It is fine to know that it just may be possible for you and Margaret to come in May. I do want you to know that I am much in tune with that feeling of something coming up like a trip that can begin to hang over you—don’t let Margaret be fretted by it, or yourself. Because you are welcome here any other time as well as in May, and if it turns out to be easier for you to travel at some other time, I would think that would be fine here too. Spur of the moment is always fine with me—I don’t quite know what this May 2 will turn out like, myself, but if I get more idea of it as time goes on, I’ll pass you a word. It is so nice in the meanwhile to think it really just might happen that you & Margaret could join in & be here with the others—Thank you for the letter again and the book—I’m trying to find a book for you too, but you may already have it—
Love,
Eudora
Kenneth Millar to Eudora Welty, March 25, 1973
Dear Eudora:
I think your reading of Hank Coulette is exactly right. Though he makes the ordinary seem strange—“The Blue-Eyed Precinct Worker” (to which I contributed that one line) is essentially an account of an evening walk in Pasadena by a precinct worker who was the poet himself—and allows the strange to appear in all its strangeness—“The War of the Secret Agents” is a somewhat fictionized account of an actual spy circle in wartime Paris based on a factual book by Jean O. Fuller, Double Webs, which I haven’t read and the reading of which seems unnecessary, like Shakespeare’s sources. Coulette is one of those unusual modern poets whose works can be read straightaway, then reread for emotionally accruing depth. His method is close yet distant, classic in intention I’d say. His poetry is kiln-dried: he is proud (and sorry, too) of being the only Ph.D in the U.S.A., probably, who never attended high school. He had to leave school at age 14 to support his widowed mother, working as a printer’s devil, then a printer, but at age 20 or so was admitted to Cal State L.A. on the basis of a written examination, took his doctorate at Iowa and returned to Cal State L.A. to teach. I’m so glad that his poems brought you a “burst of pleasure.” He’s working on another volume, and your words which I’ll pass on to him will give him a ‘burst of pleasure,’ and of imaginative energy too.
You are so wonderfully understanding of and responsive to other human beings e.g. me and Margaret, in the words you use to speak of our intended trip to Jackson in May. We’re grateful that you want us, in spite of our sometimes inconvenient inability to follow through on set plans. But I am beginning to believe that we’ll see you May 2, and am answering Mrs. Gillespie’s beautifully written invitation to that effect. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime occasion, isn’t it? for everyone concerned, and we can’t let it pass uncelebrated. I think, by the way, that celebration is the word for what you do in all departments of life and work. Did you use that word in one of the interviews you sent me?
We have a good deal to (changing the meaning a little) celebrate. Our grandson Jim has well survived his mother’s death and grown into a fine little boy, no longer exactly little. He’s the terror of the bikeways and of the checkerboard, though by exerting all of my mental force I can stay ahead of him on the latter. Jim is a delight to have around (as he is most weekends) even if he does talk each of our ears off in turn. I brood hopefully over his future, and say nothing. Jim and his father Joe P [. . .] are deeply fond of each other.
Margaret is calling me to come and watch the Tony awards on television. We’re both interested in show business, and together know all the popular songs since 1928, or once did—I the words, M. the music. Thank you for your wonderful letter.
