About Goyen’s book: I’ve just sat up most of the night reading it, and it is beautiful, very extraordinary indeed. I know it will go blowing and howling around in my head for a long time. Such a wonderful ear! Do you think, though, that he will ever tighten his brakes? He can’t go on driving over cliffs, especially if he wants to take us passengers with him. But it is so gifted and “seeing” of you, Bob, to have encouraged this book in the way you have; it makes me appreciate you all the more. “An artist, a writer to salute, has made The House of Breath. William Goyen’s gifts, understanding, vision, style, are gifts infrequently encountered, and almost never in combination. This is a beautiful book.” If you can use this quote, you are welcome.
Bob, I hope you forgive me all the trouble that I cause you. Write me; it is lonesome here.
Always,
T
[Collection Columbia University Library]
TO WILLIAM GOYEN
Fontana Vecchia
Taormina Sicily
June 14 1950
Dearest Bill—
I wish I had the strength to write you properly; but The House of Breath, which I’ve just finished, having read it all in one sitting, has left me very exhausted indeed: the exhaustion that only the joy of art can produce. I feel, not unaccountably, as though I’d had a nearly religious experience. Dear God, Bill, I wept, trembled, and as I turned the final page I might have frozen from the chill along my spine. It is a novel of unearthly beauty! If you never wrote another word I’m sure you would always be remembered for having made this important contribution: what a treasure it will be for those who care about feeling, understanding, love, art. Surely you are in a state of grace.
It is worked out with such intelligence, you have really built a house of breath: the wind swoops down the flue, sifts with real music through the shutter; the story-voice mourns and howls with a terrible authenticity; the underwater marriage of Christy and Otey, so perfectly shaped a climax, is one of the loveliest moments in literature. You have blown this house with your own breath—but no one, not even you, will be able ever to blow it away.
How proud I am to know you, William Goyen. What kin are we all to each other, anyway? I can answer you, [unclear]. All the kin in the world. All.
and love
Truman
[Collection Unknown]
TO ANDREW LYNDON
Fontana Vecchia
Taormina Sicily
June 15 1950
Darling—Precious—Lamb,
That lovely letter! Just after I’d written you a scolding card. What you say about Miss Wharton sounds so encouraging, I do hope something marvelous comes of it: you must show it to Audrey [Wood]. It is sad, though, about Phoebe’s new story, I hope it doesn’t discourage her; the truth is, she has not written enough—if you are as talented as she is, you might write two or three successful stories without, as it were, half-trying; but beyond that you must have a firmer foundation than Phoebe so far has built for herself. I want so awfully for her to realize her really extraordinary gifts. Just now I have finished reading Bill Goyen’s novel, The House of Breath—and really it is beautiful: at last something one can authentically admire. I know you will like it. Random House is publishing it in the fall. By the way, I’ve read The Lady’s Not For Burning, and loved it. It is getting very warm here,—not too bad, though. No, that story about Gide and Donny was not true. I read it aloud to him, just to see him squirm, for I am sure he must have written something like it to someone in New York. Gide has gone, presumably to Paris. Donny was robbed of all his money, and many of his clothes two days ago; some one of his many pickups broke into his room, and made a clean sweep. D. had to give the names of all the boys who had been in his room to the police; my, it was a sordid list. The boys in town are very mad with him. Poor Sandy; he is arriving Saturday in the middle of all this mess; I daresay they will leave as soon as possible. So it looks as though we are going to have Taormina to ourselves. I hope so. Though I wish that you and Harold were here. Darling, I miss you so frightfully; you know how dear you are to me. Kiss Harold. Jack says thanks for the kiss you sent him.
I love you
T
[Collection New York Public Library]
TO ANDREW LYNDON
Fontana Vecchia
Taormina Sicily
June 20 1950
My own precious—
Thank you so much, angel, for taking the photograph to Marian, and Harold, that darling, for making it.98 It is for my French publ. I’m glad to know you are trying again at Life. You would be so marvelous for them, and I hope that at last they will have the sense to know it.
