Selected Letters of William Styron (66 page)

So, fine. It was truly good stuff you wrote, encouraging me for the really remarkable reasons you mentioned, and which I think only two writers, interchanging intuitions, could absorb or appreciate.

Now to finish the motherfucker. Meanwhile, I will be addressing myself to
OUR GANG
, and with anticipation. And we must do New York together more than once this fall and winter, although the city has begun to sadden me beyond measure. After the funeral mass with you the other day, Loomis and I went to a porno film on 6
^th
Ave.—the first hard-core flick, in living color, I’ve seen. I maintained about a ⅝ths erection throughout but two hours of all those throbbing cocks and slippery pink vaginas made me feel like Cato must have felt in the Roman mire, and I came out blinking into the bright light of 6
^th
Ave. feeling very downcast about the future of Fun City or any of us.

Keep the faith

Bill         

T
O
J
ACK
Z
AJAC
^‖bb

September 25, 1971 Vineyard Haven, MA

Dear Jack:

I held off writing you because I was awaiting final word on the African thing. Alas, it has had to be postponed, mainly due to the fact that our leader, Myles Turner, who would be essential to the trip, recently had a kidney operation in Arusha, Tanzania, and would be in no shape to go now.
^‖cc
This doesn’t mean, however, that the trip is forever off; as a matter of fact, we’re already re-cranking up new plans for a safari in the same place as early as next February, when the weather should even be better than October. So do not lose hope altogether by any means, and I can assure you that if there is any possibility of getting you onto the trip I will do my damndest to help do it.

Received your libidinous letter from Greece, which I shared with Rose and others, and also the flies which Tom is using joyously on our little stream down in Connecticut. Finally, I want to say how much I appreciate the dashing bush jacket, which is truly a groovy thing and in this slightly chilly autumn weather has caused me to set something of a fashion here on Martha’s Vineyard. Needless to say, it will accompany me to Nairobi.

Little else to report at the moment except to say that to my utter amazement I find myself in the midst of writing a play, my first. I don’t know if it’s going to work, but I love doing it, since it is about my experiences on the V.D. ward of a Naval Hospital during WW II, and concerns such characters as an evil, moralistic urologist named Dr. Glanz and will have lots of dripping tools and the first full-scale short-arm inspection ever seen on the American stage. I hope you will come to the opening if, God willing, there is an opening—no pun intended.

Rose is in Rox., while I labor here on the island. She tells me that your sculpture looks marvelous in the new big living room, and I’m anxious to
see it. Susanna is in school in Lugano, incidentally, and I hope she’ll look you all up when she comes to Rome sometime later. Meanwhile, I’ll keep you informed as to my own trek to Europe, which I hope will take place soon, after I finish my dramatic sojourn in the clap shack.
^‖dd
On this note, I send fond greetings to you all.

B—

T
O
P
HILIP
R
OTH

September 25, 1971 Vineyard Haven, MA

Dear Philip:

I have read
OUR GANG
and I think it is not only mostly hilarious but also a very important satirical document about a man who desperately needs this kind of treatment. It’s uncanny, I think, how well you’ve caught the tone of those droning evasions and fatuous half-truths put forth as “explanations.” Also your little extravaganzas are dead on target: the football skull session with the “spiritual coach,” etc., is worth the price of admission in itself. Indeed, each piece is, separately, so funny that I think you’re going to come in for a kind of criticism that you haven’t received before; namely, that this is the kind of book which really should not be read at one sitting, continuously, but should be savored at random and perhaps even haphazardly. That is the only criticism that I have, as a matter of fact: laughter is a difficult thing to sustain in one’s self for any great length of time, and this is a book which
demands
to be sampled. My friend Art Buchwald gave me a collection of his columns this summer. Most of the time, Art is an extremely funny man, but I noticed that in re-reading the columns in book form I was unable to go straight through. I think your book might have the same problem, which has to do with format rather than substance; but after all this comes down to being a voluntary matter on the part of the reader, and perhaps not ultimately important. What I really want to say is that it is a marvelously droll and
trenchant book—an important exercise in political satire—and I trust it’s a winner in every respect.

