More important than any worthy or dubious acquisitions, however, were the friends one made at the fair over the years, publishers and editors from a dozen countries, though England and France were the sources of far more lasting bonds than the others. The breakfasts, lunches, dinners, and, yes, late, late nights we shared with our growing list of colleagues probably led to our acquisition of authors we would never have published otherwise. With our manifesto to not acquire at the fair itself, we followed up afterward, in quieter moments, when we had a chance to read and ponder before we leaped.
36
The United States v. Tropic of Cancer: Spring 1960
RATHER THAN PAVING THE WAY, the Chatterley “victory” actually posed new problems for Grove’s plan to publish Tropic of Cancer. The federal unbanning of Lady Chatterley had sent a message to the arms of government that neither the Customs Service nor the Post Office could or should any longer involve itself in censorship. Fine. But the corollary of that was that now any state, indeed any town or city that took umbrage, could institute a suit, which is precisely what happened. In that glowing spring of 1960, none of us was under any illusion that winning with D. H. Lawrence meant an automatic triumph for Henry Miller. Miller’s novels were far tougher to defend than Chatterley. Further, while he had many admirers on both sides of the Atlantic, Miller could not be described as a pillar of English literature. However much one admired him, he was a grubby street fighter compared with the English gentleman. We all knew, then, as we geared up for publication the following fall and winter, this would be a difficult fight—though nobody, starting with Barney, had any inkling how long, hard, and financially draining it would be. As with Chatterley, the copyright to Miller’s works was highly ambiguous. Neither Jack Kahane nor his son had thought to protect the international rights to their authors’ works, for their kingdoms by the Seine were self-contained and unforesightful in that respect. We had seen that the minute Chatterley was declared not obscene; vultures waiting in the wings had swooped down to feast on the beast, now no longer a dead issue.
* * *
Advance copies of Tropic of Cancer duly arrived from the printer, clothed in their demure bright blue jacket, and this time, upon careful examination, with no apparent errors to mar their appearance. The introduction was by another eminent critic, Karl Shapiro, whose opening line was meant to elevate Miller to Lawrence status and to warn away would-be censors: “I call Henry Miller the greatest living author…” But many people had been frustrated and upset by the Chatterley decision, and they were not about to let Tropic of Cancer enjoy the same fate. Almost as soon as Tropic of Cancer began shipping, there was trouble. Local officials in dozens of states took action against the book, rarely judicial, for a visit or phone call to a bookstore or wholesaler was generally enough to end the sale, assuming it had even started. In Rhode Island, the attorney general asked the wholesalers to “voluntarily” return the book cartons unopened. Thus of the 3,380 copies shipped to Rhode Island, 3,380 came back. In other states, police chiefs, sheriffs, county attorneys, literature commissions (read: censors), or unaffiliated vigilantes pressured stores and libraries not to put the book on sale or remove it from their shelves. In many states, Texas for one, there were seizures, which meant that books were not returned for possible reuse but destroyed. If the publication of Chatterley had to some degree slowed the pace of daily work in the Grove office, Cancer was, as its name implies, eating into the marrow of our bones. Most of Barney’s energy, and a great deal of Fred’s and mine, focused on the disturbingly increasing number of court cases, for wherever courageous booksellers stood firm, we had promised to defend them. Often the local defense attorneys required the testimony of some member of the Grove staff or some literary guru—or both—which meant we were sometimes out of the office for days. Our tireless attorney, Rembar, for his part, had no time to defend more than a couple of key appellate cases himself, for he and two colleagues, Shad Polier and Steven Tulin, were too busy preparing a dozen cases at once, counseling, advising, hiring, writing briefs, providing witnesses from coast to coast.
