To Margaret Staats
June 6, 1966 [Chicago]
I suppose I’d better take it easy. It’s dreadful how I miss you. All the oldest, worst longings are stirred up—some seem very old, wild, peculiar, something like wrinkled furies along the line of marsh. I see them by the roadside. What I think continually, about you, does not seem to make sense. I can’t say that I
know
what I’m doing. What’s more, I’m aware that you, too, are an odd one—
must
be odd—and I become afraid of destruction exactly where I feel most certain and most (even biologically) safe.
So today—cloudy, muggy—I go into the street, and I feel a terrible, anxious, devouring bondage, and I try to detach myself, almost by suggestion, from the leaves which stream along in the breeze. One could simply be tranquil and free—like
that
.
It’s also like the thought of being with you—all pleasure. Almost all freedom, but only almost. I keep wondering—doubting that you can long accept me. Not that that would stop me, but it is anxious-making.
But it is love. What can one do about that?
To Margaret Staats
[n.d.]
Like a walrus then she kissed him
Wet and whiskered, weighing tons
Pink-and-gray-reticulated
With pale eyes like polar suns
—Frozen yellow polar suns
Spiral of the cosmic floes!
On her violet bristles bright
She blows with weighty daintiness
Her bubble of marine delight
—Frothing with marine delight.
Kisses from a walrus
Wet and croaking, weighing tons
Pinkish gray her belly swelling
And pale eyes like polar suns
—Frozen yellow polar suns
Spirit of the cosmic floes!
Over violet bristles bright
She blows upon deep pillows
Her bubbles of marine delight
—Frothing gaily with delight.
To Sondra Tschacbasov Bellow
June 8, 1966 [Chicago]
Dear Sondra,
I have added thirty dollars to cover Adam’s tennis lessons. I shall continue, as in the past, to pay for his needs—within reason. It came as news to me that you were sending him to camp in August. When we discussed his summer plans, you said he would be in Chicago during the month of August, after his visit with me. I think I should be consulted about such arrangements. I am however prepared to pay the camp fee. Please ask Journey’s End to bill me directly, as last year.
I understand from [my lawyer] Mr. [Marshall] Holleb that an increase in my monthly payments for Adam is still under consideration.
Sincerely,
To Margaret Staats
June 18, 1966 [Chicago]
For the first time, I feel I’ve gone out to a dangerous depth with you. Friday P.M. gave me a bad shock. You didn’t tell me you were going out with anyone. Your only date was with [—] and his parents on Sat. The Friday man did not seem to me a casual date, but, judging from your changed tone towards me, one that means something to you. You didn’t want to express feeling towards me in his presence. I thought, in fact, that you wanted to get rid of me. I’ve never before felt that you were anything but straight with me; but these last twenty-four hours I’ve felt it, terribly, wondering whether being in love with you isn’t my ticket to destruction.
At the hotel, once, you said “Don’t leave me,” and had tears in your eyes. Now I’m not sure I can leave. Aren’t you doing something with
that
?
When I guessed what the doorbell meant, you sounded guilty. You sounded ashamed.
Maggie—what are you up to?
To Margaret Staats
July 17, 1966 [Chicago]
Today, Sunday, working away in my room, my only refuge, I have such a loving heartache for you I wonder how I bear it. It seems I am only postponing the natural, inevitable, desirable. To obey “advice.” It simply doesn’t seem right.
What
am I doing here, in this city! If we feel and mean what we say we had better be ready to do what’s necessary.
To Margaret Staats
August 3, 1966 [East Hampton]
According to Wm. Blake the road to excess leads to the palace of wisdom. This time it seems to have led elsewhere. We must have missed a turning. I wish I were there to give comfort and love. There’s plenty of both here.
To Richard Stern
August 11, 1966 East Hampton
Dear Richard:
Well, it is Louse Point, nothing can be done about it, and a very agreeable place notwithstanding the name. I thought Buffalo would be straight out of Lucian’s
Satires
, or Quevedo. I would have gone with chlorate of lime, or whatever it is they put in cesspools. But at least [John] Barth was decent; I would have thought so. It’s a pity he has to have the treatment, though. He’ll end up ridiculous. The
Times
review was very unfortunate for him, since after the great claims came a quoted paragraph that belonged in the wastepaper basket. All that Shakespearean tupping has a wicked backlash.
Meantime I have been weaving my own modest little fabric of disasters. Though the surroundings be green and cheerful—white sands, scallop shells—you can hear the spiritual plutonium working up to fusion-heat.
The younger generation is still dreaming of things to come. Lisa is a lovely child. She and Kate were charming together, going into a girl-huddle that lasted hours. As for Daniel, he goes into a corner and says he has found a parking space. Susan is fine. We see a lot of the [Harold] Rosenbergs. Harold now belongs to the Committee [on Social Thought]. Some action, for once.
I get into NYC now and then to look after business and see my friends. Nobody, to quote Berryman, is missing. I asked Candida, but she had little or no information. When may we expect something from your pen? as they used to ask.
I don’t know whether what is developing is the strength of the mature or the increased callousness of middle age.
Love to all,
John Barth’s novel
Giles Goat-Boy
had been favorably received in
The New York Times Book Review
and elsewhere.
