Selected Letters of William Styron

by William Styron

  I have always felt myself a little less sensitive than perhaps normal to the purely physical moods of others, but in Moscow even I could tell that Cal seemed extremely tired. Even so, he could be very funny as he so often was in that low-keyed but abrasive way. We were lodged in a hotel called the Sovietskaya, a one-time palace of the Czarist days now reserved for V.I.P. visitors. It is a high-ceilinged, dark, gloomy place which, despite its history, has no charm whatever. When we entered the place one of our colleagues, a droll Russian-born scholar of Soviet literature named Vera Dunham, gestured despairingly and said: “This is the Russians’ Waldorf-Astoria.” To which I recall Cal replying: “My God, what is their Hilton like?”

  Cal seemed to need a lot of sleep. Once in this dismal hotel when he and Lizzie and I were waiting, seemingly interminably, for food we had ordered at one of the “buffet” counters on an upper floor, Cal got restless and excused himself and disappeared. He was gone and for a long time, until Lizzie got a little nervous and I went up to his room to see what he might be doing. Opening the door, I found him on the bed, stripped to his underwear and sound asleep. It was as if he had become so exhausted that he had had to plunge into sleep without a word to anyone.

  I’ll never forget how touched I was at the boring writers’ session when I would glance over and let my eyes rest on the brooding, sorrowing Beethovenesque head. I don’t know why that head and face so often touched me so through sheer presence—so much suffering contained there, I suppose. Hence the wicked and caustic wit which was so delicious (and sometimes cruel)—a way to turn one’s self away from suffering.

  I don’t know whether Cal got to visit Pasternak’s grave or not—Lizzie would remember, I’d imagine. Certainly not on the night before we all left Moscow—I to go back to New York, Cal and Lizzie, I believe, to Leningrad. We spent a fine drunken evening at Vosnesensky’s dacha Peredelkino—an event notable among other things for the presence of Yevtushenko, who was making friends again with Andrei after a long estrangement.QQQ Perhaps because of Cal’s fatigue he and Lizzie went home early. Yevtushenko and I went to Pasternak’s grave and sat until dawn talking and drinking Bulgarian champagne. Yevtushenko toasted Cal as “your greatest poet.”

  Sincerely

  William Styron

  TO WILLIE MORRIS

  August 16, 1981 Vineyard Haven, MA

  Dear Willie: Your observations on John Gardner, received today, were right on target.RRR Why the fuck couldn’t he have said all that originally, the fink?

  Gloria was up here for a few days and we had a great time. She told me of the Doubleday contract and that’s great news for you.

  I thought the enclosed from The Village Voice might interest you. Apparently the asshole Lewis Lapham has just resigned from Harper’s—that once-great magazine, thanks to you, which he has helped to kill.SSS The sadness is unbearable.

  See you soon.

  Stingo

  TO DUKE UNIVERSITYTTT

  August, 1981 Roxbury, CT

  I think that it is necessary only to ask yourselves whether Harvard or Yale would consent to having a Nixon library associated with their names in order to realize why Duke must not permit the proposed library and archives. Duke has become a truly great university. To establish any connection, no matter how informal or tenuous, with the works of a man who brought such disgrace to his high office would be a smear on the image of the institution we all cherish and respect. There would seem to be no reason, other than that of misplaced vanity, for Duke to wish to be the location for these archives, which are doubtless of historical importance but which could find suitable lodging elsewhere. In the 1950s my great teacher and mentor, William Blackburn, helped lead the successful fight to prevent Nixon from receiving an honorary degree from Duke. It must be remembered that this was even before Nixon became involved in the criminal activities of Watergate. It is with Professor Blackburn’s memory in mind, but also the self-esteem which I’m sure I share with thousands of loyal Duke alumni, that I vigorously protest this threat to our university’s fine reputation.

  TO WILLIE MORRIS

  January 12, 1982 Roxbury, CT

  Dear Willie:

  I’m just back from Venezuela and the Brazilian jungles to face this incredible arctic weather. I was in an Indian village 300 miles up the Orinoco River and ran into “Knuckles” Kazin—he’s become a Baptist missionary.UUU

  Seriously, Kazin has moved to Roxbury, and I’m mortified that I might have to have social intercourse.

