Proud Highway: Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman, 1955-1967
Page 30
I think your decision to leave Naval Ordnance is a wise one. From what I gather, the job is too rotten to tolerate. By all means, try to find something you like.
I am fine, physically (a bit on the heavy side, thanks to Sandy’s cookery), and a bit confused, mentally. Now that my own belief in my talent has been at least partially corroborated, I can’t understand why I’m still as poverty-stricken as I always was. I have a sort of stupid faith that checks will arrive in the mail “very soon.” Lord knows why, but until something jolts me out of this, I’ll probably keep on behaving like a solvent writer.
Love,
Hunter
TO WILLIAM J. KENNEDY, SAN JUAN STAR:
August 10, 1960
New York City
Dear Bill:
Thought you’d be interested to know Prince Jellyfish bounced again, for the third and final time. I say “final” because I’ve decided it’s not really a very good book. Maybe I can break it up into one or two fairly clever short stories. If not, I’ll just chalk that year up to experience and start on that “Great Puerto Rican Novel” that I mentioned just before I left.
My real reason for writing is not just to tell you the book bounced, but, for some reason, you were the first person who came to mind when I read the rejection letter—just after the postman had awakened me to deliver the damned thing. It was one of those mimeographed things that went to great lengths to explain why they couldn’t write a personal letter—and the bastard made me so mad that I was on the verge of calling Grove Press and demanding an explanation. I wasn’t too mad because they’d dared to send me a form letter—because this is the second time it’s happened in three tries. It was just the idea of the goddamn things, and—perhaps because I was looking for a good example with which to justify my pique—I thought of you and that book you were working on when I was there.14
I don’t know if you got a form letter or not—and it doesn’t matter, because it’s entirely possible that you did. I know you were much more emotionally involved than I was in mine, and the idea that some lackwit quipster could sit up there and stick a mimeographed reject note on that much physical, mental and emotional effort is just about more than I can tolerate.
Maybe I’m just kidding myself when I say it bothers me much more in your case than it does in mine, but I don’t think so. As a matter of fact, I can think of several unpublished writers that I have a lot more compassion for than I do for myself. I’ve compromised myself so often that I can’t honestly see myself as a martyr anymore. I could once, and—although I think I’m probably better off as an opportunist with a large and ill-formed talent—I think every now and then that I’d like to be able to talk from a martyr’s point of view, to really be righteous—if for no other reason than to give the quipsters a taste of a pure blue flame.
I guess that’s why I’m looking for somebody else to get mad for. You’re no martyr, but I think you approach your writing more honestly than I do mine. I’m too greedy to wish you much luck, but if you can break through without stepping on my head, I hope you make it.
Now for the mundane side of things. I am back in Greenwich Village, writing like a bastard and laboring under the illusion that it will someday make me rich. Not working; Sandy is. Semonin is living uptown with two girls. Bone living on far Lower East Side. Sorry to hear about your mother’s death. I was hoping you’d find some way to get hold of me when you came through New York. Sorry you didn’t. Bone will probably get a job. I probably won’t. Sandy is leaving for Florida on October 1 to run her mother’s travel agency for two months. I’d like to hitchhike for a while, so I think I’ll go out to Chicago and then to Louisville. Semonin is probably going to Colorado for the winter. I shall—by hook, crook, or armed robbery—get to Europe by spring. I did not charge any long-distance calls to the Star and I’m tired of being accused of things like that. My assaults are usually more frontal—or at least more damaging. I finally sold the Vieques article to the Trib. Don’t pay that bill. I am seeing O’Conner15 Friday and will be very indignant about it. I gave them a decent mention in a piece the Trib is using this Sunday (if it hasn’t been cut) and I don’t think we’ll have any trouble dodging that $18.