My own feelings about reviewing the book are rimmed round by the fact that I’ve just embarked, to my utter astonishment, on a
play
—doing something that I’ve never done before, not only the play itself but interrupting my
Marriott
novel to get it done. This play is about my infamous adventures in the clap shack during WWII, and it took off with such surprising speed and feeling of assurance (perhaps unwarranted but assurance nonetheless) that it has preoccupied me entirely for the last ten days. Rather than interrupt the thought processes, I’d better stick with it, and that is the real reason why I would be reluctant to do the review. It might not be much compensation, but I’d be delighted to contribute a quote or anything of that nature—perhaps Jason would get in touch with me about it.

Anyway, it’s a hell of a good book. You’ve removed Tricky’s clothes to let us see, in a kind of reverse-Emperor’s parable, what we’ve suspected all along: there’s
Nothing
underneath. So, many congratulations.

Bill

T
O
S
USANNA
S
TYRON
^‖ee

September 26, 1971 Vineyard Haven, MA

Dear Sue:

We certainly did enjoy your wonderful letter, written under a Lugano fig tree. I had great fun reading of your trials and adventures and am very, very happy that you are so happy. Pasta, as you well know, is a great temptation, and in that Italian-speaking part of the country a plate of fettucine must be truly superb (the Acapulco Gold of pasta); so I am especially glad and proud that you are resisting the temptation to go hog wild and turn yourself into a continental version of Rebecca Stuart.

Since the school recommends a car, I see no reason why you shouldn’t get one right away. I do think, however, you should confine your driving
to Lugano and immediate environs, at least for the next few months. As you know, I owe you an automobile, so it is entirely up to you what kind to get. A Rolls-Royce would be pretentious, an Alfa-Romeo is too fast. Any of those smaller cars you mentioned would be fine, but please try to keep the price down to a reasonable level by getting the straight, unadorned model which is not cluttered up with a lot of extras. Let me know what you decide and I will have the funds transferred to your bank there.

We certainly miss you, and speaking for myself, I just ache every time I walk by the little house on my way into town and realize that you aren’t there but are 10 light-years away. But we’ll see each other before too long, even though the African trip was postponed—really mean postponed, too, rather than cancelled, because we still have definite plans to do the trip next year, perhaps as early as February. Guess what? I’m writing a
play
—a morbid, sad play about a military hospital during World War II. Anyway, it’s going very well and quite fast and if I’m lucky I’ll have it done by the end of October—at which point I expect to take a vacation and come to Europe. Naturally, I’ll come to Lugano and pay you a visit, and you can drive me around the country in that car I will have bought you. Parenthesis:
Please
always drive carefully; from past knowledge I know that the Italians, even if they be Italian-Swiss, are like Teddy Kennedy after a long night’s party, so you must constantly keep an eye not only on the road but on the other maniac. Do be careful.

Please do let me know soon about how the school goes, and how you like it, etc. I have a sneaking feeling that you’re not going to find it like Harvard, but as you are well aware the most important thing for you at the moment is simply to be located in the heart of Europe with the opportunity to spend this extra year learning Italian and perfecting your French and seeing the continent. You shouldn’t take too lightly, however, what Franklin has to offer, because I also have a feeling that, even if it’s a new school just feeling its way, it may have some very valuable things to give and you shouldn’t overlook them. But also, have a good time; having a good time is, I’ve noticed, an activity at which generally speaking you’re very proficient—and that’s all to the good. And don’t forget reading, but I think that’s already in your blood.

Well, I really miss you awfully, but it does my weary heart good to at least know that you’re contented. Don’t forget to write. Mummy comes up on week-ends, and I imagine I’ll be here for several more weeks, so you’ll
know where to write. John Marquand said for me to give you an epistolary hug, which I do.

Much love,

Daddy

T
O
S
USANNA
S
TYRON

October 12, 1971 Vineyard Haven, MA

Dear Sue (Cara figlia mia):

Two pieces of good news I’ve received in the past couple of days. The first probably won’t interest you too much since it has to do with my taxes. Anyway I got the bill for my Vineyard Haven tax for this year and found they had been
reduced
by $800. Isn’t that extraordinary? It has to do with re-evaluation and other complex things, and the fact that we on the waterfront had been paying a larger share of tax than we should have for many years; but the important thing, as far as you’re concerned, is that it will make it a whole lot easier for me to pay for that new car of yours. So hooray for the new V.H. taxes.

