a/c Consulado de los EE. UU.
Junqueras, 18, Barcelona, Spain
7 September 1950
dear John and Pauline,
—menaced by monsters, fancy lights, Risking enchantment . . . We had some balloons over Palamos, causing great excitement among the natives—and I by now unkempt enough to be a member of the local unwashed—we all ran out into the streets, dogs and children, to the point about the lighthouse, where these balloons, three of them, rose higher over the hot evening air above land, then came down in the sea, two did, the other carried a little light in its basket, it just went right on up. And that blazing sky, useless to try to describe it. Do you know that point of land? its view covers the whole harbour and then around to east (to the left). I suppose they were meteorological balloons, but we here prefer any pagan to scientific explanation.
Aside from that, nothing has happened. Nothing.
Except newspapers you know get in, and with them the idiotic haruspicating and scrying going on in My country, warwards. How can grownup men make such fools of themselves? But on every level. It seems that nothing else draws nearer. Margaret, heaven knows, does not. Perhaps it’s better, a bonnie over the ocean than one under-foot, wanting to dinner at Fouquets, a drink at the Crillon, tea at Claridges? I don’t know. All I know right now is that things reached such a pass this morning, in the way of trying to straighten out characters, incidents, situations, interviews, and one suicide (but she a very old woman), that I wrote every one a bit of paper, and have spent the afternoon sitting like a simple child making a village of confetti, trying to arrange them in order that will satisfy Aristotle’s theory of dramatic unity, William James’s of pragmatism, the Boston Watch & Ward Society, for Morals, the Catholic Index, the publisher’s for Something New, the reader’s prolepsis and my analepsis. Some must suffer. Boston and the index first. Then Aristotle. I sometimes even imagine cutting it down to myself and the reader. At any rate, it goes on, between balloons.
I hope you both found the rest here to send you back heavily to work there. But how long does that lust last? I feel like I was born here, by this time; it seems as though I’ve spent my life at this machine, at this window, and staring across at the old man they put out on a balcony in the afternoon with a piece of bread, and take him in at night. Some times the hand shakes, and the words (slipping, sliding, perishing) will not stay in place, and I mightily wish you were here for a coffee, or a glass at Boodles’. You did leave quite a vacuum on your departure, and I find myself again talking with myself, getting the same vacant variety of answers. Lord, to be a real, legitimate member of a myth, a screaming Catholic, an Albigensian, a Stuart or Hanover or John D Rockefeller, instead of sitting in one damn hall bedroom after another trying to manufacture one. Though I suppose the rewards are greater when you do finish. Do you finish? I just go on accumulating. (I like a title of a book I’ve never read by Tomlinson, Old Junk).
But now I find I’m owed 30,000 francs in Paris, and temptation rises to go there and cut a figure of mean disaster for a few days, then return, be tatooed, and enter the Franciscan orders. Your mill pond looks like it would be rousing cold in winter, and my blood is as thin as sewing-machine oil by now. But how I look forward to stopping there to see you. I’ve so many reasons for wanting to come to London, all good, all self-indulgent, Edwardian enough, they include books and tailors. But I must wait for the Trollop reason (and no pun intended here), the summons to the church, the walk hand-in-hand in the heather, . . . tea at Claridges. I don’t like Paris, but may have to go up briefly in October, then return here if there’s no summons to Southampton, and just go right on hoping for the wrong things and praying for the wrong things until the Balloon goes up. Meanwhile I’ll write of any change of scene; thanks again for your patient listening and words here, I need them so much more than I realised, and I’m excited about seeing you again and enlarging on them, asking the questions which have grown from those answers.
All my best wishes to you both,
W. Gaddis
menaced by monsters [...] Risking enchantment: as noted earlier, from section 2 of Eliot’s “East Coker.”
haruspicating and scrying: from part 5 (“haruspicate or scry”) of Eliot’s “Dry Salvages” (1941). a bonnie over the ocean: from the old Scots folk song “My Bonnie Lies over the Ocean.”
