some stuff to have a summer suit made of (I’m roasting) but I don’t think you would be crazy about it. Jack had a nice suit made, but that was in Naples, and I am simply not up to Naples—the thieves of Naples are not merely legend. Weren’t you there during the war? An extraordinary city. We saw a “show” in a “house” there last week. Every concievable [sic] kind of fucking: they had an Arab with a cock, believe this or not, that measured a good 14 inches: pretty, too. I’m so happy about all of Phoebe’s new accomplishments—can’t wait to see her story. She wrote that she was having a party June 3rd in the new apt—that is today, so I hope at this very moment you are all having a rollicking good time. I’m trying to finish a chapter before leaving—but the imminence of departure has upset me. Yes, I know we will like Brittany—if only we can [find] a suitable place: I would like to take a house, and it may be that we will. I don’t believe for one minute that Newton ever called Leo: from any angle it is absolutely illogical, don’t you think? How goes your witch? Have you polished her off and thrown her into the editorial cauldron? You said you were going to send me a copy. Auden and I are being friends again. He is really very nice. That household of theirs is sompn’, though. Phoebe tells me Nina [Capote] asked you to a party—I wish you had gone, it would have amused me to know what sort of people she is seeing—not that I can’t imagine.53 Tell Phoebe that the [Doris] Lilly woman wrote me a letter: yuk yuk, as Doris would say. Whatever happened to Richard Hunter—did he and Bubble-Brain sail for Europe.54 Europe is so very unchic these days—perhaps I ought to come home: another reason, and a better one, is that Jack’s legal wife is on her way here.55 Those two correspond like mad. But never fear, your little sister is fully fortified: just let that two-bit song-and-dance girl put her paws on Mah Man and ah’ll take a tweezer to every hair on her koozy. Which reminds me; in my idle hours here, I’ve thought up several commercial projects: one is called Kiddie Kits—a Kiddie Kit for a little girl will contain such items as a little cunt-wig, which will be useful for playing grown-up. For queer little boys there will be the Everhard Kiddie Kit—inside, the lucky little bastard will find a Turkish towel and a jar full of real live crabs. Speaking of which, I have a terrible case: what should I ask for in a Paris drugstore? Well, darling, on this sordid note I will leave you. Give my love to Harold: he is mean not ever to write me even a note! I miss you, darling lamb, and love you
avec tout mon coeur (right? Oh.)
T
P.S. I have another idea—this one for a comic strip: Super-Queen. “It’s a bird, it’s a plane, it’s … Super-Queen!” There’s a fortune in it!
[Collection New York Public Library]

TO CECIL BEATON
Forio D’Ischia
June 6 1949
Cecil dear
You are a rascal: not to have let me hear from you for so very long! I hope this means you have been working frightfully hard, and that you have smoothed out all your script troubles. As you can see, I’m still here in Ischia—getting fat on pasta and less fond of all things Italian every minute. But we are leaving here the 14th of June and arrive in Paris on the 17th. Will be at the Hotel Pont-Royal in the Rue du Bac. I include the address because it occurs to me that you may be in Paris then: a few days ago I saw in the Paris Tribune that your very best friend [Greta Garbo] is expected there June 13th—and I thought perhaps you might be coming over to meet her. Or was it simply an erroneous report?

News reaches me that Waldemar [Hansen] is once again ensconced at 10 Palace Gate.56 Ha! Have you noticed, everyone seems to be killing themselves—Tom Heggan [Heggen], Klaus Mann, Owen Davis—do you suppose they all just needed a rest?57 Speaking of rests, Isherwood writes that there is a most infamous purge on in Los Angeles—and 3 of his most intimate friends are taking a rest at state expense: San Quentin is not my idea of a holiday rest.58I have got nearly a third of my new novel done—to celebrate this I’ve had myself a most beautiful suit made: grey raw silk. I look almost presentable in it.
Honey, you can see how skimpy my news is—but God, what can you write from this forsaken island? We’ve been here nearly three months, and our contacts with the real world have long since dried up. I only wanted to send you my love: here it is—LOVE.
Truman
P.S. It is best to write c/o American Express, Paris. Please do.
[Collection St. John’s College, Cambridge University]

