If Alice [unclear] is in England, and you should see her, do please give her my regards.
I hope some day you will see fit to risk again the danger of a New York winter. It was so much—yes, fun—having you there.
Believe me,
Truman Capote
[Collection the University of Texas at Austin]
TO ANDREW LYNDON
Tangier
Aug 23 1949
Darling baby—
I was so worried; and really, you were sick after all—what a shame. I’m rather rundown myself, mostly because I’m not getting the right things to eat—the food here is so abominable, it all tastes like candy fried in olive oil. Yesterday was Jack’s birthday, and we had the most beautiful party:70 Cecil Beaton is here, and helped me arrange it; we gave it in the grotto at the Caves of Hercules, there was champagne and an Arab orchestra and it lasted all night. I’ve gone nuts on the subject of Arab music—Abu Muhud has replaced Billie [Holiday] in my affections. Otherwise everything has been terribly quiet. Work, work, oh God! I think it would be wonderful fun to work on G’s [George Davis’s] magazine—which, by the way, is to be called Flair: not very promising, that. Tenn & that loathesome [sic] Merlo boy are on their way to Hollywood—perhaps Frankie will get into the movies, for I understand all the old Lon Chaney movies are going to be remade, and by hiring him they’d save on makeup. Have you a new apartment, truly? Such exciting news. Am I down on Christopher? Yes, perhaps I was, but I can’t remember now why: you know me. I heard about Margaret Mitchell: to have been run over by a drunken taxi driver!71 Peter Watson ran off with someone else, a brick-head from California who had been Waldemar’s lover before he met Peter and who W had rejected in favor of Mr Watson! How’s that for irony? Give Harold a big kiss, my sweet magnolia, and write me at once, for I miss you from dawn to dawn, and love you like an old Kentucky Colonel loves his rock n’ rye.
T
[Collection New York Public Library]
TO ROBERT LINSCOTT
British Post Office
Tangier, Morocco
Aug 30 1949
Dear Bob—
I don’t care how hot it’s been in New York, it’s been just twice as hot here—but I’ve acquired such a menagerie I can’t seem to get away—two parrots, a Siamese and a little green frog, very tame, he is, and hops up and down my arm. In the midst of this, the heat, the birds and beast, I’ve plunged ahead with my book and am now ⅔rds the way through—at least in draft form—some of it I’m pleased with, some of it not, naturally. I think it will run to about 80,000 words, rather longer than I expected—but then it has turned into quite a different, infinitely more complex novel than I originally proposed, and to pull it into shape will take a monumental effort. I long for you to see it. I have not made any plans yet for coming home, such a problem, but when I finish the chapter I’m working on now I will begin to think about it. Did you get my last letter? Write me, dear Bob.
Best
T
[Collection Columbia University Library]
TO IRWIN EDMAN72
British Post Office
Tangier
Morocco
[1 September 1949]
Dear Mr. Edman—
For three long months I’ve been in this ragamuffin city whittling away on a novel. You perhaps have had a more agreeable summer—not that I complain, really, it is an extraordinary place; and I stayed from March to June on Ischia, that lovely island next to Capri—it has the most beautiful spring! At the moment I’m engaged in the national pastime of applying for a Guggenheim: could you help me by letting me use your name as a reference? Please do not hesitate in giving a negative reply to this request. There are any number of sensible reasons why you might feel unable to do so.73
My God, aren’t Arabs queer? Several weeks ago something happened here which might interest a philosopher. Four Arabs were walking down the road near my house, and one of them suddenly disappeared: he’d fallen down a hidden overgrown water well. And his three friends simply leaned over the well, calling miktoub, miktoub (It is fate). Then, they walked away, calmly shaking their heads. The next day the police passed and nailed a tip on the wall. Nobody seemed to care about the poor man, long since drowned. This is perfectly true.
