Thanks immensely for the Henry fames which I thought was wonderful and which is difficult reading as it must have been to write, and for ‘At Sea.’
The London press on my book has been spotty but The London Times gave it a good review as did G. B. Stem in The Daily Telegraph, and so did The Manchester Guardian and The Spectator, and those I guess are the four most important ones in England and I got a column in each of them. A letter says that it hasn’t reached a thousand copies yet.
I hope you’ll be down here soon. It was rather melancholy to think of ‘Welbourne’ being closed for the winter but the last time I saw Elizabeth she seemed quite reconciled at visiting here and there, though such a prospect would drive me nuts. Hope you have sent off the carbon of the Table of Contents.
Best ever,
Scott
1307Park Avenue
Baltimore,
Maryland
November 26,1934
Dear Max:
The real thing that decided me about ‘Her Last Case’ was that it was a place story and just before seeing it in published form I ran across Thomas Wolfe’s ‘The House of the Far and Lost and I thought there was no chance of competing with him on the same subject, when he had brought off such a triumph. There would inevitably have been invidious comparisons. If my story had anything to redeem it, except atmosphere, I would not hesitate to include it but most of it depends on a mixture of hysteria and sentiment - anyhow, I did not decide without some thought.
I think by this time you will have read and liked ‘The Fiend’ which, spare and meager as it may be, has, I believe, a haunting quality. At least the tale in itself had enough poignancy to haunt me long enough, to keep in my skull for six years. Whether I’ve given it the right treatment, or disparaged it by too much peeling away of accessories, I can’t say. That’s one reason that I asked you to set it up, because maybe I am not too clear about it myself and maybe I can do something with the proof if it seems advisable.
I throw out most of the stuff in me with delight that it is gone. That statement might be interesting to “consider in relation with Ernest’s article in last month’s Esquire; an unexpressed idea is often a torment, even though its expression is liable to leave an almost crazy gap in the continuity of one’s thoughts. And it would have been absolutely impossible for me to have stretched ‘The Rich Boy’ into anything bigger than a novelette.
That statement was something that Ring got off; he never knew anything about composition, except as it concerned the shorter forms; that is why he always needed advice from us as to how to organize his material; it was his greatest fault - the fault of many men brought up in the school of journalism - while a novelist with his sempiternal sigh can cut a few breaths. It is a hell of a lot more difficult to build up a long groan than to develop a couple of short coughs!
Glad Ernest isn’t doing the Crusading story, now, because it would be an unfortunate competition.
Josephine goes along and I think I will be in the clear about her this week, and - as I told you - two or three of the others have already been done and just have to be glanced at.
Your suggestion to go to Key West is tempting as hell but I don’t know whether it would be advisable on either Ernest’s account or mine. We can talk about that later.
A short note from Beth acknowledged an invitation that I gave her to meet Gertrude Stein if she should be in the vicinity, and said that she had a long letter from you. Outside of that, life has gone along at what would seem to most people a monotonous routine: entertained Lovestone ‘the Opposition Communist Saturday and put him up for the night but haven’t quite made up my mind what I think of him.
Am so fascinated with the medieval series that my problem is making them into proper butcher’s cuts for monthly consumption. I have thought of the subject so long that an actual fertility of invention has become even a liability.
Ever yours,
Scott
1307 Park Avenue
Baltimore,
Maryland
December 18, 1934
Dear Max:
Tremendously obliged for the fifty dollars. The Redbook is stalling on these medieval stories, much to my disgust, and that is slowing up things and also it may put a crimp in the series so far as serialization is concerned. They have taken three and can’t seem to decide about the fourth, so temporarily I am going to return to the Post and make some larger money until that straightens out. This was the reason for the financial emergency.
Now I’ve got to blow up because an incident of this proof has upset my entire morning. You know how irascible I am when I am working and it increases with the years, but I have never seen a proofreader quite as dumb as the one who has looked over this second galley. In the first place I did not want a second galley and did not ask for it - these stories have been corrected once for myself, once for the Post and the third time on your first galleys and that is all I can do. I expected to have the page proofs made up from the corrected first galley and requested that not even these be sent to me. I first understand that it is an advantage to make no more corrections, then along comes a set of completely superfluous galleys marked with the most idiotic and disturbing queries.
Example: this proofreader calmly suggests that I correct certain mistakes of construction in the characters’ dialogue. My God, he must be the kind who would rewrite Ring Lardner, correcting his grammar, or fix up the speeches of Penrod to sound like Little Lord Fauntleroy. Who is it? Robert Bridges?
His second brilliant stroke of Victorian genius was to query all the split infinitives. If, on a fourth version, I choose to let them stand I am old enough to know what I am doing. On this proof I simply struck off the queries and am sending the rest back without looking at it. My worry is that I didn’t look at the Basil stories at all before returning them, and if he has corrected all Basil’s language, spoiling some of my jokes - well, it just gives me the feeling of wanting to send back the whole mass of first galleys and saying set it up.