What is the status of my gear? Is everything still there? Don’t worry about it not being paid for in Louisville. If it’s cheaper, send it all to the original Deland address (Mrs. Leah Conklin, 116 W. Rich St.). But for god’s sake send it COD. I have my debts divided into “general” and “personal”—and I can’t stand any more in the personal column. […]
And that’s about it. Drop me a line as soon as you can. I get tired of reading my own copy, and letters tend to give me a fresh perspective.
Cheers:
Hunter
TO ELEANOR MCGARR:
Sandy Conklin’s closest friend had written her a highly personal letter about the “meaning of love.” After happening upon the beautiful composition Thompson felt compelled to confess to snooping—and more important, to salute Eleanor’s keen perceptions.
August 17, 1960
New York City
Dear Eleanor:
In the course of looking for a letter from my mother to Sandy, I came across one of those long blue sheets that I recognized instantly as some of your Fatboy’s [Eugene McGarr’s] stationery. Thinking that Sandy had stolen one of my letters, I seized it and looked to see which one it was. Strangely enough, it was not Fatboy’s at all, but a letter from you to Sandy.
Were I possessed of a single decent impulse, I no doubt would have stuck it back in the bundle without reading a line. This, of course, I did not do—but followed my curious nose through the whole damn letter, giggling in a rotten way at my totally unwarranted invasion of my little companion’s privacy; which, after living this long with me, is about all she has left.
The letter was dated February 19 of this year, and after reading it I felt a definite compulsion to write you. Perhaps I chose this way to confess because it will purge my mind of guilt without actually having to admit to Sandy that I’ve been rooting in her mail. But I don’t think so. The reason I give myself for writing is very different.
In a nutshell, I have never been privileged to read such an overwhelmingly lucid, honest and pertinent letter. Nor have I ever witnessed a female mind functioning with such cool perception and warm sensitivity at the same time. After reading the entire thing I don’t feel a twinge of guilt, but rather a genuine sense of regret that your letter made all mine—and all those I’ve received, for that matter—seem so shallow and so giddy.
Although I hesitate to single out parts or paragraphs, I should probably give you some examples so you’ll know what I’m talking about.
1) “I suspect you of cherishing a dream that you will find some man who will provide the central meaning in your life. I distrust this dream because I believe that the central meaning must come from yourself. If you can’t find it there you won’t find it … In fact, I wonder if it is possible to love without having achieved a degree of personal fulfillment within oneself.”
2) “But I can’t help wondering if you aren’t actually drifting into one thing or another since you don’t mention having any sort of plan as to what you are going to do. I don’t mean a job, of course, but something that you consider important.”
3) “… but this we know, that the soil will be there, and that if we do not kill one another off someone will be there to dig and plant and fight the weevils and bitch about taxes and raise his children and bury his parents and live and die. This doesn’t change …” (sounds like Faulkner out of Fatboy).
4) “Love neither adds to a person nor takes from him, although he both gives and receives. It must be given and accepted for its own sake, and not as a means to anything else, because it just isn’t any of those things. Nor is it sufficient for a person who has nothing else.… Love just isn’t a panacea.…”
These are just a few of the things that had me sucking violently on my cigarette as I read your letter. Points 1, 2 & 4 de
scribe Sandy’s problem so completely that I had an urge to hang onto the letter and shove it in her face when she gets home, shouting “There! There! Isn’t this what I’ve been saying? Will you believe me now that Eleanor says the same thing?”
To be altogether honest, I’ve always implied, rather than stated. And the reason I haven’t said exactly what you did is that I felt it would be hitting below the belt. Her capacity for love is her only big talent, and she banks on it like I bank on my writing. I can’t bring myself to belittle it because if I crippled that I don’t know what she’d have left. Falling in love, to Sandy, is like hitting the jackpot on a big quiz show—once you answer the Big Question, your worries are over.
Well, that’s not quite the way it is, and I tried to explain to her last night that we are all alone, born alone, die alone, and—in spite of True Romance magazines—we shall all someday look back on our lives and see that, in spite of our company, we were alone the whole way. I do not say lonely—at least, not all the time—but essentially, and finally, alone.
