Letters

by Saul Bellow

  I’m leaving Minneapolis the week of the 15th, and I’ll be in New York Thanksgiving week. I expect to fly to England right after the holiday. Due in Warsaw on the 11th of Dec. There I may see misery enough to take my mind off my own grief. It may as well be made useful.

  Love to Dorothy—Yours,

  To Richard Stern

  November 3, 1959 Minneapolis

  Dear Dick—

  Delighted with your review, which at last—at first—establishes that it was my aim to make ideas and actions interchangeable. As to whether Henderson works, your view is as good as mine. Last night reading Blake, the lost children and especially “A Little Girl Lost,” I began to suspect he must have sunk deeply into my unconscious. Add innocence (the second innocence) per experience, passing by way of lions. But really only one book is worth writing now. If we have only to say “humanity stinks in our nostrils” then silence is better, because we have heard that news. Our own bones have broadcast it. If we have more than this to say, we may try but never require ourselves to prove “—oh, no, that is not shit but the musk of the civet; it smells bad because it’s so concentrated. Diluted, it’s the base of beautiful perfumes.” No amount of assertion will make an ounce of art. So I took a chance with Henderson. I can tell you what I wished it to be, but I can’t say what it is. Every ability was brought to it except one—the talent for self-candor which so far I have been able to invest only in the language of what I’ve written. I should be able to do better than that. People are waiting. My own soul is waiting.

  Anyway, I love your review. It comes very, very near the real issues, and it’s written in the style I approve of (Biedermeier of ideas).

  Now a personal note: I’m having an ugly time—suffering no end. Sondra and I are both in despair over the course things have taken and I don’t expect a happy ending. This is private. For your eyes only. There are no frigidities, impotencies, adulteries, only miseries. Poor little Adam doesn’t know he’s about to be sentenced. I can’t help him because it has nothing at all to do with me. I love Sash and respect her. But she has drawn the sword, and is just meshuggah enough to swing it. And perish by it, maybe. I trust you to say nothing of this anywhere. It would be terrible to have the families drawn into it. [ . . . ]

  I take off for Poland in mid Nov. May stop in Chicago.

  Eternellement,

  Born in 1928, Richard Stern is the author of many novels including Golk (1960), Europe or Up and Down with Baggish and Schreiber (1961), Stitch (1965), Natural Shocks (1978), A Father’s Words (1986) and Pacific Tremors (2001). His review of Henderson the Rain King had appered in The Kenyon Review.

  To Keith Botsford

  November 5, 1959 Minneapolis

  Dear Keith—

  No, there’s really nothing I can do—no remedy that pride prevents me from applying. Nothing can change Sasha’s mind. It’s she who’s doing this, cutting me off, taking away Adam. I can’t say for what failures of mine. Not the ordinary ones like money, sex, rivals or any of that. But maybe because there have been no such failures. If I were miserably weak, she would pity and protect me. It’s what I am that’s unbearable to her. The essence of me. So there’s no hope. For if my wife doesn’t want that, what am I to do? Sasha is an absolutist. I think I’ve loved even that, in her. I believe I learned with her to love a woman, and I can’t see where or how my heartsickness will end.

  Perhaps I could name other subtler failures—I failed to master my own freedom or to interpret the world to the satisfaction of her mind. But for such inadequacies a husband might reasonably expect compassion from his wife. If she loved him. But she doesn’t love me.

  Your letter made me feel, not for the first time, the bond between us. If I need you, I’ll come without hesitation. If you should ever need me (never in this way, I hope) you’ll find me reliable.

  Much love,

  And to Ann. She’s silent but I’m aware of her feelings.

