Saul Bellow_ Letters Part 38

To Daniel Bellow January 31, 1980 Pasadena Dear Daniel, Since I haven't heard at all from you I take it that we won't be seeing each other in California either because there is not time between terms or because you did not meet the little condition I set-no need to spell that out. But we often think of you and wonder what's become of you. I mailed off your camp application signed and with a check so your summer is protected. I wish that I could see you more, I often miss you and I think somehow that you have arranged matters so in your own mind that the absence is mine from you and not yours from me. But the move East was after all by your choice. No reproach, I just think you should bear it in mind along with other facts, realities, truths. [ . . . ]

The other day I saw a set of Parkman in a bookshop. If I thought that you were interested in the early history of North America, the French-Indian wars, I'd send it to you. These are most exciting books. I'd read them myself if I had the time. I did read The Oregon Trail The Oregon Trail once and parts of the book on the Pontiac. once and parts of the book on the Pontiac.

I'd be awfully glad to hear from you.

Love,

To Bobby Markels January 31, 1980 Pasadena Dear Bobby, I am taking advantage of a crack typist to whirl back a reply. I enjoyed your poem, as I do all your productions. They are so relaxed that they do me good also in the way of detente. I met a lady who lives in your county and she tells me all the young people in Mendocino are in a lovely state of gentle ease. I asked her whether there was any sign of cultivated pot, but she said that she thought everyone there was naturally amiable, lovely and kind. I said this was certainly true of the one person I knew in Mendocino. I didn't at all mind being listed by you. I thought if I could remember the s.h.i.+rt you ironed for me and still had it I would have it mounted and hung in the living room with a sentimental legend. [ . . . ]

You shouldn't complain too much about being fifty. Fifty doesn't seem much to me, my next birthday will be the sixty-fifth. The fifty years will have been worthwhile however if you have become wise enough to see through Nelson [Algren].

You mustn't be too hard on your own egotism. The Bible says, "I am a worm, and no man." When it comes to being hard on oneself the Bible is way ahead of us. Actually, atheists can never know how really insignificant they are. The same probably goes for agnostics. They only get a rain check.

Ever your affectionate friend,

Bobby Markels (born 1930) is the author of How to Be a Human Bean How to Be a Human Bean (1975) and other works. She lives in Mendocino, California. (1975) and other works. She lives in Mendocino, California.

To Albert Glotzer January 31, 1980 Pasadena Dear Al, To keep you posted on [Ilya] Konstantinovski, he wrote to me from Paris where Gallimard is about to bring out his book. Would I read it, give him a blurb? As the much-esteemed maestro H. L. Mencken used to sign himself "with all the usual hypocrisies," Konstantinovski gave me the usual hypocrisies. I don't mind that, and I suppose by now the book is waiting for me in Chicago. Harper's turned it down. The first reader said it was very good but the second opined that it was the rebellious outburst of a lifelong line-toer, that Konstantinovski, who had no intention ever of returning, was setting himself up in the West as one of the Major Russians of our time and was even recruiting a supporting cast of willing ladies. It seems that when he speaks to ladies he complains that they are unwilling to return his caresses and other acts of kindness. He's not a very attractive man but it can't be as hard as all that. There are ladies in every category, even his. I'll send you a short report when I've read his book. [ . . . ]

Ever yours,

Ilya Konstantinovski's book was Le Seider de Varsovie. Le Seider de Varsovie. It has never appeared in English. It has never appeared in English.

To David Shahar March 25, 1980 Pasadena Dear David, What shocking news! To be mugged in Jerusalem, in your own quiet neighborhood. The police were right, you were lucky to save your eye (I hope you are entirely recovered) from the neo-barbaric a.s.sault, as you call it. I take it from your letter that your attackers were not Arabs but North African [i.e., Sephardic] boys, since you speak of their wanting to hit an Ashkenazy. This is your introduction then to the tense watchfulness which has for years been the lot of New Yorkers, Chicagoans, even Londoners, I suppose. Not Muscovites. Theirs is a different system: Crime is a state monopoly. From now on you had better take your Jimmy [Shahar's dog] with you when you go out for cigarettes. I hope he is fiercer than his namesake. Our own Jimmy [Carter] as you probably are aware is an affliction to us and to the rest of the world. I can't say that he is actually the cause of our decline but he has become the foolish, impotent and repulsive symbol. But this is not a political message, rather a note of sympathy. [ . . . ] We send our love to both of you and to the children.

