Part 3 (1/2)

Max expects me to become a moneymaker, someday. At present, however, he thinks me still a little wild and when I send him a mss. he doesn't try very hard to market it.

Last December I sent him a story called ”Juif!” that I think you would like. If you phone him I am sure he will not object to sending it to you, although I suspect that he is a bit of a Stalinist.

If you want to run it I will send a corrected copy from Chicago. There are a few slips and rough spots that I overlooked in the draft Lieber has.

Yrs,

Less than a ”patriot” and more than ”a bit of a Stalinist,” Maxim Lieber (1897- 1993) was in fact a covert agent of the Soviet Union. In 1951, realizing he would either have to testify before the House Un-American Activities Committee against Alger Hiss, with whom he had spied in the 1930s, or else refuse to cooperate and go to prison, Lieber fled with his wife, Minna, to Cuernavaca, Mexico. Thereafter they made their way to Warsaw, where housing, along with a teaching post for Minna, were provided by the Polish government.

1944.

To David Bazelon January 25, 1944 [Chicago]

Dear David: I too am sorry we didn't arrive at a more solid understanding. Whatever it is that thrusts itself between us is a very potent thing. I can't pretend to understand it and, in fact, I have made the most negligible effort. I tell you this with no attempt to mitigate my slackness, but you must not interpret this as a lack of interest in you. Far from it. I am greatly interested; but I have given myself over wholly to those matters that you limit to inner dialogues and those are my politics, too. Can I be wrong in a.s.suming that politics are one function of a person's humanity? I think you would not say so. This is not egotism in me, nor, as you call it, tiredness, evidence of defeat. None of that. The princ.i.p.al difference between us, if I guess correctly, is that I hold that the forms outside do not a.s.sure the manhood of the man. We can ask of them that they should not impede it, as they now do, but we are not safe in a.s.suming the a.s.surance. The right political belief, in other words, in itself secures nothing.

It is necessary to be a revolutionist. But I would deny that I was less one because I do not partic.i.p.ate in a political movement. Perhaps your criticism would be juster if I saw, but refused to enter, the right one.

I think I could have shown you a great deal about my my kind of politics; I would have been glad to do so, regarding it as a privilege. kind of politics; I would have been glad to do so, regarding it as a privilege.

Sorry about the delay, I had proofs to read. Write to me.

Yrs,

David Bazelon (1923-96) was a contributor to leading literary and political journals and the author of, among other works, Power in America: The Politics of the New Cla.s.s Power in America: The Politics of the New Cla.s.s (1967). (1967).

To David Bazelon March 20, 1944 [Chicago]

Dear Dave: Oscar told me last week that politics politics was going to print your story. I'm glad of it. I shall be sure to send you an opinion as soon as I've read it. I don't think it makes much difference where a story appears just so it reaches the people you want it to reach, and was going to print your story. I'm glad of it. I shall be sure to send you an opinion as soon as I've read it. I don't think it makes much difference where a story appears just so it reaches the people you want it to reach, and politics politics is read by pretty much the same public as is read by pretty much the same public as PR PR. Besides, I think you're a writer and that you should write and publish and make yourself known. It's best to get an early start. You'll be writing much more maturely at twenty-eight than I am because of it. You get used to declaring yourself publicly and you save a lot of time and effort and spare yourself a long fight for confidence. Macdonald [editor in chief of politics politics ], though on the whole I don't care for his literary opinions, knows what writing is, and his endors.e.m.e.nt verifies Isaac's opinion of you, and Oscar's and mine. It's all to the good. I'd like to advise you, by the way, to avoid making a mistake of mine, the mistake of taking criticisms of a single story too seriously. One doesn't stand or fall by a single story or a single book of stories. ], though on the whole I don't care for his literary opinions, knows what writing is, and his endors.e.m.e.nt verifies Isaac's opinion of you, and Oscar's and mine. It's all to the good. I'd like to advise you, by the way, to avoid making a mistake of mine, the mistake of taking criticisms of a single story too seriously. One doesn't stand or fall by a single story or a single book of stories.

I'd like to say this about your last remarks: I don't advise others to follow the Dangling Man into regimentation. That was not advice. When you read Dangling Man you will see that I was only making an ironic statement about the plight of the Josephs. I don't encourage surrender. I'm speaking of wretchedness and saying that no man by his own effort finds his way out of it. To some extent the artist does. But the moral man, the citizen, doesn't. He can't. As to what I would advise Johnny to do, concretely I can't say. In general I would say, ”Be a revolutionist. Nothing we have politically deserves to be saved.”