William James: American philosopher (1842–1910), author of Pragmatism (1907) among other works.
Boston Watch & Ward Society: an organization devoted to censorship, branding objectionable books “Banned in Boston.” Its influence had waned by 1950.
prolepsis and […] analepsis: technical literary terms for foreshadowing and flashback.
words (slipping, sliding, perishing): from section 5 of Eliot’s “Burnt Norton”: “Words strain, / Crack and sometimes break, under the burden, / Under the tension, slip, slide, perish, / Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place, / Will not stay still.”
Boodles’: Boodle’s, a London gentlemen’s club.
Albigensian: member of a medieval heretical sect.
John D Rockefeller: American oil magnate (1839–1937).
Tomlinson, Old Junk: a 1918 collection of “stories of travel and chance” by English writer H. M. Tomlinson (1873–1958). 30,000francs: about $775 today.
Trollop: Anthony Trollope (1815–82), English novelist.
the Balloon goes up: an old phrase meaning a clarifying signal.
To Edith Gaddis
Palamós, Gerona
21 september 1950
dear Mother,
Having just had a going over by mail with Margaret, who hadn’t written in some time, I realise it’s some time since I’ve written you. And have had two letters, each containing things I have to thank you for—the books, the prospect of them and of 20$ (and 80 in Paris?)
I don’t know whether opportunity will present itself, but I would like to have the address of that boy Christie knew in Paris, if I’m going to be there for more than a few days I’d like to look him up, like to know at least one nice French person. A recent letter from the English painter I met here renews his invitation for me to visit them there. And so I’ve been thinking I well may go on to England in mid-October, after 5 or 6 days in Paris, and possibly stay there for a month or two. I liked it so much when we were there, but that was such a brief introduction. And two months in London would be very well-spent I believe. —Also to have my teeth looked at and worked on—I ought to go for that alone.
And all of this of course if nothing comes of these faint possibilities for a job, which I hope to investigate in Paris, and might end up returning to Madrid on that hope.
It’s quite suddenly become fall here, with the north wind which they say makes Palamós very cold in winter. I can imagine that Massapequa is about over for another summer. Well the more I think about it the more I think I’ll be there next summer—unless I’ve got a raving job in Spain, unless Margaret, unless Stalin and General MacArthur—but I should get there to paint the white outside woodwork. And by then I should have this “novel” in shape, too. Well heaven knows. At any rate, while things hang in the air I want to spend some time in London. Unesco has conceeded that they owe me about ½ what I’d expected (having left 7 pieces with them, they’re paying me now for 3)—which will be some good in Paris anyhow. Heaven knows how other things will be there. [...]
Love,
W.
To Edith Gaddis
Palamós
[22? September 1950]
dear Mother,
Just a note, of change of plans. I’ve just had a letter from Juancho, who’s coming to Madrid for some sort of international intellectual congress, writes me to ask me to come to Madrid, saying not to worry about money, that he thinks I can be his guest, or the guest of Panama, or guest of the Society of Spanish-American Culture, or something. So I’m going.
First (now) going to Mallorca, see if I can see Robert Graves (who wrote that book The White Goddess which you sent m
e in Sevilla last year remember?) Will be in Barcelona the 28th, and pick up any mail at the consulate there for me; after that everything to Paris American Express. I hope the 20$ is there by the 28th but if not I’ve enough to get to Madrid, and can repay Juancho in Paris.
May sound like a real wild-goose chase, probably will be; but I might be able to see someone in Madrid about a job possibility. And I was about ready for a wild goose chase anyhow after two months of this country life.
Will write you better from Mallorca in a day or two. I think I’ll stay in Madrid from 3 to 10 days, probably about 5 days, depending on how Juancho feels about it when I actually do take him up on his offer. Many thanks for your letters; I’d expected to answer you more fully, but this has been an over-night decision.
W.
