We are now (29april) on the eve of leaving for life in the woods. Can[n]ot imagine what will turn out, but don’t fear: we have dysentary pills, all sorts of things, including horse equipage, blankets &c. So don’t for a moment worry. It may last a week or two months, we hope to reach Tampico eventually.
Have had no word from you on how my spending the summer in Massapequa sounds. Because though I am working on my novel, and will these coming weeks, I know I can do best out there, quiet summer — regularly tasty food (how I dream of it!). It has taken me all this trip and time to figure it out, now it needs writing, and not the sort I can manage sitting on the edge of a bed or a pile or rock. I hope the idea suits you — I picture it as being a good regular well spent couple of months, and we could have a good summer out of it.
Think of nothing else now, will instruct Wells Fargo to follow me about, and certainly don’t worry if you don’t hear for a week or two — simply mean we are not near a PO. Mexico is a pretty raggedy land.
Love, Bill
A Study of History: D. C. Somervell’s 600-page abridgement of the first six volumes of Arnold J. Toynbee’s classic study was published by Oxford University Press in 1947.
Aspects of the Novel: first published in 1927.
Steppenwolf: Hesse’s 1927 novel about the outsider nature of the artist was translated into English in 1929.
The Golden Bough: Sir James George Frazer’s multivolume survey of magic and religion was published in abridged form in 1922, the edition WG used for several passages in R.
The Vocation of Man: a philosophical work first published in 1800; in R Otto quotes “Fichte saying that we have to act because that’s the only way we can know we’re real, and that it has to be moral action because that’s the only way we can know other people are. Real I mean” (120).
St Anselm: Piedmont-born English theologian (1033–1109); WG named a major character in R after him, and quotes him a few times in the novel (382, 535). The edition WG asks for was published in 1939.
To Edith Gaddis
Mexico City
[3–4 May 1947]
dear Mother—
Just a few words to let you know the change of plans. The horse business in Mexico didn’t work out, simply because it seems impossible to buy horses. One was offered, at 120$! Twice the price. So D—, still hell-bent on riding, has the fancy of going somewhere in the Southwest US. I care little at this point, having had a grand Mexico, which is to be topped off Sunday by a bullfight. D. doesn’t care about it, but I have persuaded him it is a spectacle worth seeing. So we stay over and leave Monday for Laredo, thence I know not where, care less, so long as there is a place for me to lie down in my wretched bolster at night and sit up at this machine by day. All of which really alters nothing, I still plan on returning in June, we can set the studio in order, and I hope for a well-regulated summer in which Blague will either be done or collapse. With all of our bumping around recently I have had no chance to get at it, and feel guilty, limiting myself to scraps of notes on paper. Anyhow I shall see you in June, and meanwhile write you when we get some sort of flavourfully-western address, if we chance to settle near a stage line. […]
Little more of note. My beard looks at the point where it will not be very edifying, even in another month, and need a haircut, the last having been what seems months ago in New Orleans. Everything fine and in order, life is great, will keep you posted. I have been on the roof, my usual quiet refuge for working on the novel; but today, impossible. It is la Dia de las Cruces — Day of the Crosses — and like a battlefield. The air absolutely full of explosions, natives sending up fireworks. Became downright dangerous, as well as disconcerting — felt like a foreign correspondent reporting a Black and Tan fracas so am back in the room.
My only Mexican expenditure, souvenir, and that through the munificence of D., a beautiful little pair of silver cufflinks with my old design which I am so fond of, and so neatly done. I am quite content, happy. Hope you are similarly so, and will write.
PS — In view of past mixups, I have have held this letter over until Sunday night, just before we leave simply to tell you that I have had two (2) wonderful steaks — filets—today, and the bullfight was grand.
Here is another book — Being by Balzac, it may not be readily come on in modern book stores. But if so, if you should be able to come on it, how much appreciated. It is Zeraphitus by Honoré de Balzac. If not, don’t trouble about it.
Love, Bill
PS
It is very late, I have been lying awake for some time, as I often do, thinking about — or rather being persecuted by this novel. With D — asleep I cannot make lights and notes, or work. At this point things usually get pretty wonderful, as you know about such possession. Anyhow, do you know of a German artist-illustrator named George Grosz? I know this is pretty excessive — he is well-known, brilliant &c (so this is rather between us, if it comes to naught, as it probably will) — but I have long liked his work, serious painting and cartooning — (he has done much satirical drawing on recent Germany) — but I want to try to get him to illustrate Blague. If only it could be done. His drawings would be exactly what I want for it — really want to complete it, as it were, besides obvious commercial advantages. He has written a book called A Little Yes and a Big No. It costs $7.50. If it could be managed, I should love to have it when I get back — and you would get a kick out of looking it over I know. If possible I want to show him my manuscript this summer (I think he lives in N.Y. now) — and try. Meanwhile, if it can be done not to[o] strainingly, how I should appreciate his book.
PS If you can and do get any of these books — not to be sent — I want to read them this summer in Massapequa. And thanks.
Love,
Bill
Black and Tan fracas: a British-supplied police force (named after the colors of their uniform) sent to Ireland in 1920 to help the Irish constabulary quell uprisings.
Zeraphitus: that is, Seraphita (1835), a metaphysical story by the French novelist.
George Grosz: German artist (1893–1959) who emigrated to the U.S. in 1933. His autobiography, A Little Yes and a Big No, was published by the Dial Press in 1946.
Ormonde de Kay and WG at Donn Pennebaker’s apartment in Greenwich Village, late 1940s. (Photo courtesy D. A. Pennebaker)
To Edith Gaddis
[WG returned to New York, but five months later he decided to leave again (the night of 28 November), this time for Panama “to launch my international news career” at El Panamá América, a bilingual newspaper, as he wrote thirty years later in his brief memoir “In the Zone” (New York Times, 13 March 1978, reprinted in RSP 33–37). It didn’t work out. From this point on, WG begins sometimes signing his letters W (for Willie) rather than Bill. But he lapsed to neglecting to date his letters, so most are supplied from postmarks.]
Hotel Central
Plaza de la Catedral
Panama City, Panama
[late November 1947]
dear Mother — I had intended to write you a goodly letter about the fantastic business of being in 6 countries in one day, but by now the fantasy has got out of hand. I was met at the airport by four white-coated young gentlemen, escorted to a waiting Lincoln, and driven to my hotel, an establishment where I have a room about the size of Madison Sq Garden and a private balcony overlooking the park. Then off for a few drinks and courtly conversation. Apparently I shall have a job, and no kidding, on this paper at 350$ a month; I am to have breakfast with the owner in the morning.