Letters

by Saul Bellow

  Yours affectionately,

  A special issue of Esquire, “Fifty Who Made a Difference,” had included Salter’s essay on Eisenhower. In the mid-1970s Bellow, Salter and Walter Pozen had purchased eighty-one acres near Carbondale, Colorado, which they would sell at a loss twenty years later.

  To Karl Shapiro

  February 7, 1984 Chicago

  Dear Karl,

  It was great, wasn’t it? And you’re absolutely right, we’ve always met heretofore in company (the Freifelds or others), and I was so delighted to have you and your friend all to myself at Les Nomades that I talked my head off. If I say that there is a particular sympathy between you and me I hope that doesn’t put you off. I know what it is to go into recoil when affection rises. I should acknowledge also that I was (what the kids call) hyper that night, because I had been banging away day and night for five weeks at a troublesome story. I didn’t know it but I was shortly to go down in flames. I am one of those nuts who will go to the zenith just prior to a collapse. But I am perfectly well now and have even sent you a copy of the story that caused the crash. You will see that it runs in the Valentine’s Day issue and that I appear with Larry Flynt and other fun personalities.

  I hope that you aren’t neglecting your memoirs, the reading of which made me even more hyper. Give my best to your delightful lady friend.

  Yours ever,

  Neglected today, Karl Shapiro (1913-2000) was among the most highly regarded American poets of the Forties and Fifties. His major works include V-Letter and Other Poems, which won the Pulizer Prize in 1945. In 1969 he shared the Bollingen Prize with John Berryman. Shapiro’s “delightful lady friend,” whom he would shortly marry, was the translator Sophie Wilkins. Her English version, with Eithne Wilkins and Ernest Kaiser, of Robert Musil’s The Man Without Qualities is among the great feats of modern translation. Bellow’s long story “What Kind of Day Did You Have?” had just appeared in Vanity Fair.

  To Midge Decter

  February 7, 1984 Chicago

  Dear Midge:

  Inquiries and complaints—mainly complaints—having been made about my participation in or sponsorship of your Special Issue of Confrontations (“Winners”), I read the offending number, which I had missed, and although the prize books you attacked seemed squalid enough, your own reviews were in such bad taste that it depressed me to be associated with them. I have for some time been struggling with the growing realization that a problem exists: About Nicaragua we can agree well enough but as soon as you begin to speak of culture you give me the willies. I was on the point of dropping from the Committee when Joseph Epstein last year read a paper in your symposium ascribing to me views I do not hold and pushing me in a direction I wouldn’t dream of taking. It was uncomfortable to be misunderstood and misused in a meeting of which I was one of the sponsors and even more uncomfortable to see his speech reprinted in Commentary. But where there are politics there are bedfellows, and where there are bedfellows there are likely to be fleas, so I scratched my bites in silence. Your Special Issue, however, is different. I can’t allow the editors of Confrontations to speak in my name, or with my tacit consent as board-member, about writers and literature. When there are enemies to be made I prefer to make them myself, on my own grounds and in my own language. Le mauvais goût mène aux crimes [99], said Stendhal, who was right of course but who didn’t realize how many criminals history was about to turn loose.

  I am resigning from the board and request that you remove my name from your announcements. Sorry.

  Yours sincerely,

  The Committee for the Free World’s magazine was in fact Contentions, not Confrontations, though Bellow may have deliberately gotten the name wrong. The essay “Winners” in their Special Issue had mocked a number of the recent recipients of various American book prizes.

  To Mario Vargas Llosa

  February 20, 1984 Chicago, Ill.

  Dear Mr. Vargas Llosa:

  I write to invite you to join us in a meeting I am organizing under the auspices of the Olin Center [of the University of Chicago], to be held in Vermont from August 20th to August 25th, 1984. The participants, in addition to yourself, are to be Alexander Sinyavsky, Leszek Kołakowski, Heinrich Böll, V. S. Naipaul, A. K. Ramanujan, Ruth Prawer Jhabvala, Federico Fellini, Werner Dannhauser, Allan Bloom and myself.

