n Love….. xxxxxxx
Kurt
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Dear Woofy, wifey:
Since we’re both so nuts about money, why don’t we think about cracking Hollywood? As writers, or you might do right well in dress-design…but it’s a possibility. I see every damned movie they bring to this place, and if we couldn’t direct better ones I’ll eat a tube of ortho-gynol. Last night’s movie was the pay-off: Betty Grable in the “Dolly Sisters.” Miss it if you possibly can. Legs, legs, legs, and not one pair of them half as good as yours. You spoiled the movies for me, Baby. The Johnsons are going to write Leo Burnett about me. A little later maybe Mr. Burnett will write somebody else about me. And then maybe that somebody will write someone else and we’ll have jobs in Hollywood. We might be able to do a lot of good there if we got into an influential spot. I have lovely day dreams. My big problem now is to live long enough to realize some of them. Rich man, poor man, begger man, thief; Doctor, Lawyer, Merchant, Chief.
You, dear heart, pay Mr. Janus. And while you’re dabbling in high finance, go down to Walks and have it assessed. Then, Angel, tell Mr. Janus what the sparkler is worth and take out another policy. I’ll deposit about $150 I’ve got coming to me around the first of November. Your first (and let us hope next to last) allotment check should roll in about that time. Don’t fret if it doesn’t come right away. I’m not at all certain when it is supposed to come.
This office, Message Center, has been busy as hell recently. I’ll never be able to do office work––not that I ever considered it. All I do is sit and type, recording correspondence coming in and out of AGFRD#3. It’s driving me nuts. The job carries a sergeant’s rating but this place is too slovenly to give it to me. Also, I am becoming something of a head-ache to the more industrious members of the staff. I brood. Did you know that the Navy and Marines have discharged all of their ex-PW’s with more than 60 days in prison. I’m nuts about the Army and hope all our sons go to Military School.
I love you very much, Darling. Leave it at that until I am able to CONVINCE you how much I do love you.
Kurt—
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Saturday morning…20 Oct 45
Time passes, somehow……..
Woofy, Darling…
I’m back at work again. I tried to sleep on the train last night but couldn’t because of a new malady that will eventually drive me completely nuts: plotosis. More and more short-story plots flash through my mind. I was in a frenzy because I was certain that I would forget them all (it was just like having someone tell me story after story)––and I didn’t have a pencil. So I took my Good Conduct, Purple Heart and ETO Ribbon farce in technicolor and used the pin on the back of it to stencil out notes. I’ve got about twenty stories to write now. It would certainly contribute to their fire and vitality if we could get some indication that they are worth MONEY. One story, which I will write tonight, will be written with the smug and snotty purpose of being a thing which cannot be published during my unappreciated life-time.
George has written to tell me that he is discharged, and that Skip will also be out soon. Judging from a story which some insoucient G.I. has tacked on the barracks bulletin board, demobilization, especially in the Ground Forces (Playground for Brasshatdom) has been a sorry piece of blunder and low comedy. Congress has been asking the Army to furlough men until their time for discharge comes up or to mass-discharge all men with over two years service. These plans have disappeared into the Pentagon. Whenever Congress asks what has become of them they are told that the plans are “under study.” Ha! Well, according to the article, all hell is bound to cut loose this coming Monday morning on the floor of Congress––and the civilians who run this country are damned well going to get some action. Leave us pray.
Of course I love you, darling. But I don’t want to talk about love––not here and now. A brief survey of this office indicates that I am the only person in the place that knows anything about it. How could I help but love you and marry you when you taught me everything I know about it––and how it’s made.
Tonight I will write you a story. It wont be a pretty story. Someday I will write a pretty love story about us––but not tonight.
Love…
Kurt
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22 OCTOBER 45
LAMBIKINS:
I have requested that the sons of bitches kindly leave me alone long enough to write—a letter to you. One letter that came through here today began: “Dear War Department.” It was from Kentucky, naturally. Another one, forewarded to us from the White House, requesting a discharge, began, “Dear President,” and ended, after four blotchy, smeared, unpunctuated pages with, “Thank you for taking a little time to consider my case (It took me ten minutes––I wonder how long it took Harry). I know that you probably have a lot more important things to do than to have to listen to a plain G.I.’s troubles (He probably got that warped idea from reading newspapers) but I know that you are the only person that can help me in my trouble.” His main trouble, the one that Harry must at this moment be bending every sinew and brain-cell to rectify, was that he had been in the Army since May 26th (The day I was returned to American hands) and didn’t like it very well. His wife didn’t like the idea of his being in the Army either. I don’t blame her.
I’ve written two stories in two nights for you. That makes a total of four. If you can sell them for five dollars apiece that will make twenty more dollars in the bank––which we, darlings of fortune, are discovering is not ensilage. If you can’t get five dollars apiece or five dollars for the lot, I wont consider my time wasted if you apply a match to them and brew yourself a good hot cup of coffee on a cold day. Hock my sapphire cuff-links and shirt-studs and make a cafe diable.
