november 20 [1962?]
stanley, here is a prediction for you. as soon after christmas as possible, with the utmost discretion and thoroughness, you will provoke a quarrel with me, on whatever subject, in spite of all pacific attempts of mine (and i will be extremely cautious, having this prediction in mind). you will therefore arrange to go off to new york in december in a state of domestic warfare, justifying you in whatever big city plans you can make.
• • •
[To Sally]
wednesday [December 5, 1962]
dear sally,
the first part of this letter is going to be very critical indeed, and i want you to read it twice and pay attention to it. i have waited this long to write because i did not want to write an angry letter, but you can hardly suppose that we are delighted with you.
we were simply heartbroken over your reports. you know what they said, and i imagine you agree, but what i am afraid of is that you will revert to your old habit of ignoring what seems to you unpleasant, and not profit from the very good suggestion that your teachers made. you cannot get passing grades in a good school without making a real effort to understand the work and learn.
understanding these things may make the difference between staying at the school or coming back to north bennington. and remember that you are not giving in, or humiliating yourself, or yielding in any way; you stay the same sally, only nicer, if you try to get along better.
there. now no more. perhaps all of this has been unnecessary and you have already begun a reform. i think perhaps this may be so, because you certainly seemed at thanksgiving to be sweeter and prettier than when you went away in the fall. i do not like to say that we have higher hopes of you than of our other children, because that implies a comparison i think is ridiculous, but there is no doubt but what you are enormously talented and intelligent, and i have always hoped, as you know, that you will be a writer. there are lots of good books just waiting to be written, and i can hardly write them all myself, you know.
here is a funny story: a week or so ago, on a saturday night, three carloads of f.b.i. men drove up to arlington and arrested one of the ten most wanted criminals in the country,*19 who had been staying quietly at the green mountain inn there. he had been there since last april, arriving in a stolen jaguar which he parked in a barn and never used, and with lots and lots of money which turned out to be the proceeds of a bank robbery in boston. he told the inn people that he was a business man recovering from an operation, so he went for long walks, and went fishing, and hung around the village of arlington until everyone got to know him quite well, and altogether he got to be a very familiar character, and everyone liked him very much. he made friends with one of the waitresses at the inn, and took her out several times, bringing her down to bennington college on saturday nights to the foreign movies, and afterwards to the rain barrel for a cup of espresso. he was finally caught because the f.b.i. had traced him approximately to this section of the country, and had put up special posters in all the local post offices with his picture and offering a reward. the rumor is that many of his friends in arlington recognized his picture at once, but being good vermonters they minded their own business and would have thought it contemptible to turn in a neighbor for a reward. at any rate, some rat finally did turn him in, so the f.b.i. arrived with machine guns and searchlights and surrounded the house of the waitress where he was waiting for her to get on her coat and hat to come down to the college to attend the modern dance recital. naturally he was not carrying a gun to a dance recital, so when the f.b.i. turned the searchlights on the house and shouted for him to come out quietly he came out quietly and surrendered without any trouble, although i gather the waitress made quite a scene and no wonder, since she was all dressed up to go out. they have taken him off to boston to jail, and he will no doubt be given a stiff prison term, and his arlington friends are already gathering together a collection of greeting cards and cartons of cigarettes and baskets of fruit to send him.
the punch line to the story is that the f.b.i. of course took apart his room in the inn to see if they could find the rest of the loot from the boston robbery; they cut up the mattress and took out the linings of all his clothes and tested the floor for loose boards, and so on. what they found was a copy of merricat on his bedside table, with a bookmark showing that he was about halfway through. it belonged to the owners of the inn, who refused to let the f.b.i. take it away with his other stuff, so the poor book was tested for fingerprints and given back. many people in arlington think it would be a nice gesture if i sent him another copy, autographed, and i think i will, as soon as i find out which prison he is in, and which alias to autograph it to.
I wrote about this to my publisher and they were very much amused, and the story will probably turn up as a publicity release. all the new york newspapers are on strike, however, and we have not had any papers for several days. poor merricat. she was tenth on the new york times list last sunday, sixth week on the list, but there will not be any list next sunday and maybe by the time the list is out again we will have dropped off the bottom. it is still selling very well indeed, and as a matter of fact is seventh in publishers weekly, which is the other important listing. there are still rave reviews coming in, and the publishers have just ordered a sixth printing, which is very good indeed. it has sold nearly forty thousand copies.
barbara has just arrived with the mail. she gets it every morning. i no longer go out of the house.
love,
m.