TO CECIL BEATON
British Post Office
Tangiers, Morocco
[July 1949]
Cecil dear—
Was heartbroken not to have seen you again in Paris—alas, you were always “sortie” when I called the Littré number. The trip through Spain was ghastly—trains that took 9 hours to go 112 kilometres, food that tore my stomach apart etc. But I like Tangiers, a marvelous city really. We are living on the mountain at a place called Farhar—I should not reccomend [sic] it to anyone, but it will suffice. Your friend Jessie Green has rented her house to someone else—which makes me wonder, are you still coming? I very much hope so. we’ve had a few adventures—the most dazzling of which happened between Granada and Algeciras when suddenly everyone on the train began to scream and throw themselves on the floor: bandits! Bullets flying through the air. Only it wasn’t bandits—just a group of Spaniards who had missed the train and were firing on it to make it stop: one old man got hit in the head. Lovely country. No doubt by this time you’ve seen George D [Davis]. He said he probably would see you in England. Isn’t his rise in fortune spectacular? And I know the new magazine will be very good indeed.59 It is an excellent day here, cool and the water crashing on the rocks and the sky classic in its clearness: just below me there is a quite beautiful Arab standing stark nude on a rock. And what a joy it is to be writing you this little note, Cecil dear—for it is almost like talking to you. what do you know about a young English writer named Angus Wilson? He has just published a book called The Wrong Set—and I think he is quite good.60 Which reminds me—when you come, oh please could you possibly bring a copy of My Royal Past?61 Do drop me a line, dear, and let me know if there is anything I can do for you here. All love
T
[Collection St. John’s College, Cambridge University]

TO ROBERT LINSCOTT
Capote
British Post Office
Tangiers
Maroc, Africa
July 1949
Dear Bob—
How long it has been since I’ve heard from you—or, rather, how long it has been since you heard from me. Someone writes that it has been terribly hot at home; however, remembering your nice air-conditioned office, I haven’t worried about you. Speaking of heat, look where I am: Africa, no less. Don’t assume what I’m doing, for I haven’t the faintest notion either; at any rate, I have a nice place to live, and am getting on with the book.

I came here by way of Spain (dreadful country), a trip I would not readily undertake again. I was in Paris a week, and had lunch one day with a friend of Bennett Cerf’s—Fleur Cowles, who, in conjunction with George Davis, is starting a new magazine—something on the order of Vanity Fair—and I may do a piece for them. Anyway, if you know anyone who is looking for a job, you might send them around there, for I understand they are about to assemble a staff.
Perhaps this little note (just to let you know I’m alive) will find you in the middle of your vacation; if so, have a good time, dear Bob—and know that I miss you. Love
T
[Collection Columbia University Library]

TO ANDREW LYNDON
British Post Office
Tangiers, Maroc
Africa
[6 July 1949]
Darlingest one,
I’ve written Phoebe about the journey through Spain, so maybe she has told you; it was, in a word, ghastly. Such a beautiful country, though. I even went to a museum: The Prado, natch. But am mad for Africa; life in the Casbah is quite my cup of tea. I don’t think Jack is so crazy about it; he says it is no fun to live in a place where you are frightened to walk in the streets alone. All the shadiest people are gathered here because it is an international city. The most extraordinary people. It’s the most exciting place I’ve ever been. If you and Phoebe were here we could all take a house in the Casbah and go native in a great big way. There is the most divine nightclub here called Parade—La Pierce would lose her mind. The nights are very cool, but the days are fearfully long and hot and mosquito-ridden: a few miles inland it is 137 in the shade—the heat stings your pores. We are living on a mountain in a little tiny house with a fabulous view over Tangiers and the harbor. So I’m settling down and starting back to work. Jack misses Ischia, but I guess he will get to like it here.
Saw George [Davis] in Paris; I think