Quixotic job. There's no other worth taking, however. Lift up the heart. Still, the bad tidings keep coming in and that makes it a kind of Quixotic job. There's no other worth taking, however.

I'll tell you specifically what things are like. I get up, have breakfast, read the papers; Herschel goes off to school, Anita to her office, the maid puts up a lunch for me, I stick it in my briefcase and walk about a mile to my room, past the Russian emba.s.sy and curiosity shops. The weather is generally dark and gray, but the spirit only balks at it once in a while. In my room, 33 Rue Vaneau, I light the woodstove with ancient copies of Le Rire Le Rire, pausing to look at some of the s.m.u.tty cartoons of 1906. Then I fiddle around a bit and go to work. Late in the afternoon I come out again. This is the difficult part of the day, especially if it's raining. I go home, shave, play with the kid awhile, go out along the Seine, read in a cafe, etc. Twice a week I play casino with an American painter at the Rouquet and drink cocoa. I have almost no friendly, that is, really intimate, intercourse with anyone except Anita. We see the Kaplans, Nick Chiaromonte and his wife and several other people. We have few French acquaintances because you have to make an enormous effort to justify yourself to the French and prove that you're not a barbarian at best and pain in the a.s.s at worst. So far as my observation goes, there are two kinds of people in France, the workers and the other French. The workers are infinitely superior and are, really, what we at home have always considered French French, the others what we meant by bourgeois. You see then what it's like. In many ways, it's the best sort of life you can arrange, nowadays, given what things are, but it's anything but warm. That's why what I hear from you and others at home is so important-the source of first connection-and Anita and I take great pleasure in talking about you. In what goes on, you and Edith are not only your own "switzerland," as you say, but ours, too. Well, then, when you write of Sam [Freifeld] it's terribly disappointing. Isaac was even less charitable about him, describing his visit to New York. But then Isaac is probably not far from thinking the same things of me. I don't know how you stand with him these days. Better, I hope. I'm entirely in the dog-house, I feel.

In some ways it's having chosen to become a writer that places me in this position. Anyhow it seems the more I write and publish, the more "public" things become, the less first first contacts live. People draw off into coldness and enmity who'd have kinder feelings toward me if I were a photographer of dogs or a fish-expert. I hope with all my heart that your experience and Edith's will be different. contacts live. People draw off into coldness and enmity who'd have kinder feelings toward me if I were a photographer of dogs or a fish-expert. I hope with all my heart that your experience and Edith's will be different.

For instance, I got a hideous letter from Bazelon, full of rage; really one of those doggish, clawing things that want to go snarling straight into your inmost spirit and destroy you. I a.s.sure you I'm not exaggerating. He says, "I don't speak up for you" (when my writing is criticized) "because it naturally isn't worth the effort, first. Secondly, some people just don't care for your writing for literary reasons of their own. And third, I didn't understand that our friendship rested on literary loyalty." The cause of this? One of Dave's girl friends, to whom he was much attached, got married recently in Paris. I had gotten to know her well and consider her a friend of mine. Just before her wedding, Dave sent me a perfectly nauseating letter about her, attacking her s.e.xually, etc. I answered that it was bolshevistic of him to express himself so about anyone. That since he had always been a loyal friend to me, he might understand my being loyal to her. That, however, I hadn't gone to her wedding because he might not have liked it, etc. A perfectly inoffensive letter in which I said not a single thing about "literary loyalty"-as though by now it weren't perfectly clear what opinion his Hudson Street friends had of my writing. I shan't say that I don't care at all, but I don't, effectively, care. I've never policed any of my friends on this score or twisted any arms. I've never quarreled with Sam or Isaac on this subject, their att.i.tude has never essentially affected my feelings toward them. Ecco! Ecco! My first contacts! Evidently Dave had been getting this ready for a long time and I had only to mention something so foolish as loyalty to have him gush it into my face. My first contacts! Evidently Dave had been getting this ready for a long time and I had only to mention something so foolish as loyalty to have him gush it into my face.

Where does this bring me? To coming back to the States. Ay, the happy day. Probably I could remain in Europe, if I wanted to work out a deal. But just now I want to come back. At least for a year. I don't any longer have my job at Minnesota, but I've written to apply to other places.

[William] Phillips of PR PR is here. Better acquaintance with him shows me what you're up against with editors. As we used to say in Tuley, "His taste is in his mout." They don't believe there can be writing, he and his mob, and know from nothin'. is here. Better acquaintance with him shows me what you're up against with editors. As we used to say in Tuley, "His taste is in his mout." They don't believe there can be writing, he and his mob, and know from nothin'.

Best love, and write soon,