• • •
[To Geraldine and Leslie Jackson]
january 2 [1963]
dearest mother and pop,
just a short letter to say thank you very very much for the check and for the most handsome plates; they are beautiful.
we had a wild and exciting christmas, and even young miles seemed to enjoy himself.
my book has been nominated for the national book award, which is very exciting. the award will almost certainly go to katherine anne porter*20 but even being nominated is a great compliment. there is some great plan afoot to make my book into a broadway play, although no one quite seems to understand it, play producers being the kind of people they are. imagine how it would feel if it turned out to be one of those things that ran for two nights and closed?*21
the temperature has stayed below zero for about four days now, down to twenty below one night, and of course the only car around that started was my brave new morris.
must stop writing and make lunch. happy new year, thank you again, and much love from all.
s.
• • •
[To Jeanne Beatty]
January 13 [1963]
Dear Jeanne,
Since I am not an absolute fool, it is beginning to get through to me that there is something very wrong, although I never before knew anyone too ungracious to acknowledge a book.
Pride would of course prevent my ever writing again, but I confess that I am far too curious to know what has happened, and why. Do you think you could possibly bring yourself to offer some explanation? Break off all communication if you like but find some way, if you can, to end my absolute bewilderment.
Best wishes, in any case.
S.
This letter is never answered and their correspondence ends. Ruth Franklin, who uncovered the Beatty letters, reports that Beatty never opened one of the last letters, but it was saved, along with all of the other letters Shirley had sent.
• • •
[To Carol Brandt]
January 27 [1963]
Dear Carol,
Your nice letter did more for our Sally’s morale than anything you can imagine; she does not really think that the story will sell (although, like all of us, she hopes), but the knowledge that she is one of your clients, and is taken
seriously enough to have An Agent, is world-shaking. She is, of course, working on another story.
Which is more than you can say for her mother. I am on the fringe of an idea for a new book. Just kind of circling around it. I am anxious to get to work, and in that irritable state where I am furious with myself because nothing happens. I could have used that idea of Sally’s but I suppose swiping plots from your own daughter is not cricket.
I have known Barbara Lawrence*22 for twenty-five years. We had not seen each other for many years until sometime ago when I had lunch with her and Betty Pope, and we had a lovely time remembering old days. I’d very much like to see her again, although the very thought of coming to New York sends me into a quite serious paroxysm of terror.
Best, and thanks again for Sally’s boost.
Shirley
• • •
[To Geraldine and Leslie Jackson]
friday [March 1963]
dearest mother and pop,
i have not written in a long time, i know, and i am sorry, but things have been so tumultuous around here that there just seems to be no time at all.
i want to start right off by explaining my present situation to you, this being one of the main reasons i haven’t written. i have started psychoanalysis, after fighting and arguing and protesting; i never believed in it or trusted it (i always felt it was a little bit like christian science) and yet now here i am, and all sorts of queer things are happening to me. stanley, and barbara and murry, plus our doctor, prevailed on me to try, and there is a very good man in bennington, although for the life of me i couldn’t tell you what he looks like or what his office looks like, so off i go twice a week at twenty-five bucks an hour. now i am appalled at how far gone i was before i would agree to see him. last thanksgiving was the last time i had been out of the house until i went to see him in february. it was literally impossible for me to go through the door; if i tried, i would start to shake and my legs would give way and everything would go around and around and i would begin to pass out, unless i got back inside fast. it was very strange and most unpleasant, and it kept getting worse, with all kinds of wild attacks of panic and nightmares and finally i could not even answer the phone. oliver had me taking tranquillizers all day long but all they did was keep me kind of stupid but still frightened all the time. it’s a classic case of acute anxiety, i know now. i once read somewhere that acute anxiety is one of the most terrible ailments possible and i would be willing to go along with that. my first appointment was on a friday afternoon at five-thirty, and i was fortified with my usual tranquillizers, a sedative injection from oliver, two stiff drinks, and stanley and barbara, barbara to drive and stanley to get me from the car into the office. i think getting out of my car in front of the doctor’s house was the most terrifying minute of my life. his office is part of his house, and luckily the doctor was waiting for us because i was ready to turn around and head for home. the doctor was most reassuring and comfortable and i think the most wonderful minute of my life was when he said quite casually that of course this condition could be helped; why had i waited so long? stanley and barbara came back for me at the end of the hour and when i got home i looked around the house and got a sudden very clear happy picture of what it might be like to be free again, and i told stanley i was going to have the fastest analysis on record because i was in such a hurry to be well. as it happened—i understand it is frequently this way—the first weeks i moved with astonishing speed. at the end of two weeks i took my first step, which was driving myself with stanley along to get me from the car to the office, and my next trip i went alone. my big fear was that the car would get stuck in the snow while i was alone, but it didn’t, and since then i have been driving over and back by myself. my next steps were really funny. stanley and i got the car one morning, and drove to the post office, and then, with stanley practically leading me, we went in and i remembered the combination of the mailbox and opened it—thank heaven it opened the first time around—and then ran like crazy for the car while stanley got the mail. the next day the same thing, only that time i waited until he got the mail and we went out together. the next day he sat and waited in the car and i went in and got the mail alone. each time i took a new step i would have a terrible after-effect of terror and trembling and gasping for breath but each time i did something a second time the after-effect was less. finally there was a day when i drove down alone, went into the post office alone, and got the mail. that one was a bad day afterwards but i was so triumphant that i didn’t really care.
