Part 47 (1/2)

Dope pushers on every corner. We went for cholesterol instead.

Always your affectionate buddy, and good ol' boy,

To Stephen Mitch.e.l.l June 22, 1991 W. Brattleboro, Vermont Dear Mr. Mitch.e.l.l, I have the greatest sympathy with what you have done. Let me explain: I was at the age of eight years a patient at the Royal Victoria Hospital, Montreal-dangerously ill in the children's ward.

My people were orthodox Russian Jews. I had a religious upbringing. In those times four-year-old kids were already reading Hebrew, memorizing Genesis and Exodus. Such was my background-the child of a despised people in the Montreal slums.

I had never been separated from the family. It was a h.e.l.lish winter (1923-24) with heavy snows, fantastic icicles at the windows, the streetcars frosted over. My parents took turns coming to see me-I was allowed one short visit a week. I waited for them. There were three operations. My belly was haggled open-it was draining. I stank. I understood that I might die. I was pretty steady about this, I think. I didn't cry when my mother came and went. I was rather matter of fact about dying. Other children were covered up and wheeled away. In the morning, an empty bed, remade, blank. It was like that.

Then a lady came from some missionary society and gave me a New Testament to read.

Jesus overwhelmed me. I had heard about him, of course-marginal information, unfriendly. (Why should it have been friendly?) But I was moved when I read Gospels. It wasn't a sentimental reaction. I wasn't one for crying. I had to get through this crisis. I had made up my mind about that. But I was moved out of myself by Jesus, by ”suffer the little children to come unto me,” by the lilies of the field. Jesus moved me beyond all bounds by his deeds and his words. His death was a horror to me. And I had to face the charges made in the Gospels against the Jews, my people, Pharisees and Sadducees. In the ward, too, Jews were hated. My thought was (I tell it as it came to me then): How could it be my fault? I am in the hospital.

But I was beyond myself, moved far out by Jesus (Mark and Matthew). I kept this to myself. No discussions with my father, my mother. It was not their their Bible. For them there was no Bible. For them there was no New New Testament. Obviously Jesus was not discussible with them. They had to live, as all Jews must, under a curse, and they were not prepared to interpret this to an eight-year-old child. In their struggle for existence interpretation ought not to be required of them, too. I would have been imposing on them, and it would all too plainly have been disloyal. I also sensed that. Testament. Obviously Jesus was not discussible with them. They had to live, as all Jews must, under a curse, and they were not prepared to interpret this to an eight-year-old child. In their struggle for existence interpretation ought not to be required of them, too. I would have been imposing on them, and it would all too plainly have been disloyal. I also sensed that.

I had never been in a position in which it is necessary to think for myself, without religious authorization, about G.o.d. Here at the Royal Victoria I was able, I was en enabled-I was free to think for myself.

You will understand now why I read you with sympathy. I understand the impulse that led you to make your own translation of the Gospels. But sympathy is not agreement. I am out of sympathy with your generational standpoint. I can't agree that John Lennon stands in the line of the prophets, on a level with Isaiah and the rest. This seems to me a distortion due to fas.h.i.+on, too easy a mingling of the religious and the rock stars. I like rock stars, yes, and I admire gurus (each instance on its separate merits) but I am not so freely ec.u.menical as you. You and I are Jews whose experiences are roughly similar; we have judged for ourselves. Jesus, yes, but what about two millennia of Jewish history? How do you propose to come to terms with the Jew as the prime enemy of Christianity? You may be interested in a book that has influenced my understanding of these things, Hyam Maccoby's Revolution in Judea Revolution in Judea. It argues that Jesus was anointed, a messiah, a Pharisee who tried to free the Jews from Roman tyranny. The Greek authors of the Gospels named the Jews the enemy race, universally to be hated by the rest of mankind. Love of Jesus could not then be separated from hatred of the Jews. A proposition that must seriously be considered by the likes of you and me.

Sincerely,

Bellow had read Mitch.e.l.l's newly published The Gospel According to Jesus: A New Translation and Guide to His Essential Teachings for Believers and Unbelievers. The Gospel According to Jesus: A New Translation and Guide to His Essential Teachings for Believers and Unbelievers.

