Selected Letters of William Styron (12 page)

My work, I hope, will be neither pessimistic nor optimistic, nor will it, I hope, belong to any “school.” I’m interested in people and in their eternal dilemma, and if I can give to these artistic substance, I will be satisfied. If I have any “message” I don’t know what it is, unless it be that of
kindness
, which, expressed just like that, may sound rather trite, but which I’m coming to believe in as a principle of considerable importance.

Now then, I hope you will forgive me for having been so tedious, but I thought that you might be interested in knowing that one who profited so in having you as a teacher and friend has been in the process of coming to grips with himself, and is now prepared to do things.

How do you like living at 901 Fifth St.?
^*n
I understand from Brice and others that my ex-roommate left the place in something of a shambles. I imagine the apartment is pretty hot now, but will be compensated in that matter by the jolly heat you’ll get in winter. I haven’t heard from Mac Hyman lately, but I intend to write him in a few days and get the news.

Please write and let me know how things go with you. Wish we could have a martini together with Brice and my favorite old manse—814 6
^th
St.

As ever,

Bill S.

T
O
W
ILLIAM
C
ANINE
^*o

October 6, 1949 Valley Cottage, NY

Dear Bill,

First, allow me to congratulate you, as they say, with great joy upon the coming of Andrew. Next to the red convertible I think he’s the finest acquisition you could make. Please tell Emily that I’m proud of her; I can’t wait to see how A. stacks up against David, and I’m glad to hear that the newcomer hasn’t evoked any nasty jealousy, or “sibling rivalry,” as the nasty psychologists call it. Anyway congratulations—probably hard to take in the light of the fact that 18 years from now you’ll be buying not one, but two, brand-new Buicks.

Now, on this Thursday, is one of those certain days, after completing something in the book that I like, when I let go and take it easy and contemplate things. The radio is tuned to WNYC-FM, which has a two-hour program of music every afternoon; right now WQXR-FM has a program at noon, then WNYC, then WQXR again and then WABF at five—the best station of them all. So if one wants to, by graceful manipulation of the dial, one can get music all day. Which is nice, but it takes a dreadful
lot of self-control to keep the radio off while attending to work. Much as I love music—obviously so, I think, a gross form of lust—I find I can’t write worth a damn while actually listening, though I can write letters, where you can express yourself freely without too much attention to the strictness of A.C. Jordan. Incidentally, the fall colors are all out now in full dress uniform, so the
Pastoral
adds sort of a noble grace to the afternoon.

I got a very depressing letter from Brice. His troubles are truly heart-rending, and I hope that they come to a head soon, because if something definite happens it’ll take the burden off his shoulders a lot. However, I do hope, too, that nothing violent happens. I think he should give Exie the old bowling-ball group and heave her up to Main Street, but I guess that’s asking for too much.

I have what I think must be the equivalent of 100 typewritten pages done on the novel, all of which, due to my tortoise-like “art,” will probably stand as they are with no rewriting or retouching. I’ve been harried and worried to death whether the last couple of chapters were significant, integral, but now that I’ve completed them I think they’re OK and that they’ll remain. I was very foolish, I think, to attempt such a difficult story, with all the flashbacks and complications of character; however, it’s too late now for regrets, and I have to keep beating my way through the wilderness. Doesn’t writing provide an excellent means of soul-searching? You find so much in a character that’s actually your
self
that it’s almost embarrassing.

I think we beginning writers tend to worry a thing to death, though. Best thing to do is to sit back often and take it easy and consider your own very
minor
importance. You can do that too often, of course, but a sudden sense of humor is a great and healthy thing.

I’m awfully glad to hear that your stories are coming along with such success. I’ll try and get a copy of the
Prairie Schooner
sometime when I’m in London (Christ! What am I thinking of: there was an English prof. from the Univ. of Durham, England up here last weekend, a very fine fellow who found ⅓ of the new Boswell MSS.
^*p
That’s what caused the slip.)
when I’m in N.Y., rather, but if I can’t find one I wish you’d send me a copy.