David Shahar (1926- 97), a fifth-generation Jerusalemite and much-honored Israeli writer, was best known for The Palace of Shattered Vessels The Palace of Shattered Vessels (1969-94), his eight-volume series of historical novels. (1969-94), his eight-volume series of historical novels.

To Ralph Ross June 15, 1980 Chicago Dear Ralph, I'm not one of your prompt repliers: rather, a muller over of letters. No, I don't need the Barfield book, I have other copies, also marked. I sometimes wonder what one can get out of Barfield if one hasn't learned the "system." Some of it is very curious, the different view of physics, for certain, the conviction that the law of the conservation of energy is all a mistake (this idea has too many poetic implications to be dismissed). My friends refuse to take any of this seriously. I forgive them as a friend should, and I perform other operations, in confirmation of my right to hold peculiar views. (Or is it a privilege, not a right?) Then I feel that I'm being faithful to Truth, through thick and thin. And it will do them good in the long, long long run, perhaps after death. [ . . . ] run, perhaps after death. [ . . . ]

Alexandra adds her love to mine.

Yours,

To Walter Hasenclever June 12, 1980 Chicago Dear Walter, Your letter arrives as I am poised for departure, about to launch myself from my wire, too heavy to be a bird, too sinful to be any sort of angel (but somehow I continue to view myself as a flier). Will you come for dinner or for a longer visit? I can tempt you with an unpublished ma.n.u.script. Please call us when you arrive. I shan't ask you to bring George Bush when you come-I have nothing really against Mr. Bush, his standing with me improves now that I learn he was one of your pupils, but if he is running on the Reagan ticket as Vice-President he will be too busy to dine with us. The country does does need a President but where is it to find one? Maybe the office should be abolished for the next four years. need a President but where is it to find one? Maybe the office should be abolished for the next four years.

Yours ever, To Dean Borok June 17, 1980 West Halifax, Vermont Dear Mr. Borok- I at length answer. I always meant to, but my wife and I were in Pasadena until mid-April and then came back only to prepare to leave again. These are (unnecessarily) busy days, and life grows more complex with the years. I had expected it to be simpler.

I took the liberty of showing your letter to my brother Sam, seeing no reason why you should mind. He was moved by it-he, too. (We both found it curious that you should be in Montreal, where we started out; I was born in Lachine.) Neither of us could form a picture of the life you've led. But that's hardly strange when you think that we have no clear picture of our eldest brother's life, either. He sees none of us-brothers, sister, or his two children by his first marriage, nor their children-neither does he telephone or write. He had no need of us. He has no past, no history. His adopted children do not seem to care for him. His present wife? An enigma. He probably has some money-he's thought about little else all his life. But he's old now-seventy-three. And ill; he's had a coronary bypa.s.s. I tell you all this to warn you about the genes you seem so proud of. If you've inherited them (it's possible you have) many of them will have to be subdued or lived down. I myself have had some hard going with them.

If you can find the right way to do it, perhaps you should write the story of your life. To get rid of it, as it were. In writing it successfully, you will forgive everyone in the process. Yes, all those who sinned against you will be forgiven. (That's what I would call a successful effort to get one's life down on paper.) Thank you for writing.

I wish you happiness,

Borok, out-of-wedlock son of Maurice Bellows, wrote to Bellow after he read The Adventures of Augie March The Adventures of Augie March, having realized that a version of his own birth is narrated in the novel.

To Hymen Slate July 22, 1980 West Halifax Dear Hymen- I'd be a better correspondent if I weren't writing all the time. You have to be a graphomaniac to spend hours on a ma.n.u.script and then turn, for relaxation, to letters. A critic, years ago in Paris, said I had bureaucratic tendencies. He offended me then. Now I'm inclined to see it his way. I learned to organize my daily life for a single purpose. There was was one other drive, the s.e.xual one, but even that presently gave way. My erotic life was seriously affected, too, in that I diverted myself with a kind of executive indiscriminateness-without a proper interest in women. one other drive, the s.e.xual one, but even that presently gave way. My erotic life was seriously affected, too, in that I diverted myself with a kind of executive indiscriminateness-without a proper interest in women.