  My intention is to bring together a small group of serious writers to discuss our peculiar situation in the world today and to share with one another whatever wisdom and inspiration on the subject we may have. The politics of our century tend to crush imagination—to present us with spectacles and conditions which appear to make art irrelevant. At the same time, in a variety of ways, it is clear that our fragile enterprise remains one of the best hopes of humanity—if we can keep it alive. It is not that I hope to change very much by such a rencontre as I propose. But we might hearten one another and have a rare opportunity to reflect together.

  The meeting is not intended to beget yet another protest against censorship or a complaint about the unartistic character of “bourgeois” life. Nor is it to be an exercise in flattery of art and the artist. Rather, it is intended to be the broadest kind of consideration of the writer’s physical and spiritual dependence on political life and of his responsibility to it—as well as his superiority to it—and of the claims of his art over against it. Lack of clarity about the perennial tension between art and politics may have something to do with the excessive hopes and the overly exposed position of writers in contemporary regimes. The nineteenth century’s great expectations for culture made possible the culture ministries of fascist and communist governments of the twentieth century.

  I propose a five-day program with one three-hour session per day, tentatively treating the following themes:

  Day 1: A philosophic discussion of the problematic relation of art to politics and morals, beginning from Rousseau’s Lettre à d’Alembert sur les spectacles with its attack on Enlightenment views of the arts and its resuscitation of Plato’s criticism of poetry. This would, in addition to its intrinsic merit, serve to take us out of the narrow confines of our time. The paper would be presented by Allan Bloom and commented upon by Leszek Kołakowski.

  Day 2: Hitler and Stalin: Writers in the world of totalitarianism. It would be best if this were to be a discussion not only of persecution and the resistance to persecution, but also of writers’ involvement with such regimes and especially of the forms art adopts under them. Does art seek only to preserve itself, or does it try to make changes, and what are the effects upon art of either choice? I am asking Alexander Sinyavsky to present the paper at this session and would like you to comment.

  Day 3: Weak-Sister Democracy: Is it possible for the writer to be serious—serious as compared to his East European fellows—in soft, easygoing commercial societies? Is he inevitably self-indulgent or does his freedom from killing pressures give him special opportunities for development. I shall give the paper at this session, and ask Federico Fellini to comment on it.

  On days two and three some special attention would be given to the writer’s audiences in the three worlds.

  Day 4: Political Themes: To what extent are political themes necessary to literature? Has the disappearance of the great political figure as the central actor diminished the scope of literature? I hope V. S. Naipaul will give the paper and Ruth Prawer Jhabvala the commentary.

  Day 5: The distinction between the Aesthetic and the Moral: Is such a distinction real? Is it, as Nietzsche claims, a sign of decadence? What is the relation of an artist’s moral commitment to his art? Heinrich Böll will be asked to deliver the paper and Werner Dannhauser will comment on it.

  I would expect that the papers should last from thirty to fifty minutes and the comments from fifteen to twenty. Presumably, these are questions with which all of us have some familiarity. I reiterate that the outline is tentative and open to revision. It is hoped that a small volume would emerge from the proceedings to form a basis for public discussion.<
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  I can offer you the small honorarium of two thousand dollars, in addition to travel and accommodations. Southern Vermont, where I have my summer home, is particularly beautiful at that time of year and would provide an appropriate setting for the individual meetings which would be one of the primary benefits of our gathering. I can assure you that you will be comfortably lodged and well fed.

  In addition to the persons mentioned, there will be one or two more writers and a group of about a dozen serious students who would participate in our sessions.

  I hope you can join us. It would be personally gratifying to me. Inasmuch as time is getting short, I would appreciate your response as quickly as possible.