I haven’t written any short stories in some time now. One I wrote a few months ago, concerning the Virginia School, is still out.
^*q
I thought it was a good story, of its sort—whatever that may be—but I doubt if it’ll meet with any success, except perhaps in a little magazine. You know, there’s a great conspiracy working against unpublished writers, always has been, I guess. It’s entirely obvious to me that the
Atlantic
and
Harper’s
publish cultivated trash by prissy Englishmen and horrible crap, “folk” stuff in dialect by Kentucky schoolteachers, whereas the little magazines and quarterlies still, by and large, print the quality fiction. If you’ve got a name you can get by with most anything. Not that it bothers me too much. I’ve got a lot of patience and I know there’ll come a day … but it does seem a shame.

I haven’t read much of Eudora Welty, but it does seem to me, from what I have read of her short stories, that the stuff is fairly pale
^*r
She doesn’t seem to want to commit herself to anything, emotionally or intellectually, either, and thereby commits the crime, as you indicated, of women writers in general—seeing life through pastel-tinted spectacles, lovely in its way but not in clear white focus. Of course, any writer has his own particular distortion of view, but I want my figures, no matter how grotesque, to breathe at least a lot of real air. I think, too, that the Deep-South “school” of writing, outside of Faulkner, tends to go in for a lot of unnecessary baby-talk which, like baby-talk, is charming for a while, but can be overdone. I don’t know if you’ve noticed that, but I think I can point out what I mean sometime.

Well, hell, I still respect greatly the manly art of fiction. I believe, with Forster (did you read the
Harper’s
article?) in Art for Art’s Sake, mainly because I’m just not versatile enough a soul to be a scientist or a doctor or an insurance executive, too. I have such a footless and indolent nature that whatever imagination I can summon up has to be channeled into writing,
or else go to waste. It’s a rough job but maybe it’s worth it, bomb and all, and perhaps, too, we’ll both be famous someday and have our pictures on the front of
Time
, complete with warts and wrinkles and profound symbols hovering in the background.

Best to all, and write soon.

Your,

Bill S.

P.S. I’d appreciate if you’d send me Snitger’s new address.

T
O
E
LIZABETH
M
C
K
EE

November 10, 1949 901 Fifth Street, Durham, NC

Dear Miss McKee:

That story
The Enormous Window
, which I sent you last summer, I imagine you have withdrawn by now from circulation. If not, I have a possibility for publication. Unfortunately there is no payment involved, but at this stage of the game I am working on the principle that publication most anywhere is better than no publication at all.

Dr. Charles I. Glicksberg of the New School is getting up another volume, second in a series called
American Vanguard
, devoted to younger writers. I’m fairly sure he’ll take
The Enormous Window
. So, if you’ll send the MS. to Mrs. Agnes de Lima, c/o The New School, 66 W. 12
^th
St., she will see that he gets it, and I’d be much obliged. I’d also be interested in hearing what comments, if any, were passed on the story.

The novel is about three-fifths done. With good luck I hope to have it all done before next summer.

Sincerely,

Wm C. Styron

T
O
W
ILLIAM
B
LACKBURN

January 7, 1950 Valley Cottage, NY

Dear Professor Blackburn,

I have played the two Monteverdi madrigals over and over and I can certainly understand why they are among your chiefest delights. It certainly is dark and tragic and heart-rending music, and I thank you so much for introducing me to it. All these centuries separate us from that soulful composer, but there’s no denying that when those frenzied voices shout at the tomb it is a threnody no less poignant and meaningful right now. Mr. Truman just let me know that the State of the Union leaves much to be desired, I turned him off and turned on Monteverdi, figuring that though the latter might not have had the answer his lament was sweeter and more abiding than Harry’s. Thank you ever so much for giving me the pleasure.

