by Saul Bellow
The other problems—arrhythmia and a runaway heartbeat—one can live with. I’ve done that for years with large daily doses of quinine. I have other nuisance-ailments associated with age—the medical term is presbyopia. No reason to describe those. “Edad con sus disgracias”[115] is the title of one of Goya’s etchings. Even reasonable people are taught by life, willy-nilly, to pray, and these days I include you in my stolen prayer sessions. (I like to call them meditations.)
We have hardly budged from Vermont this summer. I watched the summer through the windows while scribbling away at a novel I perhaps should never have started. Life has by now prepared me to write an essay called “How Not to Write a Novel.” Lots of critics would say it sh’d be “Why Not to Write One.” The whole world has accepted biological (“historical”) standards. A heart flourishes, then inevitably perishes, and a higher type of the same comes into its own. The new type has a bigger mouth and stronger jaws. You shall hear from me again and soon.
Love,
To Eugene C. Kennedy
November 10, 1994 Grand Case, Saint-Martin
Dear Gene—
The treatment is working. I put it like that because I begin to see how necessary it was for Janis to get me here—I was willing to talk about it, but of my own accord I’d never have gotten here. I just lack the character to do what’s necessary. And today I see a parallel between me and the problem drinkers whose doctors send them away to be dried out. Too much festination [116], as Dr. Oliver Sacks would put it. I recommend his book Awakenings, and the Parkinsonian case-histories in it. Sarah probably has read it. His account of festination and catatonia went straight to that waiting throbbing target, my heart. The blue of the Caribbean I see from this open door is my form of El Dopa. Festination! I had a bad case of it. I suspect that Dr. Sacks believes it’s endemic. Civilized people all have it in some form or other. What I do for it is to soak in the ocean twice daily. We have no phone in our small flat (open to the breezes) and no newspapers are available. NO mail is being forwarded. My one daily lapse or cop-out—cheating on the cure—is literary. I work each morning on my Marbles book. I may actually get that monkey off my back before X-mas.
A daily greeting in my Village days was “off the couch by X-mas!” It was said of Jim Agee that he had to work at Time to pay for his analysis. He said it himself—Henry Luce and Sigmund Freud were in cahoots. More than half of the Lucites (or Luciferites) were then in treatment.
Anyway my spirits having risen during these days of submersion in an El Dopa Caribbean, I love you with a fresh impulse. You’re a darling man. I wish I could say it in the right brogue.
We return to festinating Boston Nov. 30th. Let’s hope we will be able then to live by the good old slogan Festina Lente [117].
So, in the same vein—Excelsior!
Much love to both of you,
Former priest and dissident Roman Catholic Eugene C. Kennedy is Professor Emeritus of Psychology at Loyola University, Chicago, and the author of many books including The Unhealed Wound: The Church and Human Sexuality (2001) and My Brother Joseph (1998), a memoir of his friendship with Joseph Cardinal Bernardin. Shortly after writing this letter, Bellow fell dangerously ill with ciguatera poisoning. For a month he was unconscious and in intensive care at Boston University Hospital. At the turn of the year he went home to the apartment on Bay State Road, where he slowly recovered.
1995
In Memory of Ralph Ellison
(Delivered in Bellow’s absence by Joseph Mitchell at the dinner meeting of the American Academy of Arts and Letters on April 4, 1995)
Ralph Ellison, who died last year at the age of eighty, published only one novel in his lifetime. At a Bard College symposium attended by foreign celebrities, Georges Simenon who was at our table asked Ellison how many novels he had written. Hearing that there was only one, he said, “To be a novelist you must produce many novels. You are not a novelist.” The author of hundreds of books, writing and speaking at high speed, could not stop to weigh his words. Einstein, a much deeper thinker, had said in reply to a sociable lady’s question about quantum theory, “But isn’t one a lot, Madame?”
In Ralph’s case it certainly was a lot. Simenon remains readable, enjoyable, but Inspector Maigret belongs to a very large family of cops or private eyes or geniuses of detection like Sherlock Holmes or the heroes of Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler et al. These honorable and gifted men worked at the writer’s trade. Ellison did no such thing. What we witness when we read Invisible Man is the discovery by an artist of his true subject matter, and some fifty years after it was published this book holds its own among the best novels of the century. Toward the end of the Fifties, the Ellisons and the Bellows lived together in a spooky Dutchess County house with the Catskills on the western horizon and the Hudson River in between. As writers are natural solitaries, Ralph and I did not seek each other out during the day. A nod in passing was enough. But late in the afternoon Ralph mixed the martinis and we did not always drink in silence. During our long conversations I came to know his views, some of which I shall now transmit in his own words:
“We did not develop as a people in isolation,” he told James McPherson in an interview. “We developed within a context of white people. Yes, we have a special awareness, because our experience has in certain ways been different from that of white people; but it was not absolutely different.” And, again: “I tell white kids that instead of talking about black men in a white world or black men in a white society they should ask themselves how black they are because black men have been influencing the values of the society and the art forms of the society . . . We did not develop as a people in isolation.”
