Selected Letters of William Styron (48 page)

Selma says the kids are flourishing and I know you enjoyed seeing them in Baltimore. I hope we’ll be able to see you in the spring. Love to both of you from both of us.

Bill

T
O
R
OBERT
L
OOMIS

April 3, 1962 Hotel Lotti, Paris, France

Dear Bob: As of this Thursday “Set This House on Fire” is the #3 bestseller in France. There is only one list (in
L’Express
) of 10 books and it includes both fiction and non-fiction, so this is something of a rare phenomenon, especially since there are only two other fiction works on the list (one of them Salinger’s “Nine Stories,” #6 or 7, I believe). I have even outstripped Shirer’s “Third Reich.” The man at the French-American cultural
center who gave me the advance news, and who seems to have firm knowledge in such matters, said that he was fully confident that next month (the list is publicized only monthly, incidentally) it would be #1; and he added that so far as he knew this had not happened to an American novel since the war. The reviews continue to be fantastic. I’ve been trying to get a copy of the review in
Le Monde
, which of course is the French counterpart of
The N.Y. Times
. They ordinarily don’t give much space to novels, especially foreign ones, but as Romain Gary pointed out to me they treated the book more as a news story, and the article is long and laudatory in the extreme. I’ll send it to you soon.

I’ve finally gotten to work on Nat Turner and it is proceeding well. I’m going to stay here alone for about three weeks, returning to Rox. on April 21
^st
. The German trip was very tiring but fascinating, and I suspect I’ll never again do so much flying. Frankfurt is a sheer drag, resembling Bridgeport, but Berlin is an amazing place to see, especially the other side of the famous wall in East Berlin, where the world suddenly turns unutterably gray and dismal. There everything remains in complete devastation, and any rosy concept of Communism has to be abandoned in East Berlin. I had great audiences everywhere (in Berlin they had to pipe the proceedings by loudspeaker to the overflow in the lobby) and it is really touching to see how all these young people really dig American lit. I had to go all the way to Munich, incidentally, to finally meet my neighbor Arthur Miller, and flew with him and his wife from Munich to Paris.

Drop me a line. I know Rose would love some company in Roxbury, so why don’t you arrange a week-end while I’m gone?

Love to all, especially Gloria Margerainelle Loomis and Fat Di.

B.

T
O
R
OSE
S
TYRON

April 5, 1962 Hotel Lotti, Paris, France

Dearest Mouse: Enclosed are what may be three items of interest: the bestseller list from
L’Express
, which came out today; the expert review in
Le Monde
, which I finally got hold of; and Romain Gary’s “attack” on
Southern writers in
Candide
.
^TT
The sub-head of the last piece, as you can no doubt tell, reads: “Stop your eternal groaning over the poor Negro, Mr. Faulkner. Cease so exquisitely cultivating your guilt Mr. Styron.” But the tone is rather light-hearted and all in all it’s a rather clever piece.… While I think of it, I may as well mention the other enclosure—the authorization forms for income tax which Ader sent me and which I think he’s already written you about. I hadn’t realized it would be so enormous—over $15,000 for both last year and this year—so maybe to be on the safe side you should get in touch with John Motz and have them transfer at least $10,000 to the Baltimore checking account, and then write out those two checks accordingly. Anyway, as you know, it has to be postmarked no later than April 15
^th
.

I loved getting your letter and learning about the smooth trip and about all the dear little mice. They sound wonderful and I know they really flipped when they saw you, + vice versa. I long to see them but it will be even more fun to see them in the Roxbury spring. Speaking of which, “April in Paris” is a fraudulent phrase, as I have never seen the weather here quite so dreary, wet, chill, and dismal. I am hoping that it will let up, but my hopes are not too high. I have been on the verge of a cold, but Cordiel touted me onto Vitamin C which I’ve been taking in quantities and which so far has staved off a major attack.

T. Capote called me this morning and we had lunch at the Ritz and as usual his communication was one long malicious delight. His malice ranged from Mailer to Salinger to Jamie Hamilton to Jackie Kennedy and I enjoyed every second of it. He took special pains to tell me to send my fond regards to you—he remembers you with great affection. He has with him a hideous English bulldog named Charlie whom he spoils outrageously and feeds pâté from the table. I also saw in the lobby of the Ritz your friend and mine Connie Bessie, and we’re going to get together sometime. Paris is getting to be about as exotic as Grand Central Station.

Tonight I’m making my last public appearance—the lecture at the French-American cultural center. I somehow dread it—these things are getting to be a drag—but I guess I’ll pull through all right. Jim and Moss
are going along for support and afterwards there is to be a small dinner chez Jacques Faro. So I suppose it could be worse.

I miss you and all the mice enormously. Are Ethel and Terry O.K.? Give them my fond regards. And also Gerry, of course. Kisses all around, and much love from your own

W.S.