I’m struggling through to the end of the book and I should, if all goes well, have it done in a month or so. It takes a lot of effort from time to time to avoid the creeping paralysis which seems to be hovering in the air these days, but so far I’ve come out on top. I’m too close to the end to be vanquished and, anyway, the pressure has given me a real sense of urgency. Like most everyone else I have a fidgety sort of feeling that my hands will be radioactive long before their work is done, but like everyone else I go on anyway. It’s really becoming a pretty good book, which I’m glad of, because it makes me go on with increasing courage. I’m practically into the last scene, which is the day of Peyton’s death, and I have no doubt that
that
part will be effective. Then comes the baptism at twilight and that’s the last scene of all and will be filled with a valiant, if faintly wistful, hope.

I’m looking forward also to coming to Durham when the book is done—in March maybe, and I’ll happily take up your invitation to rest for a few days at Blackburn manor. The place sounds very nice indeed. I hope everything is going well with you and that you aren’t finding these days too tough to bear. I don’t know
why
but I somehow think we’ll endure; it’s hard to get rid of Monteverdi and Mozart, really, or of the people who love them so. Don’t you think?

As ever,

Bill S.

T
O
L
EON
E
DWARDS

January 19, 1950 Valley Cottage, NY

Dear Leon,

It’s about time for me to send you an adequate reply to both of your very full and enjoyable letters, so here goes. First, let me say that I’m happy to hear that your life, connubial and scholastic, seems to be proceeding in such a fine and gallant fashion. I do hope, and know, you’ll keep up the good work. The Ph.D. Business sounds fine to me—alas! I seem to have missed the main chance long ago, and I have a sneaking suspicion that I should be on
your
road instead of mine—and I sort of imagine that when the sweating over my eighth unreadable novel, you’ll be the head of the Harvard English Department with a shelf full of criticism to your credit, two shelves of novels, and the Nobel prize. I admire your courage and tenacity and direction greatly, you’ll never know.

As for me, I just recently finished typing what I hope is the final draft of the first half of my novel, to be known as
The Death of Peyton Loftis
, and to be published, I hope, in the first part of next year. I’m fairly well along on the second half and hope to have the whole business done by mid-summer, although I suspect it’ll really take me until fall, at my rate of speed. What one will behold at the end of all this, I really don’t know. I have a feeling that it won’t be as good as I think it is in my moments of exaltation, nor really so bad as I believe it to be in my periods of desperation. Let us say that it’ll be a very good first novel, and an absolute wonder in the light of who wrote it. Let us wait and see. Hiram Haydn is quite ecstatic about it, says nothing at all needs to be changed, and he gave me some much-needed money, but I think he has some sort of weird fixation on me. At any rate, I feel as good about things at the moment as is possible in one so universally morose, so hooray!

If you are at all like me, this is the way the symptoms of novel-sickness manifest themselves: At first, as I have pointed out, you waver between hysterical joy, and suicidal despondency. Of course, this is common to neurotics in general, but is increased a thousand times in people foolish enough to write a book. On a more minute and casual plane this manic state applies to the slightest word or phrase you venture to put on paper. You ponder a sentence. Perhaps by most critical standards the sentence is good. Perhaps it isn’t, but let’s say it is in this case. The monstrous thing is
still the fact that, being good, it could be better and you know it. The metaphor is concise and handsome but it could be conciser and more handsome.
That
worries you. Then there’s the problem of “pure art.” There are a lot of things, thousands of things, you’d just
love
to put down, but you know you can’t or at least shouldn’t, because it would hinder the narrative or because it’s simply out of place. That worries you, because you wonder if such a beautiful inspiration will occur at another time. This has been a constant bother to me, because my book is complicated enough to begin with, feeble enough in its structure, to be saddled with sheer extraneous prose. Then there’s the problem of honesty, which I mentioned to you, I believe, at another time. It’s very important to me that I don’t try to exceed myself, which I seem to do, nevertheless, each time I put pen to paper. The old incessant upsurge of banalities, pseudo-poetry, emotional excess. A constant threat. I could go on and on: the threat of fame, or lack of it, wondering whether this will be read by important people or not (a very nasty symptom, to be got rid of as soon as your temperature goes down); the impulse to rush, to see yourself in print (also a nasty syndrome, as the psychologists put it); and the final horror: is it really worth all this trouble?