(Why is it that as soon as I sit down to write to you I find that I am busily examining my character. In another existence you must have been my confessor.) Vermont is exquisite, and I am doing here what I am supposed to do (or what I intended to do) but I miss our Sunday gabfests. I am glad to discover this. Sometimes I suspect I have too few dependencies. [ . . . ]

I hope your health is good. I have a small case of arrhythmia or tachycardia. Not serious.

Love,

To William Kennedy August 22, 1980 West Halifax Dear Bill- I'm not what you'd think of as a drifter but I do drift in a real (i.e. barely conscious) sense-a sort of desert rat with a Smith Corona instead of a prospector's mule. Not even the Committee on Social Thought fully remembers me. Just as well.

Your letter, which delighted me, finally reached Vermont where I've been dug in writing (what else?) a small book-something of a cherry bomb or small grenade, I like to think.

I've seen some of your writing. I liked one of your books a lot (I can't recall the t.i.tle; sclerosis probably gaining on me). I didn't see Billy Phelan Billy Phelan, but I was stirred by your Upstate outlaws and molls. Did I recommend you for a grant after reading that (which probably you didn't get)? I suspect occasionally that a favorable letter from me is the kiss of death.

And yes, I understand about poor Tom Guinzburg, a poor D.P. with loads of money.

I'd love to see you again and have a talk. We had good talks at Rio Piedras but we were bush-league prophets (or futurologists, not to overload the great word "Prophet"). [ . . . ]

Very glad to have heard from you.

Yours ever,

To George Sarant [Postmarked Chicago, Ill., 11 September 1980]

Dear George- Let's not make too much of this. Quite simply, what happened was that Wm. Phillips, always a devious rat, called me (most solicitous and considerate!) to say he was about to publish Isaac's journals. He had said wounding things about me-did I mind? Of course it was weird-a voice from the grave. And of course I said the journals should be printed, uncensored. Canny old William was worried about libel suits. I promised that I would not go to law. Let the dead man have his say. solicitous and considerate!) to say he was about to publish Isaac's journals. He had said wounding things about me-did I mind? Of course it was weird-a voice from the grave. And of course I said the journals should be printed, uncensored. Canny old William was worried about libel suits. I promised that I would not go to law. Let the dead man have his say.

For me this was a turn of events charged with emotion. I was glad to have so much high feeling over Isaac-a bonus, as I saw it. I was very very curious. And of course I'm now too old for "hurt feelings." No, it was, Let's hear Isaac's dear voice again. I expected no horrid revelations. I knew quite well what he thought and felt about me-pro and con. I was aware also that his peculiar adaptation of W[ilhelm] Reich was bringing up material from the psychic drainage system-that Isaac felt he owed it to curious. And of course I'm now too old for "hurt feelings." No, it was, Let's hear Isaac's dear voice again. I expected no horrid revelations. I knew quite well what he thought and felt about me-pro and con. I was aware also that his peculiar adaptation of W[ilhelm] Reich was bringing up material from the psychic drainage system-that Isaac felt he owed it to truth truth to bring it to the surface and let it spin and be purified, etc. to bring it to the surface and let it spin and be purified, etc.

Again W. Phillips called-this time to say that fear of libel had made him decide not to publish. He wanted me to know ("act of friends.h.i.+p" etc.-the usual bulls.h.i.+t or, in his case, rat-s.h.i.+t). [ . . . ] W. Phillips called-this time to say that fear of libel had made him decide not to publish. He wanted me to know ("act of friends.h.i.+p" etc.-the usual bulls.h.i.+t or, in his case, rat-s.h.i.+t). [ . . . ]

Isaac's journals made sad reading. He was was in bad shape, wasn't he? I think he would have recovered. But enough of that. What I didn't like was that you had put the journals into the hands of [---], a nasty opportunist, mean-spirited, a brewer of low-grade troubles and a in bad shape, wasn't he? I think he would have recovered. But enough of that. What I didn't like was that you had put the journals into the hands of [---], a nasty opportunist, mean-spirited, a brewer of low-grade troubles and a shtunk shtunk. As he had taken a cut or two at me in print, to bring me down to size, I did not think well of your handing Isaac's notes over to him. I didn't expect you to consult me, but I had no reason to think you had inadvertently inadvertently given him more ammunition. given him more ammunition.