Love,
Ken
Eudora Welty to Kenneth Millar, March 30, 1973
Dear Ken,
Thank you for that lovely news—I was so delighted to know that you and Margaret really do feel you can come to Jackson. It is just wonderful of you. I just hope you will like it all right when you come. I wish I could tell you there were going to be some out-and-out marvels of birds you’d never seen before flying constantly through the air. I thought you would like a swimming pool. Today I made you some reservations at a motel that has one outdoors, instead of indoors, is that better? Tay Gillespie just brought over letters she’d got and I did what you said. Two rooms at the Sun and Sand (downtown, not a grain of sand) from May 1 through at least the 4th and I hope it will be OK. (I’ll send you the confirmation when I get it.) I think Reynolds Price is going to come and he’ll be at the same place, also my dear friends from Santa Fe who are coming. But I hope it will be good & quiet on the back and there are a few little green places with trees near, the Capitol grounds and a little park and a cemetery that has a lot of big old trees, so it was the best I could do about birds. (I’m trying to get onto some help about them.) I really can’t imagine what that day of the 2nd is going to be like yet. Such a wonderful thing also happened in that Diarmuid Russell, who is ailing and frail, as I expect I told you, has decided he is going to come. He and his wife Rose, for all the times I’ve visited them, have never been here to see me. I’m terribly moved. They will of course be staying with me, and this means I am not asking other guests to stay at the house too—so although I did want you and Margaret to stay here if you could and would, I feel it’s better all around just to have it this way, don’t you? On May 1, the day you come, I am going to have all the out-of-town friends over for the evening, here, and then we can make some other, quieter plans. I do hope you can stay a little while after the hurly-burly. I’ll write again when I know more, but meantime if there’s anything you’d like me to do or tell you, let me know.
It was fine to read what you wrote me about Henri Coulette. And that fine boy your little grandson is growing up to be—I’d celebrate too.
I have to go to Washington for 4 days next week but otherwise will be here getting ready for I just don’t exactly know what—but it sounds glorious! It really is so generous and so wonderful of you and Margaret—thank you for wanting to come.
Love,
Eudora
Isn’t it almost time for that first sight of your book?
Kenneth Millar to Eudora Welty, April 4, 1973
Dear Eudora:
I’ve had three tidings of you in the last couple of days, the fine review of The Optimist’s Daughter in TLS which I enclose; a photocopy of what I take to be your Paris Review interview, sent to me by Dick Lid, which I’ve only had time to skim over and won’t attempt to comment on, except that it sounded very much like you, more than any other interview I’ve read; and, third, your lovely letter.20 I’m a bit embarrassed that you should have been put to the trouble of reserving our motel rooms, but I’m glad you did, because the situation sounds just right, what with the state Capitol and the cemetery and all, and the outside pool. You’re quite right not to attempt to put us up—you’re going to be busy enough, and we wouldn’t have dreamed of doing it. This splendid occasion coming up shouldn’t be one where you wear yourself out assuming responsibility for your friends, except of course for Diarmuid. Rather you should take on for once a divine irresponsibility matching your other good qualities, and let the chips fall, the sparks fly, as they may—somewhat in the fashion of the Greeks, who set the style for civic celebrations, particularly of poets like yourself.
I said I couldn’t comment on your interview but I was struck as I read through it by your homage to Chekhov, the nonpareil, and your feeling that his society corresponded in some sense to yours. I had a similar feeling in re-reading Gogol recently, about the kinship of Gogol with Mark Twain, say, and it encouraged me to feel that Russia and America may learn to understand each other in terms of literature and each other’s past.
Jimmie did have a fine birthday, in the course of which he visibly put on stature, knowing he was now ten, and connecting: “Only three more years.” “Until when?” “Until I’m a teenager.” All four of us, Jim and his dad, M. and I, celebrated by going on a Bikecology bikeathon to raise money for bikeways: we all covered thirty-five miles, and Jim finished strong, riding hi
s yellow ten-speed birthday bike. Three hundred of us participated.
You should have a copy of Sleeping Beauty by now but my publishers are slow and stingy, sending me one copy by air which I am reading for errors, and the rest, it appears, by fourth-class mail which is getting slower and slower. But I’ve asked my agent Dorothy Olding to expedite a copy to you and I’ll send you an inscribed one when it arrives here. I’m sorry. The book seems to me physically very well done. Your name looks good on that page.
We’re delighted to hear that we may see Reynolds Price in Jackson. I’ve just been reading some segments of a novel by him in Esquire which seem to me extraordinary imaginations of the past, which moves like an ocean under our lives.
We look forward eagerly to seeing you and your city. Take it easy.
Love,
Ken
The enclosed clipping from the local paper may amuse you. K.
