Herself

by Hortense Calisher

  For a long time now, I’ve been telling anyone and everyone who would listen to me that The New Yorker was the one magazine I knew which could be trusted to make its decision purely on quality, on its own judgment of that, within the reasonable limitations of length and fitness for inclusion in a national magazine. I told them that, granted that a piece satisfied your critical standards, you were the one magazine which could be trusted not to refuse, for commercial convenience, a piece which might alienate or disturb a portion of your readership. You took “The Middle Drawer,” despite what you called its grimness, and despite the cancer taboo, and it is just possible that two stories on a similar theme by other writers, one in Harper’s and one in Bazaar which appeared not too long after, may have been helped into print because you did it first. You took “In Greenwich,” which had ticklish material too. And, in discussing “Old Stock,” when I told you my admiration for-the magazine in doing that in the face of obviously expected reaction, you remarked that, from your own experience, The New Yorker had no concrete taboos, but demanded of a story with a ticklish subject only that it be done extraordinarily well.

  I have told people too, and will continue doing so, that the impeccable, honest, and deeply thoughtful editorial guidance of all of you, has been of inestimable value to me in my own development. As a matter of fact, I am glad to have the opportunity of saying to you, with thanks, something which reticence would otherwise prevent me from saying. With you, the editorial process which at first, in my inexperience, I found so harrowing, (as you remember) had become something I relied on, welcomed and trusted. If I’ve become gradually aware that style, however interesting to the writer, must subordinate itself to theme, if I was finally able to make the transition from reminiscence to real fiction, and if, finally I felt strong enough to tackle bigger themes, it was in a large part owing to the confidence and help which grew because of what I could expect in interest, taste, and rectitude, from The New Yorker. It’s an odd and unhappy state for me to be in—to feel compelled to tell you how seriously you’ve undermined a confidence you helped me so much to build.

  It’s strange, too, that this should come about over a story which concerns itself so intimately with the importance of a writer being allowed to say freely what he feels he must say, and with the larger significance of that for everyone in the world today. Censorship begins when a writer is denied an audience, not on grounds of craftsmanship, but on grounds of what is cautious and politic. We do not yet have despotic government censorship in this country, but we do have a growing censorship of another kind, sometimes frankly commercial, sometimes misguidedly benevolent, which is exercised by those who feel that, for one or the other of these reasons they have the responsibility of protecting their public from what the public is supposed to be too unready, too unenlightened, too weak to consider.

  When a magazine, out of the most benevolent intention, begins to underestimate and overprotect its public, then it has taken a fatal step. When one such as yours, which has always been so conspicuous for making up its own mind, begins to take soundings, test out opinions, then it had better take its own pulse too. For this is what the slick magazines do every day. They tell writers that they desperately need “good” stories, and subsequently they tell them “This is a very good story; but not for a mass audience.” I submit that, from the best motives, however well rationalized, this is what you are doing here. It is unthinkable that, with you, it could ever end in any appreciable depravity, or even mediocrity of purely literary taste—but it could conceivably end in The New Yorker’s being left with only its justly vaunted good literary manners, from which conviction has subtly slipped away.

  For me, it means that when I hear a revered and respected editorial mouth say: “Miss Calisher, we hope to have something from you very soon. We desperately need good stories!” my inner comment will certainly be “The hell you say!” And that is the very worst thing that can happen to me, and all the writers like me. Bonuses for production are a fine thing, and no one appreciates or needs them more than me, but the best stimulus for the production of “good” work, for the serious writer, is his awareness of the existence of a market which is incorruptible against “popular” demands, however judiciously disguised these may be, and which, as one of your editors once memorably said to me “may make errors of judgment, but never of justice.”

  I am sad to have to admit at last, and to you, what I’ve been so long denying to myself—that it is not arrogance, but wisdom which dictates that the writer put trust in no one but himself.

  Sincerely,

  Hortense Calisher

  Best as always, to you all personally. I guess I had almost rather have had you say it was a bad story. This way I feel as if Grandmother had kicked me, and had fallen and cracked her own spine in doing it.

  They printed the story (In the Absence of Angels).

  Exhibit B: Written to a reader who had protested that the first line of a story called “Mayry” made it impossible for her to read on—though she wrote on.

  April 14, 1961

  To Mrs. X

  Etowah, Tennessee

  Dear Mrs. X:

  Your letter, forwarded by the Reporter, interested me very much, since, as their reader, you can’t be that “stereotype” Southerner against which you quite properly inveigh. A point of the story was that although an attitude deep and general enough to be called stereotype does exist among intelligent, literate, kindly Southerners, it is a very much more subtle one, miles away from the Simon Legree, white trash kind of thing. What is it? The story, since it is fiction, does not attempt to define it, but merely to show it in action.

