I’m all a-jitter: a doctor is coming in ten minutes to 1) give me a shot for cholera, and 2) see what he can do about my stomach, which is torn to pieces: god, he’s here. (Later) Well, that wasn’t so bad, though I nearly fainted at the sight of the needle—like a tiger’s tooth it was, magnolia. You should have been here to hold my hand.
I miss you, little bird, it seems a century since we parted. I wish you would write me a 75 page letter. Give my love to your husband; mine sends his best, who loves you?
T does.
P.S. Also saw [William] Saroyan in Paris—in a gambling joint where he was drunk and losing thousands. He has a brain the size of a b.b. bullet. Said he was washed up avec Carol. The only intelligent thing he said.
[Collection New York Public Library]
TO ANDREW LYNDON
Tangiers
[15] July 1949
Blossom-child—
Angel, by this time you are doubtless back in New York, so am writing you there—for some reason I don’t trust the Macon mail dept. But what a bore your journey must have been. Still you must have got some good things to eat, and that I envy you. Food. I seldom think of anything else. Arab cooking is the worst of all. No, precious, I’m not visiting Paul Bowles, and yes of course Jack is still with me—shaky in the legs though he be.62 I haven’t the faintest notion what brought us here, but it is quite an adventure and well worth the effort. I work in the mornings, and sleep in the afternoons (it is too hot to do anything else) and carouse around the Casbah in the evening—which I don’t think half so frightening as, say, an American town. Paul & Jane [Bowles] are both here, and we see them fairly often. Cecil Beaton says he is coming in August. Darling, isn’t this ironic about Christopher [Isherwood]? I told you so. But surely you have written a letter by now. There is so much I would like to say—but I’m never sure who reads these letters. Anyway, I think Ch. is rather a shit—for a good many fairly valid reasons. To get off on another subject, do you remember Waldemar Hansen? I saw him in Paris, and he is a wreck: the poor thing has been ousted by Peter Watson, and it is one of the most fabulous stories you’ve ever heard. A letter from Newton, who has finished his book, and is going to the Cape.63 Phoebe seems very happy in her new home—entertaining and whatnot. Tell me, is she still going around with [unclear]? She never mentions him. And is she writing anything? Where are you going in Maine? Are you going to stay in a pension? I’ve always wanted to go to Nova Scotia. I may go to Timbuktu in a couple of months—you cross the Sahara in a truck: takes three weeks. It all depends. Of course, I am really only thinking of my book: all this travelling seems to be done in a dream. Then, too, I suppose I must think about coming home. I miss you and Phoebe terribly—but that is really all that I miss.
Darling, I am going to do a little work now (the days go so swiftly, and there is so much to be done) so, with love to Harold and the most staggering number of kisses to you, my precious friend, I will fold this particular tent and, quite unlike an Arab (the noisy heathens) silently steal away. Love
T
[Collection New York Public Library]
TO CATHERINE WOOD
British Post Office
Tangiers, Morocco
Africa
July 28, 1949
Woody darling—
Don’t scold me, dear: I’ve been absolutely awful—but, since I left Italy, which was around the middle of June, I’ve been in almost continual motion: a week in Paris, and then to Spain: traveled all the way down through Spain, stopping off in various cities—Madrid, Granada, Seville, and smaller places: a beautiful country, but not at all pleasant to travel in, too many restrictions, too much red tape, too many men in uniforms—in fact, almost everyone is in uniform. It is a war-time atmosphere there. At Algeciras, which is at the southernmost tip of Spain, I took the boat here to Africa. I do miss Italy, but it is quite strange and beautiful here, and I like it enormously. I am living with Noel Guiness [Loel Guinness], who has a wonderful house in the casbah; it is really great fun, and promises to be more so, for Cecil Beaton and Greta G. [Garbo] are coming here week after next to stay with us into Sept—she is going then to France to make a movie (Balzac’s “La Duchesse de Langeais.”)64 Perhaps I will go back to Paris with them. Meanwhile, I got on with my work, and now have half the main book finished—or almost half. Other Voices came out in France, with an introduction by Maurice Coindreau, in which he mentions you. I will bring you a copy.