But you tell me it was done innocently, and I choose to believe you. I don't want to exaggerate, make swellings and breed stupid disagreements.

Perhaps you'll pay me a visit, one of these days (years).

Remember me to your sister.

Yours ever, George Sarant (1947-94), a Reichian psychoa.n.a.lyst, was the son of Isaac Rosenfeld and Vasiliki Sarantakis Rosenfeld; in early manhood he had taken an anglicized version of his mother's family name.

To John Auerbach and Nola Chilton October 17, 1980 Chicago Dear John: A mild gray October morning: We fly to Was.h.i.+ngton (I'm lecturing to a Brandeis meeting) and instead of making my last will and testament I write to you. We'll post the letter at O'Hare. I miss you greatly. I can't get used to the changed distances, and still move to the telephone to call you in Newton, but in Newton there's only [Milton] Hindus at the other end [whose house John and Nola had rented]. I seldom have occasion to call Hindus. No matter how I squeeze the material he'll never in the real world resemble you.

I was pleased when they put you in charge of the foreign contingent [at Kibbutz S'dot Yam] and very unhappy to hear that you would wash the dishes instead. I have put myself in your place as a mental subst.i.tute-I don't mind the dishes, but there's a whole kibbutz to wash for. That is highly undesirable, and I think you ought to resist it, but I know that you won't. I hope the chaverim chaverim [ [90] are not being spiteful. But Nola can be depended upon to protect you from excesses. She must be unhappy about your a.s.signment.

But enough of these bad things. I now collect amusing subjects for you in and around Chicago. Here's one of them: A man from the Illinois Arts Council pursued me with messages for several weeks. He wanted to give me a medal for my services to the arts. (One of my services to them was to keep away from him.) I never called. The messages were left with Alexandra at Northwestern-she didn't really pay much attention to them. Then fuller messages and complaints were left. I was to go to Danville, Ill. to be decorated by the Governor himself.

That was different. The Governor when he was the crusading US Attorney had prosecuted my brother [Sam] and sent him to jail for ninety days. For this reason alone the occasion began to seem worthwhile, enjoyable, splendid. I would whisper something outrageous to the Governor as he pinned on the medal. On other occasions he had steered clear of me. Once we were in the same box at the Lyric Opera, guests of the company, and he disappeared after the first act, before the lights were on, avoiding embarra.s.sment. But none of this was clear until the very last moment. By now the man from the Council was angry. He told the secretaries at Northwestern that this was the most distinguished award I had ever received. Higher than Pulitzers, greater than n.o.bels. But Danville is a town two hours away on undistinguished roads. I didn't want to stay overnight. Arrangements should have been made earlier. Alexandra refused to let me take the small plane from Meigs Field. All the usual noise and anxiety. In the end, I had to call the gentleman from the Council and say I couldn't come. Apologies were made-and perhaps even accepted. Someone else would accept the award for me, which turned out to be a book of poems by Illinois poets. I think most of them were in real estate and public relations. In next day's paper the event was reported and the names of the other winners were announced. Among them was Susan [Gla.s.sman Bellow]'s longtime lover, a sculptor named Hunt. He He would have been the top slice of this ironical sandwich. He'd have had more fun at my expense that I could ever have gotten out of the Governor. would have been the top slice of this ironical sandwich. He'd have had more fun at my expense that I could ever have gotten out of the Governor.

I am being called on the house phone. I have just time to address this and send both of you our love.

One of Bellow's most significant correspondents, John Auerbach (1922-2002) was a Warsaw Jew who had survived the war on false papers, working as a stoker on German s.h.i.+ps. Arrested while trying to flee to Sweden, he was imprisoned in Stutthof concentration camp. From the summer of 1945 Auerbach worked with Mossad Aliyah B in the transport of Jewish refugees to Palestine. Arrested by British police, he served three years' detention on Cyprus. At the founding of the State of Israel, Auerbach settled in Caesarea at Kibbutz S'dot Yam where he skippered a fis.h.i.+ng fleet. Following the death of his son in the 1973 Yom Kippur War, Auerbach retired from the sea and began to write. Twelve books appeared in Israel during his lifetime.