“For me,” he said, “some effort was necessary . . . before I could identify the areas of life and personality which claimed my mind beyond any limitations apparently imposed by my racial identity.” And, again: “This was no matter of sudden insight but of slow and blundering discovery, of a struggle to stare down the deadly and hypnotic temptation to interpret the world and all its devices in terms of race.” It took great courage, in a time when racial solidarity was demanded, or exacted, from people in public life, to insist as Ralph did on the priority of art and the independence of the artist. “Fiction,” he says, “became the agency of my efforts to answer the questions: Who am I, what am I, how did I come to be? What should I make of the life around me? . . . What does American society mean when regarded out of my own eyes, when informed by my own sense of the past and viewed by my own complex sense of the present? . . . It is quite possible,” he adds, “that much potential fiction by Negro Americans fails precisely at this point: through the writer’s refusal (often through provincialism or lack of courage or opportunism) to achieve a vision of life and a resourcefulness of craft commensurate with the complexity of their actual situation. Too often they fear to leave the uneasy sanctuary of race to take their chances in the world of art.” Ralph did no such thing.
I have let him speak for himself. But there is one thing more, of a personal nature, that I should like to add in closing. Often, when I think of Ralph, a line from E. E. Cummings comes to me: “Jesus, he was a handsome man,” Cummings wrote—he was referring to Buffalo Bill. Ralph did not ride a watersmooth stallion, nor was he a famous marksman. But he did have the look of a man from an earlier epoch, one more sane, more serious and more courageous than our own.
To John Hunt
June 18, 1995 Boston
Dear John,
Sorry to have been so very, very long. The reason lies partly in my illness, of which Keith [Botsford] may have told you. I was down, down, down for months. I don’t always know what’s going on—I’ve always had a serious focus problem—but this time all reality was pulled away, stored like a carpet. I may or may not have thought that I was in another world—my relations to this one have never been anything but relatively steady. Wherever I may have been, there was no “time” there. I wasn’t certifiably unconscious but neither was I in any ordinary sens
e conscious. After six weeks I was transferred out of intensive care to “recovery.” “Recovery” was a euphemism for infantile weakness. I had to learn to walk again, to go to the toilet like an adult, to tell time, etc.
How I (we!) would have loved to be with you in France. But for the time being, I have to stick around the Boston U. Hospital. Life is far from normal. I take huge doses of blood-thinners, and I am warned that to swallow two aspirins may be fatal. I do now and then write something, and I can read again, indulge my lifelong vice for books—far too many of them.
To move to the South of France would be infinitely desirable 1.) if we could find someone to buy the Vermont house and 2.) if I hadn’t been undermined by pulmonary and cardiac—puzzlingly threatening (and unreal)—disorders. All the granite I depended on has turned into loose sand and gravel. This is the déreglement de tous les sens [118] Rimbaud was sold on. Poor Rimbaud, he didn’t live very long whereas I, a week ago, “celebrated” my eightieth birthday. People tell me that I look perfectly well. Sans blague! [119]
I was so grateful for your generous letter. All best to you and to Chantal,
John Hunt (born 1925) is a writer and scientist who during the Fifties and Sixties worked at the Congress for Cultural Freedom in Paris and subsequently at the Salk Institute for Biological Studies in La Jolla, California, the Aspen Institute, and the Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton, New Jersey.
To Herbert Gold
June [?], 1995 Boston
Dear Herb—
Did you ever think we’d live to see the century end? I used to play out the mental arithmetic but never thought I’d finish off the millennium. Maybe I won’t. It’s not over till it’s over, as the great baseball philosopher said.
Your letter dated May 24th reached me about a week ago. I was sorry to read that your brother had died. I know what these deaths are. I had two older brothers. They died ten years ago, within the same week. I find myself thinking of them daily, at odd moments—in an ongoing manner.
I have no case to make against them. I no longer blame them, as I used to do. I am now their senior and one of my responsibilities is to protect them affectionately. For that matter, I am much older than my parents too. I suppose the good do die young. We are given more time to re-cobble our virtues and fit ourselves to die.
There does seem to have been a certain estrangement [between you and me], and perhaps the reason is mainly spatial. Separated by an entire continent we’ve been unable to attend to our friendship. But I’ve always had warm feelings toward you. There are, perhaps, a few incompatibilities but they aren’t, and never were, serious. I value your judgment and your good opinion, and I wish you well.
Herbert Gold (born 1924) is the author of many books including The Man Who Was Not with It (1956) and Still Alive! A Temporary Condition (2008).
To Saul Steinberg
July 28, 1995 W. Brattleboro
Dear Saul—
When your picture arrived I was again caught in an undertow—one of the drugs I was taking had swollen my tongue and my palate to such an extent that I was unable to swallow.
I was, in short, choking to death. And once more, rallying, I pulled through. I did however have a thoroughly disagreeable week and was unable to call you to say that your picture had been delivered. So it was no manque de politesse [120]. Having yet again fought off the forces of assassination I can now look at your harmonious composition with enjoyment. I keep it on the kitchen mantelpiece and study it over my teacup. I badly need the balancing measure and proportion I am enjoying, and feel at certain moments that I am camped in your mind, the source of equilibrium.