Honestly, Max, I have worked like a dog on these galleys and it is costing me money to make these changes, and to have some cluck fool with them again is exasperating beyond measure. They should have gone right into page proof from my first galleys - I would a hundred times rather have half a dozen errors creep in than have half a dozen humorous points and carefully considered rhythms spoiled by some school marm. This may seem vehement but I tell you it will haunt me in my sleep until you write reassuring me that no such thing happened in the case of the Basil stories.
Again thanks for the money. It was a life-saver. There will be another story coming along tomorrow.
Ever yours,
Scott
1307 Park Avenue
Baltimore,
Maryland
March 9, 1935
Dear Max:
The book arrived. It was fine to see. I liked the get-up and thought it was an excellent blurb on the back, but -
- is it, alas, too late to do anything about the jacket? It is pretty God-awful and about six people have commented on it. I don’t know who Miss Doris Spiegal is but it’s rather discouraging to spend many hours trying to make the creatures in a book charming and then have someone who can’t draw as well as Scottie cover five square inches with daubs that make them look like morons. The first jacket was very much better.
This sounds ungrateful in view of the trouble my books have always been, but I do want to record the fact that of late I have been badly served by your art department. To take a perfectly good photograph and debauch it into a toothless old man on the back of Tender was not so good, but I do think a jacket like this has the absolute opposite effect of those fine attractive jackets that Hill and Held used to draw for my books. I always believed that eternal care about titles and presentation was a real element in their success.
I’ve seen Jim Boyd and we’ve had several meals together. He’s an awfully nice fellow.
I am still hesitating about sending this letter because I know what
a lot more important things you have in your mind and how busy you are at this season, but I am sending it on the off- chance that it might have been a sample jacket and that something might be done. -
Ever yours,
Scott
P.S. I was glad that Tom got nice reviews in Time and The New Yorker and that they gave him space in proportion to the time and effort that went into his volume. I’m going to give it a more thorough reading next week.
1307 Park Avenue
Baltimore,
Maryland
March 11, 1935
Dear Max:
The second annoyance to you in two days - pretty soon I’m going to be your most popular author. (By the way, we had sort of a Scribner congeries here last night. Jim Boyd and Elizabeth came to supper and George Calverton dropped in afterwards. Your name came up frequently and you would have probably wriggled more than at Wolfe’s dedication. To prolong this parenthesis unduly I am sorry I mentioned Tom’s book. I hope to God I won’t be set up as the opposition for there are fine things in it, and I loved reading it, and I am delighted that it’s a wow, and it may be a bridge for something finer. I simply feel a certain disappointment which I would, on no account, want Tom to know about, for, responding as he does to criticism, I know it would make us life-long enemies and we might do untold needless damage to each other, so please be careful how you quote me. This is in view of Calverton’s saying he heard from you that I didn’t like it It has become increasingly plain to me that the very excellent organization of a long book or the finest perceptions and judgment in time of revision do not go well with liquor. A short story can be written on a bottle, but for a novel you need the mental speed that enables you to keep the whole pattern in your head and ruthlessly sacrifice the sideshows as Ernest did in A Farewell to Arms. If a mind is slowed up ever so little it lives in the individual part of a book rather than in a book as a whole; memory is dulled. I would give anything if I hadn’t had to write Part III of Tender Is the Night entirely on stimulant. If I had one more crack at it cold sober I believe it might have made a great difference. Even Ernest commented on sections that were needlessly included and as an artist he is as near as I know for a final reference. Of course, having struggled with Tom Wolfe as you did all this is old hat to you. I will conclude this enormous parenthesis with the news that Elizabeth has gone to Middleburg to help Mrs White open up her newly acquired house.)
This letter is a case of the tail (the parenthesis) wagging the dog. Here is the dog. A man named John S. Martens writes me wanting to translate Tender Is the Night or This Side of Paradise or The Great Gatsby into Norwegian. He has written Scribners and met the same blank wall of silence that has greeted me about all publishing of my books in other countries. I am quite willing to handle continental rights directly but I cannot do it when I do not know even the name of the publisher of my books, having never had copies of them or any information on that subject. Isn’t there somebody in your office who is especially delegated to seeing to such things? It is really important to me and if I should write a book that had an international appeal it would be of great advantage to have a foothold with translators and publishers in those countries. All I want from you is the status of The Great Gatsby in Scandinavia, Germany, etc., and a word as to whether I shall go ahead and make arrangements myself for the future in that regard.
I’d be glad to get a dozen or so copies of Taps at Reveille as soon as available.
Ever yours,
Scott
P.S. I haven’t had a drink for almost six weeks and haven’t had the faintest temptation as yet. Feel fine in spite of the fact that business affairs and Zelda’s health have never been worse.
1307 Park Avenue
Baltimore,
Maryland
April 15, 1935
Dear Max:
You don’t say anything about Taps so I gather it hasn’t caught on at all. I hope at least it will pay for itself and its corrections. There was a swell review in The Nation; did you see it?