This is what makes your self-respect so important, and I don’t see how you can respect yourself if you must look in the hearts and minds of others for your happiness.
In your letter, you asked her several times what she thought of your words and ideas. I don’t know what she told you, but when you write her again I wish you would hit the same nerve. The same words, coming from me, would have a different meaning to her. She respects your mind tremendously, and—although I’m sure she respects mine too—I cannot say those things without hurting her.
Although I’m not sure it will benefit anyone concerned, I think it’s vitally important that she understand that the responsibility for her happiness, or lack of it, does not rest with me or whoever else might in the future be the subject of this “vital love.”
You may tell her about this letter if you want, but I think it might tend to bias your words if you do so. Do whatever you think best, for I have no right to swear you to silence without your prior consent.
[…] I may go to Cuba in a few weeks. Money to be made there, also a little excitement. Things here are the same. Sandy is home now, and is cooking a fish dinner. I am drinking wine, writing an article for the Trib, and reading many books on Cuba. Let us know what you think about taking this apartment.
Cheers:
Hunter
TO EUGENE W. MCGARR:
The McGarrs were preparing to leave Spain and return home to New York.
August 26, 1960
New York City
Mira, Mira!
Your mass of letters served only to confuse and depress us. The death of Murphy16 seemed tragic at first; and then, after some thought, I began to feel it was also poetic in its appropriateness. This, contrary to what you might think, is not a harsh judgment on Dick. I don’t subscribe to the theory that every traffic death is a social tragedy and a sob-sister’s field day. He did not see his death as a tragedy, because he did not see it at all. In that, he was spared the one genuine element of tragic death—the terrible hours of waiting, considering, pondering, reflecting, and the final realization of his own smallness, weakness, futility, and inability to rise to the heights from which real tragedy must plunge.
Perhaps he never had a chance to climb, but he wasn’t breaking his back on the ladder when I knew him, and I doubt he ever would have. He was living exactly as he died: haphazardly, looking for an honest handle, and going as fast as he could in every direction. He was an honest but none too diligent seeker, and I have as much sympathy for him as I would have for myself if I died tomorrow. Dissipated potential is never so sad as when it finally admits defeat, and these are the tragic hours—between surrender and death. Murphy never surrendered—at least, never in his own eyes—and when he died he was still moving. This is not tragedy, and, in a strange way, I even envy him. If my own death is that sudden and dramatic, I will have been spared more than I deserve.
This is a new typewriter, just bought today, and competence is difficult. Bear with me. Also wine.
We are sending a list of cheap boats. Maybe they will be helpful.
If you need money, say how much and we will borrow it.
Don’t worry about apartments. You can stay here, whether we’re here or not. The rent will be a bitch, but it will come from somewhere. There is also a chance of getting the place across the hall. Same as this, not bad at all.
This “draft” business is the most deadly item on today’s agenda. McGarr, if you aren’t capable of tying these people in knots, I’ll lose all faith in you. Right now, you’re in a good position to deal with them. You’re an artist, living in Spain, and you have seen enough to lose all faith in the “American Way.” You will not fight for it unless forced, you think the military uniform of the U.S. is a disgrace to the human spirit, and you literally dare them to draft you. Never touch a form; write long and violent letters, addressed to presidents and commanding generals and such. Don’t deal with peons, and never talk their language. Let’s face it—they don’t need you. McGarr is nothing but a number, just a flabby boob from Queens who’ll fill a quota. Balls to this, McGarr! Don’t you have enough guts to deal with them? Don’t you have better things to do than sit in a torture chamber for two years? Tell them you’re queer, communist, Castroist; to hell with the draft board and everything it stands for.
This should take care of essentials. Deal with these & don’t worry about the rest. I’ll write Eleanor and fill in the blanks.