  Sincerely,

  To Joan Ullman Schwartz

  April 9, 1984 Chicago

  Dear Joan,

  I am whirling about at such a rate of speed that to write letters is out of the question, but your last communication was so intelligent and gentle that I am impelled to send a brief note, which will be very much to the point. Not long ago, I remembered what Alexander Pope had written to a lady named Arabella Fermor about “The Rape of the Lock.” I looked it up, and there it was. Pope said: “The character of Belinda . . . resembles you in nothing but Beauty.” He adds that all the passages in his poem are “fabulous,” and that “the Human persons are as fictitious as the Airy ones”—here he refers to the Airy Sylphs by whom Belinda is surrounded. I feel extremely lucky to have found in a great master the total clarification of a diabolically complex problem.

  I hope that everything is going well (or better), and that you are more happy than not in New York. On your next visit to Chicago let’s have a friendly drink together.

  All best,

  Joan Schwartz, for many years Harold Rosenberg’s mistress, had recognized herself as the original of Katrina Goliger, mistress to the Rosenberg-like Victor Wulpy in “What Kind of Day Did You Have?”

  To Sophie Wilkins

  April 18, 1984 Chicago

  Dear Sophie,

  I hope you won’t mind my enclosing this note in the same envelope with the one I’m sending to Karl. Your letter did me a world of good, especially the utterance of these great words: “Yasher Koach!” [100] You might also have said, “Khazak!” [101]— God’s first word to Joshua. I am afraid that the gossips have pounced upon Victor and Katrina [in “What Kind of Day Did You Have?”] and that I am besieged by the forces of recrimination and outrage. For this the appropriate Hebrew is “Gam zeh ya’avor”—“this too shall pass.” But this has to be qualified by a sad piece of incontrovertible French wisdom: “tout passe” and also “tout casse” [102]. Prudential writes no kind of insurance against any of this, and what the Hebrew fails to tell you is that the ultimate form of “ya’avor” is kicking the bucket.

  Well, never mind the buckets. That you and Karl feel like twins separated at birth and reunited forty years later is an observable phenomenon, and too marvelous to be envied. Thank God that such things happen.

  All the best,

  To Karl Shapiro

  April 18, 1984 Chicago

  Dear Karl,

  How nice it was in the days of our youth when, if the fighting writer was decked, he naturally expected to be back on his feet in a matter of minutes, as well as ever, if not better. To age is to understand that the powers of total recovery are gone, are no longer anticipated (except by those who, having lost their marbles, no longer know what to anticipate). So, I am better, but I can’t find it in me to assert that I am well and I have begun to think that exaltation is the only possible comeback. Your letter, and also Sophie’s, heartened me more than I can say. In return—small compensation—I am asking Harper & Row to send you a copy of Him with His Foot in His Mouth. I think you may like the concluding story, “Cousins,” written last summer under the trees in Vermont. [ . . . ]

  Do you think we might organize the haters of Hugh Kenner into a club? Fifty years ago, with my friend Isaac Rosenfeld, I used to join clubs of this sort. I remember that we formed a Faerie Queene Club to which nobody could belong who had read The Faerie Queene. When I read the first canto I was put on probation, and when I read more I was expelled. But no one could ever dislodge me from a Hate Kenner Society. [ . . . ]

  Yours affectionately,

  To Zipporah Dunsky-Shnay

  May 14, 1984 Chicago

  Dear Mrs. Dunsky-Shnay,

  I wish it were possible for me to accept your very kind invitation, but I am not returning in triumph and delivering speeches in Montreal. I am making a sentimental pilgrimage to old scenes. I shall be seeing elderly cousins and friends of my childhood. To accept an invitation from the Jewish Public Library might give offense to my hosts in Lachine, who have what people in Hollywood call “an exclusive.” From 1918 to 1924 I was a child of Saint Dominique Street, and was sent to a basement cheder on Milton Street. I have good Jewish credentials in Montreal, which I am happy to acknowledge, but am not free to give lectures.

