Part 5 (1/2)

Yours, Frances July 12, 1959 Dear Claire- Do you know what heaven must be like? I mean, a child's conception of heaven-a place you dread being caught dead in because it must be everlastingly quiet and mirthless? It must be like Proper Boston. Which is where Bernard's parents reside. Every time I took a step in their house I swear I heard the china and silverware rattle-no doubt an alarm to let the ancient Proper Bostonians know that some Irish servant girl's descendant was trespa.s.sing on their grounds, possibly with the intent to burgle-and in the deep silence a grandfather clock ticked off every eternal second. The house looked like the Colonial-era period rooms I remember staring into at the art museum: mahogany chests sitting like thrones in every room, discreet whispers of pewter and white lace. Bernard's parents were perfectly civil, but they seemed to have no actual life in them. His mother asked questions but didn't seem to care how you answered, and his father fell asleep at the table just before coffee was brought out. Bernard then woke his father up by whistling through his fingers, which is how he said his father used to wake him up when he was a teenager. ”Do you want to give your father a heart attack right now, Bernard?” his mother said, floating toward the table with the coffee tray in a haze of matriarchal serenity. I just let Ted and John make the small talk.

We spent much of the visit in their small backyard, which featured many handsome rosebushes. (I couldn't help but notice they did not look as bug-eaten as the ones my father always tries to get going in milk cans outside our front door.) I could not say for sure but I thought Bernard seemed rested and close to something like well. He said he was writing, and had written seventy pages of something that didn't seem a failure. He joked, he listened attentively, he pried some gossip out of John (no man hath greater love than this, that he lay down his scruples for his friend Lazarus). After half an hour or so he sent Ted and John away-”Go talk to my father about the war,” he told them, and they obliged-and then I panicked, wondering if he was going to become romantic. He took my hand, brought it to his mouth, and kissed it with no small amount of grief. I stopped panicking and felt grief too. He kissed my hand even harder, and then eventually set it down on my knee without letting it go. ”It's terrible,” he said. ”You answered a letter and befriended a monster.” At this his mother arrived in the yard. She clucked her tongue and both of us looked up, startled. (I have never seen Bernard startled. He's usually the thing doing the startling.) ”Stop that this instant,” she said to him, and I noticed her chin trembling. ”You are no such thing.” Neither of us said a word. ”Now, would you two like something to drink?” she said. By this time he had composed himself. I didn't think people's chins actually trembled, but hers did. ”No, thank you, Mother,” he said. And I could tell that he was pleased that she had intervened in some way on his behalf because of the note of gratified surprise in his voice. From what he's told me, that kind of protective, affectionate rap on the knuckles was rare. We were silent for a few moments, and then he began to stroke my hair, and I let him, even though I thought he might have been trying to push his luck. I didn't have the heart to crab about it. After a while Ted came into the yard and gave me a look that told me I was doing the right thing. ”Time's up, Dante,” he said. ”I came back here because John was too nice to. Come on, reward us by rejoining the household.”

Later there were another few minutes of panic. After lunch, when the men had gone out back to smoke their various tobacco items, I was left alone at the table with Mother Eliot. Who said, as if two hours hadn't gone by between the yard and lunch: ”He's grown self-pitying. I'll have none of it.” It's true that Bernard's penchant for exaggeration is trying, and it's true that I was glad she rapped his knuckles so I didn't have to, but her lack of compa.s.sion gave me the crazy thought that I needed to get him home so my aunts could swaddle his convalescence in good cheer. Before I knew what I was doing I heard myself replying: ”If there was ever anything to be self-pitying about, losing your mind might be it.” She gave me a look that chilled my blood. At the time I thought it chilled my blood because it did not differ much from the looks Bernard gave me that day in March. There was a kind of glazed fire behind her eyes, and it wiped out any sense that she was speaking to another human being, let alone a human being who had a point worth considering. But now I'm not sure I saw what I thought I did.

I was glad to be in a car with Ted and John shortly after that. Although Bernard did seem very happy to see us. And I was happy to see him that way.

So that is the news. That and the tops of my feet are peeling something fierce because I went out to Rockaway Beach for the day with a girl from work and I forgot to put Coppertone on them. Send me some of your news, and soon.

Love, Frances July 12, 1959 Dear Frances- So now you have seen the Eliot manse. What did it look like through your eyes?

I felt so lucky to have the three of you here. Did you notice the way John gave up the gossip on Carl and Nancy? I actually think John rather enjoyed setting that story out-the way his smile grew deeper and ever more sly at each piece of information he divulged it was as if he were proudly spreading caviar over a very long loaf of pumpernickel for us all.

I think I need to apologize for petting your hair as I did. I do, don't I?

