What do you make of the Andrew-Harold separation? I never thought Harold would do it.
I must say, Gray, that house where you were staying in Chicago sounded powerfully grim. It upset me to think of you there, away from the coziness of Lexington Avenue.
Now, I want you both to save your pennies and give everyone Local Color for Christmas—I’m afraid its sales will be limited strictly to my friends.
Leo Lamb, I would love to read the book you are working on. The material is so wonderful. I hope you are getting on with it.
I’m glad to be back at Fontana; it is lonesome, and strange, but I am really quite content. They are harvesting the grapes now, and the air is sweet with the smell of new wine—I wish both of you were here, we could be so happy. I miss you, my darlings, and send you my tenderest love
T
[Collection Columbia University Library]
TO ROBERT LINSCOTT
Taormina, October, 1950
Great White Father—
Here I am, back at the grind—though it will be a few days before I climb that china tree again.133 Meanwhile, am struggling through an article for Bazaar on my happy life in Sicily: need the money, my dear. The story, A Diamond Guitar, is going to be in the November Bazaar—please read it.
Have just had the first batch of Local Color reviews. Nearly all of them were good—at least the great chest-pounding he-men spit less venom than usual. God forbid they should ever take me to their hearts; when that time comes, I’d best retire. I do hope somebody is buying the book—I should hate for Random House to have to cut its staff, and put all of you to scrubbing floors.
I’ve been so happy about your reaction to my chapters. It is very real to me, more real than anything I’ve ever written, probably ever will. Satisfying as, in that sense, it is, it keeps me in a painful emotional state: memories are always breaking my heart, I cry—it is very odd, I seem to have no control over myself or what I am doing. But my vision is clear, and if I can half execute that vision it will be a beautiful book.
Had a letter from Goyen this morning. I like him so much. I think the title of his new book is good, Ghost and Flesh. In the same mail came the most appalling news: my cousin Gordon Persons has been elected Governor of Alabama—he is a mush-head, believe me.134 What is America coming to?
They are harvesting the grapes now. I went over and stomped a tub or two myself. It was a delicious feeling, sqush, sqush [sic].
I suppose you know that Newton had a nervous collapse and will not be teaching at Smith this fall. I think he ought to get out of N’hampton for good.
Write me, dear Bob; I am homesick these autumn days, and would love to be crossing Madison Avenue with you in tow. My best to everyone. With all affection
T
P.S. Phoebe and Doris Lilly finally sold that book—to Putnams.135
[Collection Columbia University Library]
TO CECIL BEATON
Taormina, October, 1950
Cecil dearest,
I was so happy, on coming back from Venice, to find your letter. But Lord, honey, you should have stayed in Taormina—away from all that rain, all those frustrations: I hate to think of your garden wrecked—hate now to think of all the trouble you are having over G.G. [Greta Garbo] (funny, has it ever struck you? those initials have double significance). Never fear, little lamb: your day is coming! What a shame, though, that you have never had a chance to wear your lovely suit. Why don’t you pop back down here! The sun is still shining ever so brightly, the sea has never been warmer. But I daresay cold weather is on its way—and a lonely winter for me, as really I must stay here working quietly: much as I should like to be in New York, at least for a few months. Ah well, maybe you will come to Italy in the spring. We had a lovely time in Venice—marvelous things to eat which, as you must remember, is not Sicily’s strong point. The tea party with Fulco [di Verdura], Simon [Fleet],136 Juliet [Duff], must have been rather sad: that is, surely Juliet & Jules loathe each other. I would love to read the new play; it could be terribly good, I think: it is most certainly a promising situation. I wonder if you might not send me it, a carbon; I would return it promptly.137 I’ve heard that the reason the Kanins [Garson Kanin and Ruth Gordon] dropped Janie’s play138 was that they, the Kanins, demanded All Rights, and Oliver S. [Smith] refused to let them have it. Am so happy that you thought Local Color turned out well; it is, at any rate, a beautifully made book: maybe it will have some sort of Christmas sale—though that probably is an idle hope. Of all people, who should I have had a letter from but Thermistocles [Themistocles] Hoetis—back in New York, and looking for a job.139 Frankly, I’m afraid he is one of the unemployables.
