Then comes better news, or I should say great news. This last Monday we went to the Rifle Range, and there—as I had anticipated—I pulled my trump card. As I told you, I can’t see a bloody thing out of my right eye at any distance. So after failing to hit the target at 500 yards I turned into the hospital with a sad story. The results were astonishing. They examined me, found the old cataract, and immediately recommended that I be released to inactive duty—i.e. discharged. This was further corroborated by the Chief Medical Officer of the Camp, who ordered me transferred to the Marine Barracks here for processing to release from active duty. So it looks from here like I’m to really be out of this lousy outfit very soon—and for good. There is still a slim chance that they’ll try to delay it or waiver me or something, or take a long time at it—but the chance is slim, I’m certain, and I don’t think I’m being too optimistic when I say I think I’ll be back in the city fair, permanently, within a month. Now isn’t that great news, following the story of my hardship?
Strange, though, I don’t feel too overwhelmed. If I get out, it’s sheer good fortune and there are too many guys down here still suffering for me to be exclusively happy. I won’t forget them and when I’m out I’m going to campaign for them to the very limit, because the misery of the company of the damned, who seem to be faced with endless years of 30-mile hikes and exploding mortars, is sad indeed.
Last night I listened to the Emperor Concerto with this friend of mine, and the music reminded me of V.C. fair. Are you there, with Talluley and the flowers and everything? I hope and trust it won’t be long before I’m there, sitting with my Sweet Baby in the warm summer filled evening, listening to the music from the other room and perhaps gnawing on a piece of golden Bantam corn … Love to Aggie and all. This weekend I’m going to Durham, where Blackburn is throwing me a cocktail party, and I will wish that you were there.
With all love from,
S.B.
Styron was discharged from the Marine Corps in August 1951.
TO WILLIAM BLACKBURN
August 22, 1951 West 13th Street, New York City
Dear Doctor,
I’m in New York now, staying with a friend on West 13th street.†c I would like to have come to Durum†d before I left Lejeune, but I had to go see my father in Newport News (he is much better) and to go to both places would have been a little too much.
Hiram is sending you a copy of the book, fruit of our (your and mine) efforts. I think it’s going to go fine. Maxwell Geismar thinks it’s the best book he’s read this year.†e Malcolm Cowley†f says the book is “wonderful” and is going to feature it in The New Republic. Harper’s Bazaar has got an effete picture and article on me next month. Best, though, is news that John W. Aldridge, the young critic who just wrote the book damning all the young writers, thinks that my book is terrific and is going to review it in the Times Book Review.†g I’m becoming a sensation. Full-page ads everywhere.
I’ve never been so happy, I guess. And you know how much you helped make it this way. I’ll try to come to Durum before long. Tell Brice I’ll send him a copy shortly, but that he’ll have to read it. And thanks for everything again.
Always yours,
Bill
TO WILLIAM BLACKBURN
September 13, 1951 West 13th Street, New York City
Dear Doctor,
Thank you so much for your wonderful letter. I hardly think I deserve that kind of praise, but thank you ever for your faith in me, and trust.
I tried to give you a much bigger plug than what finally came out in the Saturday Review profile on me. I told the girl interviewing me that you were the prime mover of my talents; that you are an “instructor” who liked “some” of my work is just her transcription.
The reviews, most of them, have been quite wonderful. You probably saw the Sunday Times and Tribune. The out-of-town reviews have practically all been superlative, with the exception of the Chicago Tribune, which said I needed an editor like Maxwell Perkins. Time Magazine didn’t like the book, nor did Lewis Gannett, but these two were more or less to be expected. Otherwise I could hardly ask for a better reception, and the sales already have gone well over 20,000. Hiram got wonderful letters from Budd Schulberg, Robert Gorham Davis, and Allen Tate about the book. Tate is almost certain I can get the $1,000 award of the American Academy of Arts + Letters.