T
O
R
OSE
S
TYRON

April 9, 1962 Hôtel Lotti, Paris, France

Dearest Mouse: It was lovely talking to you both times and hearing all the kiddies’ voices and surprising and delightful, also, to hear Red Warren’s unique Kentucky accent from 3,000 miles.
^UU
I miss you all very much and though I am indeed profiting greatly, I think, from three weeks by myself, I will be happy to come home to Roxbury. As it is, I plan to take the 11:00 P.M. Air France flight from Orly on the 21
^st
and will arrive at Idlewild at 3:30 P.M. or thereabouts. If you would like to meet me I will be happy and we can go back to Roxbury the same afternoon. I’ve received a couple of your letters since Sunday’s phone call and enjoyed them both. As for the Mercedes, why don’t you go ahead and have them re-paint it at the St. Denis Body Shop—whatever color you choose. As for your item #2, you might as well go ahead and pay the Roxbury town tax. If, as you say, we have around $10,000 in Baltimore and if Motz put in $10,000 more, we should have an adequate amount for the immediate future, including payment of all taxes. Item #3: I should think $50 to the Rumsey Development fund should be enough. Item #4: tell Mr. Sanderson that I just can’t make the Suffield Academy writer’s thing.
^VV
Incidentally, I wish you would also ask him if he got a letter from Eliz. McKee, telling him that I couldn’t participate. The reason I want you to do this is because, when you and I were first here at the Lotti and Eliz. was forwarding my mail, she included a letter from Sanderson about the same thing. I wrote her back, asking her
to write him, saying no. It would seem possible now that Eliz. failed to write him, as I had asked. If this is so, it certainly would be another reason for me to quit her, and that’s why I’m asking you to ask Sanderson.

Apparently, while
STHOF
has been making the big stir in Paris,
The Long March
begins a belated ovation in London. Truman Capote called me excitedly this morning from the Ritz, saying, “Honey, haven’t you
seen
the reviews?” I said I hadn’t, whereupon he told me that yesterday (Sunday) he had read the reviews of
The Long March
in the
Observer
and the
Sunday Times
, and added: “They’re the most fantastic reviews I’ve ever seen, sweetie, why you’re the biggest thing in London since
King Kong
.” I haven’t seen them as yet, but Truman is going to pass them on to me, and I’ll send them to you. The enclosed review from
The Spectator
was sent to me by Jamie Hamilton. Aside from the gibberish at the beginning about “moody gravy” and “burdensome obligations,” it certainly is what might be called a rave review. Somehow though, withal, I still regard the British with a jaundiced eye, and have very little respect for their critical opinions, pro or con.

Tonight Jim and Moss are giving me some kind of party. Mary McCarthy is to be there and Truman, and my “date” is to be that nice faggot John Ashbery, so feel no qualms.
^WW
I think it will be fun. A session of bitching between Truman and Mary McCarthy should be a spectacle to be witnessed about once in 50 years.

All my love to the little mice and save great hunks for yourself, for I miss you. And say great hellos to Ethel, Terry, Jerry, et al.

Much love,

B.

T
O
R
OSE
S
TYRON

April 16, 1962 Hotel Lotti, Paris, France

Dearest Mouse: Since I see by the calendar that this is Monday, and since you probably won’t get this until Thursday, this is probably the last letter
I’ll be writing. (Incidentally, I hope you’ll be forwarding no more mail to me after receiving this.) I received both your letters this A.M. and enjoyed them both immensely. They
breathe
Roxbury and I can’t wait to get there and smell the spring. It was also lovely talking to you and the pumpkin-heads yesterday, despite the evil weather both here and there. About the call from Mr. Hadley of the State Dept., tell them I wouldn’t mind seeing the Hollander, provided I don’t have to travel anywhere to see him. I’m utterly tired of traveling, but will have no objection to meeting him on my home turf. You might keep in mind, by the way, that I have to speak to Dick Lewis’ class at Yale on the morning of the 24
^th
, but any other time will be O.K. Meanwhile, my last week here—aside from afternoons with Nat Turner, which keeps me busy—promises to be full. Cordier is giving a dinner for me on Wednesday night at
La Grande Severine
, the chi-chi restaurant which Maurice Girodias owns. Jules Dassin is going to be there (with the sultry Greek, of course) and other assorted movie cats. Tomorrow night dinner with Paul Jenkins, Thursday night with Abe Rattner + wife + the Joneses, and Friday night some kind of a party
chez
the uncle of Jean Stein vanden Heuvel, who is passing through with her husband en route to Warsaw, of all places. A busy week, as the French say. The book is still going at a great clip. I got a letter from Maurice Coindreau in Sweet Briar (he sends his regards to you) who said that the greatest review yet was in a journal called
Democratic 62
(I haven’t seen it) which said that the book was the most revolutionary foreign book to appear in France since
Ulysses
. So there, Arthur Mizener. These have been good weeks for me but I’m truly anxious to get home. I have only one question about my arrival. How on earth are you going to get the entire gang into the Mercedes?

Love to you and all the chicks.

B.