Yours gratefully and affectionately,
Janis and I are expecting you one day soon.
To John Hunt
September 13, 1995 W. Brattleboro
Dear John,
I might, if I were a more gifted writer, tell you what this year has really been like—but I can’t transmit the neural creepings and the wing-beating of the spirit, and all the thoughts etc. that use me as a thoroughfare.
It hasn’t, all in all, been a sick summer. The strange difficulty is that I have stamina enough to see me through the morning’s work, and after that I am useless. I take a walk, I lie down at siesta-time, the afternoon expires. I’ve lost the habit of writing letters. After dark, I can’t go back to the desk.
I spent many evenings looking at Faulkner photos in the book you so generously sent me. I should have written to thank you but this morning is the first full one in months. [ . . . ] For the book, merci mille fois [121].
As ever (whatever that is),
To Julian Behrstock
September 13, 1995 W. Brattleboro
Dear Julian—
I hate to think of your chemotherapy, and I do think about it daily. Medicine seems to have made great progress in that department, as in others. More than one doctor has told me that I wouldn’t have made it five years ago. And I have the distinct feeling, or intuition, that you and I are meant to go on, for a bit. Actuarial commonsense tells us that a bit is all we can fairly expect. I surround the statistics with prayers and ask the Lord whether he can see his way clear to granting us yet one more breather.
The enclosed story [“By the Saint Lawrence”] is one I wrote when I got out of the hospital in January. Magazines have all become so serious (or seriously pornographic) that they seldom have space for fiction. The New Yorker was willing to print me but I was told that the word-rate was lower than for non-fiction—i.e. libelous “exposés” and the trashing of quite inoffensive people. So I accepted Esquire’s higher offer. Their fiction editor, Rust Hills, has a sentimental soft spot for me.
With me it’s still as it was for Gibbon. When George III met him he said, “Always scribble scribble scribble, eh, Mr. Gibbon?”
Your old and constant pal,
To Martin Amis
September 30, 1995 W. Brattleboro
Dear Martin—
How to explain how it is that I haven’t written: I see at once that such a project can only be a dud.
To say that I’ve been “out of sorts,” hung up, convalescent for the better part of a year conveys nothing much. I’ve been unable to pull myself together. I seem normal enough in the morning—at least until I touch certain tender places, and then I feel nature’s spite against the aging when these tender places begin to ail. Then I suspect that I never shall recover—I’m too old to do it. I have cardiac troubles (“atrial fibrillations”) and beneath this agitation of the heart muscles there is an unbearable sluggishness, the original sloth of the deadly sin. I have just enough stamina to write for an hour or two, and then I go back to bed for a siesta! At three o’clock I realize that the day has somehow been swallowed up. I take a good many drugs—“beta-blockers”—and these affect the brain weirdly. I am easily depressed. The days fly away, the weeks are uncontrollable, the months and the seasons are like the merry-go-round.
So my only serious effort is to think, or try to think, how to chuck this derangement and drift, and get onto some firm ground.
There are plenty of books around but I don’t really read them—they go past my mind, not into it.
Well, all this is true enough. But it’s far from the whole truth. I do take pleasure in Janis’s company, and in the weather, the summer blues and greens. I’ve been too weak to tend the tomato plants, or to dig or prune, but I haven’t been completely hors d’usage [122]. And I haven’t been well enough to see the shoulderless [———]. That’s an unmixed benefit, a very considerable plus.
Reading your Augie March essay was gratifying. You were far too generous, however. I can’t read a page of the book without flinching. It seems to me now one of those stormy, formless American phenomena—like Action Painting. It was necessary to invent a way to cope with the curious realities of American life, and I did obviously invent something. But the book I now find disconcertingly amorphous, sound and fury signifying not too much.
Much love,
Amis
had contributed an introduction to the new Everyman edition of The Adventures of Augie March.
1996
To Albert Glotzer
January 9, 1996 Brookline
Dear Al,
I thought of you while chatting with Richard Pipes, the Russian historian. He’s getting ready to publish a collection of recently released Lenin documents from the early years—1917 to 1923. I wish you had been here when he described some of them. One is an order to find and hang a hundred Kulaks. Just hang them, his instructions were, and leave them hanging as long as possible. A few years ago we in America were calling this consciousness-raising. On the other hand, one still meets people from Harvard with a hear-no-evil fixation on the essential benevolence of the Soviet Union from first to last. But of course now we’re talking about character formations of the middle class, not about politics.
I haven’t read Crime and Punishment in many years—I have it scheduled for the coming winter—but I have a distinct recollection of Raskolnikov’s double murder. He waits until the old usurer’s sister is out of the way, but just as he hits the money lender on the head with his axe, the door opens and he sees the shocked face of the simpleton sister who has returned. He has no choice but to kill her, too. It is the second killing that plagues his conscience. I can’t remember that he ever regrets the first murder. But the innocent sister who unexpectedly comes home is a True Believer and also an intimate friend of the prostitute Sonya whom Raskolnikov eventually marries. Tell Maggie for me that I hope I haven’t upset her. I will be reading the book in March and if I’m wrong about the second victim I shall send a dozen American Beauty roses to apologize.
