Love, Kurt
Page 9
Much love,
Kurt
P.S. I look sort of starved.
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To: JANE M. COX
96TH + N. COLLEGE AVE
INDIANAPOLIS, IND.
FROM: PFC. KURT VONNEGUT, JR.
12102964, U.S. ARMY
MAY 29 – 1945
DEAR WOOFY:
SOME ANONYMOUS PERSON HAS STARTED A LOVE LETTER HERE AND LEFT IT UNFINISHED ON THIS DESK. HAD I FOLLOWED MY FIRST IMPULSE TO CRUMPLE IT UP AND THROW IT AWAY, A JEWEL WOULD HAVE BEEN LOST FOREVER. I SHALL HERE RECORD IT FOR POSTERITY AND SEEKERS OF BEAUTY––THE SENTIMENTS ARE MINE:
“HELLO HONNY
WELL I GEST YOU THOUGHT I WAS NOT GOING TO WRITE YOU BUT I HAVE NOT FORGOT YOU I THINK OF YOU ALL THE TIME”
––AND THAT’S THE TROOT. I’VE BEEN FLOWN TO A HUGE P.O.W. REPATRIATION CAMP NEAR LE HAVRE, FRANCE. SHIPPING IS ALL TIED UP BUT IF MY LUCK HOLDS OUT I SHOULD BE HOME IN A MONTH. YOU’LL BE HAPPY TO KNOW THAT I CAN’T RECEIVE MAIL HERE.
I’VE A SIXTY-DAY FURLOUGH AWAITING ME. PERHAPS I SHALL CALL ON YOU.
AS EVER, YOUR CHUM––
KURT
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TO: KURT VONNEGUT
WILLIAMS CREEK
INDIANOPOLIS, IN
From: PFC Kurt Vonnegut Jr.
1210964-R.A.M.P
US Army, France
June 4, 1945
Dear Family,
I’ve been told that we, the last of the liberated American P.O.W’s in Europe, will be on board a ship within seven (7) days—or by Monday, June 11th. I suppose the trip will take another week so that would set my repatriation date near June 18th. This date is highly theoretical, so don’t count on it—but I’ll be home pretty damned quick. I’ll phone or telegraph as soon as I hit native soil. I’m to be sent to Atterbury where I expect to get my sixty-day furlough within thirty-six (36) hours.
This is my last communique from the European Theater of Operations. Hope all are well—I hope that like hell.
Much love
Kurt-Jr.
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Monday…1945
If Thou survive my well-contented day
When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover;
Compare them with the bettering of the time,
And though they be outstripp’d by every pen,
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme
Exceeded by the height of happier men.
O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought––
‘Had my friend’s muse grown with this growing age,
A dearer birth than this his love had brought,
To march in ranks of better equipage:
But since he died, and poets better prove,
Theirs for their style I’ll read, his for his love.’
* * * *
To follow this wonderfully pertinent wisdom with words of my own makes me, I know, one of the most insoucient fools alive today. To do what I have just done is the equivalent of starting off a concert with the 1812 Overture. Anything I say now, from an eye-witness account of the Crucifixion of Christ to a discussion of price-fluctuations at the Kansas City Hog Market today, will be redundant. I’ve bloody-goddamn-well had it. The sonofabitch who wrote that Sonnet has bloody-goddamn-well said everything.
However, Darling, this love affair of ours is a thing apart, an entirely specific situation which concerns, and could only concern, though time be infinite, us. And I think, Angel, that it is a sorry commentary on our avowed individuality if we can throw Shakespeare about us and have him fit like a suit from Brookes Brothers. (((One hour has expired, Sweety, since I mis-spelled Brooks. You are going to be married to a damned fool, Darling. Do you know what he did during that hour? He tried to write a Sonnet. The kid’s got courage, you’ve got to admit. He thought he could knock one out every bit as good as “Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts…” and he thought that it would make you very happy to think that he was easily as good as Shakespeare. Well, he knows now, though not without a trace of bitterness. Johnny Mercer wrote the words to “Goody, goody” in 15 minutes. I think I could too, though I’d hate myself in the morning. I draw inspiration from the wrong people. I’ll write us a Sonnet if it takes me the rest of my life; but I’ve bloody-goddamn-well had it tonight. Stephen Foster had a dirty piece of paper in his pocket when they found his body. On it was written: “Sweet friends and gentle hearts…”)))
I love you, Darling. When one person from the Corn Belt misses another person from the Corn Belt he doesn’t say, for a very good reason: “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” Hell no, he doesn’t. He says “Holy Jesus Christ, Angel; I miss you like hell. Dammit, Sweety, I’m going nuts without you. I ache all over. I’ll blow my top.” And I will, too.