T
O
W
ILLIAM
B
LACKBURN

May 2, 1962 Roxbury, CT

Dear Professor: —I had a curious experience last Sunday night, and I thought you might be interested in hearing about it. It does not seem to me quite real, but I shall try to convey my impressions of the event. While
I was in France, Rose received an invitation which went: “The President and Mrs. Kennedy request the company of Mr. and Mrs. Styron at dinner, April 29
^th
, in honor of Nobel Prize winners.” Since, aside from James Baldwin,
^XX
I was the only “younger” writer invited to the affair, you can imagine that I was somewhat baffled, if pleased, by the summons (I have also learned that it is considered unpardonable to decline such an invitation—not that I was about to). Anyway, we went, accompanied by Van Wyck Brooks, who was exceedingly nervous, and by Baldwin, a fact which made us both feel somewhat like Huck and Jim. There was plenty of booze, and at the pre-dinner festivities I found myself wedged between Linus Pauling and President Stratton of M.I.T., getting very drunk indeed (I was taking antibiotics for an earache, and I have since discovered that this accelerates the action of alcohol by roughly 100%).
^YY
At 8:20 Jack and Jackie came into the East Room, preceded by flags, and to the sound of “Hail to the Chief.” The receiving line was formed alphabetically (I am always at the end of such lines), and as I staggered past our hosts, I hear Jackie say to me: “Hi there! You’re a friend of John and Sue’s (Marquand)!” I am not being irrelevant—nothing was irrelevant about that evening—since it then occurred to me that perhaps I had been invited because I
was
a friend of John and Sue’s; but then, why not John and Sue too? At any rate, we went in to dine, and I found myself at Mrs. Robert Kennedy’s table, flanked by the wives of two Nobel prize winning biochemists and physicists, and within whispering distance of, on the right, President Pusey of Harvard and, on the left, J. Robert Oppenheimer, also Ralph Bunche, who I think sensed that I was of Southern origin and therefore paid me no never mind.
^ZZ
Oppenheimer was utterly charming, and I am
here to report that Pusey is one of the crashing knuckleheads of all time. The dinner was splendid, including the wine, which because of the achromycin I was taking fogged me up to the point of incomprehensibility. After dinner there was a boring reading by Fredric March of a garbled and wretched piece of an unpublished Hemingway manuscript; it was done in semi-darkness, and most of the Nobel prize winners—many of whom are over 70—nodded off to sleep. That was the end of the evening—or so I thought. Just as I, with all the rest, was preparing blearily to make my departure, I was accosted by an Army major in full dress (they are all over the place and act as a kind of chaperone) who said (I will swear to this on a stack of bibles): “The President would like you and Mrs. Styron to join him upstairs in his private quarters.” In my drunken state it then flashed over me meanly: “Aha! It’s just as I suspected. The son of a bitch is after my wife.” Anyway, we went upstairs in the private elevator, to the tootling of the Marine Corps band, and entered Kennedy’s drawing room. Those selected for this special treat numbered only six: Rose and myself, Mr. and Mrs. Lionel Trilling, Robert Frost, and Fredric March.
^*aa
A motley crew indeed. I was sitting in the presidential rocking chair when His Excellency entered. The obvious parallel is an obscure poet lolling on the throne of Louis XIV. Rose tells me that when we rose to greet him I was so blind out of my skull that I simply sank back into the rocking chair. Kennedy took this with remarkable (and democratic) grace: he sat down on a couch and began talking with Robert Frost (it turns out that it wasn’t Rose at all he was after, or
perhaps
not). Diana Trilling had the look of a woman who had just been struck a glancing but telling blow by a sledgehammer; Lionel was nervous, but reasonably urbane. One had the feeling (though I confess I shared the feeling to some degree) that for Diana, at least, it was all a dream. Presently then the Palace Guard came in: Pierre Salinger, Bobby and Ethel, one of the other sisters, the simple-minded brother-in-law who runs the peace corps, etc.
^*bb
I spent most of the hour talking with
Jackie, who I must say has a great deal of charm, and I treasure her promise to take us out on the presidential yacht when we are across the Sound from Hyannisport this summer. At about midnight, turned once again into a pumpkin or whatever it was Cinderella turned into, this phase of the party broke up; we bade our host and hostess adieu, and were conveyed in the limousine of the Attorney General (he reminds me of nothing so much as a young lion cub, hot-eyed and panting) to the home of Arthur Schlesinger in Georgetown, and there from Schlesinger himself, an affable gent, I learned why I had been so honored this evening. It turns out, according to Schlesinger, that
Set This House on Fire
is, and has been for some time, the most “controversial” book that the intellectuals at the White House have been reading.
^*cc
Some of them hate it, some of them love it passionately, but it causes constant and violent arguments, and they have just wanted to get a look at the instigator. Never underestimate the power of the written word. At any rate, it was a jolly time, but in case you feel I have been overly detailed, I would like to say that I just wanted to get it down in writing; it’s not just like every Sunday dinner, after all.