we tried the same process with my going into the grocery, and that was nice because i got a rousing reception there, and i even bought a loaf of bread the first day. after that we went through the same process with my going into bennington and into a couple of stores there, so that now, although still at considerable cost in fear, i can function almost normally. i was amazed and fascinated by the whole process, because it was so completely learning to do things alone, like a baby learning to walk. i am writing it in detail because i think it might interest you, too. also i am determined not to write a book about it. anyway i could watch myself getting frightened and each new step was a great triumph. along with all of this has gone a kind of unbelievable confusion, walking the floor all night crying and feeling perfectly dreadful over something i can’t even remember the next day, and the most horrible, perfectly obvious delusions. i see the doctor on fridays and mondays, because he spends the middle of the week in new york, and around about tuesday night things start to get bad, and i start inventing delusions and of course when stanley tells me they aren’t true i get furious and altogether give him a very bad time. i have the doctor’s new york phone number in case i get very bad but so far i have not been desperate enough to call him and as i seem to get better (it changes back and forth; one day i am fine, and the next depressed and desolate, with no cause at all) i am hoping never to have to use it. when college started and stanley was away all day i had some very bad times because i was so afraid of being alone, but that is going too,
[unfinished and unsigned, and probably not sent]
• • •
[To Sally]
saturday [spring 1963]
sarricat.
i hope by now you have dad’s letter and the rejection slip and know that we are really still here. i have not written because my hands have been bad, because i have been all wound up with the doc, because i have been trying to write a review, because i am lazy.
since last monday i have:
DRIVEN TO THE POST OFFICE WITH DAD AND WAITED WHILE HE GOT THE MAIL.
DRIVEN BARRY TO SCHOOL.
DRIVEN TO THE STORE WHILE BARRY WENT INSIDE.
DRIVEN MYSELF TO THE DOC WITH DAD.
DRIVEN TO THE POST OFFICE WITH DAD, GONE INSIDE, OPENED MAILBOX BEFORE RUNNING AWAY.
DRIVEN TO THE POST OFFICE WITH DAD, GONE INSIDE, OPENED MAILBOX, GOTTEN MAIL AND PACKAGES.
DRIVEN MYSELF TO THE DOC WITH DAD.
GONE ALL ALONE TO THE DOC BY TAXI, ROADS BEING BAD.
DRIVEN TO THE STORE WITH DAD, LEAVING DAD AT DOOR OF STORE, GONE INSIDE, COLLECTED PACKAGE OF GROCERIES.
it gets easier and easier. when i ordered my groceries this morning i told them i believed it was the last time; next week i want to do the shopping myself. also get the mail myself.
wait till you see the new kitchen. and the new dining room. and the new living room. and the new hall.
all send love. work hard keep well try to get some sleep and enjoy yourself.
new stories?
love love
m.
• • •
[Letter to self, 1963?]
it is now clear to me—after a year spent hoping and endeavoring to make sense from an impossible situation—that stanley intends at all costs to obstruct my serious writing in any way he
can. he is perfectly happy with my money-writing, happy to think that after so much work i have at last achieved a point where I can make a great deal of money, which he cannot, by simply writing. that i should do anything more, anything he cannot participate in, is horrible to him. consequently he will not allow me to write anything in which I feel that i am doing more than only writing for money.
please, that i should remember. remember, first, that what i write or want to write is to be kept to myself. remember, second, that judgment warped by dreams of money, and visions of envy, is not judgment, but handicap. remember, third, that one world is writing and one is not, and from the one which is not, it is not possible to understand the one which is.
the beauty of words coming is mine. let me not talk about it. this is prayer. please make it come all right. please make it say the things it should. please make it be good. please let me not tell him or show it to him or answer him when he asks what i am doing. please let it be mine, and not soiled, and not ruined, and not hurt, by jealousy. please just let me write what i want to, and not be stopped.
i will not be afraid. i will not run away again.
it should be clean now, clean enough to start again and keep going without fault. without feeling it right i should not start, and so often i have been confused, but i will not be confused any more. i am proud and alone and i will not be hurt by stupidity which only knows what is going on afterwards. i will be not afraid. i will not be afraid. i will do what I am set to do and nothing else. i will not be afraid. i can not be afraid. i will do what i am set to do and nothing else. i will not be afraid. i will not be afraid. i will do what i am set to do and nothing else. i will not be afraid. ever again. i will not be afraid. i will not be afraid. i will not.
The Letters of Shirley Jackson Page 58