Anticlimax Department: my brother, one strange Bernard Vonnegut, will be here on this coming week-end if all goes well. He wishes me to go with him to Cambridge. This I will do. It is my intention to live here in pseudo-bachelorhood for a period of a few days, during which I will pick up any brutally frank marital hints which he may care to throw my way. My bosom, endeared with these lewd jewels, will I then take to Washington and thereupon unload same in your loving arms. Love, love, love, love, dammit, love.
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Tell me where is Fancy bred,
Or in the heart, or in the head?
How begot, how nourished.
Reply, reply.
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DARLING––
ENCLOSED YOU WILL FIND A HIGHLY SYMBOLIC EXPRESSION OF HOW I HAVE FELT ALL DAY. I’M GOING TO SEE YOUR MOTHER TOMORROW––TO HELP HER GET THE BLUE-PRINT FOR OUR WEDDING FINISHED. BECAUSE, SWEETY, METHINKS SHE’LL HAVE OCCASION TO USE IT BEFORE SEPTEMBER 14TH. WHAT DO YOU THINK?
FEARLESS FERN OF BELCHER FARMS STARTED POPULATING THE WORLD WITH LESSER SALUKIS AT 9:30 TONIGHT AND HAS, AT THIS WRITING, PRODUCED EIGHT. SHE IS A WONDERFULL MOTHER. HOW THE WORD “BITCH” FELL INTO DIS-REPUTE I DON’T KNOW, IF THESE ARE THE ENDS OF PROMISCUITY, THEN PROMISCUITY IS AN UNSELFISH AND BEAUTIFUL THING. AFTER SEEING THE PUPS I’VE DECIDED TO NEVER HAVE ANYTHING BUT A LESSER SALUKI. EACH ONE IS THE SWEETEST LITTLE SON OF A BITCH THAT YOU EVER SAW. I AM TOUCHED.
I LOVE YOU, DARLING. OF ALL THE MANY TIMES WE’VE PARTED, THIS IS THE FIRST TIME YOU’VE TAKEN A BIG BLOODY CHUNK OF ME WITH YOU. THERE IS NO SENSE IN OUR BEING APART. LET US WED SOON. IF BERNARD COMES THIS WEEK-END I’LL BE WITH YOU IN WASHINGTON BY AUGUST 15TH, AT LEAST.
AT THE BASE OF THE PEDESTAL UPON WHICH RESTS THE ANIMAL IN ME, YOU WILL SEE A SMALL DOGHOUSE. IF YOU WILL RECALL, THE ANIMAL IN ME ONCE FITTED VERY NICELY INSIDE OF IT.
LOVE KURT
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2-8-’45
D*A*R*L*I*N*G:
I forgot to tell you that we now have a checking account at the Fletcher Trust Company. I opened it day before yesterday with all the money I earned working for Adolph Hitler. Mr. Dodd took care of me. He gave me 25 blank checks and a little mottled red and black book which is supposed to tell us how much money we have. I have already lost the little mottled red and black book so I will have to tell you how much we have from memory. I think it is $458.98. I am very proud and happy because it represents what Mrs. Wainwright waited for before she got married––$e¢urity.
I L*O*V*E Y*O*U
Outside of our prospective wedding and the establishment of a new World’s record for sustained bliss, we have these irons on the fire: one medium length article to the New Yorker, five very short humorous articles to the Post; and one mur
der mystery and one very tedios story of my adventures in Germany, both embryonic. All of which given me the dazzling idea of covering the lampshade of our Champaign bottle lamp with rejection slips.
A*N*D A*M P*E*R*P*E*T*U*A*L*L*Y, P*A*I*N*F*U*L*L*Y
I can’t tell you anything more about my trip to Washington. But, dammit, Darling, Bernard should be here soon––within two or three days. And ten days should see us, you and me, the insoluable, undeniable, admirable and God-given unit, electron and proton, together and panting. I will thereupon give wistful Washington bureaucracy a brief glance at the amorous genius that has so captivated your lovely self, say a few modest words about the whopping big sparkler, and take you away from it all.
