Love, Kurt
Page 4
February 11, 1942 ––
Dearest Woofy:
I’m really sorry about house-party because you had such a miserable time. Little tales continue to come back to me now, and I’ve said some things I certainly don’t mean. Ralph was a honey to take care of you as he did, and I’ve always thought he was a helluva good egg. I’m not at all sure what I said to you about yourself. There’s not a damned thing about you that I don’t like. We simply don’t belong together any more than nitric acid and glycerine. There’s the simple statement of how I feel about the whole thing. You’re a plenty wonderful girl with a good mind. In that mind you have all the elements of happiness, accomplishment and an appreciation of beauty.
In defense of my way of thinking, and my admiration for the sciences: Through the history of mankind, this question has been asked––“Why are we here, and what makes us act as we do?” Religion after religion has formed in a fruitless attempt to find some answer. I read the Gestalt theory five minutes ago, and I can’t see any application to my way of thinking. The proton, neutron, and electron are closer to an answer to the question of life than any other offered. Science is broad, not narrow, as so many persons smugly believe. When I first fell in love with you, one electron hit another in my head, causing a chemical reaction, billions of electrons hitting billions of other electrons. These electrons flowed through a conductor, a nerve, to all over my body, causing further reactions wherever they flowed. Valves opened and closed; new chemicals were poured into my bloodstream. I put my arm around you, kissed you, told you I loved you. That one electron liked you better than anybody else.
Now I’m being facetious, and I didn’t mean to be. Love can’t be traced to a single electron, but things microscopic have certainly presented a clearer picture of man as a whole than he has ever known before.
You’ve really had enough happiness? ––the foolish game has just started for us. My happiest moments are ahead of me. Do I impress you as having lead a pretty unhappy life so far? Thanks for your generous wish––I appreciate it, and should like you to have the same. I see no reason why either of us should have a very wretched time of it: unless we married each other.
This thing we used to have is no blot on my integrety, dammit! Watch that sort of talk. I reserve all rights, as you do, to as confused a state of mind as I damned please. I over-did this honesty business. Anything I felt like saying I said.
If you feel like writing as much as you say you do (honesty) I wish you would.
Kurt – Jr.
Blue slipper for my drill coat.
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VALENTINE GREETING by Western Union
P12– FT ITHACA N Y
JANE COX
SWARTHMORE COLLEGE
SWARTHMORE PENNA
YOU’RE LOVELY AND SWEET, A TREASURE DIVINE. YOU’RE ALL I WANT FOR MY VALENTINE.
TARZAN
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Dear dear….
Kisses go “phffffffff.” I feel sexy as all hell. I want to be a bad bad boy with the right person. Want to be a bad bad, absolutely filthy little girl with me?
What a shot in the arm your letter beginning “Puddin’ dear––” was. I needed it. I was up until three a.m. with the Sun two nights ago, have been up past one a.m. in rush meetings every other night, and have been severely frightened in French, Physics, Histology, Qualitative analysis, and Physiology. I wish you’d come up here and take care of me. I’ve got a bitch of a cold, and a physical lust for you that has me walking on my heels. Love is physical, darling––we’ve got plenty of that plus an admiration for each other, and a wonderful mental compatibility. What else is there to marraige? Go on, try and find a loop-hole. Tell everybody that we’re getting married…I’m no fool. I know when I’m well off.
Here’s an interesting biochemical-psychological point which you can work on: despite the fact that I’m tired and fogbound by a cold, I still feel sexy, plenty sexy––moreso than I have all week. I’ll expect a full report.
Theory on the Northern Lights, current: from time to time, spots appear on the Sun, caused by masses of material that are cooler than the rest. These masses send out streams of electrical particals, electrons, which move with the speed of light, and which are quite invisible under the most powerful microscopes––the smallest partical yet discovered. Some of these bits are attracted to the positive North Pole. They are then deflected back into the stratosphere and back into space, appearing in the North as light.
–––See?
Phfffffffffff. Phfffffffffff. Pant. Phfffffff. My Gawd! Phfffffffffffffffffffffffff-phffff-phfffffffffff.
I have very little hair, darling, very little. It may be back by November first. As a matter of fact, what there is of it isn’t very pretty. We’ve been painting the bar in preparation for you, and I got a quantity of white paint all over me.
I love you. My regards to the family, play me up, ease their minds, don’t let them worry. Don’t let me worry. I love you.
Kurt
My sox are size 11
GO SEE OUR BUDDY, PHOEBE – BLOCK’S ADVERTIZING – #7
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To Woofy, without whose inspiration this work would not have been possible––Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., July, 1942.
After serious meditation
I conclude that this vacation
Is a complex and very puzzling one.
It takes a mess of speculation
To foresee a deviation
From the circumstance which makes my efforts feeble.
Should we take to constant boating,
Spending fortunes while we’re floating
On the sewage of four-hundred thousand people?