  To Pascal Covici

  November 10, 1959 Minneapolis

  Dear Pat—

  I wanted to phone, and perhaps I will yet. You know what a thorough sufferer I can be. I not only hit bottom, I walk for miles and miles on it. Instead of growing less my capacity for staying below increases as I grow older. I try very hard to hate Sondra, and I have good grounds, many, many wounds to hate her for. But I’m not very good at it, and I succeed best when I think of her as her father’s daughter. For she is Tschacbasov. She has a Tschacbasov heart—an insect heart. But really I love her too much and understand her too well to feel the murderous hatred that would help me (therapeutically). And there’s the child. There’s no therapy for that. To recover a little happiness will never help me. I need a big victory. It’s not inconceivable that I will win—all the small bridges behind me have been burnt.

  I’m leaving here Sat. the 14th, and I have to spend a few days in Pittsburgh with Ted Hoffman—to speed through the rest of the play. Must get that over with. I have a book to write, and I must clear the decks. [ . . . ]

  Please hold whatever mail you get for me. I’ve given your address. And send the new Act I to Hellman. Did you receive it?

  Thank God, I’ll be out of this by Sat., teeth filled, pockets empty.

  Much love,

  To Richard Stern

  December 15, 1959 [Bonn, W. Germany]

  Dear Dick—

  I’ve blown into Bonn with wind and snow. It’s colder than Poland, more comfortable than Chicago, richer than Croesus and prouder than Sondra. In fact, my travels in totalitarian lands have taught me more about marriage and “love” than Franz Alexander could. I go to round out my studies in Yugoslavia and Italy. Then I’m going to have a two-week holiday in Israel.

  Is life treating you? Bitte vergessen Sie mich nicht [60].

  Yours,

  Franz Alexander (1891-1964) was a prominent psychoanalyst at the University of Chicago.

  To John Berryman

  December 17, 1959

  [Postcard from Bristol Hotel Kempinski

  Berlin W15—Kurfürstendamm 57]

  Dear John—

  [ . . . ] Greet my friends and check on mine enemies. Lecturing is for the birds. St. Francis understood.

  Love,

  PART THREE

  1960-1969

  Because, you see, intelligence is free now (he said), and it can start anywhere or go anywhere. And it is possible that he lost his head, and that he was carried away by his ideas. This is because he was no mere dreamer but one of those dreamer-doers, a guy with a program. And when I say that he lost his head, what I mean is not that his judgment abandoned him but that his enthusiasms and visions swept him far out.

  —Henderson the Rain King

  1960

  To Pascal Covici

  January 18, 1960 Belgrade

  Dear Pat—

  Yesterday when I arrived in Yugoslavia, there was no mail at all. Can it be that Sondra hasn’t forwarded it, or that you’ve got my schedule mixed up? I’ll be in Yugoslavia until about Feb 1st. And I have a feeling there’s something very wrong in Minneapolis. I’ve written separately to four people, one of them the psychiatrist, asking for news but haven’t had a single answer. From Jack Ludwig I received a letter in Warsaw one-sentence-long saying only that Adam was well—as of Dec 28th or so. Can you find out for me what the situation is? Air mail to Belgrade takes only four days. This universal silence makes me afraid. The news must be awful. Jack would tell you, if you phone him, whether I ought to come back.

  Yours,

  To Ralph Ellison

  January 20, 1960 Belgrade

  Dear Ralph,

  I’m much better. I’m beginning to sit up and take solid nourishment, and I’d enjoy my convalescence greatly if I didn’t have to do this cultural functionary bullshit. But even that has its compensations. I wouldn’t have minded Poland—particularly Poland—for all the meetings and lectures and teas and whisky I had to wade through. Eastern Europe has told me a lot about my family—myself, even. It’s mad
e a Slavophile of me.

  About Adam I never hear. I phoned Minneapolis finally, and spoke to the psychiatrist. From Macedonia. This was Macedonia’s first call to Mpls. Adam’s all right. He’ll even out—he’s built for it. [ . . . ]

  How’s the book? How’s Fanny?

  My love to the three of you.