So I feel fine. And maybe still you will be able to share some of that feeling when I tell you again that without your pruning and patience it would never have happened.
Yours ever
Bill
TO LEON EDWARDS
January 9, 1952 48 Greenwich Avenue, New York City
Dear Leon,
Due to some mix-up in this almighty, awful postal system we have, I didn’t get your letter of December 15 until today, which is two days after the completion of a Christmas tour to Newport News, Durham and Richmond. Nevertheless, I appreciate, retroactively, your holiday invitation and I’m sorry I didn’t get to see you again, except that I probably wouldn’t have been able to make it anyway, since I hadn’t seen Pop for quite a while and felt that I’d better spend Christmas at home, even if it meant step-mother trouble. I really can’t say that I had a riotously happy time in N.N.: I have the feeling from the way people acted around me that I’m the Peninsula’s most famous writer of pornography, or perhaps infamous or notorious is a better word. I spent a harrowing evening on Christmas Day at the country club, where, lucky me, I ran into the girl—whom I talked to you about—who is the model, roughly, for Peyton. An embarrassing half-hour was had by all. I also called up your mother and was going to arrange to see her, but took ill briefly with too much food and whiskey, so we didn’t get together, but I certainly intend to see her next time I’m down. She’s my bravest and most vehement supporter on the Peninsula and God likes her for that.
The news about the book is about the same, except for two facts: the reprint contract with Signet Books has come through with a first printing of 200,000 copies, probably in April or May. I don’t know how much money I’ll get but it’s likely to be “sizeable” according to the man at Bobbs. And a large book club in France seems likely to take it, which pleases me, although I had no idea that France even had book clubs.
I’m glad everything seems to be going well with you all, and I hope I’ll be able to see you before long. In the meantime give my best to the family and write whenever you get time off from Gray’s Anatomy and the Pharmacopeia.
As ever,
Bill
TO EDITH CROW†h
January 11, 1952 48 Greenwich Avenue, New York City
Dear Aunt Edith,
Since you mentioned in your Christmas letter that you are saving clippings about “Lie Down in Darkness,” I am sending you in today’s mail three reviews which you may or may not have seen, plus an article, syndicated in North Carolina, from the Raleigh paper. I’m clearing out my small collection—Pop has all of them anyway, since he subscribed to a clipping service—and if they are new to you, you can paste them up, or if you have duplicates you can use them to stuff up window-cracks in place of weatherstripping, or something.
I enjoyed your letter very much. However, in answer to your question about what does a celebrity do to celebrate Christmas, the only thing I can say is that I do—if I am a celebrity, which I doubt—just what everyone else does. For one thing, I went down to Newport News, where I spent a very quiet and uneventful four days, then on down to Durham to see my friends over New Year’s, finishing up with a weekend in Richmond, with an old pal of mine. I had a very nice time, but it seemed no different from any other Christmas, even though I’ve been told I’m an Author with a capital A.
Latest particulars about the book are: sales, something over 30,000; reprint, pocket edition by Signet, sometime late this spring, with a first printing of 200,000 (not a whole lot of money in this for me, but lots of readers at 25¢ apiece); foreign rights; translations in French, Spanish, Danish, Swedish, and Norwegian, and a British e
dition in April. One of the nicest things, really, that I have to look forward to is the fact that, according to pretty safe rumor, I stand to win this year’s “Prix de Rome,” awarded by the American Academy of Arts and Sciences, for outstanding achievement in creative writing. This is a grant amounting to $3500 with stipulation that the one who gets the award must live in Rome for a year, all transportation being paid for. It’s not an absolute certainty yet, but according to reliable sources it’s all but in the bag. So, you see, even if Time doesn’t like me much, someone does!