Best regards,
Truman Capote
Sept 1 1949
[Collection Columbia University Library]
TO ROBERT LINSCOTT
Capote
British Post Office
Tangier, Morocco
Sept 12 1949
Dear Bob—
I have sent a query to the bureau of missing persons: surely they will know what has become of you. Or is this long silence due to overwork—I am making more work for you: if all goes well, you will have a book to read by the first of the year, or somewhere around there. And I am coming home next month; at least I think I am, but it is terribly difficult to get passage. Bob, I’m applying for a Guggenheim; I have quite a good list of sponsors, so maybe I will get it: one of them is E.M. Forster, and he has just written asking if I could send him my book of stories. Could you? E.M. Forster/King’s College/Cambridge, England. Thanks so much. Is it autumn in New York? I like it best then, and long to be there. I long to see you, too. There’s such a lot to tell! So many funny things have happened. Best always,
T
[Collection Columbia University Library]
TO ANDREW LYNDON
Tangier
Sept 15 1949
Precious baby—
At last report you were still in Macon: surely you are home by now. Did you see the report on Flair in Time? It sounds ridiculous, am too disappointed. Have just come back from a week at Xacun, a strange and poetic little city high in the Rif Mountains; and I bought Phoebe the most wonderful old Moorish ring, it is an amethyst surrounded by uncut emeralds, rubies and moonstones, it’s absolutely huge and I can’t imagine what it will look like on her silly little hands. And what about the apartment? Have you really got a new one? Jack has an infected foot, and I have a raging toothache, otherwise we are fine. We will be here at least another two weeks, and then will take a boat to Marseille; maybe, if the weather is good, we will stop at Aixen-Provence a little while before going on to Paris. In the current French Vogue there is a picture of Jack and Joan McC. [McCracken] et moi sitting together at a party: how’s that for scandal? Newton has finished his book and it has been a great success with AML74 people; he writes me constantly; I think I must still love him, alas; but once you truly love someone, I don’t suppose you ever really stop. You needn’t worry, however: I’ll never be caught in that particular trap again. I miss you, sweet heart, and oh what joy it will be to see you. All my love and love to that sweet Harold
T
[Collection New York Public Library]
TO ANDREW LYNDON
Paris
Oct 23 1949
Darling baby—
What a joy to have that fat long letter; surely by now you have had the one from me telling about Aix etc. What news from here? Saw “Un Tramway Nomme Desir”75 avec Arletty—and that, honey, was slaughter—chichi beyond words; for instance, on all those occasions when Stanley is supposed to be getting those colored lights going the stage is flooded with Negros [sic] doing belly shakes—ludicrous. As for Arletty, oh such miscasting. Paris empty of Americans, and freezing cold, and mostly I am working. A copy of The World Next Door has reached me; have you tried to read it?76 Every now and then there are some good things in it—but I’ve never had the patience to pick raisins out of pudding—and God knows he writes a pudding prose, weak, lazy, hurried. Am so glad to hear about Ernest, maybe now Time will have some good reviews—occasionally I see a Nation and his work there is excellent. I take it that Phoebe has not gone to work for Flair. Someone here told me that George and Fleur Cowles have had a falling out—hope not. Have you any idea what boat is transporting Marylou [Aswell] to Europe? She is a fool to come here at this time of year, particularly if she has had a serious operation. God willing, I will be home the end of next month—just in time for Christmas, so be sure and get me a present. Be sure and write me, precious darling, and give Harold my dearest love.
Bushels of kisses
T
[Collection New York Public Library]
TO ANDREW LYNDON
Paris
Nov 1 1949
Sugar—
Paris colder than a nun’s cunt; how I long for good old steam-heated, suffocating N.Y. Or do I? Anyway, I will be there the end of this month. Suppose you’ve heard about George [Davis] et moi.77 He sent me the most Godawful cable. I guess washing all those diapers has unhinged him. I couldn’t be more innocent. But I gather that our Phoebe is working there; alas, she never writes me. But I’m glad she has the job; it might be fun. Saw the most wonderful movie, Carol Reed’s “The Third Man.” Orson Welles is in it—superbly so, believe it or not. And it has a marvelous musical score—all played on a zither. Jane Bowles is here living with us, and we have a Pekingnese [sic] puppy: cutest thing you ever saw. My room is too cold