  To Pascal Covici

  January 22, 1960 Belgrade

  Dear Pat—

  The reason for the wire was that no bills had been forwarded and I didn’t want Ralph to have an awkward time with the oil company. But the stuff arrived today. Never a word about Adam. Never. I had to phone Minneapolis—the psychiatrist—from Skopje in Macedonia (very near Romania). Adam’s fine.

  There was so little room for deterioration when I left New York that it’s easy now to say I’m better. I really am. I’ve even begun to sleep again, without drugs. And I met a young lady in Poland—well, not so young, but lovely—who comforted me well. I thought also she had given me the clap, and I was very proud but the doctor in Warsaw said it was only a trifling infection. The clap can be arranged, I suppose, if a man has a serious ambition to get it. I’m just a dilettante.

  As for work, I’ve been doing a little, picking at the play and writing a story. My stories aren’t very successful. They always turn into novels, because one thing leads to another. I suppose I lack a sense of form. Well, now that I realize, perhaps I can begin to study the matter. If a critic were to say it, I’d ignore him. The story is about Sondra, and it may be a trial run, who knows? First I must stop in my travels. I’d better come home, I think, and file my taxes and move East and complete the play and start the book. And begin my life. More and more I feel that I haven’t yet got under weigh. When, O Lord?

  Next week I dash through Italy. Write me c/o Cultural Affairs U.S. Embassy, Rome. I haven’t the time to shop for trinkets. Yugoslav tableware is awful. Would Dorothy like some Serbian embroidery? Good, I’ll get her some. On Feb. 15th I sail to Haifa (U.S. Embassy, Jerusalem) and on March 3rd, Rome and on March 18th London again and on March 22nd or so home.

  Love,

  To Ralph Ross

  February 4, 1960 [en route]

  Dear Ralph—

  On the train from Ljubljana to Venice I am suddenly struck by a motive of prudence—the first in several years. You advised me to get a lawyer in Mpls. and I think you were absolutely right. I can’t trust Jonas Schwartz [Sondra’s lawyer], and I don’t know what arrangements he will think just. No reason why I should allow him to do any thinking for me.

  This is a major pain in the neck to you, I know; this is the price you must pay for being the most reliable friend I have in Mpls.

  Can you get a lawyer to look after my interests? The case is simple to describe: 1.) Sondra has abandoned me but 2.) I am willing to let her have a divorce on two conditions: a.) that I pay no more than a hundred fifty a month for Adam and b.) that I have the right to visit Adam regularly and to have him with me during his holidays. Should the lawyer need more information he can reach me c/o Cultural Affairs U.S. Embassy, Rome till Feb. 1st, or Tel Aviv till March 1st. After March 1st, I’ll be in Rome again for a week. Then London, then home.

  Have you become parents yet? I hope everything is going well. In the first days of your fatherhood I hesitate to bring upon you my post-graduate tribulations. But life is pushing at my back. And I suppose it’s a good sign that I’ve decided to defend myself, finally. I can tell you without the distortion of optimism that I’m very well. Now. Since Poland.

  The train is bucking its way into Trieste.

  Goodbye,

  Love,

  I was greatly comforted in Warsaw.

  Ralph Ross was a philosopher and much-loved teacher at New York University and, subsequently, at the University of Minnesota.

  To Richard Stern

  [Postmark illegible; postcard from Venice—Piazza San Marco] Today—special for Bellow—Venice has a snowstorm. God salts my every bite. Just the same it is Italy. Even the irrigation ditches are dug with sensitivity.

  Be all my sins remembered,

  To Pascal Covici

  March 4, 1960 Tel Aviv

  Dear Boss—

  I’m flying out of here today, filled with impressions and tired out. Stranger pilgrimages have been made, but few so fatiguing. I’m down about twenty lbs. and ready to go back to my business, which is to be fatter and to write books. I’ve had too much of sights and flights, and girls. Still I wanted to wear myself out, and I’m well satisfied with the results I’ve gotten.