What is there to say? I miss you already. Now what. My mother is trying to get me to quit smoking by throwing out the packs of cigarettes she finds lying around the house. There are many, because I lose them moving from bedroom to kitchen to yard and I have to buy more to replace them, and so on and so forth. She didn't like you, I have to say. I find this amusing. ”Where did you meet that girl again?” she said yesterday, and I could hear the rest of that thought hanging in the air: It surely wasn't Smith College. I think she can tell that you take pains not to know your place, and she wants to know who or what encouraged this wildness. I think she can also tell that I love you for it.

I'm glad to be recovering in the summer. Isn't that silly? I've lived most of my life on an academic schedule, so I am used to being set loose to loaf during these months. I can pretend that being set loose to recuperate is not that different. And there are many other people on furlough from their lives now-I can tell myself that I have not fallen too far out of step with the rhythms of reality.

Now that I am off the drug, I can sit in the sun. I come out in the garden every day to celebrate this fact. My mother has just opened a window to tell me to put some zinc on my nose. It is noon now, and I think I may be out here until the sky ripens into a peach-bottomed plum, just because I can.

I would have prayed to be delivered from that drug if I'd had the ability to conceive of words that expressed preference, or hope. I didn't care that I wasn't writing because I didn't care about anything. That was similar to what I'd felt during various depressions-words always out of reach. Words on a shelf too high for my lazy, faithless arms; words blurred and smeared around the sides of the errant crucible that was my mind; words a thing I had been smitten with now betraying me with their dullness. But this was worse. My mind was a ball of steel wool and lard.

When they took me off the drug, I had a few panic attacks, it appears, waiting for my will to return. I did not think it would. But here I am, at my parents' house, sitting in the sun, in their yard, writing you. I don't feel cured, but I do feel glad to go to bed without wis.h.i.+ng for sleep to extinguish me. I did not think that was possible. I see that I may have my family in me after all-the other day my father said that everyone's been concerned for my health, but ”no one likes a layabout.” I would never have said a thing like that, but I am interested in, I am committed to, as he might say, moving along. It's not unlike the difference between nausea and health: when you're well you can't imagine what it's like to be ill, you've forgotten the exact dimensions of the squirming la.s.situde, and when you're ill, you pant for wellness, whose st.u.r.dy contours now seem the unimaginable thing. The sane you, the real you-it must have been real, why else the innumerable vivid scenes of leaving your house and ending up exactly where you intended, of speaking swiftly and unselfconsciously and being understood, of being enchanted by small joys, your own and others'? You know it must have been real, but now you are not so sure-that dependable, uninterrupted flow of thought and action now seems a fiction, not your broken mind. But here I am in the yard. Here are birds. I'm writing, and I've written more than I thought I would. The neighbors' sweetly rotund daughter is making a halting mess of Schumann on the piano. And now a church bell comes in, tolling ”This Is My Father's World,” and she gives up the Schumann to play along with hygienic Sunday school zeal. I want to tell her that may be a wise choice, to take refuge from one of the most Romantic of the Romantics in the orderly march of hymns. I close my eyes, then open them, and the scene is fixed; it does not spin or buckle. I close my eyes, then open them, and: the same. So I keep on writing.

Frances, you too are fixed for me, you do not spin. You won't again, if I can help it.

Neither one of us really wants to speak of what happened now that we are in the light, I can tell, and I think that's best. Here is one case, Frances dear, in which I am glad of your reticence. I've spent enough time lately trying to figure out how my parents, and their parents, and their parents, etc., created the conditions that led me to the hospital. In the beginning I was glad of the chance to blame. When it comes to blaming one's parents, everyone loves the feel of a lighted torch in the hand, especially when it appears that torch is being handed to you by a Harvard-laureled pract.i.tioner of one of the West's great interpretive frameworks. But that flame died quickly and I felt crushed by the weight of my parents' blindness. I now feel sorry, somewhat, for my mother and father. I'm trying to feel sorry for them so that I don't feel sorry for myself.

Don't feel sorry for me, or afraid of me. Please remain my friend.

Love, Bernard July 20, 1959 Dear Bernard- I was very much moved by your letter.

I will of course remain your friend.

What did I think of the Eliot manse? Well, it was impressive in the way it came off as both austere and lavish. Should there ever be a Marxist revolution on American soil, your parents will be safe, as their people taught them how to hide in plain sight. But really and truly, I was most jealous of your mother's splendiferous roses. If I one day happen to have a yard all my own, splendiferous rosebushes will be the first order of business. The yellow ones were my favorites-pale and frothy, as if they would smell of eggnog and not roses.

Let's just say that your mother and I seem to have decided that we will not have a mutual admiration society.