La Vie en Taormina es tres tranquil. Sandy arrived, but is, I think, much too depressed by the appallingly manifest evidences of D’s infidelities to enjoy the bella vista. How would you feel if every other boy you passed on the street was wearing a shirt or tie that once had all been presents from you to your lover? Well, Sandy is keeping a stiff upper lip: poor idiot, he hasn’t the imagination to do anything else. I daresay they will leave soon, which is just as well: Sicily for the Sicilians, I say.
Phoebe is a bore about writing. But perhaps I owe her a letter, though I don’t think so. And anyway, where would I send it? Is she still at Yaddo?
You mention Jordan [Massee]. Is he in N.Y. now for good—or bad? Please give him my best. I hope he finds a good job, or whatever. How can he bear to be around that ass, [Paul] Bigelow! You don’t say whether you liked Wm. Goyen. I do, very much. Linscott sent me his book last week. The first fifty pages are a waste, but from there on, except for vast confused passages, I thought it remarkable. The next to last chapter is wonderfully beautiful.
Darling, I’m so happy that you are very nearly finished with Miss Wharton. I long to see it—on the screen in particular.
Guess what I’m doing? Putting up tomato preserves (in old gin bottles) and fig preserves. They are so delicious, the figs here. Maybe you and Harold will come here this fall or winter and we can eat them together. I try to believe that, because I miss you both so much.
Kelly is full of ticks, lice and burrs, but says to give you his love, and Jack, who is just full of nonsense, sends his. Here is mine xxxxxxxxxxxx—please divide half those kisses with Harold.
Your own
T
[Collection New York Public Library]
TO PHOEBE PIERCE
Fontana Vecchia
Taormina, Sicily
June 24, 1950
Phoebe devil—
Perchè lei non scrittore a me? Bei a molte brute, e is non è piasce! That’s telling you. Anyway, little toad, why are you so silent? Yaddo got your tongue? God, what a windy day: can hardly hold onto this paper. Andrew writes that he liked your story The Green Catherine; lovely title—you do have such a title sense—and I would pay several dollars in postage to see it.
Have you written more? Oh what news from here? Well, Donny Windham, who has been here 2 months, is leaving tomorrow, muchly disgusted with Taormina: his room has twice been robbed, and all his money and most of his clothes stolen. It all has, however, such comic ramifications that I have not been able to feel very sad. I go on liking it here. I have been putting up apricot and fig preserves; an unmanly activity, I suppose, but very relaxing and the reward is delicious. Today is St. Giovanni, Jack’s name day, and so we are preparing a big feast, and the people working in the wheatfield below are coming up with an accordion and we are going to have a dance.
As you see, my news is simple-minded. I am working on my book and have written a long story (The House of Flowers) that maybe you would like—Marian, the fool, has sent it to Holiday magazine because “it has such a nice Haitian background.”!!99
[Collection Peter Geyer]
TO ANDREW LYNDON
Fontana Vecchia
Taormina, Sicily
July 6, 1950
Darling baby—
Simply can’t work this morning: across the hill they are having some sort of military manoeveurs [sic]—much bullet fire etc. When it began we thought it was the Russians. And so have been thinking about the Russians ever since. No one here seems to feel there is going to be a big war; actually, they don’t care—are really apathetic. We get our news here so late; I have no idea what is happening. Oh the thought of a wartime America! I hope you will have the good sense to stay out of uniform this time.
I just finished Newton’s book, and it is so very wonderful—it came the other day, and I’d not read it front to back before. How was your lunch? What does Newton say about me? I want him to meet Bill Goyen; don’t you think they might like each other?—Bill seems to like older gentlemen. Yes, Goyen is very sweet; I’m so glad that you are seeing each other. Have you read his book? Alas, Phoebe! I’m terribly afraid your friends will never see those issues of Flair. Tell about Doris [Lilly]. I didn’t know she was back; and how did she find the apt.?—as if I don’t know. I pray for Phoebe; she just could let herself go completely—and seems to want