Eudora Welty to Kenneth Millar, April 13, 1973
Dear Ken,
Sleeping Beauty arrived, my copy from you with your beautiful inscription, and on my birthday—today, Friday the 13th—You took the curse off and put a blessing on—I came home from Washington last night and the mail came this morning & there it was.21 (It seems to me it’s when I come home from a trip, every time, that something good to do with you & your books is timed just right to meet me.) I’m so happy to see it and have it, and I think it’s a very handsome book, don’t you? I do like the jacket—by the same one who designed The Underground Man but following the new book with the different mood. I hope all good things happen to it—Of course I’m at once starting to read it again—And I thank you again—I cherish my copy.
It was fine to get your letter and I do hope the motel will be OK—But there won’t be any terns there—On the evening you arrive (May 1) I’m having the out-of-town guests to my house for drinks & buffet, I guess around 8? (I haven’t thought of the time yet.) (I’ll get you word.) Will you let me know what time your plane gets in, because even if those girls are meeting everybody, if I can I want to meet them too.
No terns, and no Mongolian lamb stewed in lotus blossom juice either—It was a pleasure to read about it, though, in your clipping about the picnic for Herb Caen22—at which you & Margaret evidently provided the most of the excitement by coming—And look how far you’re coming to my picnic. I always enjoyed Herb Caen so much in the Chronicle while I was out there, & he must be an interesting person to talk to—It was fun to see your pictures there—and also I like the new one on your book jacket by a Boucher—kin to Anthony?23 (No, I remember now that was a pseudonym.)
It was so thoughtful of you to clip & send me the TLS review of Optimist’s D—It was a generously understanding one, which I wouldn’t have otherwise seen—And again you took a curse off for me, because the Observer, which I subscribe to, had come with a review that gave me 40 whacks. Thank you for sending this healing one—
That Paris Review interview took place about 3 years ago, as nearly as I can remember, anyway it was before The Optimist’s Daughter came out—I’m glad if it reads all right. All such are ordeals for me, but this was a rather sweet young lady who came to do this one, Linda Kuehl. I do remember the tape recorder wasn’t working the whole time, & we had to do it over—
It will be lovely to see you and to meet Margaret (I enclose the reservation slip)—It’s wonderful of you to come, and so far—Thank you for this too—And always for Sleeping Beauty—
Love,
Eudora
Margaret Millar was most comfortable within a fixed routine, and it was rare for her to leave the confines of Santa Barbara. “I live in the most beautiful place in the world,” she was wont to say. “Why should I travel?” Yet when chances for trips arose, she was sometimes tempted to participate.
As the Welty celebration neared, Margaret’s decision as to whether or not she’d attend changed from day to day.
Kenneth Millar to Eudora Welty, April 23, 1973
Dear Eudora:
Thank you for your warm and welcoming letter, and for the reservations at the Sun-n-Sand. I’m disappointed to have to report that I’ll only be needing one room after all. Margaret’s blood pressure has been jumping around—it was over 200 a few days ago—and she’s been advised not to make the trip to Mississippi. This doesn’t mean she’s ill—in fact she’s remarkably strong—but it seems best for her to stay within her routine limits. So I’ll be coming solo.
My airline reservations call for me to arrive in Jackson by Delta at 5:20 on Tuesday, May 1, but there is no reason in the world why you should come to the airport to meet me and I urge you not to. Strong as you are, there will be great demands on your energy before the week is out, and you should conserve it, if you’ll forgive my saying so. I’ll be seeing you Tuesday evening and I understand the following evening as well. What a pleasure that will be!
I’m so glad you like the appearance of the new book. Doesn’t your name look just right up front, precisely as though it belonged there as it does? We seem to go in for joint coincidences.
Your friends Tay Gillespie and Jean Turner have been in touch with me. I’ll write to the motel and narrow down my reservation. My airline reservation calls for me to leave Friday at noon from the airport.
All this is very exciting, isn’t it? Please don’t feel let down because Margaret can’t make it. That is a possibility that is always involved with our plans, and we have learned to live with it. But she’s sorry not to see you. Perhaps you’ll return to California one day?