You're right-I do feel hesitant to talk about what happened. My people, for better and for worse, taught me how to hide what was too difficult to bear. I feel shy as I write to you. I don't want to say anything that's beside the point. One of the things I want to say I know is childish, but I mean it with my whole heart: I hope you never have to take Thorazine again.

I want you to feel hope more than you feel despair. That is what I have been praying for.

Yours, Frances July 30, 1959 Frances, my dearest dear. My mind might be a little potholed right now, but I think my heart is as st.u.r.dy as ever. Don't handle me lightly. Tell me what you're thinking.

I have a feeling that after you read this you're going to take me at my word, and with a vengeance.

When I read your letter and thought about you praying for me, I felt that I needed to confess some thoughts to you. I have been thinking-it is all I can do here-and you are the only person to whom I can write these thoughts. You won't like them, but I have to confess them to you.

Do you remember what you wrote about Simone Weil? How she wrote that it's sort of humorous, the line ”Our father, who art in heaven”? I am beginning to see that it is indeed humorous. That it is ludicrous. That I was deluded in my imagining that I could communicate with him. I think you, rightly, keep this in mind as a way of remaining humble, of purging your faith of craven obedience-if he can't answer you, he can't hold anything over you. I wanted to have this sort of humility and patience myself. Now I think I never did, and so perhaps I really never did receive him.

I have been thinking about the letter you wrote to me after the book came out. You did not say that I was poetizing my love for G.o.d, but I see now that's what I was doing. I wonder how deeply his word had a place in my life. I wonder how deeply he had worked his way in. I wonder what I was doing when I was praying. When the abbot saw me-now I see what he saw.

Who was I praying to? Was I straining, and did the straining lead to silence? Did my straining serve only myself? I wanted to feel something. So I trumpeted loudly, waiting for the selfishness in me to fall. Another Old Testament metaphor: I built myself a G.o.d who was not G.o.d, who was only myself made boundless. When I review all the things I did while I thought I was in the throes of what I might have called the Holy Spirit, I see everything I did as one more gold earring tossed into the fire. My fervor was self-adornment.

When I think about all my fervor, and realize that G.o.d is an image thrown up by my illness, it's very hard for me to understand my faith as anything other than a fever dream. Especially when I am said to have said what I did during my episode. Faith is now inextricably linked to madness for me. This is a great sorrow. I wish very much for you to believe that it is a great sorrow.

I will never be the sort of person who despises religion.

And my faith also might have been fueled by a great fear-I wanted an ancestry that would not be the meaningless ancestry of my family: blood, land, money. I wanted a lineage, and what better church in which to seek a lineage?

So all of this is seeming very much like fear, obstinacy, vanity, and illness.

To go on in it would be like going on in a marriage after one discovers unfaithfulness. I know some people would dig in to the marriage, would fight for what they believed to be the truth about the marriage, which was that it was a good thing that has been wounded, and they would use their love to stanch the flow. But I see the uselessness of that kind of love now-that love may not be love, but fear. I could not stand under G.o.d now with a pure, expectant heart. After all that's happened, I think my heart still has something pure and hopeful in it-if it didn't I wouldn't be writing you. But I don't want to think that there's a supernatural tone whose object is to extract purity from me. I went back and read Augustine last week and his own need for G.o.d is his own need for G.o.d-I am not moved. I am moved by the tenderness with which he comes to philosophic problems of memory, of time, and metaphors of creation, but I do not feel moved to capitulate as he capitulated. I once met a former priest-turned atheist by the war-who told me that every time he read the Confessions he found himself lured back to a desire for belief because of Augustine's description of a G.o.d who would not give up on us. But I am utterly immune to the chords he's playing.

I am sorry.

Love, Bernard August 5, 1959 Dear Bernard- I wrote two other versions of this letter but then I decided to proceed as if your heart is indeed as st.u.r.dy as you say it is.

If you're so focused on your own selfishness-your own sin-you will of course lose your faith. If you concentrate on your need for faith as display, you will never find him.

This is more attention paid to self, the notion that because you were selfish, your love was never really love. I have heard you speak, Bernard. And even though I will agree with you and say that yes, occasionally I thought exactly what you have said-that G.o.d was sometimes merely a conduit for feelings and thoughts that were too large even for your poems-I never, ever thought that you were deluding yourself in a love of him. Or that you were acting. I saw you as someone who was truly trying to love G.o.d.