The first case occurred, perhaps predictably, in Boston in September 1961, handled this time for Grove by Ephraim London, who was called back on the scene. Despite London’s excellence and the appearance of several impressive witnesses, the court ruled against us in no uncertain terms, the trial judge calling the book “filthy and disgusting,” which propelled the case to the Massachusetts appellate court, to be argued by Rembar. His opponent was Edward J. McCormack, scion of a politically powerful Boston family whose uncle was a prominent congressman. Because of the standing of the Massachusetts court, which was held in general high esteem but also known for its conservative stance—one remembers the “Banned in Boston” line that publishers used to their advantage to stimulate sales—if Grove could win here, it might send a strong signal to the rest of the country. On the other hand, Rembar argued in the office one day, it might be better not to win on appeal, for one state’s opinion did not necessarily carry weight beyond its borders. I found the idea appallingly intelligent, especially after Rembar gave us the mounting number—and costs—of the litigations still pending or decided countrywide. In Philadelphia, the book had been judged obscene; in Chicago, we had won; in California, there had been two trials: one win and one loss. In Syracuse, New York, three booksellers had been arrested and convicted by a jury of, presumably, their peers. On appeal, their conviction was upheld. And so it went, with our limited resources dwindling day by day. It was imperative, if only for survival, that we somehow get to the Supreme Court. Finally, in July 1962, the Massachusetts appellate court rendered its decision. By a vote of 4–3, it declared Tropic of Cancer not obscene. It was an important victory, for the three dissenters had in essence said that this must be settled not in Boston but in Washington. The Massachusetts attorney general, McCormack, had ninety days to appeal to the Supreme Court, but throughout that fall he was engaged in a primary battle for the Senate against the president’s younger brother Teddy Kennedy, so we were not overly concerned as the days ticked slowly by. But as they approached the fateful ninety, Barney became stressed out, frantic. Inquiries to the north returned the stunning news that McCormack was apparently so traumatized by his devastating defeat in the Senate primary that he had been rendered politically impotent. So Massachusetts would not bring us to the Supreme Court to try to have that decision overturned after all!
Narrow victories, both in the high courts, both 4–3, first in Wisconsin and then in California, were comforting but, again, got the case no closer to the Supreme Court, for there was nothing for it to rule on. We were now in 1963, two years after the book’s publication, and again, as feared, we had had to forsake the hardcover edition and quickly issue a paperback, for the pirates, even more voracious, had profited from the Post Office’s noninvolvement and the dubious copyright to rush out their own paperback editions. We made some effort to stop them or buy them off, but they scoffed at our threats to sue, for they knew how thin we were stretched fighting the censors, and any moneys we might offer were a pittance compared with their profits from the sales of a million-plus copies. So what if some of their books were returned or destroyed? They had not indemnified the booksellers or wholesalers, so had no legal obligations or costs, nor of course did they intend to pay any royalties to the author. Even allowing for attrition, they were the ones making money hand over proverbial fist, while Grove was reeling.
Our own paperback edition was selling well, but not well enough to cover our mounting legal costs. What’s more, many of the now-sixty cases had been instigated on the basis of the paperback edition being available to minors, complicating the legal issue, for while some courts indicated they had few qualms about people with $7.50 to spend for the book, they drew the line at a seventy-five-cent edition, presumably reasoning that at that price not just the elite but “normal” people could be exposed to its filth. Even children, God forbid!
Meanwhile, over these two long years, w
e had other, non-Tropical fish to fry, other books to edit and publish. And we did, but always with a glance over our shoulders to see if the doors would still open the following morning.
* * *
Ironically, the trials of Tropic of Cancer ended not with a bang but with a whimper. For reasons unknown, well into 1963 the Supreme Court agreed to rule on a relatively obscure Florida case in which constitutional questions were not involved. Why and how the Court chose it over dozens of others, the record does not indicate, but in all likelihood some of the justices, if not all, had been reading about the endless Tropic cases for more than two years and decided enough was enough. If Rembar had been looking forward to trying the case before the Supreme Court, he was sorely disappointed. Almost simultaneously with its decision to take on the case, the Court overturned the negative Florida decision 5–4. Even that momentous ruling was implicit, for the same day it ruled on Tropic, the Court tied it to another case, the movie The Lovers, and it was on the latter that a real obscenity ruling was made and opinions expressed. It was like gaining entrance to a movie by sneaking in the back door, but at Grove, where we were all exhausted to varying degrees, no one was about to complain.