C*O*N*S*C*I*O*U*S O*F R*E*C*E*I*V*I*N*G M*O*R*E*
Bernard has sent us some pictures of Peter––his son. Peter looks astonishingly much like his father which isn’t astonishing after all except that it’s hard to believe that there are now two of them on Earth.
T*H*A*N* I C*A*N E*V*E*R H*O*P*E T*O G*I*V*E.
A b s t r a c t i o n: Two happy termites, baring their teeth as they prepare to gnaw down a 5000 year-old Redwood.
F*E*E*L T*H*E S*A*M*E W*A*Y A*N*D W*E C*A*N*T M*I*S*S*********
L o v e………………..
KURT
xxxxxxx 7
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Freitag…3/8/45
Cripes but I’m d r o w z y, Cutie:
Poor Woofy, working her fingers to the bone 40 hours a week in sweltering Washington while her no good fiance sleeps till noon, drinks beer all day and goes barefoot. Not only that, but he got a Goddamn rejection slip from the snotty Saturday Evening Post today, that’s what. He cancelled his subscription in a hurry, believe me. Bastards.
This is the time of the month that you’re supposed to be in rough shape, isn’t it? Oh gosh, Sweety, I’m sorry. I wish I’d designed women. God may be a pretty sweet old cuss, but he’s no engineer. I wouldn’t alter your chassis lines a mite, not yours, but I would put a new set of works inside. There’s no damn sense in producing a perfidious gadget that goes flooey every 30 days. Dames has got it rough kiddo and youse has got my sympathy. Also, I love you love you love you, and when we are wed I shall speak softly and stroke your forehead and keep you perpetually pregnant so you will be in trouble just once every nine months. But yi, Honey, what trouble. Ouch. Dames has soiny got it rough, kiddo. XXXXXXX Give me a big yummy wet kiss. mmmmMmmmMMMmmmmmmmMMMMMMMMMmmmmMMMMMMMM
Sweety, promise me something. You scare me when you say that I would have been Shakespeare had I lived then. And you scare me when you say that I am going to create the literature of 1945 onwards and upwards. Angel, will you stick by me if it goes backwards and downwards? Holy smokes, Angel: what if I turn out to be just plain folks? Oh my God––I want to kiss you kiss you kiss you. Rrrrrrr
I wrotechez a letter yesterday but forgot to mail it so you’ll get two today. How was it to go without one for a day?
Tell Peter that I’ll get her an orchid after I’ve tasted the pork chops. Tell Issy that I love her dearly (which is the truth), that I shall bring her an orchid, with a gardenia for interest, and that after I sell the stupendous novel that you keep saying I am going to write, I will send her an orchid a week for the rest of her life.
For goodness sakes, Woofy, do I have to do all the thinking for us? Call Miss Phillipps immediately before she gives it all away! I must say you’re pretty thick about financial matters. You’d better send me your pay check before that goes out the window too.
Here’s a narsty problem. Visualize if you can our return from our h o n e y m o o n. Either we stay at our house or at your house. I’m personally plumping for our house, because I’m damned if I’ve got the courage to take your mother’s and father’s daughter to bed in front of them. I’ll dash out the front door and turn up 20 years later in Hong Kong with amnesia. No, dear, I will take you to bed here. That way, both of us will feel very married. At your house we would feel too married. Agreed?
LOVE KURT
777777777777777777777777777777777777777777777777777777777777
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Thursday…August 2nd
Holy Jesus, darling, darling, darling:
I will have to get on the ball in a hurry if this letter is to be mailed to you this morning. I try to knock out one a day, because I want to, for one reason; and because you might think that I don’t love you any more––which would make you one of the most grieviously misinformed persons alive. Sweety, I usually (Listen to the guy: he’s written two letters so far and he says usually) write to you in the evenings. But last night I had an extremely hot streak and am very pleased with the results before me now. Four short articles, Angel, that I hope will land me a contract with the Post. This is the current pipe dream, Lovey, and I want you to share it. Perhaps you have noticed the section of the Post called Postscripts. It is supposed to be funny, but it isn’t. A lot of people contribute to it every week and are doubtless under contract at about $40 a whack, I should say. That, Sweety, is no mean gravy for what they produce, and I plan to get some of it for us. Mainly because I am funnier than anyone they’ve got now. That’s how good I am.