Philip Wylie is my new God. Life here would be impossibly dull instead of unbearably dull if it weren’t for lusty and voracious feasts on Generation of Vipers. He has excited me to all kinds of ambitiousness, and a horrible disaster will take place at my hands if I don’t substitute order and truth for the bluff and reams of mis-information that has so far given me a tolerated place in polite society. AND IN YOUR NAIIVE HEART, Sweetheart. In sizing us up on Wylie’s scale of adjustment to life, I am happy to report that we are two wonderfully encouraging examples of integrated Common Men. We’ve not completed the process––i.e. reached Tao––but we ARE killing Bogeymen right and left. We’re righter than most.
I love myself so much more than I did before I married you. Have you noticed? That’s as it should be, I think. And if this is a happy marriage, an obscure and honest little text that I’ve just thought up should confirm its being a happy one: Do you love yourself more now than you did before we were married?
I love you, Darling––and miss you, according to the laws of Nature and Philip Wylie. I hope you have a baby.
L*O*V*E Kurt–
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Dear Woofy:
I’ll give you a gardinia when I get home––damned soon––if you’ll play Why Do I Love You––just the first part––twice a day––but softly.
Why do I?
Kurt
Romances Aesthetic
Are Damned Anaesthetic
Passion’s
The Fashion
Kisses represented in this letter and others amount to inflation––a damned site more than there are accumulated in the treasury.
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23 October 45
Dollbaby––
I wrote another story tonite. Honey––do me a favor and go over them for punctuation and other glaring mistakes––that is, IF they’re worth saving. If they’re not any good get the sons-of-bitches out of sight––and call it occupational therapy for neurotic veterans. Everybody says I can write
and I say that it’s a marvelous piece of intuition on their parts if it’s true––because this is the first goddamn time I ever wrote. This is a very nutty world.
I am at present studying to become a person and am at present staggered by the volume of study and effort that following demands. I guess the current problem before the Universe is how to become a person as well as feed one’s self in only eighty years of life. That’s what Guggenheim Fellowships are for––I suppose. Let’s get one––or two, rather.
X X X X X X X I love you, Angel. Oh God, yes! I’ve got a pang now––for all the damn good it’ll do either of us. I hope you have a baby. We’ll know soon.
A good guess is that I’ll be home on furlough sometime after the 20th of November––and I’ll be out for good by Christmas. That’s not very far away, dear heart. Oh Golly––I swear you’re perfect––for me.
Kurt
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“–
26 OCTOBER 1945
Friday………
Dollink:
I hate to have to thwart your proudest ambitions for me, Angel, but I don’t think I’ll ever be Assistant Cashier at the Fletcher Trust. I have decided to follow a carreer that will keep me out in the open and on my feet––like being a floor-walker. But office work? Jesus bless you, no. I am in an office now, and every damned time I turn around I foul them up for the next six weeks. I don’t think I’m very bright. At least the other bright-eyed young men in this place seem to know what’s going on––guys that haven’t been here as long as I. My ambition now is to keep the rest of the World (I feel that I owe you my confidence) from finding out that I am not bright. We’ve got about fifty years of blood, sweat and tears ahead of us. Bluffing the World for that long will not be easy. Are you up to it? Lean on me: I have 23 years experience.
At which point you say, “Ah, there, but you’re not 23––yet.” And I say, “True. But the time is not distant when I Launcelot Truehart will too be 23 years of age.” All of which serves to remind me that you will remind yourself to give me something. Well, it had damned well better not be anything a man can use in the Army. And it had damned well better not be anything expensive. And it had damned well better not be something that you don’t want yourself. And you’d damned well better keep it there, with you––and give it to me when I come home in furlough some time late in November. Do I make myself clear?
The first paragraph is novel subject matter: the story of a man who wasn’t bright but never knew he wasn’t bright, and by dazzling windfalls convinced the world that he was bright—and never disillusioned himself. He never found out he wasn’t bright because he wasn’t smart enough. Q.E.D.
Perchance I shall have a letter from you today. At present (9:30 A.M.) I’ve yet to hear from you and so am a little perturbed as to your well-being. You see, I still love you.
It’s too damned bad we aren’t equiped with more persistant and graphic memories. The minute I loose sight of you you stop being real to me. You stop loving me––or so it seems. And nothing will ever convince me that you do except your actually being with me. This is a narsty and chronic sort of torture that haunts me all the time. I am reading War and Peace. Does that make you happy? About my writing: mayhap I’ll make myself write another story soon. I’ve gone stale for a couple of days, following a vile outburst of three stories in three nights. They were written in the aura of a happy hangover from you. It lasted three nights and now lies dead and ashen.
I’ll be home between the 15th and the 20th of November. That’s not far off––it says here. The 60–69 pointers start pulling stakes on the First. I still say I’ll be in flannels (legitimately) by Christmas.