37
Exit Trocchi
IN DUE COURSE Alex delivered the last pages of Cain’s Book, and I settled down to see if and where and whether they fit, for some batches were unnumbered. The novel consisted of a dozen sections, each with its own epigraph, each self-contained, which made my job easier.
My scow is tied up in the canal at Flushing, N.Y., alongside the landing stage of the Mac Asphalt and Construction Corporation. It is now just after five in the afternoon … and the sun, striking the cinderblocks of the main building of the works, has turned them pink. The motor cranes and the decks of the other scows tied up round about are deserted.
Half an hour ago I gave myself a fix.
That sure as hell set the scene. I shifted some of the other chapters around till I thought I’d got the order right, then showed it to Trocchi, who had come to get his last paycheck. He looked through the manuscript, moved two chapters to different locations, which seemed arbitrary but maybe better, and pronounced the novel ready to print. When did we plan to publish? As soon as possible, certainly in the next six months. Yes, I’d show him the design for the cover as soon as I had it. We both stood, shook hands, then Trocchi grabbed me in his arms and gave me a bear hug.
I made a copy of the manuscript and gave it to Barney to read. A day or two later he stopped by, tossed the manuscript on my desk, and said: “Well, you could have fooled me. It’s damn good. Let’s get it out.” I asked whether there was any problem, contractual or otherwise, given the similarity of subject, and the fact we had already printed ten thousand copies of Naked Lunch, which were languishing in the warehouse while we prepared to publish Henry Miller, who had to take precedence, for, the lawyers all judged, he would be easier to defend than the unknown Burroughs. Barney saw none, although Maurice was pressing even more, threatening to sell Naked Lunch to another publisher if we didn’t go ahead soon.
When Cain’s Book appeared in May 1960, it was greeted largely with rave reviews, though a number of the conservative papers saw it as one more flagrant example of Grove Press’s efforts to destroy the moral fabric of the country. The Kansas City Star called it “an astounding novel,” the staid New Yorker remarked that it was “ferociously alive with poetry,” and the Library Journal, as if we had paid them to stimulate sales, called it “just slightly less graphic than Henry Miller.” But the best, most generous quotation came from Norman Mailer: “It is true. It has art. It is brave. I would not be surprised if it is still talked about in twenty years.” This from a man who viewed his fellow writers as competitors, to be wrestled with and bested to prove that he, Norman, was top dog in town. Or out of town.
I sent the reviews to Alex as they arrived, and he was very pleased. But by this time he had other, far bigger matters to contend with.
* * *
One day, not long after Cain’s Book had appeared, I ran into Ned Polsky, a mutual friend of mine and Alex’s, on the street. His opening words were “Did you hear what happened to Alex?”
“So what happened?”
“It seems he went up to score in Harlem—or the Bronx, I’m not quite sure which—in any case, Alex’s longtime connection, a Puerto Rican heroin dealer named Wofie. Apparently, the cops had the place staked out, and when Alex came out of the building, they nabbed him, caught him with heroin on him. They said they were going to book him on a charge of possession with intent to sell, which is a serious felony under the new drug laws, you know, you could get the chair for selling heavy drugs. Insane, but there it is. Alex said, ‘Hey, I’m just a sorry junkie,’ and the cops said, ‘We know, but we want you to turn state’s evidence against your connection, in which case we’ll reduce the charge to a simple misdemeanor.’ Alex refused to turn on his supplier, who I guess by now he considered a friend, so they booked him. He’s been out on bail—I think Plimpton posted the bond, bless him—but he’s coming up for trial and he’s scared shitless he’ll do time.”
“Jesus!” I said. “And I suppose he still claims he’s in control, not the drug. What about Lyn?”