To Richard Stern
[Postmarked East Hampton, N.Y., ? September 1966]
Amigo—
Still on the social barricades of East Hampton—day after Labor Day, the elite remains. Still in a Mexican standoff, as Peltz calls it. Preparing to go abroad two weeks. Have set aside most everything to write a memoir of D. Schwartz. Turns out to be quite a document. We’ll be here until Sept 15th. Miss your cheerful being.
Love,
Delmore Schwartz had died of a heart attack in July.
To Margaret Staats
October 11, 1966 [Chicago]
Honey, I’m beginning to feel a little better. I can’t tell you how
hurt
I was. And I simply folded and slept a few days. It was convenient too. But I’m awake now. My brother-in-law, Janey’s husband, is in the hospital with another coronary. It’s doubtful that he’ll be able to go on working. I don’t know what my sister will do. She hasn’t asked for help; refused when I offered it. I suppose they have a bit of money.
Suddenly, after years of complaining, she tells me what a gentle, inoffensive and kind man he’s always been. I’m never surprised by what I hear. No more. He
is
long-suffering, that’s certainly so. And a simple soul. I’ve known him since I was twelve, and he’s something of a brother. I’m going to the hospital this evening to see him.
Love from Y[our]D[arling]
To Sondra Tschacbasov Bellow
November 2, 1966 Chicago
Dear Sondra:
Thank you for your letter. In answering, I shall try to state the facts as I see them.
Adam is, as you say, nine years old, not thirty. He is in a difficult position and it is inevitable that he should exaggerate and misrepresent. At the time when I am supposed to have told him that I would have no more children, he was no more than five or six. Is it really likely that I would say such a thing to a small boy? I find it odd that you should accept his every report without question. I did not, for instance, tell him that if he were older I would no longer bother to see him; I said that he was not yet of an age to choose between a visit with me and other social engagements.
It is difficult to be always the jolly, uncritical paternal chum. When I think he is going wrong, now and then, I feel that I must correct him. I never do this harshly or angrily. There are certain masculine attitudes the kid can get only from his father. Though he is a gentle, marvelous little boy, he occasionally gives me the Little Prince bit. Generally, I let it pass. This time it was a bit much. It is not for Adam to tell me that he does not wish to continue a discussion.
As for his manners, they are unusually good; they do you credit. But he is beginning to imitate the tone you take with me when I telephone. I don’t think he should be allowed to speak to me like that. It’s not good for him. The manners only make things worse.
I don’t know whether you are aware that Adam is afraid of you. Your temper frightens him. I know that he tries to appease you. He loves you, and he is cowed. It is natural that I should try to strengthen and reassure him. Now and then I am obliged to speak to him about it. It is plain to the boy, besides, that you have no great regard for me. Strong mothers who hold fathers in contempt sometimes make homosexual sons. And I don’t think Adam can learn much from you about fathers. I hope you will not be offended by these statements of fact. I have no desire to quarrel. My only interest is Adam’s welfare, a topic I am not permitted to discuss with you. I understand that my ideas do not interest you much. You communicate with me in directives. There is no exchange of thoughts. You simply tell me what to do, you send messages by the boy, and you threaten me.
Well, threats at this point are absurd. It is Adam who suffers from these hostilities. I suffer only as he suffers—except through him you haven’t much effect on me. The whole thing is a misfortune for him. Knowing how you dislike me, he gains your sympathy and tenderness by complaining about me. It can’t be doing him much good to play off one parent against the other. He should have friends, teachers, alternatives. He should be able to turn to someone else. A psychiatrist perhaps.
If I didn’t love Adam, the circumstances are such that I would have cut out long ago. I do love the child, and he needs me. Why do I see him? you ask. Because I love him. By presenting the problem to me as
my
problem, the result of
my
misdeeds, you don’t help matters much. I am willing to discuss this, willing to listen, and willing to change.
To Margaret Staats
November 15, 1966 [Chicago]
[ . . . ] I dressed Daniel and we breakfasted on bananas and toast. By 8:00 I was at work, and he wanted to watch me. In the doorway, smearing the door with jam.
Was asked at noon to buy flowers. Funereal-feeling in my fur hat, and very pale. On the street asked myself why I was without you.
One waits for the sun to shine in Chicago. If only it would! Then it shines, you wish it wouldn’t. From the inside, disappointed life seems to have sucked at the bricks. That must be why they look so porous in the light, popping with little holes.
Look east, and there’s the lake like cold-cream.
I am low. And wouldn’t say such things if I didn’t love you and understand that you
want
to hear—even such things.
Y. D.
To a Mr. Gillman in London
November 16, 1966 Chicago, Ill.
Dear Mr. Gillman,
It was indeed kind of you to write. The subject you raise is a vast one and I have no great confidence in my power to cope with it. It is true we have a large land mass here and a cultural situation unprecedented in its disorderliness. I cannot help thinking, however, that we are dealing with difficulties that are universal. I refer to the problem of rootlessness and to that of change. It is inevitable that as an Englishman you would see in
Herzog
the Jewish question. On the surface, it is a Jewish book, but the real theme is, to me, far deeper. Like you, I believe one should depend on mutual feelings, on love. But I don’t believe that love is a result of civilized roots. If one had to depend on those, injured as they are now or altogether cut off, one would have to wait a very long time.