Yes, Herb Caen was charming. Funny, I’d sort of thought of him as the Grand Old Man of west coast journalism. He turns out to be a year younger than I. Ray Bradbury brought up the subject of you, by the way, and mentioned how much your early stories had helped to open a way for him.24 Two of the stories he named were “Petrified Man” and “Death of a [Traveling] Salesman,” which I told him as you’d told me was your first story.
Don’t you love the way everything moves in enormous meaningful circles? You (and Faulkner) have made Mississippi home, or homing, territory for all of us.
Love,
Ken
Ken Millar, sans spouse, flew to Jackson, Mississippi, for the Eudora Welty celebration and the Mississippi Arts Festival the first week in May. Millar stayed in Jackson at the Sun’n’Sand Motel, where, for at least one day of his visit, the outdoor marquee read: WELCOME MR. KENNETH MILLAR.
Here was the town that had always been Eudora’s home. Ken made a proper inventory of it. To his Knopf editor, Ash Green, Millar would write that this trip to Jackson was “not unlike visiting the birthplace of a saint in her own lifetime.”25
The public centerpiece of this celebratory week came in the Old Capitol Museum on May 2. Eudora, wrote Nona Balakian in the New York Times Book Review, was “obviously pleased, her blue eyes as unguarded as a young girl’s.” Surrounded by five hundred fans, including Mississippi governor William Waller, and batteries of radio and television equipment, Eudora read three scenes from her novel Losing Battles, one about the heroic schoolteacher Julia Mortimer, one set on the morning of Granny Vaughn’s ninetieth birthday, and a third describing the end-of-day love-making by a long separated husband and wife. Millar was impressed by her performance and by her choice of material, especially the third scene: “Eudora boldly read aloud,” he wrote the English author Julian Symons, “in that same chamber where secession was first declared, and in the presence of the current governor, a passage from Losing Battles celebrating the sexual life.”26
(“She put her mouth quickly on his,” Eudora read of her character Gloria Renfro, “and then she slid in her hand and seized hold of him right at the root. And so she convinced him that there is only one way of depriving the ones you love—taking your living presence away from theirs.”27)
There was a buffet supper for out-of-town guests on May 1 at Welty’s house—here Millar met Diarmuid Russell and other close associates of Eudora’s. The next night a grand Arts Festival gathering followed a performa
nce of The Ponder Heart, and finally, later in the week, a small dinner party took place back on Pinehurst Street, after which Ken and the other few guests sat and talked until midnight.
To his friend Julian Symons, Millar would describe his “demi-week” in Jackson as “altogether a lovely experience”—adding then, in his astonishing yet still-discreet manner, that for him it had been “the biggest week since a week in June 1938 when M. and I got married.”
Welty, discreet in her own way, would say of Millar’s visit to Jackson in those hectic days: “Not till I took him to the airport when he left did we really get to be by ourselves. He had a good time, I think. He said he did. He’s so shy, and quiet. And it didn’t matter at all.”28
Kenneth Millar to Eudora Welty, May 8, 1973
Dear Eudora:
Your invitation to visit you was wonderfully generous, and so was the treatment I received from you and all your friends, who seem to constitute a great part of the city of Jackson. That came as no surprise. I never saw such a completely and spontaneously happy group of people as those (including me) who came to hear you read in the Old State Capitol. Even the governor was happy. I was particularly happy about what you read, celebrating dawn and the triumph of old age, mortal love (that was a bold and excellent celebration) and intellect and character. There must have been many such devoted teachers as she abroad in the land (indeed, your niece is one of them) to have made so many people able to be happy in your art—not that your art is difficult, but it’s available only to readers (and playgoers). I agree with what you told the interviewer yesterday, about the necessity of reading. Civilization is a thin solution of books, and I was continually struck by the depth of civilization I found in Jackson, where it was [nursing] still an openness to possibility, as if the south were having a new birth of freedom. If it is, you and your friends are having a lot to do with it, I think.
Meanwhile There Are Letters Page 15