Barney generously offered to advance Alex some royalties, which were not due for several months. I tried to contact Alex, but nobody seemed to know where he was. If Lyn’s parents knew, they weren’t telling, even after I explained I was his editor and friend. All they admitted was that Lyn and Mark had been with them but Alex had flown the coop. I wanted to reach him, I said, to see if I could help, and also to let him know that we were prepared to advance him some royalties, if that would help the cause. But they were adamant: If I was a friend of Alex’s, how could they trust me? I got the clear impression they now hated him, would do anything in their power to break up the marriage, certainly do nothing to help.
It was our mutual friend Ned who tracked him down. He had just heard from Alex’s court-appointed lawyer, who also couldn’t find his client and wanted to make sure he showed up at the courthouse, warning that otherwise he’d be in real trouble, a fugitive sure to do heavy time. “He’s hiding out in the back room of the Phoenix Bookshop,” Ned said. The literary and secondhand bookshop, down on Cornelia Street, was run by a man named Larry Wallrich, who admired Cain’s Book and its author and who had said Alex could stay in the back room behind the shop, where there was a cot and toilet, till his worries were over. That afternoon, Ned and I went down to Cornelia Street, after Larry had cleared it with Alex, to find a man who had aged ten years overnight. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin gray as tin. He couldn’t sleep; he hadn’t had a fix in three days and was desperate to go to Harlem, where he might be nailed again. This “sorry junkie” still saw himself as the savior of some brave new world. What about the trial, which was due to start in two days—was he going to show up? His lawyer needed to know. I’m not sure, Trocchi said. “There’s another problem the lawyer doesn’t know about. When we were with Lyn’s parents, I forged a lot of prescriptions, and there are warrants out for me on fourteen separate charges of forgery. Demerol prescriptions. If the court ever finds out, I’m sure I’ll do prison time.” We were fighting a losing battle. So what did he plan to do? Leave the fucking country. To go where? Canada. Easy enough to get past the border there, especially if he used a false name. Should we let the lawyer know? For God’s sake, no! But could we tell Plimpton he’d stop by the next day? And could we or George call Leonard Cohen in Montreal to say he’d be arriving by bus, via Niagara Falls? Exact time to follow. Ned proposed coming back down the next night to keep him company, and Alex readily agreed. Both Ned and I urged him to show up in court, for if he fled, he’d be labeled a fugitive and never be able to come back to the States. That seemed to make an impression. If he fled, I said, what would become of Lyn and Mark?
I called Plimpton, always generous to a fault, who was less than enchanted at the idea of seeing him, but his only comment was “He’
ll probably need bus fare,” and then, ironically, “or milk money for his child.” And, yes, he would call Cohen, to forewarn him, if it came to that. Was I sure that Alex was really leaving the country? I said he claimed to be still debating, but my feeling was he would flee.
Next day, right on schedule, Alex showed up at the Paris Review offices, where, as predicted, he hit George up for the bus fare “and a little more for food on the trip.” He told George he couldn’t take a normal-sized suitcase, which would arouse suspicion; the last thing he needed was to be searched. Moreover, he wanted to look well dressed and wondered if he could borrow one of George’s suits—which of course he’d send back from Montreal as soon as he arrived. George looked dubious, but assented and directed Alex to his walk-in closet. Alex reappeared fifteen minutes later, dressed to the nines, though looking a tad stouter than when he had entered the Plimpton emporium. Quick goodbyes, a hug, with Alex saying he would not soon forget this, and he was out the door. Checking later, George realized that not one but two of his Brooks Brothers suits were missing, as were four of his shirts and several sets of underwear and socks. Stouter? Of course he was stouter! Generous George was furious.1
By the time he called to inform me of the “theft,” however, he had cooled down at least a few degrees. He even saw some humor in the flight. “You realize,” he said with a chuckle, “I could be arrested as an accessory to the crime. If you think about it, my clothes aided and abetted his clandestine departure from the States.”
When Alex finally got to London, he wrote and apologized to George for running off with a major portion of his wardrobe, promising to send the clothes back at the first opportunity.
The Tender Hour of Twilight Page 37