Incidentally, did you see the January issue of Mademoiselle, with my homely face in it, all haggard and lined and worn? Well, the fellow who did the accompanying article, Leo Lerman, is a funny little bald headed man with a beard, who is independently wealthy and who has the habit of “collecting” people with “names” and throws big parties, trying to attract as many luminaries as possible. I was invited to one recently, and went, thinking that perhaps I, too, was a big name. You can imagine how I felt, then, being outshone in the celebrity field by Marlene Dietrich, Tennessee Williams, Laurence Olivier and Vivien Leigh, all of whom were very much at the party, too. I met all of them; the Oliviers were very frostily, Britishly pleasant, “hadn’t had the pleasuah of ridding my book,” but hoped to soon. Tennessee Williams had read it, though, and said he liked it very much, but you could have knocked me over with a pin when Leo took me over to meet la Dietrich and she took my cold clammy hand in hers and said she had not only “rad” “LDID,” but “lawved” it! It was pure Elysium, I can tell you that, and the young Stendhals and Flauberts and de Maupassants who pined for the salons of Paris back in the 1850’s couldn’t have asked for more.
To be serious, though, writing a successful book is not all it’s cracked up to be—the aftermath, I mean. If it does anything at all, to tell you the truth, it increases, rather than diminishes, the sense of anxiety and insecurity one had in the process of writing. I don’t know why this should be so, unless it puts you in the double position of (a) not knowing, because of all the reams of criticism which have been written, and which you have perhaps foolishly read and taken too seriously, just how good or bad a writer you are, and just how much of the praise or criticism is real or valid, and (b) being faced with the ominous duty of having a “reputation” to uphold, which makes you extremely hesitant and worried about Novel No. 2. Of course, the only answer to this is to get down to work and start writing again, with no thought about critics, because a real writer (and I think I’m that) is only happy, really, when he’s writing.
I got a nice letter from Aunt Adelaide and a Christmas card from Cousin Jud; I wish you’d thank him for it for me, and wish him the best for the New Year. I wish you the best, too, and I hope it won’t be too long before I’ll be able to see you—in Uniontown, I hope, but maybe in New York if you’re planning a trip anytime soon.
Love,
Billy
TO LOUIS D. RUBIN, JR.†i
January 28, 1952 48 Greenwich Avenue, New York, NY
Dear Louis Rubin
I had a thoroughly enjoyable time in Baltimore last week, enjoyed meeting everyone—they were all most interesting and pleasant—and I want to thank you for making my stay such an amiable one. I hope my first experience at speechifying didn’t seem too awkward for those exposed to it, but perhaps in the confusion I managed to let drop a few things that may be of some interest and help.†j As you, especially, are undoubtedly aware, there doesn’t seem to be much one can really say about fiction writing; if you can relate, as I tried to do, merely some of the particular problems you ran up against as a writer, then I suppose you’ve been at least entertaining. At any rate, I didn’t come armed with any theories and I hope no one was too disappointed. Incidentally, I gave Admiral Ageton’s address to my friend at Bobbs Merrill, and I expect he’ll be hearing from Louis* in a few days.†k I’m sure the admiral can at least expect a full and sympathetic reading.
The train fare which you asked me to report to you was $14.50 round trip. I don’t think you should bother about the meals, as I would be eating them no matter where I was.
I hope I’ll have the pleasure of coming down to Hopkins again sometime. In the meantime, thanks again for the hospitality and my best regards to Mrs. Rubin, Miss Greenslet, the Messrs. Coleman and Woodward, et al.†l
Sincerely,
Bill Styron
* Louis Simpson, whom you know of
TO WILLIAM BLACKBURN
February 21, 1952 48 Greenwich Avenue, New York City
Dear Doctor:
Brice informed me in his last communication that you were recovering from a strep throat; I hope that by now you have recovered and feel hearty and able to confront John Donne again.