Well, my dear, I must return now to my friends in the tree: they do not like to sit too long in one position. Need I say that I miss you? Write your poor loving friend, he cherishes your letters. mille tendresse [sic]
T
Jack sends his best; Kelly says he misses your leg.
[Collection St. John’s College, Cambridge University]
TO WILLIAM GOYEN
Taormina, Sicily,
October 12, 1950
Bill dear—
I love to think of you knitting and darning, writing at a kitchen table. At any rate, I think you are better off in N.Y.—Chicago, never! I think the title “Ghost and Flesh” is beautiful, please don’t change it. It has for me a wonderful evocativeness; and I long to read the stories.140
We spent September in Venice—it was exactly the kind of holiday I needed, though, as a result, am suffering tortures trying to get back to work. Am too keyed-up. The reviews of Local Color have been more or less good, but in quite an uninteresting way, and I am very much put-out by the amount and kind of advertising that has been done—believe me, I would rather have had no ads than be inserted at the bottom of list-ads (or even at the top). RH [Random House] is so good to me in most ways—but I feel as though I must make a complaint.
So: you are up to your naughty tricks again—why don’t you tell me what goes on in your life? All you do is tease. And here I am thousands of miles away.
They are harvesting the grapes here, making the new wine. Sig. Barti, a friend here, let me stomp out a tub or two, and I did enjoy it, jumping up and down on all those fat squshy [sic] grapes.
Am very upset about Andrew—I can’t think what will happen. He is so charming, so sweet—so incapable. Or do you know that he and Harold [Halma] are finito? H. was no prize—but at least he gave A. a center, not to mention support. A. is now living in Jack’s apt. right around the corner from you: 232 E. 76. I hope you will see him.
There was an article in the Italian paper Il Tempo about modern American writers and it contained a long paragraph about you, very flattering. I meant to cut it out, but now can’t find it.
We were in Rome for a few days, but did not see Gian-Carlo [Menotti] as I did not feel up to all the nuisance of locating him. What kind of opera is it that you are writing with Sam [Samuel Barber]? I once tried to do one for Aaron Copland but somehow couldn’t work up the right kind of interest: vanity, I suppose—I kept thinking how Aaron would get all the credit.
Tell me, have you met Marylou Aswell (or Peters)? I know you would love her. She is fine for hermits like you.
Ah, little Hermit, T misses you, loves you. Write me soon—say, the next 20 minutes. Mille tenderesse [sic], precious
T
[Collection Unknown]
TO ANDREW LYNDON
Taormina,
October, 1950
Darling—
So happy you are settled in at 232; I think it is a fun place to live, and I daresay you will not be having to move out because of Newton. He writes that he is going to Ohio to teach in Jan.—which does seem to me a dreary notion.
Here: rain, rain! The kind of rain you can’t see through. Kelly won’t go out in it to do his toilette—so full of piss, poor dear, that his stomach’s twice the size it should be. The rain, they say, is likely to keep up for several weeks, in which case I shall be covered with fungus.
Thank you, honey, for the review and the White parody of Ol’ Hem.141 Have you read T. Williams [sic] novel?142 Molto volgare, to put it mildly. He is a bad writer.
Gordon Sager has turned up here. A strange, heartless boy; I wish that I could like him, but—Anyway, he has just published a new novel, The Invisible Worm (hidieous [sic] title); it’s about Taormina.143 Gerald, the only well-done character, is an astonishingly accurate portrait of Douglas Cooper, the English art critic who was so mad for Bill Lieberman.144 It’s a bad novel—with amusing moments; you ought to look at it.
Next week—Peggy Guggenheim. During a rash moment in Venice I said come on down to Sicily, dear. Lord God, she is arriving next Tuesday.
I’m glad