  In the ironic “My father was a Southerner, but a very kind man,” the “but” was of course expected to detonate in the reader’s mind, make him wonder why the narrator feels the need to apologize, “does he mean that to be a Southerner means that one cannot be kind—what nonsense” etc. In real life, it corresponds to the apologetic “but” that often sounds in the minds of those of us who are constantly called upon to explain, often abroad, the peculiar division in the mind of that very Southerner whose personal culture and conduct is of the highest (in our history some of the best we have) yet who on one moral point has a beam in his eye that contradicts all the rest of him. Yes, we must apologize for that kind of Southerner—as we would be unable to do, or might not bother to do, for others. As a Southerner one step away, I have had to do so all my life.

  Since your letter assumes, as Southerners so defensively often do, that any criticism is likely to be from ignorant visitors comparable to those touring Englishmen who used to write such confident, superficial quickies about the States, I must therefore be personal enough to make it clear that such is not the case here—knowing that you will forgive me if I do that very Southern thing, talk ancestry. My people came from England to Virginia shortly after 1800, and I’m the first generation to be born away from it, though not actually bred so. Even in New York as a large family constantly replenished from the South and visiting back and forth, we remained Southern to a degree that now seems astonishing.

  To a child growing up in Northern schools, this divided heritage was often confusing. My father was the kindest man in the world—how could some of the things he thought be morally wrong? We were very much more responsible about our Negro servants than many Northerners—just as some of the South is at this present moment more paternally responsible to its Negroes, within certain limits, than much of the North. Yet, as a Northerner, perspective made it possible for me to see the stock attitudes on both sides. When I enter a restroom marked “White Ladies,” I know both a Northerner’s shock, and what my Aunt Flora’s response would be if I expressed it—for I know all the rationalizations with which “good” Southerners must defend themselves, and dare not let themselves see behind. One of these—the story tries to show it—is that Negroes are “children,” incapable of the grown-up emotions, and are best “handled” so. But I had been made to see, even
in an only partially desegregated community, that any section of the human race shares its whole range of emotion and intellect, low to high, remaining only as “different” as it is kept. All this is no particular credit to me; it was forced upon me. It wasn’t so daring to think it, as it would have been in Tennessee—and much easier to see it since the evidence was all around me.

  So be fair to me, Mrs. X, and honest with yourself—and read the rest of the story. Perhaps you may still find it “not short enough” for comfort. For it is written, not by that vacationer you hopefully posit, but by someone whose accent returns to its origin after five seconds with a Southerner (and will never in life be able to put a proper Northern “i” in a word like “five”).

  You’ll find no easy stereotypes there either, other than May-ry herself, who like many Negroes of her vanishing class in real life, is something of the stereotype we have made of her. The Southerner you will find there is unfortunately not one to be dismissed humorously, but a decent, honorable, cultivated, deservedly beloved man—whose manners restricted his humanity. In fact—since it isn’t that stereotypes are getting “thicker” but that defenses are getting thinner—you will have to summon all your “sense of proportion” and “humor” not to let yourself know what I mean when I say again: “He was the kindest man in the world, but a Southerner.”

  Sincerely,

  Hortense Calisher

  I have known many respected editors—and respected them. Some more than others. Their general trouble is industrialisation. Plus the totem of the late Maxwell Perkins, who carved Thomas Wolfe’s books from logorrhea and morass. Probably young editors still invoke him even as they pick up the Sunday carving-knife. Knowing that on Monday morning they have to meet with Sales. And at Monday lunch with author—who may regard them as fundraiser, party-giver, alter ego and psychiatrist. Who may even want them to help write the book.

  Editors used to be the recipients of books—in Britain, at the time of this letter, they still were. Now they not only tailor them as Perkins very specially did, they expect to potter with any book, as a matter of course. Often they initiate one—even a work of fiction intended to be “literary.” I hadn’t known this until I myself was propositioned. I had thought we were going to talk about something of my own.

  It was one of those browngold, dripping days, when New York rains autumn outside, even offices take on a darkly double look, and men like these, kindly enough, can convince themselves they are still in libraries. This one—suddenly but delicately—tells me he is dreaming of a novel that could be written about student riots. He so admires my work—and was so excited to hear I was a professor. Don’t I think such a novel needs to be written? (And may have been, by now). Would it interest me to?

  I smell the elusive, cardboard odor of highclass offices; it must get to a man’s mind. A man who can ask me to write a novel to order will never understand my shock. How can I explain myself to him? (And why should the onus always be on me?) And why do I feel so sorry for him?

  “No, no,” I say. “I have to gnaw my own chains.”

  Here I am doing it.

  Exhibit C: Written to my then agent, Carol Brandt, herself new to me, when, after False Entry I was being solicited by publishers and had some thoughts about leaving mine.

  January 26th, ’62

  25 West 16th. New York, 11, N.Y.

  Dear Carol:

  A courteous reply from X—he will eagerly await word from you or me. Meanwhile, perhaps some line from me on the “editor” business might be of use, and certainly will concern me.