Item No. 2: Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward, through their company, have bought JPM’s and my script,
DEAD!—A Love Story
for $125,000.
^‖ff
Isn’t that something? The news just came the other day. Actually, it’s only an option arrangement with a percentage down payment, but that is the usual thing in the movie business nowadays, and my agent, Don Congdon, is very optimistic about them actually doing the movie. More importantly, though, is the general feeling that they are going to try to do an honest movie with respect for the script itself. I talked to Newman over the phone, and he was very enthusiastic, giving me all sorts of assurances that the movie would be made in a way that honored the tragicomic nuances of the script, etc., and maybe I’m a sucker but I truly believed him. Now with your newly acquired cinematic expertise, you will have to be hired on this project as an advisor in some sort of capacity. Wouldn’t it be exciting if sometime next year when you are back in this
land and the movie is being made (the bucolic scenes around Roxbury), you could be taken on in some sort of groovy, integral capacity.

So there is something to think about. In the meantime, I want to say that I really love your letters, with their splendidly detailed account of your goings-on, your new apartment, your encounter with Proust (I greatly approve of this), and all the other exciting things that are happening to you. How I envy you, and with what amazement I think back on my own self at 16, and realize that I wasn’t half as grown-up as you are now, and would have been paralyzed with anxiety and embarrassment when faced with trying to do and accomplish 1-10
^th
of what you are doing.

I love and cherish your descriptions of Pascal Tone and his Heming-wayesque panache, also your sketches of the other Franklin characters.
^‖gg
By now, I’m sure that you and your beloved Mom will have thoroughly “done” the Lugano scene, and I can’t wait for her to return (day after tomorrow) to tell me everything in detail. She may have told you about some ghastly Kennedy Foundation symposium that I am supposed to take part in in Washington. That’s this week-end and I’m going to try to weasel out of it so that we can stay up here on the island instead and she can tell me all about your adventures together. The idea of engaging in a symposium with a bunch of biologists on the subject of birth defects, and then being loaded on a bus to go to a black-tie dinner at the Shrivers, depresses me so much that it makes my back teeth ache. I’m going to try and worm out of it somehow.

I’ve got almost 50 pages done on the play—that’s about half—and the progress I’ve made makes me feel very happy. Incidentally, this is more about hospital life than about the military, but in any case I have found that I have always written best when thinking about places and events that caused me misery.

I really miss you but, as you say, it won’t be too long before we’ll be together again and chew over our various experiences. Do take care of yourself. DRIVE CAREFULLY (slowly mainly), and keep reading. And WRITE me from time to time. I love you very much.

XXXXX

Papa

T
O
S
USANNA
S
TYRON

November 10, 1971 Roxbury, CT

Dear Sue:

I’m writing this while you are undoubtedly in the depths of some Turkish opium den, and hope the mails are fast enough so that this will reach you in Lugano around the time of your arrival. We received your itinerary of the trip throughout Greece and Turkey and it sounds fabulous. Also received was your postcard from Greece with your description of your ouzo-drinking bout below decks with the crew. You sure do get around for a gal of sixteen.

Your ma and I went to a preview of Neil Simon’s new play,
^‖hh
directed of course by M. Nichols, and then (this was last night) went out with Mike for dinner—a fine time, really, but as usual I am getting more and more fed up with Fun City and can’t wait to get back here in the country. The play was funny enough, but instantly forgettable—not at all like the drama of your paw’s, which is nearing completion; that is, I’m about halfway through the second of two acts. It’s both very sad and very funny, this play I’m writing, and the best news I can send you so far is that Bob Brustein—of or than whom there is no finer judge in the world—listened to me read the first act not long ago, and absolutely adored it, instantly offered to stage it at Yale, where no doubt it will be put on late this spring. Naturally, to get Bob’s kind of professional reaction and to find it so wholeheartedly positive and favorable is an enormous boost to my morale and I am proceeding in high spirits.