Tell me dear, where is this bower,
Built by God for youth in flower,
Whence we might pass the time without restraint?
If such a place lies in your knowledge,
Tell me ere I return to college
That I may rectify your often-voiced complaint.
The interior of a tan sedan
Cannot be part of nature’s plan;
Brake and throttle, wheel and clutch strangle, rip, and smother.
For the sports of Aphrodite
I should prefer you in a nighty,
In a house without the presence of your parents or your brother.
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Dear Love of my Life:
I find these times trying and tiring––the three phases of a befuddled life––you, studies, and the Sun. I’ve received beatings in each of these fields, and am now searching for an ally. John Barley-corn sorely betrayed me in that role Saturday night.
However, the new me, recently completed, will enter into the next semester smiling and confident. Goals: to have you completely convinced that none but my own nifty person could ever keep you happy for a life-time; that, through my intensified interest in studies I shall be able to keep you in voluptuous comfort as my wife; and through becoming managing editor of the Sun I’ll prove to myself that I can do at least one thing goddamned well.
Please note that this childish sketch of my immediate ambitions balances on a single, unstable fulcrum––you. Because of you I am ambitious and confident.
Junior Week houseparty will be a toss of a coin for me––double or nothing. Out of 365 days the generous school fathers have given me 20 for vacation. My dish-washing job will pay for my summer tuition (a scholarship!!). I shan’t see you after houseparty for months—almost a year. I’ve got to convince you to love me, keep on loving me, and live for the day we’re married. That makes me a pretty conceited ass, but a pretty determined one. The simple fact is that I can’t get along without you; not even now.
&
nbsp; One hot, mid-western summer, two people met, a boy and a girl. After a dozen surprising days they realized that they were in love, and each saw in the other something which they had believed peculiar to themselves: imagination; imagination and ideals. Their imaginations ranged free and mingled, and explored the fascinating length and breadth of a thousand dreams and thoughts. Where one was lost the other would lead the way. They swore they had love, and were resolved to keep it.
Seven years later, on another hot, midwester summer, a troop train pulled into the smokey city––Japan was in ruins, and the victorious dough-boys were back to learn the arts of peace. Lost in a sea of khaki, a lone sailor was swept along by a tide of men, rushing to kiss their wives and sweethearts. A little wearily, he shuffled down the dirty station steps.
A small voice called out his name. In another second he was kissing a girl: same boy, same girl, ideals, imagination, mid-west.
“Darling, I’ll always love you,” he whispered, and she new he meant it––he’d never managed to say it quite that way before.
+ +
…No moral: same story, poorly told this time.
Kurt
X
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Dear Woofy:
The Indianapolis Wellesley Club has invited me to their Back-To-School Dance at the Woodstock Club, Friday Evening, September Fifth, Nine to One. Please go with me. I’ll browbeat somebody up here into teaching me to jitterbug––Oh damn but I must love you.
I’m coming home on labor day. Could I trouble you for the following evening, space, the following evening, the following evening, space, space, the following evening, space, the following evening, space, the following evening, after which I sha’n’t disturb you until fall houseparty sometime in October. I love you.
Kurt
Love without kisses
And an occasional neck
Is fine for Paul
And peachy for Deck.
But passion’s
My fashion!
why do I love you?
Have a cigarette. Smoke it while playing Why Do I Love You. Think of ME dammit!
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October 15, 1942
Dear Woofy,
I’m truly sorry you can’t come––it means, of course, that this party will be about fifty per-cent less fun than I had expected. As things have now developed in the face of the emergency, I have a blind date coming from Vassar, the sister of Brother Tod Knowles ’45, Juliet. If she doesn’t turn out well, I shall endeavor to exhaust her quickly. This, if successfully carried out, will make me a legitimate (by agreement made in the last house meeting) wolf. If she is wonderful, the first move will be to get her brother out of the way––a touchy situation.
Conclusion reached two days ago follows: If the Army is as short of men as they say, I have no business attempting to wiggle out of the draft when it hits me––November 11th, or sooner if the 18-20 bill goes through. It may well be passed by the time you read this. On the strength of my being a chemist (or thereabouts), I plan to ask for a deferment until February. Then, during Christmas vacation, I’ll enlist in whatever branch of the service I choose. Cornell will give me credit for the term, which means that I’ll have Senior standing when I return after the Peace is won.
At this point, I can’t give a damn for anything. I’ve got weltschmerz like never before. We pledged 15 very nifty freshmen, including a likable Kieth Nesbitt from the Hoosier state. Mother and Dad sent some Sassafrass tea from a weekend in Brown County. I had it served at the Junior table––it was terrible; I had to drink everybody’s. Can’t find a football schedule. Penn is about Thanksgiving time. Cornell has no team at all. The point is that I’ve got to see you.