1981.

To William Kennedy January 7, 1981 Chicago Dear Bill, There is only one reason why I haven't been replying: I spend my mornings cantering and galloping on the typewriter, the afternoons in revision and my nights in what Shakespeare called the restless ecstasy. We would say thres.h.i.+ng about. I got off a corking reference for the Guggenheim. I thought of sending you a copy but it's strictly against the regulations and I didn't feel like Xeroxing forbidden papers. I'm still willing to do an interview. All I need is Time. It keeps getting scanter and scanter. I'm sorry your wife's shop has burned-what a way for me to find out that she had had a shop. a shop.

I didn't take Mark Harris to heart at all. I haven't read his book and I rather enjoy the pummeling he's getting in the press. For once I am a contrast gainer and even getting some sympathy. I don't want that either. I turn my back on it all and wish that I had a back like one of Rodin's burghers of Calais-a big bronze back.

New Year's greetings and all best,

Mark Harris had just published Saul Bellow: Drumlin Woodchuck Saul Bellow: Drumlin Woodchuck.

To Allan Bloom [n.d.] [Brasenose College, Oxford]

What is there to say? Without you, it's only approximately perfect. Fatigue, pa.s.sing off in waves, reveals a lump of wicked pa.s.sions that had been ignored by the work-forces-bypa.s.sed. Your observations would be invaluable.

Love,

To Daniel Patrick Moynihan May 19, 1981 Brasenose College, Oxford Dear Senator: Ed Burlingame of Harper & Row tells me that he has asked you to help my wife's aunt, Ana Paonescu, an old woman very dear to her, to get out of Romania. The aunt is seventy-five and has a bad heart. She has already wound up her affairs, arranged to give up her rooms, distributed the last of the gla.s.sware and coffee spoons, and the authorities have her marking time (time is what she hasn't got a lot of). The reason (alleged) is that she hasn't gone through all the formalities (bureaucratic) of giving up a small piece of property in the country. She has tried tried to give it up, has done everything possible to hand it over, but t.i.tle hasn't actually been transferred, so she gets no pa.s.sport. Why this is happening I don't know, but her daughter is waiting for her in LA, her niece (my wife) in Chicago. There isn't to give it up, has done everything possible to hand it over, but t.i.tle hasn't actually been transferred, so she gets no pa.s.sport. Why this is happening I don't know, but her daughter is waiting for her in LA, her niece (my wife) in Chicago. There isn't too too much time left altogether. much time left altogether.

I make this appeal to you, and not to Sen. Percy, because Sen. Percy isn't always attentive to such requests.

But-with malice towards none (Sen. P.) and with grat.i.tude for your generous offer to help, I am yours, as ever,

To Allan Bloom May 26, 1981 [Brasenose College, Oxford]

Dear Allan- Well, it was after all a good thing to come here to this stronghold of ruling reptiles. Some of them you can't help liking, and there are sweet smaller lizards and not a few lovable amphibians. You aren't snubbed here as you would have been in the days of Oxford's arrogance. Times are badder and facts are humbler. But it rains sans cesse sans cesse. Of course I had to rewrite everything, and in Sept. I may do it all da capo da capo. I am tired and miss Alexandra, and miss talking to you. I have some new new ideas, more liberating than the old ones. Maybe I should write them in a notebook-yes, I will. I have just the notebook. ideas, more liberating than the old ones. Maybe I should write them in a notebook-yes, I will. I have just the notebook.

Mitterand had wished to invite me to his coronation, and it put me in an awkward position. Barley Alison said that I must must attend. She drove me up the wall, but I came down from the moulding at last and said no. I had to finish Lecture Two. [ . . . ] attend. She drove me up the wall, but I came down from the moulding at last and said no. I had to finish Lecture Two. [ . . . ]

In London I found a little book about smoking which I will send to you. In Oxford I read a book by [Paul] Morand, Open All Night Open All Night, which I recommend.

Much love, To Allan Bloom June 6, 1981 [Carb.o.n.e.ras, Almeria, Spain]