  Sincerely yours,

  To Barley Alison

  May 25, 1984 Chicago

  My dear Barley,

  The considerable success of HWHFM should make you feel rather good about Him’s future in England. Of course one never knows. English book reviewing is even more desolate these days than our own, and professional book reviewers may not be ready to open their stony hearts to emanations of warmth from Chicago. Still, I’m rather inclined to think that they may welcome a change from cold-storage porridge and the awful porno material our two countries have been exporting to each other.

  My efforts to get the book out and to please Harper & Row by doing promotional chores have tired me out. There seem to be galvanic batteries under my bed that make me twitch in the night, and although I am not yet like Evelyn Waugh’s poor noodle in The Ordeal of Gilbert Pinfold who drugs himself with sleeping potions until he hears imaginary voices, I do need to go into dry dock in Vermont. (Alexandra, by the way, has been waiting for you to set the date for your eagerly anticipated descent from the skies.)

  Harriet tells me that copies of the English edition are now available, and I should like to ask you to send books to the following: Mr. Andrew Nobile, Mrs. Hildegard Nicholas (wife of the master of Brasenose) and Mr. Rudi Lissau. You will undoubtedly have sent copies to Terry Kilmartin, Richard Mayne, and young Amis. I shan’t ask you to send a book for me to Keith Botsford, because I know that you would not oblige me. So I shall have Harriet ship one from New York. But please, do give a copy to Michael and Susan-Mary [Barley’s brother and sister-in-law]. I don’t remember now the name of the spirited gloomy gentleman we lunched with who gave me such burning, penetrating glances, and spoke with such taste, care and reticence that I could scarcely understand him. He needs a salutary and friendly shaking up. I liked him actually. Send him a copy, too.

  Love and kisses from your old friend,

  To Margaret Staats

  August 6, 1984 W. Brattleboro

  Not many opportunities, with a house full of guests, but I wanted to say a few necessary things: I have never been treated with such extraordinary consideration, such feminine generosity. And you are aware that I know how extraordinary you are—that I am one of the few who can know what your nature is. And you do need someone to know this, for it is something that demands to be known.

  There’s the phone, and I’m off. More to come.

  Yours ever,

  To Margaret Staats

  September 16, 1984 Chicago

  When you come right down to it, and I am down to it, forced to consider the prospect in detail, going abroad doesn’t give me great happiness. In going there I am still dragging here behind me, six thousand miles of melted cheese strung out over the Atlantic. There are things urgently to be done and I’d be better off beginning, somehow, to make a frontal attack on the cheese itself. I have to promise all my friends to have a good time. Everybody’s dream of a marvelous holiday pops up when the facts are stated. “Thou hast conquered, O Holiday Magazine.” But one of my fr
iends tells me, truly, that I am the solitary of solitaries, a combination of a glacier and a volcano, that I have perfected the power to be alone. Well, then, it doesn’t matter where one goes. Still, I have powerful connections, known only to me, and to the connections. You are one of the principal ones, as you should know. It seems that I never have accepted my condition. The making of an artist; seven decades of work without being reconciled to the essential facts of my condition. Really, I am a wimp—of considerable distinction, but inarguably wimpy.

  My greatest worry is that if I am found out my lady will have a nervous breakdown. I don’t exaggerate. That is what most bothers me, I discover, and I owe the discovery to you. It was through you that I became able to pity rather than fight her. And the whole thing is a pity, a pity, a pity! Where a woman’s warmest sympathies should be there is a gap, something extracted in the earliest years of life which now is not even felt, not recognized as absent.

  Well, I’m not going to change anything now.

  She wants us both to visit a shrink. That’ll be great fun, you bet. The answer is yes. Of course. I’ll go anywhere, do anything. I have a singular advantage in that I can use almost anything that happens. Do you suppose that that’s what “Whatever is is right!” really meant?

  1985

  To Richard Lourie

  January 12, 1985 Chicago

  Dear Mr. Lourie,

  Writers are dilatory, you say so yourself in your novel [First Loyalty], so I can hope to be forgiven for being so slow.