To John Auerbach July 7, 1991 W. Brattleboro Dear John, As civilization declines the interpretation of civilized rules is left in the hands of people like me (self-appointed) and we don't seem to do at all well. Thus I know that I should lift up the tails of my coat, take off my wig and sit down to correspondence like Voltaire. Only Voltaire had a staff of attendants to care for him while he wrote about freedom. I have only Janis, whom I love a thousand times more than Voltaire loved anybody. So I am humanly ahead but losing ground culturally.

Of course I should write to you, my conscience is severely troubled. I think of you continually and I seem to have translated ”thinking about” into communication. Which means that civilization has fallen into solipsism. I a.s.sume there are two kinds of solipsism-restful and busy. Busyness quickly betrays you to barbarism. What makes me so busy? ”My hasting days fly on in full career.” (J. Milton, aged twenty-three.) I have X-plus pages to write and I do it under the shadowy threat of ”too late.” So . . . I am trying to meet a deadline imposed by a contract that I signed in order to spur myself to work more quickly. But I haven't got the energy I once had. Well into my late sixties I could work all day long. Now I fold at one o'clock. Most days I can't do without a siesta. I get out of bed and try to wake up. I ride the bike or swim in the pond. After such activities I have to rest again. It's evening, it's dinnertime. Nine-tenths of what I should have done it now seems too late to do: I protect myself from anxiety by opening some book or other; I catch up on the newspapers. I discover the moose population has increased, and that animals in the road cause more and more fatal accidents. I water the garden and promise myself to do better tomorrow.

I read your story, as I read all your stories. They come straight out of your feelings and go directly into my own. They please me even when I have reservations about them. In your latest it seems to me that you say more than is necessary about Entropy. Your story stands on its own without physics or philosophy. Exceptions to entropy only signify exceptions to death. Life defies entropy as it does the laws of gravity. It wasn't quite clear to me why the Baroness Dinesen-Blixen was in the story. She's always been a bit too trendy for me. I like most of her stories, but dislike the cult that has formed around her. What's high in your story is the human quality, the instant conviction of significance in the writer and the people he a.s.sociates with. What brings them to life is your warmth.

The Doubleday complete Conrad should be sea-borne cargo by now. Let's hope the books arrive in time for your next birthday. Meanwhile since that good-bad magazine Encounter Encounter has gone out of business without reimburs.e.m.e.nt to disappointed subscribers, Janis and I are taking out a subscription to has gone out of business without reimburs.e.m.e.nt to disappointed subscribers, Janis and I are taking out a subscription to The Economist The Economist in your name. It's a business magazine, true, but then the planet now is overwhelmingly business. In the latest issue I learned why the Quebecois consider themselves sound enough financially to go it alone. Not the most interesting subject, but simply and sharply described. Good for my mind to see the world handled so neatly week after week. The mental level is high-average and generally dependable. And at least it's not mainly propaganda like in your name. It's a business magazine, true, but then the planet now is overwhelmingly business. In the latest issue I learned why the Quebecois consider themselves sound enough financially to go it alone. Not the most interesting subject, but simply and sharply described. Good for my mind to see the world handled so neatly week after week. The mental level is high-average and generally dependable. And at least it's not mainly propaganda like The New Yorker The New Yorker.

Bostonia, by the way, has survived its crisis and will be published as a quarterly. Good for our side. Your last piece there was terrific. This letter was dictated to Janis and contains love from both of us to a dear friend.

