Part 27 (1/2)

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 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. 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 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 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. 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 sh.e.l.ls-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 s.p.a.ce. 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. n.o.body, 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 Giles Goat-Boy had been favorably received in had been favorably received in The New York Times Book Review The New York Times Book Review and elsewhere. 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 doc.u.ment. 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 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. 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 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. 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 att.i.tudes 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 pa.s.s. 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 rea.s.sure 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 h.o.m.os.e.xual 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 circ.u.mstances 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 my problem, the result of problem, the result of my my misdeeds, you don't help matters much. I am willing to discuss this, willing to listen, and willing to change. 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 s.h.i.+ne in Chicago. If only it would! Then it s.h.i.+nes, 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.