My tomato preserves turned out divine, apricot even better—but the figs were rather a failure. Am going to try peaches Sunday; must do something with all these old gin and wine bottles. Do you know a good recipe for mayonnaise? Chocolate pie?
Currently am waging war against two little girls down the road. They are driving me out of my mind. Why do children always think that I am a child too? I’d like to crack their little heads together.
We have all the equipment for underwater fishing (masks, spears) but have caught nothing so far, though I almost put the spear through Jack’s leg. It’s fun, anyway; and I’m learning a lot about sea life.
It is so hot here—not humid, just a classic, relentless, Grecian sun—but oh dear, I think sometimes I will just pass away.
Donny & Sandy left—a good thing, for Donny was about to be lynched by the Taormina trade for having given all their names to the police. What a mess! But I promised not to tell about it, so don’t you.
I miss you, little heart. A big kiss for Harold. Jack & Kelly send their love. You are my precious
T
[Collection New York Public Library]
TO DONALD WINDHAM AND SANDY CAMPBELL
Fontana Vecchia
Taormina Sicily
July 7 1950
Donny dear, and dear Sandy, too—
I hope this, along with the rest of your mail, reaches you in Palermo. It will amuse you that old Niente at the poste here has been laid off: seems they rotate the jobs, and his place has been taken by a very attractive young man called Mimi. Anyway, I have told him about forwarding your letters. We had your postcard from Syracuse; it sounded so charming. Are you liking Palermo as well?
Last Monday was too hot to believe; otherwise the weather has been blowing and really wonderful. At last they have added those buses to the beach, so it is a lot easier. We finally bought water-masks etc, and are practicing to be underwater fishermen. Analdo is wild with envy. Everyone asks after you, and though I keep saying you have gone, they always reply: Ah, ritorno, si?
Svedesi is leaving next week (really), followed by the Cacopardo’s [sic] themselves: he has got a job cooking in some hotel. So at last we will have Fontana to ourselves.
Nothing much has happened except that the people on the farm above here had a dance to celebrate their daughter’s wedding. Practically no one danced except the men, and of course I had a marvelous time. There was a beautiful wierd [sic] old man who played the guitar and sang like a Sicilian Walter Huston.
Oh yes, I forgot. There has been a werewolf scare here. No joke. A boy on the other side of town claims to have been attacked by a werewolf. Graziella100 says there have been werewolves in Taormina before. I’m sure you will believe that. Anyway, the general opinion is that we won’t have to worry about [it] until it is full moon again.
I’ve been making lime meringue pies—practically every other day: Jack screams when I go near the kitchen.
Had a letter from Jimmy Schuyler, who says he has read your book three times and thinks it is superb.
Kelly misses you. He is worse than ever, and on the beach the other day bit a real bite out of a man who turned out to be your friend De Bonnville. As a result, the police said we must keep him on the leash.
There was an article about Gide in Il mundo [sic], and it mentions your name—at least so Carlo Panarello101 says. I didn’t see the article.
So here we will be,—unless we have to flee before the Russians. I hope you are having fun, and that you are working. Jack sends his love to you both. Please write me, little one.