And I would include the U[niversity] of C[hicago] and the Great Books Project in nothing. Did you see that Education for Freedom article in PM PM? I think Dwight ought to run a piece about it. The information in PM PM is mostly wrong, but it's right in spirit. [Robert Maynard] Hutchins' anti-mammalianism deserves some grand, public derision. Some reliable man in Teacher's College ought to be invited to try. [ . . . ] is mostly wrong, but it's right in spirit. [Robert Maynard] Hutchins' anti-mammalianism deserves some grand, public derision. Some reliable man in Teacher's College ought to be invited to try. [ . . . ]

I have an idea Dwight's not fond of me anymore because I didn't agree with him about the war. However, I'd be happy to be found wrong.

Write.

Yours,

To Alfred Kazin March 25, 1944 [Chicago]

Dear Alfred: Splendid! You're a lucky Jew-boy. I congratulate and envy you. I'd like to come down to New York to see you off in style, with a great celebration. After all, you're something like a personal emissary for Isaac and me and dozens of our sort, going to see what our prospects are and whether h.o.m.o sap. h.o.m.o sap. offers more hope in England than here. It's about time we heard not from newspapermen and politicos but from people we can trust. And of course it's a wonderful thing for you, personally. offers more hope in England than here. It's about time we heard not from newspapermen and politicos but from people we can trust. And of course it's a wonderful thing for you, personally. Immenso jubilo! Immenso jubilo!

My book, as you suspect, gives me veytig veytig [ [13]. I wish you would tell me what you think; I can have only misgivings at this stage. Clearly, the book is not what it should be, not what I can write. A more resolute character would have refused to have it published. But, alas! I fancy that even now I can give a pretty fair estimate of it. The writing is sound, the idea-of the impossibility of working out one's own destiny freely in such a world-is a genuine one. The rest is a hash, a mishmash for which I deserve to be mercilessly handled. But it's so hard now to find a way to use one's best powers. What can be done? Isaac labors with the same difficulty. He has not reached the level where he can thunder. Like myself he is still somewhere in the trees. In the trees one rustles. You know whence thunder comes. I venture to say it's not as bad as that for a critic. He finds his drama ready for him; the novelist has to a.s.semble it from the materials he b.u.mps blindly, fish-like, with his nose. And he has to change it, arrange it, set it in motion. And he has to be prepared to face inspection at his nakedest. I wouldn't say that the critic doesn't. Before I go too far, in my present wild state, let me end with this: that the critic, say [Edmund] Wilson (you painted this art yourself), has choicer, richer, subtler characters at his disposal. It's a great advantage and a safer game.

There are other advantages. Most good writing in this century is of the cognitive type. Necessarily. Instead of a typical drama of man you have millions of disparate tendencies much easier to discuss than to represent or dramatize. But that's a long ges.h.i.+khte ges.h.i.+khte [ [14].

I suppose I shall have to take my pannings mercifully.

I'm terribly pleased, by the way, at your leaving Fortune Fortune. Not for you. You're not a high-pressure boy. You belong in our camp.

This has been on my conscience, too. I should have liked to speak frankly about certain matters on our last meeting in Rockefeller Center, but I couldn't without playing hob with the private affairs of other people. Mine I wouldn't have cared about, I'd have spilled. After it's blown over I shan't keep anything back.

Let's both write oftener.

Yours,

To Jean Stafford [n.d.] [Chicago]

Dear Miss Stafford: You remember me, I think. Bellow, the man who never called you back because he was desperately busy elsewhere. My purpose in coming forward now is to tell you how very happy I am to find you a fine writer. I haven't read the book, just the chapter in PR. PR. It is heartening to read such writing. I reserve the right to criticize on some heads, but the writing, the writing I acknowledge with all my heart. I say it who should know by virtue of having slaved at it, if by no other. It is heartening to read such writing. I reserve the right to criticize on some heads, but the writing, the writing I acknowledge with all my heart. I say it who should know by virtue of having slaved at it, if by no other.

I've had no occasion to use Pepto-Bismol again, but I own a large bottle. It was all I had to remind me of you until the last PR PR arrived. arrived.

Best wishes,

Stafford's formidable debut novel, Boston Adventure, Boston Adventure, had been excerpted in had been excerpted in Partisan Review Partisan Review.

To David Bazelon November 20, 1944 Chicago Dear David: I'm glad you decided to pick up the fallen correspondence, though how satisfactory you will find me as a correspondent is hard to say. I don't write letters often. My correspondence with Isaac, for instance, has quite died, but that, perhaps, is owing to our bearishness. He in his cave and I in mine. I think, however, that we are not of the same species. I am a black not a grizzly, and in my mature years not characteristically unsocial.