  Thought you’d like to see the enclosed—especially the part on RPW.

  I learned just yesterday that Sophie was voted by the Paris book critics circle, or whatever, as the best novel published in France in 1980. There is some justice.

  How goes the novel and your other work? Am looking forward.

  Ever,

  Bill

  TO AMELIE BURGUNDERVVV

  May 15, 1982 Roxbury, CT

  Dear Amelie,

  I wish I could be encouraging about the special screening of Sophie, but I really have discovered that I have very little muscle where this movie is concerned. I was not really made to feel very welcome on the set (though I did go very briefly about three times) and so I don’t really feel I have much influence. I had rather hoped to have a screening benefit for my old prep school, Christchurch, but have been reluctant to approach Pakula or anyone about this. I don’t really mean to imply that Pakula, or anyone, has been unfriendly. Pakula has in fact been most solicitous about my reactions to the script, and I think (unlike some directors) he would be horrified if I were to express a negative reaction to his “translation.” But, as I say, I just don’t feel that I have any real influence on such matters as screenings. Pakula and the company are now in Yugoslavia doing the European part of the film, and will be there through the first week in June. I will try to bring up your screening when next I see him—but, if past experience means anything that may not be for a very long time. I wish I could be more positive but, as you can gather, I’m somewhat in the same boat.

  Love, Bill

  TO C. VANN WOODWARD

  June 18, 1982 Vineyard Haven, MA

  Dear Vann:

  We are still so sad over Glenn, and I wanted you to know that you are in our thoughts constantly.WWW

  I hear the good news that you’d probably be coming up to visit the Hackneys before long. I hope you will prolong your stay to visit the Styrons too.

  Willie Morris called to say that he will be giving a big speech on Nov. 3 at the Peabody Hotel in Memphis on the state of the South (Faulkner gave the speech 25 years ago). I said that if you’d go I’d fly down with you. He’ll be writing you. It might be fun. Anyway, we’re looking forward to seeing you soon.

  As ever,

  Bill

  TO EDWARD BUNKERXXX

  July 10, 1982 Vineyard Haven, MA

  Dear Eddie:

  Thanks for sending me these two truly excellent pieces. They are frightening and written with beautiful intensity—also they told me a lot about things I didn’t know. I wonder if the racial horror is any better now, ten years later.

  It was great seeing you up here on the island. Try to come back sometime—our welcome mat is always out for both of you. But in any case I hope we can get together in the Apple after the summer’s end.

  Thanks again for letting me see these fine articles.

  Yours,

  Bill

  TO SUSANNA STYRON

  July 11, 1982 Vineyard Haven, MA

  Dear daughter Sue:

  We were delighted to get your letter and to hear all the good news about your work, bella Roma, etc. There had been an item in The N.Y. Times about the incredible heat in Italy, so I imagine that you had to suffer through that, as you said. June weather here was about the worst in memory—damp, cold and gloomy—so you didn’t miss anything. But July in general has been quite wonderful—blue and hot but not too hot—and it’s like the Vineyard summers of yore. We really miss you. It is not the old island wit
hout your smiling (sometime) face. For some reason the social life this summer is more pleasant (perhaps just a little less boring) than usual. Same old faces—Buchwalds, Wallaces, Phillipses, etc.—but everybody’s in a fairly good mood, given the deplorable state of the world, and so the evening parties are reasonably nice. Miss Hellman, I fear, is utterly insane and loathsome to everyone, but is mercifully immobilized by her cigarette, her blindness, feebleness and venom and so can really bite no one seriously. I take Aquinnah faithfully for 4½ mile hikes each morning and am feeling fit as a fiddle. Tom and Al are here most of the time so we have a lot of laughs. My gorgeous new car works like a charm (a birthday present to me from your mother, which I paid for), and the writing goes well, too—I’m back on the Marine Corps novel. Alan Pakula called for a long time a week or so ago, said the film was in great shape, said I had to come down and see the rough cuts, or whatever, but I suspect that these are more of his empty promises. I have not seen a single frame of that movie and am beginning to very much doubt that I’ll see any of it before it’s finished. I gather that all writers of novels are treated this way by filmmakers.