A word on paris.h.i.+oners: Paris.h.i.+oners are not Christians. They are paris.h.i.+oners. Their allegiance is not to G.o.d but to their priest, whom they think is G.o.d. It's like Heart of Darkness with Kurtz. And often priests are not Christians either, because they have too much of Kurtz in them. When a friend of mine was about fourteen, she found herself followed around the neighborhood by a young man who'd recently been discharged from the army after he'd had a nervous breakdown. He was the son of a man who owned a large grocery store and who gave a lot of money to the church school. The young man's attentions were troubling my friend, and when it got to the point where he parked his car outside her house one night with the lights off, her father went to the priest and asked him to talk to the family about it. The priest said that it would be impossible to bring this up because it might offend the man whose generosity kept the church's mission going. This man's generosity was necessary, but the safety of my friend was not. My friend's father eventually moved them a few towns over to get away from this boy. I am enraged by stories like this, and I've heard many of them. But if I decided to let this be the last word on G.o.d's nature I would be no better than this priest who decided to let the supermarket king define what charity was. There is the church and there is the Church.

As far as loving your neighbor, you have always done a better job of that than I have, or ever will. Please do not berate yourself for not inventing the Catholic Worker.

I wonder if you should meditate some on the idea that G.o.d is eternal and bides his time. You once wrote to me of taking Augustine's slow, blind journey to belief as an example. I am praying for you to see once again that we will never be made perfect in this lifetime, and that's how G.o.d wants it. Perfection is what comes after this lifetime. You know your Paul. So you should know this.

If G.o.d is eternal he stands outside your illness. He cannot be corrupted by it.

Also, I think that psychoa.n.a.lysis is reinforcing whatever selfishness you think you are crippled by. If you say you are suffering from a wish to be a hero, and that this wish has corrupted your faith, I don't see how this system will disabuse you of that wish. It seems to me that it will keep putting you front and center of your own myth. Why is the unconscious any better than free will? What does it serve us to imagine ourselves enslaved to impulses? If you never imagined that we were enslaved to sin, why imagine that we are enslaved to drives and paralyzed by frustrations that we had no hand in making? This seems like nihilism.

I'm sending you this prayer to Saint Anthony that I hope might p.r.i.c.k your conscience. I realize how much that makes me sound like my aunts and the nuts who buy Bishop Sheen's books. But I am willing to take up the weapons of spiritual warfare used by the Irish banshees of Kensington if it means you might come back to the fold.

Love, Frances August 16, 1959 Dear Frances- The card with Saint Anthony on it is now in my wallet. I intend it to stay there for all time.

Nevertheless, I can't help what I am thinking and feeling now. These thoughts and feelings are truths piling up like rocks against the deluge of my previous whims; they feel like something to build from. Whatever I thought I knew scatters and drifts when I ask myself: Who and what did all this performance serve? I think this is perhaps the first time in my life that I can be said to know my own mind. I wish this acquaintance could have been made in a less disastrous way, but I am glad of it nevertheless. And there is still something in me that wants to say G.o.d has orchestrated this revelation. See, Frances, I am no complacent, smugly Buddha-minded, excessively rational indifferent atheist. Don't worry, I won't say Freud's the orchestrator here.

I don't want this parting of practice to sever our friends.h.i.+p. Am I naive to think it won't? I still want you to make me laugh, and I want to make you laugh, and I want to read your work and see how it is coming into being, and help you strengthen it if you want me to, and I want you to take your pen to my work and see on what points I might be silent. I want the ruthlessness of your last letter riding my work to bits. When I look at you without my faith, I still see you, Frances, s.h.i.+ning-eyed, penetrating, sound-hearted. I know that what you love me for is not G.o.d within me but me-or am I also naive in thinking that you did love me for me? It would fill me with sorrow to think that you and I could not ever again walk by the Hudson together and talk until the sun went down. We may not ever take communion together like we did that August, or that March, but could we not make New York City our sanctuary?

Write when you feel you can.

Love, Bernard August 25, 1959 Dear Bernard- I have been thinking about faith, and your faith, and what might be helpful for you to hear at this moment. You might not want to hear about what I've been thinking, and it might sound hollow to you, but just write me and tell me if so. I've told you when I haven't wanted to hear from you, so maybe it's time I have a dose of my own medicine.

I think often of this sentence from Kierkegaard: ”It is beautiful that a person prays, and many a promise is given to the one who prays without ceasing, but it is more blessed always to give thanks.” We should love him but without expecting his love in return. This way we know we are not loving him out of fear. Love then becomes a creative act, one in which each day we are responsible for moving forward into a more perfect practice of self-forgetting.

He loves us by letting us take a very long time to make that practice perfect. Otherwise known as: grace. He lets us, and lets us in the freest free will, make mistakes and keep trying. The fact that I am still standing and have not yet been reduced to a smoking pile of ash is some proof that grace is his nature. If you need to take a long time to figure out whether you love him, he will not be impatient.

And maybe I won't be impatient. If you ever find yourself wandering forgetfully into a prayer, please pray for that. I can be too harsh. Harsher than G.o.d, which is pride. I was a little harsh in my last letter, and you were gracious enough not to remark upon it if you thought so.