Fern’s litter stopped at eight. She delivered them all herself, with no apparent effort. Allie and I observed that it is a great deal easier to have young in little chunks instead of one whopping big one. There are four males and four females. I think that we can find homes for them all. As the only Lesser Salukis in the World, they are becoming quite famous all over Indianapolis. However, in looking over prospective foster-parents, I made a discovery which is painful. It is a violent contradiction of Vonnegut’s Axiom: People who don’t like dogs aren’t much good. Phoebe hates dogs! She says that they lick her leg-makeup off. We’ve thought up one name so far––”G. Rover Cleveland”. Do you think that is funny? Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t; but I love you and miss you all of the time.
Mrs. Wainwright called yesterday. She said this: “I’ve just got it through my head that you two kids are really going to get married on September 14th. Forgonnessake, what would you like for a wedding present?” I was very sweet to her, Woofy, Parlor Pink that I am, and I thanked her for such generous thoughts, but I couldn’t give her much of an answer. Not without your being here (a condition which will be effected shortly). She made the suggestion of luggage. I recall your having said something about needing luggage so I told her that perhaps that is what we needed. Well, Angel, she said that if you wanted to pick out some pieces in Washington, she would love to have you send her the description of them, the store and the salesman’s name. That is, if you want luggage. I suppose stuff like this will be cropping up all of the time. We ought to pick out silver and china patterns plenty quick or we won’t get any.
Alex called to tell me that our pictures will be ready on Saturday. I’ll send them or bring them to Washington with me. Dammit, Darling, Bernard should be here in a few more days. I want to see him very much, as he is, after all, my blood brother. But I don’t think I’ll go to Cambridge with him. After he leaves I will try to catch a Washington-bound bomber from Stout Field.
Golly but that was a sweet letter I got this morning. And a post-card, too. When I say something it sounds like a little boy beating on a rain barrel. When you say something it sounds like kettledrums. “Then we will live outside of time and space, and ignore it.”
* * * *
A B s t r a c t i o n : two warm pink presences in a cool blue cloud, ten thousand feet above Earth.
* * * *
LOVE (1)
LOVE (2)
LOVE (3)
LOVE (4)
LOVE (5)
LOVE (6)
LOVE (7)
We’ve got a wonderful lot of fun ahead of us, Darling. You needn’t have instruc
ted me to smile at you as you come down the aisle. This, being a love match, requires no outside coaching in such matters. Of course I’ll smile. Naturally, and with all the joy in my fantastically lucky soul.
This is a picture of a Sodium Chloride (NaCl––table salt) molecule. It is particularly interesting because the molecule is as large as any specific lump of salt. It goes infinitely on, but always in these proportions: one sodium, one atom chlorine. It is a very stable substance.
I hope that we can go on and on chrystalizing, growing bigger and bigger: one atom of Kurt to one atom of Woofy.
I think maybe I’ve been a bore in this letter. But dammit, Darling––I love you so much that I always try too hard.
L o v e , L o v e l y
KURT–
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August 7th, 1945
Woofy, Darling:
Your moody husband is ecstatically happy just now. He has an idea and is excited. He is feverish, leering and chain smoking. Gordon Thompson called not five minutes ago, to congratulate us and to ask if I was interested in teaching at Orchard. Oh golly, Sweety, quel bon idea! I would love it, wouldn’t you?
Unstable as I am, I think it would be preposterous for me to think of writing for a living. I’ll write, yes, and so will you, Darling, but we ought only to write what we feel should be written. In making a living for us and the seven children, I want to be one of Frank Lloyd Wright’s (When Democracy Builds) hewers of wood and drawers of water. I want to work as a newspaper man or a teacher. Being honest about myself, I realize that I have not the genius to dedicate my life to creating phantasmagoria. We both have naiive and entirely charming intellects, Angel, and we represent lovable tendencies in the divine direction of the dignity of man. We are good, but we are not great. This above all, to thine own self be true…We have spasms of spectaculer inspiration, Cuddles, but there is no sustained, driving urge to realize a cleanly cut idea. We are in the blithe pursuit of happiness, with the happy abandon of a child in the Five and Ten. Our marriage will be such a complete consumation of what we both want that we shall want for very little else. Maladjustment and dissatisfaction drive people on dizzy quests that characterize great men and women of art. I am glad that I have found the Holy Grail in you. Expression in flesh and blood, yours and mine. Two fused in love, heat and sweat––sight, sound, smell, feel and taste.