Meanwhile, best love
T
[Collection Beinecke Library, Yale University]
TO JOHN MALCOLM BRINNIN
[Postcard] Fontana Vecchia
Taormina, Sicily
July 14, 1950
Sir—
Why have you not answered my letter? I only write letters so that I will get them: please put this on a paying basis. We have a wonderful home here, and if it weren’t for the newspapers would be perfectly happy. At any rate, it seems a good place to work, and I am making use of it. Have you read Newton’s book? It is a wise, good book. Jack has a story in the July Bazaar, but we haven’t seen it. He sends his best. Honey, I hope you are enjoying the American summer; I know it is your favorite time. Prefer winter myself. Wish we could have a long talk. Much love from
T
[Collection University of Delaware Library]
TO DONALD WINDHAM
Fontana Vecchia
[Taormina, Sicily]
July 20 1950
Donny dear—
Have sent a letter (to Palermo) and a card (to Firenze),102 so hope both of these have reached you. Was much amused by the clipping re T.W.’s [Tennessee Williams’s] fisticuffs in Paris. Do you suppose it is true? And if so, who was the other gladiator? Speaking of violence, Graziella came to work today with a black eye, a bandaged arm where she had been stabbed, and black and blue marks head to toe. Her brother had beat her up—because he thought she went to the beach too much. She was really in a bad way, and we made her go home. Italians are just niggers at heart. Fulco [di Verdura] and his friend (Simon, American) came for supper last night, and were very pleasant.103 Is it cool in Florence; I should think it would be, there in the hills. You won’t believe this, but it has gotten downright cold here; we’ve worn sweaters the last two nights. La vie a Mazzaro is much the same; there are some new people, and The Panther is conducting a wholesale business in a grotto-cave on the island at Isola Bella.104 A new trade-character called Adelio has thrown himself upon the market: he looks just like our old friend, the soccer-player.
So what is happening in Florence? Do you see Edwin Denby, and any of those?105 If so, give them my best. We hear no news from N.Y. Everyone has stopped writing—except my old school teacher.106 In Florence they have beautiful copybooks bound in the Medici paper and many other designs; you can buy them in any good stationers, and I would love you forever if you could send me four of these, and I will send you the money for them. I need new copybooks so badly. Had a letter from Bessie Breur [Breuer] who asked me to congratulate you on your novel.107
I hope Sandy is having a good time. Give him my love. Jack sends love; Kelly would too if he wasn’t so busy gnawing the furniture. Write me, candy lamb
T
P.S. Nella was sick for a few days, but is alright now.
[Collection Beinecke Library, Yale University]
TO LEO LERMAN
Fontana Vecchia
Taormina, Sicily
July 26 1950
Darling—
Your sweet letter. I love you, too: for the very good reason that I always have, and always will.
How wonderful it would be if you could come here, you and Gray. Really you are not going to the Argentine! perché? Someone, I forgot who, wrote that all the editors in N.Y. were there (Buenos Aires), including Cynthia Laffoon, whose profile108 I so much enjoyed in The New Yorker. Well, ’tis an irony, isn’t it? How it’s all turned out, George [Davis] etc.?
As they say, Glady’s [sic] sounds a treasure. Just what you needed, a good cook. We have a cook, too; she is charming, but Italian food weighs you down after a bit—though actually [I] have never looked better, at least I’m very tan, dark as an Arab. All my teeth are falling out (literally), but what matter?
I’m so happy that you are writing; I would love you to do that book about your family—it could be so sad and funny and sweet. And I would like so much to see Gray’s new pictures, for what he does is so much his own, a rare quality indeed.
I’ve read William Goyen’s novel, and parts of it are lovely: have you seen it? But the rest of the books that have been sent here are not at all interesting.
We have Sicily, and Taormina, quite to ourselves; there is not a soul about, just a few chickens and some stray dogs. But I am content, if it were not for the newspapers I should even be happy: I do not seem much to need people anymore, which is the greatest advance I’ve made toward wisdom, you might say freedom. Of course one always needs one’s friends; but then they are not people, they are part of one’s self—as you are part of me, dearest Leo; Phoebe, for all her wiles, and a few others.
I am working—thoughtfully. To be an artist today is such an act of faith: nothing can come back from it except the satisfaction of the art itself. I think I’ve kept my head and know now what I am doing. I’ve written some stories, two of which I feel you would like; and I’ve got a start on the book that all along I should’ve known was the one possible book for me—because it is really mine.109 There is always such a tragic tendency to disregard what is one’s own—just as we are often nicer to strangers than we are to our friends.
I think of you, darling, and send you as many kisses as there are scraps in a crazy-quilt. Love to Gray.
mille tenderesse [sic] (ha ha)
T
Write me
[Collection Columbia University Library]
TO ANDREW LYNDON
[Taormina, Sicily]
[Late July or early August 1950]
Mia Cara—
Forgive this scrappy little paper (haven’t anything else) but want to get a little note off to you, if only to say that