I’ve tried to figure out a way to get down to Durham before I leave for Europe but since I’ve made reservations on the Île de France for March 5th I don’t know how I’m going to do it, what with the fact that all the multitudinous details accompanying such a journey are still not taken care of. I plan to land in Southampton on the 11th and to go from there to London where apparently Hamish Hamilton, my English publisher, has a hotel room for me. I expect to kick around England for a month or so, thence to France, and thence to Italy. Good news: Malcolm Cowley, with whom I was at a “Young Writers” forum at Columbia Friday night, told me that I had won the Prix de Rome of the American Academy of Arts and Letters, which means a year’s residence, all expenses paid plus transportation, at the American Academy in Rome. This includes room and board and books, encouragement to travel in Italy plus $300 to do it with, plus $1250 as a stipend. It beats the Pulitzer Prize all hollow, or any prize for that matter, and I’m extremely proud and grateful. It doesn’t commence until October of this year, but that will mean I’ll have the time to knock around France for a few months before going to Rome, and I’ll be back in New York or, more preferably, Durum, in November 1953. With a novel under my arm, I trust. The judges for the award were, besides Cowley, Francis Hackett, Van Wyck Brooks, John Hersey, W.H. Auden†m and Allen Tate, and the fact that such a high-powered assemblage sat in judgment certainly adds zest to the triumph and takes away the sting of such a trifle as the New Yorker review.
I’ll try to write again before I sail but if I don’t I’ll certainly keep in close touch while I’m in Europe. I think it’ll be a great experience and I’m going to set myself toward wisdom and accomplishment. If you write me after the 5th of March you’d better address it c/o Bobbs-Merrill, 468 4th Avenue, N.Y. 16., as I don’t know what my address abroad will be. And if you have any people that you think I should look up in England, I wish you’d let me know.
Ever yours,
Bill
TO EDITH CROW
March 13, 1952 London, England
Dear Aunt Edith,
You were too generous in sending the check, which I got through Bobbs-Merrill today, but I appreciate it dearly and have sent it back to my agent in New York for deposit, and I appreciate even as much your very nice letter, which warmed me immensely tonight, when the chill of England seemed to be settling solidly into my bones. I’m sorry, too, that you weren’t on hand when the Île de France sailed, but it’s probably for the better, because I was pretty confused and unhinged at sailing time. The voyage itself was nice and calm, with excellent food, with mild sunny days, and with Lena Horne,†n whom I met through my friend Arthur Laurents, who was also aboard (he directed and wrote the movie “Home of the Brave,” and wrote the screenplay for “Snake Pit”). Lena sang for the assembled company and afterwards for a couple of nights Art + Lena + I managed to get paralyzed together in the First Class bar, up in God’s country where Lena was staying. I wasn’t precisely carried off the ship at Southampton, but I’m still rolling, rather than walking, around London.
I’ve seen only London but what with all the austerity and the bad food, it’s not the most entertaining city on earth. I don’t suppose the food ever was good in England, but if there’s any one thing that strikes the visitor
now it’s the indescribably horrible boiled stuff available in the average restaurant: the British are admirable people in their uncomplaining acceptance of leathery shad and brussels sprouts steamed to the consistency of a green wet floormop. Fortunately, I’ve been shepherded about by my English publisher to some of the better places, where food is good and available in quantity; I think, though, that the average American feels like a heel eating so well at the better places with his dollars, while his poorer brethren gag down a boiled shad which tastes like a well-steamed copy of “Lie Down in Darkness.” London, it is true, closes up at 10 P.M. but my editor has taken pains to show me as nice a time as I guess there is to be had. His name is Roger Machell and he lives right around the corner from my hotel, in a nice apartment which Lord Byron used to live in. He’s independently wealthy, by English standards, and thoroughly entertaining. He’s taken me to La Ronde, the movie which was banned in New York for obscenity or something, though I don’t know why because it’s tremendously funny, I think, and about as suggestive, really, as “The Bobbsey Twins.” He’s great friends with Terence Rattigan and Alec Guinness, whom I’m going to meet next week—besides being the publisher of Angela Thirkell and Nancy Mitford. The latter two I haven’t read but I expect I’ll be appropriately impressed if he trots them out.
Selected Letters of William Styron Page 13