It is hot here, but it is a dry, not too unpleasant hot, and there are excellent beaches nearby—though I must say I don’t go often.
I bought two parrots; one is pink-headed and the other gold; they are fine company—they twitter and laugh and sit on my shoulders. I also have a little gazelle, which I brought back from an excursion to the Atlas mountains. He is adorable and—he is called Woody!!!
I suppose Margery is in Maine—send her my best love. And oh such a lot of love for you, darling
T
[Collection New York Public Library]
TO LEO LERMAN
British Post Office
Tangiers
Aug 8 1949
Leo, dear mama
I couldn’t believe my eyes: a letter from Myrt: practically wept, my pet—and know you must be bored stiff, or you would never have taken pencil in hand.
Yes, here we are: and, while Jane [Bowles] is not selling grain in the market place, she is very much in love with a woman who does: an Arab witch who looks exactly like Katina Paxinou.65
There is no point in telling you what has happened; there has been so much, and I would leave out the important things anyway.
Saw Richard in Paris—who seemed vaguely disastisfied [sic]—as doesn’t he always. But God, what a bore it must be, travelling with that Rothchild [Howard Rothschild]. It was nice, though, seeing him. Do you remember that young sculptor from Canada who lived in your 88th Street apt. for a while?66 He spoke to me one night in a cafe, said he was living in Paris.
Had the most extraordinary day with George D. [Davis] in Paris. He arrived there under the wing of Mrs Biddle and a curious Mrs [Fleur] Cowles: first off, he gave a luncheon party with a table laid out in solid gold—tout de Paris was there. Then he gave a dinner party that evening at Maxim’s that literally must have cost 2 or 3 thousand dollars. So I gather his new magazine has rather spectacular backing. It was fun to see George riding on such a crest of luxury.
But oh how quiet I’ve been! I read and write most of the day and most all night. I have some sort of grip on a novel and am hoping for the best. Incidentally, I have been reading Angus Wilson’s book, The Wrong Set.67 Do you know his work? I think you should get a story from him. By the way, Newton has finished his book;68 I wish I could see it.
Such a lot has happened in New York, I’m afraid really to go back, everything will be so different. But you will be there, unchanged: that is your charm, dearheart, and the sight of it is worth a trip across the Atlantic. Of course I miss you, of course I love you, but of course!
mille tenderesse [sic] (ha! ha!)
T
P.S. Ran into Marge, that hussy. She says for you to write!
[Collection Columbia University Library]
TO EDITH SITWELL
Truman Capote
British Post Office
Tangier, Morocco, N. Africa
Aug 21 1949
Dear Dr. Sitwell,
For so long I hoped I might be coming this year to England. Alas, it is clear now that this shall not be: a considerable disappointment, for I had expectations of our perhaps meeting again. Meanwhile, and after having spent a beautiful, really golden spring in Italy, I am more or less pleasantly settled in this ragamuffin city, Tangier—writing a novel with one hand and fanning myself with the other: the heat outdoes anything. England, I understand, has had a remarkable summer, and I’m sure you have enjoyed it.
I know this will be a nuisance to you, but I have a request to make, one which, for any number of sensible reasons, you may feel unable to grant. It is this: I am applying for a Guggenheim fellowship, and in so doing one must submit a list of seven sponsors, distinguished persons willing to write a letter testifying to their belief in the applicant’s worthiness. The point is, may I use your name? If so, you will sometime in November receive a communiqué from the Guggenheim foundation privately asking your opinion of my abilities as a writer. Of course, it may be that you have none, in which case I should certainly understand a negative answer to this request. In any event, thank you for whatever attention you may give it.
Recently I’ve read Brave and Cruel, a marvelously gifted