  I envy you being in beautiful Italy. Hope I can come over to see you before too long. Give hugs and kisses to the Zajacs and have a splendid plate of fettuccine with gorgeous wine and think of your devoted

  Dad XXX

  who sends great love

  TO BEN CROVETS

  July 26, 1982 Vineyard Haven, MA

  Dear Mr. Crovets:

  Still no word from our Sophie, so I suspect she either went a long way off (back to Europe?) or met some unkinder fate. I never learned her last name, either. Perhaps the movie, when it appears in December, will cause her to surface, but I doubt it. Meanwhile, if you ever hear anything, let me know.

  Sincerely

  Wm Styron

  TO SUSANNA STYRON

  July 31, 1982 Vineyard Haven, MA

  P.S. I was worried about paying my bills the other day when I went to the P.O. and out dropped a check for $91,000—all French royalties. Vive la you know qui.

  Dear darling #1 daughter,

  It was lovely talking to you on the telephone the other day, and also getting your various communications. I’m so glad everything is going so well; you really seem contented and that makes me happy. I’m so glad you were not on the road that Aug. 1 week-end especially after hearing about those 44 French kids being slaughtered on the highway. Bad as things are in the dear old U.S., it seems (knock on wood) that our highways are a bit safer than in Europe. So drive carefully!

  You asked about politics. Politics stink worse than ever, with Reagan at the helm—an accredited moron in charge of the greatest country on earth. You asked about George Shultz.YYY Bill and Wendy LuersZZZ apparently know him well (they aren’t here quite yet, but I’m going to quiz them on the guy) and I’ve been told that they think highly of him—of his personal character and his motives. But it’s hard to say, really, since I think that Shultz is just as manipulable an item in the hands of the Calif. Power brokers as Reagan himself is. I think the whole country is being run by the military-industrial leaders (a few of them, immensely powerful) who would love to see such horrors as the war in Lebanon escalate into a larger conflict. Bush’s brother is out of the race in Conn., as you no doubt know, which means a truly tough fight for Toby against Weicker. I’m beginning frankly to believe that, with the hysteric mood of the country being what it is, Toby may be the underdog in the battle. And this in spite of the fact that people are beginning to see Republican Reaganomics as the sham it is.

  Carlos and Sylvia*aaa are here and we’re having a lovely time. Carlos may be the only truly intelligent man I know. He and I are going to be telephoning García Márquez (in Mexico City) soon about the ABC interviews with Castro I told you about. Also Carlos and I are cooking up a trip to Nicaragua in December, with García Márquez as a fellow traveler—no pun intended. It would greatly help my Marine Corps novel (the one I interrupted to do Sophie) if I could get at least a brief feel for Nicaragua, where so many Marine horrors took place during the 1920s. Meanwhile, I’ve started fooling around with a reminiscent sad-funny chronicle of my 1946 summer trip to Trieste aboard a cattle boat from Newport News. Tomorrow Sylvia’s putting me on Mexican TV with a crew from Boston coming down. The social whirl whirls pleasantly and we see a lot of Buchwalds, Phillipses, Marquand, Jules, even Lillian—with whom your mother just today, took a horrific nude swim in L’s Jacuzzi, ugh. Tom is off to Texas. I’m off to W. Chop with Aquinnah to mail this to you with much much love. I’ll send more soon.

  Love you,

  Daddy

  TO SUSANNA STYRON

  August 18, 1982 Vineyard Haven, MA

  Dear #1 Daughter:

  I am sitting out at the end of the dock in beautiful sunlight writing this in a chair. If the handwriting is a little goofy looking it’s because of the unaccustomed position. Aquinnah is next to me, looking very self-satisfied (she’s so spoiled) and has her eyes trained on the lawn, ready to howl at any intruder, canine or human. Thus, the lazy pace of these summer days. Carlos and Sophia Fuentes have left, with plans afoot for Carlos and me to go to Nicaragua this winter. I would probably try to make the trip coincide with a trip to see Castro, after Carlos and I huddle with García Márquez in Mexico City. All this, I might add, I would like to think might come after a trip to Italy to see #1 daughter. I miss you so much, as does all of the fam., and I am plotting a way to get to Rome before too long. I love your various communications. Your description of a week-end in the country with the Russians was wonderful.