To John Napper
Deya, Mallorca
27 September 1950
dear John,
As I said, becoming less enamoured of Spain. All resulted from trying to do something in a hurry, which you cannot do in Spain. But a friend on his way to Madrid wrote to ask me to come there for a few days, so I set out, abandoned Palamós, got to Barcelona, arranged everything—then could not buy a train ticket for Madrid a week in advance. Left in fury, vowing never to speak to another Spaniard, never to say a nice thing about Spain again.
So here I am in the smallest room in the smallest town on this small island, getting by until my escape ticket to Paris matures, on 35 pesetas a day. [...] I am going to Paris on the 4th, will be there the 5th, just a week from today. I plan to stay there for a week or 10 days—then, I don’t know. I’m firmly considering life in London for a couple of months, and I’d certainly like to see you about that. Spain has done its work for the moment.
In Paris I suppose I shall stay at my hideous old home, 24 rue de la Chaussée d’Antin (about 2 blocks from the Opera), the 5th floor, and to the right inside a small hallway. Though if not there, since heaven knows what disasters may have occurred in the last 2 months, could you leave a note for me at the American Express, 11 rue Scribe (also near Opera). I do look forward to seeing you in Paris, and you must look up that address.
I’ve found Robert Graves, who proves to be extremely pleasant, though a very nervous man, especially when one gets on a topic which interests him, so that I find it difficult to talk with him about White Goddesses, Recognitions, crucifixions, incarnations, saints, what-have-you—easier to go swimming, though I haven’t seen a real (Palamós) beach on Mallorca, all sheer drops to the sea, and small openings where you can descend to the water. Thank God I found Palamós—Palma is still full of French, Dutch, Belgian &c.—all with bare knees, rucksacks, automobiles, ghastly women, motorcycles, buying postcards, castanets, junk junk junk. Enough.
Deya is quite the other extreme. It is all rocks. Everything is rocks. There is one indoor café, with a billiard table, and nothing else but goats and sheep with bells on them, also one rooster, and this morning I saw a snail. Otherwise, it is fairly quiet.
I’m afraid I’m getting in a mood for Paris. Will you be there?
All best wishes to you both,
W. Gaddis
Recognitions: probably a reference to the Clementine Recognitions: see 23 November 1953.
To Edith Gaddis
24, rue de la Chaussée d’Antin
Paris IXe
10 october, 1950
dear Mother,
I’m sorry the troubled mind I’ve given you, again, over my where-abouts, and the wild moment over a check for 20$. It all worked out. I got back from Barcelona, there it was with many other letters, each from a friend with some monumental disaster of his or her own. Do you think I should start out all over again, choose my friends from BBD&O? I do believe you must feel that way by now. Maybe even that I should be bbd&o too. And so, at anyrate, I got out of Spain with 5pesetas, just enough to tip a porter, and after a last meal in Barcelona (I in the restaurant, to an old woman: How much is a tortilla with potatoes (a potato omelette); she: With two eggs? 8pesetas. I: How much is it with one egg? she: 5pesetas. I: Give me a tortilla with one egg . . .) and got into France, arriving in Paris next morning with 11francs (4¢). Washed, dressed, up to Unesco, and I shan’t describe what passed there, enough to say it was consistent with every other payment-experience in the past. But I finally did get part of what they owe me, so I’m getting on well enough here now. What will happen next I do not know.
Barney is no where in sight, so I don’t know what monkey-business he has managed about this flat (there was a letter waiting from him in Barcelona wanting to borrow 20,0000francs . . . imagine). Perhaps, of course, he has payed the rent. In case not, though, I move quietly in and out, not especially wanting an interview with the old woman (landlady) until I have one with the young man (Barney). The only relics I have of him are three disgraceful pairs of flannel trousers, one very sad pair of Chaplinesque black shoes, and every newspaper printed since I left.
This morning a wire from the English painter I met in Palamos, saying he’s on his way to Paris. He will have to sleep in the sink, that’s all.
