Part 53 (1/2)
To William Kennedy February 28, 2002 Brookline Dear Bill, I don't think it's too late even now to tell you how deeply I loved Roscoe Roscoe. I think it's your most successful novel yet, and I expect that more is to come. Heretofore, I was always concerned about your bringing together your singular and wonderful view of things with the idea of a large fiction always at the back of your mind, and I think you have finally united them both. I have always nagged at you to do just that, and I see that in spite of my nagging you have presented me, and the American public too, with exactly what we have been longing for. I hope you will be able to forgive me for this delay, but it takes me longer than most to catch up with things.
Your gratified reader,
To Karina Gordin February 28, 2002 Brookline, Ma.s.s.
Dear Karina, Since I am half-Gordin-on my mother's side-I want to say that I was grateful to be in touch with the family again, and that your letter pleased me.
There comes a moment, with increasing frequency, when artists feel that they are hopelessly surrounded by goats and monkeys. I am against falling into despair because of superficial observations such as the foregoing. Actually, I've never stopped looking for the real thing; and often I find the real thing. To fall into despair is just a high-cla.s.s way of turning into a dope. I choose to laugh, and laugh at myself no less than at others.
Affectionately,
2004.
To Eugene Kennedy February 19, 2004 Brookline Dear Gene, I tried to reach you by phone yesterday. Spurlos Spurlos-the word employed by German submarine commanders. It means ”without a trace”: not so much as an oil slick on the bosom of the Atlantic. (It occurs to me that you must have studied German under the Hollywood German experts.) I don't do much of anything these days and I spend much of my time indoors. By far my pleasantest diversion is to play with Rosie, now four years old. It seems to me that my parents wanted me to grow up in a hurry and that I resisted, dragging my feet. They (my parents, not my feet) needed all the help they could get. They were forever asking, ”What does the man say?” and I would translate for them into heavy-footed English. That didn't help much either. The old people were as ignorant of English as they were of Canadian French. We often stopped before a display of children's shoes. My mother coveted for me a pair of patent-leather sandals with an elegantissimo elegantissimo strap. I finally got them-I rubbed them with b.u.t.ter to preserve the leather. This is when I was six or seven years old, a little older than Rosie is now. Amazing how it all boils down to a pair of patent-leather sandals. strap. I finally got them-I rubbed them with b.u.t.ter to preserve the leather. This is when I was six or seven years old, a little older than Rosie is now. Amazing how it all boils down to a pair of patent-leather sandals.
I send an all-purpose blessing . . .
EDITOR'S NOTE AND ACKNOW LEDGMENTS
This volume includes about two fifths of Saul Bellow's known output of letters. In some instances, I have emended eccentric punctuation in the interest of clarity, and have silently corrected a handful of spelling errors along with three insignificant factual misstatements. Letters made up of single-sentence paragraphs I have sometimes recast for ease of reading. Deleted material-most of it of doubtful interest, a miniscule portion removed for legal reasons-is indicated throughout by the customary ellipsis between brackets. I have broken with the standard practice of italicizing only published books, as Bellow tended to underline rather than place between quotation marks the t.i.tles of works in progress, particularly after an excerpt had appeared; for consistency, I have kept to this in the chronology as well. As to the clarifying or connecting language between brackets: I have sometimes fallen in with the author's voice (e.g., in a letter to Susan Gla.s.sman, ”Now the CBC has paid me an unexpected three hundred to produce [my one-act play] 'The Wrecker'”) and sometimes used third person (e.g., in a letter to John Auerbach, ”Smadar [Auerbach's daughter] and her husband have been very kind”). About half the original letters are typewritten and half are by hand. Bellow's cursive comes clear to anyone who perseveres with it. I have been able to decipher every word but one, perhaps blurred by a raindrop or (given the circ.u.mstances) a tear.