(I promise to write oftener.) To Florence Rubenfeld July 15, 1991 W. Brattleboro, Vermont Dear Ms. Rubenfeld: My personal connections with Clem[ent Greenberg] were severed during WWII. I reviewed some books for him at Commentary Commentary and I followed his career, naturally, at two or three removes, when he was Helen Frankenthaler's coach, trainer and spiritual counselor. I last saw him at a luncheon in his honor given by the Arts Club of Chicago. He did not mortally wound me by cutting me dead. Seated at a neighboring table, he turned his back. There was a dish of fruit before me and I got his attention by throwing grapes at him. When he could no longer ignore me (I am a fair shot with a grape) he turned round and declared: ”I never did like you.” Now Proust or Joyce could have disabled me but Clem simply didn't have the weight. I went home feeling jolly, pleased with myself. [ . . . ] and I followed his career, naturally, at two or three removes, when he was Helen Frankenthaler's coach, trainer and spiritual counselor. I last saw him at a luncheon in his honor given by the Arts Club of Chicago. He did not mortally wound me by cutting me dead. Seated at a neighboring table, he turned his back. There was a dish of fruit before me and I got his attention by throwing grapes at him. When he could no longer ignore me (I am a fair shot with a grape) he turned round and declared: ”I never did like you.” Now Proust or Joyce could have disabled me but Clem simply didn't have the weight. I went home feeling jolly, pleased with myself. [ . . . ]

Too bad that Sidney Hook has gone to his reward. He held sharp views on Clem's wartime politics.

Sincerely yours,

Florence Rubenfeld was writing Clement Greenberg: A Life Clement Greenberg: A Life, which would appear in 1998.

To Florence Rubenfeld August 18, 1991 W. Brattleboro Dear Ms. Rubenfeld: I've never been known to pull practical jokes and have no previous knowledge of the Trilling caper. I can see why Diana might think me to be the perpetrator. Norman [Podh.o.r.etz] was Lionel's protege and Norman had tried to do me in [with a negative review of Augie March Augie March]. He says as much himself in his autobiography. It did seem that Lionel was playing a double game since he had praised the very same book extravagantly [in The Griffin The Griffin]. He and I had had a sharp exchange about this, but it never occurred to me to make alarming telephone calls.

It's true I am a fairly gifted mimic, and among my friends in the Village I may have spoofed Lionel-no great achievement since he had such conspicuous mannerisms. But it had never crossed my mind to call him or molest Clem. [ . . . ]

Diana will never replace Agatha Christie.

All best,

Diana Trilling apparently believed that in 1953 Bellow had placed crank calls in which he mimicked her husband's voice.

To Karl Shapiro August 21, 1991 W. Brattleboro Dear Karl, As I write this summer's book, I pray continually that I am not letting Sophie down. She told me that last summer's story, ”Something to Remember Me By,” would be a hard act to follow. She was right. Now that I draw a diagram of the dilemma it clarifies the difficulty: How to write a novel with the precision necessary to write a short story? She will let me know whether I have done it satisfactorily, but waiting for judgment day naturally makes me anxious. I have to reconcile the habits developed in two different kinds of writing. I have never belonged to any church and Sophie is as close as I have ever come to the idea of papal infallibility.

Otherwise things continue to go on as they have gone on for decades now. In literature the lowing herd is leaving the lea and darkness falls on the enterprise to which you and I have devoted our lives. I feel like somebody who took holy orders about forty years before young Nietzsche showed that G.o.d was dead. I still believe we did the right thing, and if we were mistaken we made our mistakes in the best style available and have more cla.s.s in defeat than any of our enemies. Does this sound a little bit like the n.o.ble soldier of the Confederacy reflecting on the doom of the victorious North? [ . . . ]

Lots of love from your friend,

To Jeff Wheelwright August 28, 1991 Chicago Dear Mr. Wheelwright: In denying that Herzog was a manic depressive I was merely protecting him. I didn't want him pushed into a clinical category. I had known a genuine manic depressive, my dear friend the late Delmore Schwartz. Herzog was not nearly so volcanic and demonic a personality.

Best wishes, To Virginia Dajani September 11, 1991 W. Brattleboro, Vermont Dear Virginia: In fairness to Isaac Singer I suggest that you ask another member of the Academy for a tribute. Although I admired his work greatly (his character somewhat less), he didn't much care for me and his spirit I think would be more comfortable with a tribute from a writer with whom he enjoyed better relations.

Sincerely yours,

Isaac Bashevis Singer had died on July 24.