Juancho proves to be great fun to see again after so long; though he has managed a moustache which goes down at its ends and gives him greatly the sad old Chinaman look. He looks much older. He says he cannot get over how well I look (having seen me only in semi-desperate circumstances with shirts held together by adhesive tape &c). He looks much older. He says he cannot get over how well I look, so it may please you to know that I look well. To counterbalance the enclosed photo-, taken on the street in Barcelona where, as you see, I was sporting about disguised as a young gentleman. This will, anyhow, give you a picture of my New Suit. Also my new Shoes. Also my new linen waistcoat, my new stick, and someone elses old shirt. Also the Barcelona lions, which surround Columbus who is standing atop a column pointing toward New York. [...]
Don’t worry about sending extra money. Don’t worry about Margaret and I married next week. Of course if she does appear here this afternoon wanting to get married there won’t be much to do but marry her. As everything stands though, I don’t expect her. I’ve decided it’s safest for me to make my own plans, centred about finishing a first draft of this novel before Christmas; then if Margaret suddenly comes up with some wild and immediate presentation of herself, I can, as you know, change any plans of mine with real Barney-esque alacrity. So don’t worry about extra money until there’s a decisive sound from that young lady. She writes many splendid letters, but I think it will take her a little while to pull herself together, marriage-wise. It might even be before Christmas. That would be remarkable. Then I would most certainly be sending a handful of wild letters, cables, wires asking for a loan. Meanwhile I read books and try to write one. [...]
with love,
W.
BBD&O: New York advertising agency founded in 1928.
WG in Spain: top, in Barcelona, 1950; bottom, in Seville, spring 1951.
To John Napper
Paris
19 October 1950
dear John.
I’m sorry to be so long answering: Paris is just what it always is, the endless round of people, wild-eyed schemes, re-encounters, disasters, new projects, conversation, adding to that future which, like the past is liable to have no destination. I’ve been busy since arrival drinking beer at Lipp’s sidewalk terrace, re-adjusting my homestead, shaking hands, playing charades, waiting for you after your telegram and meaning to write you after your card, and trying to make my mind up about staying here or going to London until December holidays. And I’ve finally decided to stay here. Largely because I have this comparatively comfortable place to live, at least I’m fully familiar with it and this room is a good one to work in. Tomorrow morning I intend to open my avalanche of folders and papers and look at what I did in Palamos. Somehow I believe it won’t look as good here as it did there. And settle down to finish it by the end of the year. Of course there are such passing temptations as a motor trip to Tel Aviv, something about buying a car h
ere and selling it there after a journey through Greece Yougoslavia Turkey and whatever else lies between, but I hold off such distractions, —unless someone actually appears at the door with the car . . .
But I still intend to get to London within the next two months, and thank you again for your renewed invitation, I shall take advantage of it certainly. When the weather gets a little colder, when your pond is frozen over. For the moment it seems most sensible for me to sit right down here and get to work. The notion of wandering around London looking for a satisfactory place to live, to work, in the worst fog season I understand, with no comprehension of pounds-shillings-pence (& guineas and florins and half-crowns) (guineas and crowns which don’t exist but everyone deals in them), I imagine time and money going and gone, and I still loose in that fog with my sheaf of papers. And so as soon as these charades stop I’ll sit down and work; and as soon as that drags I want to come over, and let you know well enough in advance. The trouble with this room is that I’ve spent so much time here being lazy that it’s not like that industrious confinement in the hotel Condal, where the moment I entered about the only thing in my mind was the only piece of personal furniture in the room, this typewriter; but here there are distractions on every hand, some with corks and some with legs and voices. There are even books to read. And Charley Chaplin in City Lights.
Barney, who was at the University of London, is going over in a day or two, intending to finish his thesis. We’d thought we might settle down together, mutual encouragement to exemplary life of industry, but we have never set one another such examples before, and right now can do no better than charades it appears. That is what is going on in the room right now, which may explain any disjointed-ness in this note. I hope to write you a better soon, and to see you within six or eight weeks. Meanwhile let me know if there is again the chance of your coming over here, believe me, you’ll be most welcome in the charades.
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