  There’s hardly anything I do as well as I know I can and that includes traveling. I’m still waiting for my life to begin. However, I’m nearer to a beginning than I’ve ever been. [ . . . ]

  Is everything well with you? Do you want regards from Billy Rose (Ben Hecht’s friend)? Everyone comes to Israel. You should, too. Get a real Romanian meal.

  Remember me to Dorothy,

  With love,

  Bellow had evidently seen the impresario Billy Rose in Israel. Thirty years later, Rose would turn up in the Jerusalem sequence of The Bellarosa Connection.

  To Ralph Ellison

  March 8, 1960 Rome

  Dear Ralph—

  While you were being blasted by snow, I was in the Red Sea staring at tropical fish through the glass bottom of a boat. Have you had a rough time at Tivoli this winter? I read that this has been another blizzard of ’88, and I have visions of you and Rufus [the Ellisons’ dog] snowbound and Bill Lensing heading a rescue party.

  But these events are always worse in the papers.

  Is the Savage out? Is the book going again? Is Fanny well? I hope the answers are all of the best.

  I’m away again tomorrow. Paris, London and on the 22nd NYC. Two days to see Greg and I go to Washington and Chicago and Mpls. There I expect to stay a month (six weeks!), get divorced, kiss Adam, and towards the end of May join you in Tivoli.

  Perhaps Jack Wheeler can do the bedrooms upstairs while you’re away in Chicago. What are your dates there?

  Best love,

  To Marshall Best

  March 16, 1960 London

  Dear Marshall:

  [ . . . ] As to my own writing and the Ford Foundation—I’ve been writing while traveling. I always manage to keep at it. Besides, if I hadn’t gone off in November I might now be in the loony bin and not in London. This has a metaphorical sound but I mean it literally. You might as well hear from me what I assume you’ve heard from Pat [Covici] or Harold [Guinzburg]. In October, my wife asked me for a divorce and I almost cracked. It was entirely unexpected. Then I decided almost instinctively that I’d better get away and for that reason accepted the offer of this trip, and I’m anything but sorry, for I’m fit again. It’s not certain that I’d have done much writing in Mpls. Probably I’d have mouldered at my desk, trying. You know that I’m not reckless and irresponsible and that I wouldn’t go off on a toot abandoning all work and responsibility. An emergency arose and I met it as well as I could.

  Many thanks for your letter.

  See you soon,

  Marshall A. Best (1901-82) was editor and later chairman of the executive committee at the Viking Press.

  To Marshall Best

  March 17, 1960 London

  Dear Marshall:

  Brooding about your letter, I can see the whole thing clear. You recommend me to the Ford Foundation, and my gay lark in Europe puts you in a tough position. But suppose it hasn’t been a gay lark? Suppose I have been dutifully suffering my way from country to country, thinking about Fate and Death? Will that do as an explanation? And if, here and there, I gave a talk in Poland and Yugoslavia, did I violate the by-laws?

  All jokes aside, what I saw between Auschwitz and Jerusalem made a change in me. To say the least. And that ought not to distress the Ford Foundation. I’m sorry to cause you any embarrassment, but there ought not to be any in my going to Europe and the Middle East for a few months. Now I’m coming back to write a book, and I see nothing wrong anywhere
. I might have written a thousand pages in Minneapolis and thrown them all away. I know I’ve done the necessary and proper thing and it annoys me to be criticized for it.

  All best,

  To Alice Adams

  April 9, 1960 Tivoli

  Dear Alice—

  They held your letter for me till I got back from Europe where I had gone for five months to get over the shock of divorce. This time it was done unto me (as I had done unto others). All this marrying and parting amounts to idiocy. Nobody will do well, nobody is well. We all prescribe suffering for ourselves as the only antidote for unreality. So—I’ve emptied bottles and bottles, and now I’m going to dig in at Tivoli, my feste Burg, my asylum, and reconsider everything all over again.