Love, Kurt—
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November 1, 1942
Dearest Woofy:
This is to clear up a couple of points, and to reestablish communications with you. I find your letters quite often a pleasant tonic. If you don’t write soon, I’ll have poured a fortune into long distance telephone calls.
I was given a physical examination for the ERC this morning, in which the health of every damned part of me was startlingly verified. I passed and will be sworn in Thursday afternoon––beating Draft Board #14 to the punch by six days. The plan is this: regardless of my draft status, I shall leave school at the close of this semester to enlist in the branch of the Army which appeals the most.
As for Pennsylvania…well, I can’t make it. They’ve given us a scant Thanksgiving Vacation of Thursday, November 26th (day of the game). This means that we wont see each other until Christmas––a grim situation, mighty tough on morale. Put me on record as wanting New Years Eve with you.
For all I know, some completely wonderful guy has been rushing the pants off of you with moderate success. If so, I should like to hear a few details.
The Sun continues to function…I was elected to Aleph Samach, Junior honorary society…Mary Glossbrenner has had a serious nervous breakdown…Cupitt is in the air corps…Bill Hughes is going to be drafted…the Navy has taken over the men’s dorms…we pledged 16 freshmen…I hit the Dean of Men with a bicycle while riding it in the Alpha Delt living room…my blind date from Vassar had a lip like a button-hole and a personality and IQ of a young eel.
Kurt Jr.
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DON’T BE UNCOUTH––YOUTH
DON’T BE SO WILD––CHILD
DON’T BE [INBRED]––I SAID
BECAUSE THE MAN WITH THE BOOK
IS GONNA TAKE A LOOK
WHEN YOU MAKE THAT DATE
AT THE PEARLY GATE
DON’T BE A [SAP]––CHAP
DON’T BE TOO SLY––GUY
DON’T BE TOO GAY––I SAY
BECAUSE THE GUY IN THE SKY
WON’T GIVE YOU ONE MORE TRY
THE [GAZE] ON THE GATE
WILL SAY YOUR JUST TOO LATE
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November 15, 42’
Dear Woofy:
It wasn’t too pleasant hearing Bill Hughes make big plans for the Penn week-end. Cornell stands a wonderful chance of beating her traditional rival––I stand small chance of seeing you again for at least many months. Though it’s still a matter of faculty debate, I doubt that I’ll be home for Christmas vacation. At the end of this term, January fifteenth, I’ll go home to enlist as a regular. I’m already a private in the Army––number 12835987, apparently not the first to join.
The vitality has left Cornell, and I’ve set a new high for low in my studies. I should never have set out to become a highly specialized (degree of which is directly proportional to the shallowness of life) technician. I’m glad I’ve dabbled in the sciences, for I can understand and interpret a great and interesting number of things which would otherwise be forever mysterious. Such a scientific sympathy is, I think, certainly in keeping with the times. Through it my chances as a journalist are enhanced. I welcome the change which will soon startle me, for it will mark a new phase––I shall have passed the larval stage. That outside world is going to be a helluva lot of fun if I live long enough to play around in it.
There goes that big yet little, hot yet cold feeling in my lungs again––I described it for you once…
Love, Kurt Jr.
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Dear Woofy:
Naturally your recent letter ripped my heart from my wounded breast (poetic license). My Princeton friend, Morgan Bird (It’s a Small World Department: he kissed you good-bye just before the Triangle Club pulled out of Union Station some two New Year’s Eves ago), and the rest of our picked squad of All-American Barflies spent the week-end in a Raleigh hotel suite. This contest of giants ended in a draw
though I was awarded a decoration for valor beyond the call of duty for making a breakfast of beer Monday morning.
So many of my friends are commissioned that I can’t help feeling a little distinctive with absolutely nothing on my uniform but buttons. Ryan and I are very happy as privates. How long this attitude will hold out is a sober question. Methinks it had better be durable enough to last for duration and six months. In a couple of weeks I’ll know if I’m to be an officer, a college student, or a dead duck.
Lovey, I know what hell you’ve been going through being absolutely true to me. I want you to know that I appreciate it. Abstainance makes the heart grow fonder. These once cool, tapering and artistic hands have been initiated into the more brutal mysteries of Ju-Jitsu . I am now a match for any woman twice my size. I shall probably be back late in July. I shall probably try to see you as much as possible––or as much of you as possible. Are you glad? If you want to break up an otherwise morbid summer I don’t care if you want to get married. I, Kurt Vonnegut Jr., am financially independent and in a position to afford a one-week honeymoon in the Seminole Hotel.
Apropos, are you ever going to get married? I am willing to fill out any required forms in duplicate, triplicate and quintuplicate for your hand and all accessories thereof: not now, but sometime. You don’t object to my playing with the idea, do you?
Write me a letter, sweet mamma.
Kurt
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To Woofy