  Eddie Bunker and his girl Jennifer were here and that was fine. Eddie got on especially well with Gene Genovese, also visiting—the chemistry between the San Quentin alumnus and the ex-Brooklyn slum kid was just right. Other social events have included a mammoth party your mother gave for Bill and Wendy Luers (guests included Buchwalds, Kay Graham, and Carl Bernstein and his current companion Margaret Jay, wife of the ex–British ambassador), and last night a horrible party at the Edgartown Yacht Club that Walter Cronkite gave for his 90-year old mother. It was supposed to be a traditional dance for the old lady, but about a week or so before she had been knocked down on the beach by a gigantic poodle, breaking her leg, so she showed up in a wheelchair. The Buchwalds and Styrons were the youngest guests by about 20 years, the others being drunken old retired admirals and other of the Edgartown Yacht Club ilk.

  The enclosed article does not quite do justice to my Mayhew Seminar appearance. The reporter describes the audience as being “perplexed,” but I think my approach went over the head not of the audience but the reporter himself who is about 18, very solemn and wanted, I think, a pompous lecture on Art and Life and Other Important Topics. Also, if I was “uncomfortable” at the lectern it was because the temperature was about 98°.

  I’m finishing the galleys of my book of essays, This Quiet Dust, and Random House has done a most fine printing job. The book is much longer than I thought it would be—you’ll get one of the first copies. Also, the book of Mitterrand’s writings, to which I wrote the introduction, has received to my surprise a great deal of attention, and that’s nice.

  Your brother Tom has broken silence in Texas to say that he’s having a fine and busy time. Polly has taken over the Roxbury house, which pleases us and Al—well, Al is the No. 1 swinger of the H.T.R. and the island in general, as you can imagine.

  More guests tonight—Francine and Cleve Gray, my friend Marie-Eugénie de Pourtales from Paris. Will the madness never end?

  I’ll write more soon. Meanwhile, much love from Aquinnah and me, on the dock.

  Daddy

  TO SUSANNA STYRON

  September 3, 1982 Vineyard Haven, MA

  Dear #1 Daughter:

  The summer is almost over and the thundering hordes have departed the premises (I hope) for good. In sheer numbers the visitors this season have been all but unmanageable. I must confess, however, that the summer has been in general quite enjoyable, even
your mother’s obsessive tennis being tolerable. Carl Bernstein and his current girlfriend Margaret Jay, just left and I must say that it was entertaining having them around. Tomorrow (day before Labor Day) your mother and I are departing upon one of the most decadent adventures I’ve ever had. This is to charter a plane and go down to East Hampton, where Craig Claiborne has invited 75–100 people to one of the great feasts of the century—25 chefs (literally) from the best restaurants in New York (French, Italian, Chinese) turning out presumably great food for the visitors. I would not under any circumstances have undertaken the ludicrous enterprise had it not been for Gloria Jones (with whom we’ll be staying) who said she would break my arm if I didn’t come. I will have more to report on this orgy at a future date.

  Your mother will be going with Al to Roxbury soon but I will stay up here for a few more weeks (during the season of merciful quietude) to get some work done. The galleys of This Quiet Dust, my book of essays, have arrived and look quite handsome. I’ll make sure you get a copy. We’ve loved your letters; your story about Mario and his faith in the Styron name and puissance was much appreciated. My only momentary discontent comes from the fact that my sidekick and faithful companion Aquinnah suffered some sort of relapse due to heartworm treatment; while she is in no great danger she will have to remain quiet for a long time, and this means that I won’t have her palship on my essential daily walks. Oh well.

  I’m still brooding over a trip to Rome. You might be surprised some day before long. Tom seems to be very happy down in Texas and Polly is a constant resident in Roxbury. So things are well. Al—the No. 1 girl of the Island—asks me to send lots of love. Which I do, along with lots of my own.

  Love you molto,

  Daddy

  This Quiet Dust and Other Writings was published by Random House on November 30, 1982. The film of Sophie’s Choice premiered in December.