Cheers,
Hunter
TO ELEANOR MCGARR:
August 28, 1960
New York City
Dear Eleanor:
In a flash of pure irony, Sandy got hold of your letter to me in almost exactly the same way I found yours to her: picked it up, thinking it was hers, etc. Anyway, we’ve gone into the subject at some length, and our conclusions would take up too much space to be dealt with in a letter. In essence, she is more worried about the “vacuum” than I am. After writing that letter to you, I held onto it for a day, and thought about what I said. I decided that Sandy has one of the most valuable and unique talents that I’ve ever run across: she has managed to live with me, tolerate my greedy, vicious and abominable ways, and make me happy at the same time. This honestly surprises me, and I can think of few talents that strike me as more admirable or deserving of appreciation.
So much for that. We shall have to discuss the whole idea at a later date.
I am enclosing a poem which you may enjoy. It is my third attempt at poetry in three years, and I don’t expect to attempt another until next summer.
The (white paper) letter was written last night in a frenzy of wine. Rather than re-write it, I’m sending it along as it is.
Semonin will find out on Monday if he’s been accepted for a teaching job (private high school, art) in Rome. If he makes it, you will probably see him soon. If he doesn’t, he will winter in Colorado.
Sandy goes to Deland on October 1, and I am still beating the journalistic bushes to find somebody willing to pay my way to Cuba. I will probably get there, but I’m not sure how or why.
Fatboy’s demand that I give him a quick run-down on the situation in Latin America (The Meaning, Machinations & Inevitable Consequences of Short-Sighted Capitalism in Undeveloped Areas) is more than I can deal with. At the moment, I’m well-grounded in conflicting generalities and embarrassingly naked of facts and details. The Time comment on the fall of the Arbenz govt. in Guatemala is essentially correct.17 We have supported every dictator in Latam [Latin America], and now we are paying for it. A U.S. military mission was training Batista’s troops right up until the day he fled the country and left it to Castro—in spite of repeated protests by Castro supporters in this country. The Batista AF, flying British planes, was using U.S.-made rockets on rebel soldiers as late as 1958. This will give you some idea of why Fidel does not particularly dig our State Department. The story is much deeper than this, and goes back to 1898, when we helped Cuba gain her “independe
nce” from Spain. This, too, will have to be discussed when we have more time. I am enclosing a clipping on PR that is better than nothing.
My novel has now bounced for the third time, and I’ve decided to break it up into short stories (2 or 3) and try a new one. I have two decent stories circulating (through a good agent) and another about finished. I think the new novel will do the trick, but, as usual, I will have to find the time and the money to write it in peace. God knows how this will come about, but somehow it will. If I were working half as hard as Sandy said I was, I’d probably have the damn thing finished by now. I have become lazy, pudgy, and more noisy than productive. If I weren’t so sure of my destiny, I might even say I was depressed. But I’m not, and there’s always tomorrow’s mail.
I leave you with that. Also with my poem, my clipping, and my promise to talk you into a stupor when you get back. Let us know what we can do to help. Don’t worry about your money; I’m just having trouble getting my hands on it.
Cheers, HST
TO THE NEW YORK TIMES:
Thompson couldn’t resist replying to a New York Times classified ad seeking “writers (2) who dig facts.”
September 11, 1960
c/o Conklin
107 Thompson St.
New York City 12
Z8822, New York Times
Dear Z8822:
Man, if you only knew how I dig facts! Like, I almost sleep with ’em, jack; they groove me in the craziest kind of way. Man, I pound into the negro streets at dawn, rabid for facts. All day I rip and tear through layers of pap and bombast, wild to get my hands on the ripe, juicy, factual core of it all.
If you knew this, z8822, you would say: “Like, man, when can you start?”
And I would reply, in my cool and savvy way: “Well, daddio, let’s get down to the factual core. I need at least $100 a week to keep me in Jack Daniel’s; can you swing it?”