I owe you a love letter. It will come soon. Because I’m in love with you––that’s why it’ll come.
X (?) X X X X X X
Kurt
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“–
26 OCTOBER 1945 9:00 P.M.
Friday
This makes six I’ve written:
And you’d damned well better go over them all for spelling and punctuation before you send them to our agent. Mrs. Gould once told me that stories sent to him must be perfect. This is the fourth story I’ve written in less than a week––so I think I’m justified in thinking that I am entitled to sleep with you as a reward. That will I do in perhaps 20 or so days.
I love you or I wouldn’t have done this. Whether it’s good or bad has nothing to do with it. Good or bad it’s a work of love and somewhat pooping.
I love you.
Kurt
Other works by this author include: The Rose, The Clock, The Lunatic, The Bank Robbery, and The Hospital.
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October 24, 1945
Spaniel-eyes:
On November Eleventh I want you to do something very strange. I want you to seclude yourself for one-half hour in a noiseless, distractionless place. Do it between Nine and Nine-thirty, P.M., Central Standard Time. I’ll be doing the same thing. I want you to record every thought that occurs to you during that half-hour––Every damned thought, Woofy, no matter how obscure or untrue. If they run like this: “Mephistopheles…April…I’ll Never Smile Again…Feet hurt…” I want you to record them. Please make an honest effort to record all of them––pornography and everything. We’ll exchange copies and will, whether we get in telepathic phase with each other or not, have given each other a very genuine chunk of our souls. This can’t fail to be at least fascinating to have side by side exactly what you and I were thinking between 9 and 9:30 P.M. C.S.T. on November 11th, 1945. Not many people know what their mates are thinking for even a split second. This idea excites me.
So do you. I’m in love with you. XXXXXXX Kurt–– (over)
At the begginning of the seance I want you to start it off with thinking––”X-ONE-NINE, X-ONE-NINE”––over and over for, say, twenty times––then let your thoughts take you where they will. I’ll do the same, starting at 9 P.M. C.S.T.
I mailed your package to you.
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Happy Birthday––Dollink:
I love you most powerfully. Is this a happy birthday for you? Do you feel as I do that we (and we couldn’t do it if we were still you and I) are on our way to an honest and blissful life? I can’t get enthusiastic about me but I go wild making plans for us. Jesus, Lamby, what one helluva lot of fun! In sixty days or so we’ll be able to BEGIN IN EARNEST. From then on we’ll be together always. We’ll have lives that are ours––to have and to hold. We’ll start at Chicago––that much we know. And we’ll daydream our way from there. And I say we can’t miss. Oh Golly, Dear Heart, it’s not far off. Time passes some-how. And one day soon, before Christmas, I’ll be home (that’s with you) for good.
If I timed this right it will be your birthday, and you will be going to Phoebe’s for dinner. I hope they give you a happier birthday than I am able to do from here. If we had the price of a mink coat and not a penny more I think you know that I’d give you the mink. Come to bed with me, Baby, and I’ll give you a mink coat––but you’ll have to be patient.
Angel, please go over the crap I’ve written for spelling and punctuation. I suppose you already have. I can picture your reading along and suddenly looking pained; running to get a pencil to hide from the world the astonishing gaps in the education of your loving husband. I’ve tried writing stories about Germany several times––but I simply can’t do it. It makes me sick. I’ve forgot most of it, but part of me seems to remember and it must have been pretty terrible. So I’m not going to try writing about Germany again––not until I’m older.
I’m in love with you, Woofy. I’m sure I always will be.
Kurt
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Monday, 29 October 45—1:30 P.M.
I got a long remarkable letter from a remarkable woman by the name of Hurty. In this letter she says that she thinks both of us are pretty hot poop––which, for all I know, may be true. In her letter she criticises what I’ve written. What she says is true, dammit––namely that if I’m going to write anything good I’ve got to learn something about technique. So that’s what I think I’ll do––try to find out how it’s done. That, I suppose, involves work. Send what you’ve got to the agent, because I don’t think I’ll write any more until I get home––about 17 days from today. I don’t think, in the light of Phoebe’s comments, that the agent will be able to sell the stuff, but I think he’ll be sufficiently fascinated to make some constructive remarks, whereupon we will make all six of the stories saleable. Phoebe said that I am potentially as good as Saki. I don’t believe it, but on the preposterous outside chance that she is right and I am wrong I’ll give the demon that possesses me every possible opportunity.
Now then, Angel, about J.T. I’ve written him a letter which he may show you (demand to see it), asking him in a nasty way to please give you a moment’s peace. If threatening notes and phone calls persist, I order you to place the following add in the Star, Times and News for one day:
ATTENTION XMAS CARD SALESMEN––J.T. Alburger will buy all the Christmas Cards that you can deliver, paying top retail prices. Call Hu. 6224 at any time, night or day.
Love, Kurt Page 11