  Little, Brown and Co. has one great advantage to me which they don’t know about—and I’m certainly not going to tell them. They leave me entirely alone as far as critical suggestion is concerned. This is no doubt by default, since as far as I know they have no one “in authority” who feels able to cope with such, on my stuff. In any case, it means that I have in effect a “British” situation. When Bernice (Bernice Baumgarten, then my agent) sent in False Entry in toto, she told them that I knew one chapter had to be much cut, and probably some at the end. They were quite willing to take it as was. The stipulation that it must be cut, (as was done, by me) was mine—a reversal of the usual situation. I work best that way, in the long run.

  Now—with editors of high literary intelligence—like X—there is an opposite dilemma, which I should want to consider very carefully, and have my views very clear to them at the start. Most of them expect to work “with” an author. Most delicately of course, with someone like me, and of course, author always to have the final word. All of them will say this, and mean it. It will be our problem to explain that I do not ever work “with,” either on work in progress or work completed, and that no matter how much I may respect an editor personally, I don’t want any “words” at all. What they think, beyond “yes” or “no,” will be a matter of interest to me only well after the event.

  This is not because I arrogantly think the author is always right. But I know with every fibre, and much experience, that I must reserve the right to make my own mistakes, to be wrong. Otherwise, I am nothing. And once one embarks on any kind of suggestive discussion, the erosion begins. An author’s sense of autonomy is maintained with difficulty from day to day. All good sensitive editors will tell you it has to be handled ve-ery delicately. To my mind, it is best for it not be handled at all. For, on work in progress or just finished, most of us are indeed not arrogant, but far too amenable, to suggestion—and all the more so when we respect the source. This I learned at The New Yorker. It’s not the dopes who are dangerous, but the men of taste. And in the end, a writer always loses more by consultation than he gains.

  X, for instance, wrote me a fine letter re FE, containing an observation that was absolutely just, re the fact that the high point of the book dramatically, the hearing, was so high that there was of necessity a drop afterwards. He was quite right; it worried me endlessly, with my final decision that it was a correct progression for this book; that the more orthodox way, of a gradually rising dramatic interest, was not feasible for what I wanted most in terms of this book. Other things could have been done—and if an editor had got to me in time, I might have done them. Or I might have decided as I did, or we might have, but I would never quite have that fine, unequivocal sense: On my head be it. And the next time, not trusting myself, I would lean just a little on a sympathy and taste I know to be so good, and eager to help … etc.

  A good editor would be one committed to the author’s work, who also wields influence in the house—they must be in good supply. An ideal editor would be one also committed to standing by the principles above, even against his own finest inclinations. I do not ever expect to meet him in this life—at least not in America. The smarter they are, the more they want to use their talent; the more admiring they are of yours, the more they want to help. And they are quite right to say, or secretly believe, that “the work does not exist that is not improvable by editing.” Including Melville, Shakespeare. The only damage is to the author, if he has the misfortune to be still living.

  I shan’t always be writing these declarations, God willing. But we are just getting to know each other, and this is a matter so important to me that is better voiced for whatever use it is to you in deciding among these gentlemen. The dilemma of course is that the editors who don’t “speak one’s language” are naturally less willing or able to go to bat for one—and the ones who do are always too bloody eager to speak it.

  The best we shall probably be able to do is to enunciate as clearly as we can: that Miss Calisher regards the descent to hell as so easy she thinks she can make it without guides.

  They won’t hear us.

  Best,

  H

  ”GRANNY—WHAT DID YOU do in the war?”

  I wrote. And wined and dined, and walked about, slept with a man, agonized over children and took pride in them, built a house and traveled from it—suffering and enjoying the common experience of almost all peo
ple living off the battlefield in a land whose war they cannot tolerate.

  If my grandchildren and I ever co-exist, that’s what I’ll tell them. In case not, I’ll say a little more.

  I do not know what the position of honor is. Few writers I know, or the public knows, went to prison for long for peace, though a few were kings for a day there, Paley and Levertov were devoting their lives to antiwar activities. Lowell, remaining a poet (and a conscientious-objector in a prior war), spoke out most clear. Mailer, like Hemingway, became a correspondent, ruefully at home instead of abroad—but in the way of the world, peace gained less than literature and he did. Ellison, stoutly refusing to be caught in a popular position, bravely defended his own. Updike, in one letter to the Sunday Times, seemed to me to want most to disassociate himself from the kind of people who were against the war. Some never in any way lent their presences, or voices. Most of us who did, shambled about in the wake of organisers and occasions we could tolerate.

  The Town Hall Read-in is the one I recall best. Most of “us” were there, minimally nodding at each other like people who meet only at parties or wakes—or on these lists—and in any of these places, know how minimally we are there.