I went away for another week but history didn’t repeat itself and the trip was rather a waste. Thanks for the message from Ernest. I’d like to see him too and I always think of my friendship with him as being one of the high spots of life. But I still believe that such things have a mortality, perhaps in reaction to their very excessive life, and that we will never again see very much of each other. I appreciate what he said about Tender Is the Night.
Things happen all the time which make me think that it is not destined to die quite as easily as the boys-in-a-hurry prophesied. However, I made many mistakes about it from its delay onward, the biggest of which was to refuse the Literary Guild subsidy.
Haven’t seen Beth since I got back and am calling her up today to see if she’s here. I am waiting eagerly for a first installment of Ernest’s book. When are you coming South? Zelda, after a terrible crisis, is somewhat better. I am, of course, on the wagon as always, but life moves at an uninspiring gait and there is less progress than I could wish on the medieval series - all in all an annoying situation as these should be my most productive years. I’ve simply got to arrange something for this summer that will bring me to life again, but what it should be is by no means apparent.
About 1929 I wrote a story called ‘Outside the Cabinet Maker’s,’ which ran in the Century Magazine. I either lost it here or else sent it to you with the first batch of selected stories for Taps and it was not returned. Will you (a) see if you’ve got it? or (b) tell me what and where the Century Company is now and whom I should address to get a copy of the magazine?
I’ve had a swell portrait painted at practically no charge and next time I come to New York I am going to spend a morning tearing out of your files all those preposterous masks with which you have been libeling me for the last decade.
Just found another whole paragraph in Taps, top of page 384, which appears in Tender Is the Night. I’d carefully elided it and written the paragraph beneath it to replace it, but the proofreaders slipped and put them both in.
Ever yours,
Scott
1307 Park Avenue
Baltimore,
Maryland
April 17,1935
Dear Max:
Reading Tom Wolfe’s story in the current Modern Monthly makes me wish he was the sort of person you could talk to about his stuff. It has all his faults and virtues. It seems to me that with any sense of humor he could see the Dreiserian absurdities of how the circus people ate the cod, bass, mackerel, halibut, clams and oysters of the New England coast, the terrapin of Maryland, the fat beeves, porks and cereals of the middle west,’ etc., etc., down to ‘the pink meated lobsters that grope their way along the sea-floors of America.’ And then (after one of his fine paragraphs which sounds a note to be expanded later) he remarks that they leave nothing behind except ‘the droppings of the camel and the elephant in Illinois.’ A few pages further on his redundance ruined some paragraphs (see the last complete paragraph on page 103) that might have been gorgeous. I sympathize with his use of repetition, of Joyce-like words, endless metaphor, but I wish he could have seen the disgust in Edmund Wilson’s face when I once tried to interpolate part of a rhymed sonnet in the middle of a novel, disguised as prose. How he can put side by side such a mess as ‘With chitterling tricker fast-fluttering skirrs of sound the palmy honied birderies came’ and such fine phrases as ‘tongue- trilling chirrs, plum-bellied smoothness, sweet lucidity’ I don’t know. He who has such infinite power of suggestion and delicacy has absolutely no right to glut people on whole meals of caviar. I hope to Christ he isn’t taking all these emasculated paeans to his vitality very seriously. I’d hate to see such an exquisite talent turn into one of those muscle-bound and useless giants seen in a circus. Athletes have got to learn their games; they shouldn’t just be content to tense their muscles, and if they do they suddenly find when called upon to bring off a necessary effect they are simply liable to hurl the shot into the crowd and not break any records at all
. The metaphor is mixed but I think you will understand what I mean, and that he would too - save for his tendency to almost feminine horror if he thinks anyone is going to lay hands on his precious talent. I think his lack of humility is his most difficult characteristic, a lack oddly enough which I associate only with second or third rate writers. He was badly taught by bad teachers and now he hates learning.
There is another side of him that I find myself doubting, but this is something that no one could ever teach or tell him. His lack of feeling other people’s passions, the lyrical value of Eugene Gant’s love affair with the universe - is that going to last through a whole saga? God, I wish he could discipline himself and really plan a novel.
I wrote you the other day and the only other point of this letter is that I’ve now made a careful plan of the medieval novel as a whole (tentatively called Philippe, Count of Darkness - confidential) including the planning of the parts which I can sell and the parts which I can’t. I think you could publish it either late in the spring of ‘36 or early in the fall of the same year. This depends entirely on how the money question goes this year. It will run to about 90,000 words and will be a novel in every sense with the episodes unrecognizable as such. That is my only plan. I wish I had these great masses of manuscripts stored away like Wolfe and Hemingway but this goose is beginning to be pretty thoroughly plucked I am afraid.
A young man has dramatized Tender Is the Night and I am hoping something may come of it. I may be in New York for a day and a night within the next fortnight.
Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald UK (Illustrated) Page 455
