T.
[Collection New York Public Library]
TO MARIE DEWEY
[Palamós, Spain]
4 Sept 1962
Darling Marie—
Rcvd. today your sweet letter with all the clippings. It is awful of me to “panic” the way I do—but I am out on such a limb with this book that by now it really involves my entire future as an artist, and all this uncertainty, on top of the work itself, just undoes me. I must say you and Alvin are very patient with me, and deeply kind, and I appreciate it with all my heart.
Honey, this is just a note to enclose the enclosed: please buy Alvin a bottle of his favorite scotch—a birthday present from
Your loving
T.
P.S. Rather sad about the Mahars.133 I’ll bet there’s a story there!
[Collection New York Public Library]
TO BENNETT CERF
[Palamós, Spain]
10 September 1962
Dear B.—
Yes, I think the jacket is very handsome: couldn’t be more pleased; and thank you!
About “In Cold Blood.” I am still working on Part Three (of the four parts): it is the longest, forty thousand words or so, and when I’ve finished (I expect in February) I am coming straight home; the book will then be more than three quarters written, and I will write the last part there. Of course, please bear in mind that I cannot really finish the book until the case has reached its legal termination, either with the execution of Perry and Dick, (the probable ending) or a commutation of sentence (highly unlikely). With the appeals still possible in the Federal courts the whole thing will certainly drag on at least until next summer.
However, I think you will be pleased with my work: if you thought the first half was exciting—wait! Nevertheless, it is the most difficult writing I’ve ever done (my God!) and an excruciating thing to live with day in and day out on and on—but it will be worth it: I know.
All my love to Phyllis, and some for you.
T.
[Collection Columbia University Library]
TO ALVIN DEWEY
[Palamós, Spain]
15 September 1962
Dear Alvin—
I was driving through town, and the man at the telegraph office came tearing into the street, waving his arms—as if he knew how anxious and pleased I would be to get the cable. As indeed I was. Bless you, dear Fox! You are my most favorite fellow. So: Oct. 25th.134 At last we’re getting somewhere—I trust, and pray, and hope. But I wonder what will now transpire. Will Shyster Shultz continue?—or is he out of the picture? Will H & S live to a ripe and happy old age?—or will they swing, and make a lot of other folks very happy indeed? For the answer to these and other suspenseful questions tune in tomorrow to your favorite radio program, “Western Justice,” sponsored by the Slow Motion Molasses Company, a Kansas Product.
I’m glad my dear Deweys are settled down for another year of school and work and games.
I am leaving here October 1st—going back to: Poste Restante, VERBIER, VALAIS, Switzerland. On the 15th of October I am going to Paris and London for a week or so. And I think I will telephone you from there. Just to hear all your nice, real nice, voices.
However, before I leave here, I wish I could recieve [sic] the following information. Is your father buried in Valley View? If so, what are the dates of birth and death? How does the inscription read? This is quite important, so send a note by return mail if possible.135
Hugs and love to All
ME
[Collection New York Public Library]
TO ALVIN AND MARIE DEWEY
Verbier
8 October 1962
Precious ones—
I loved my birthday card: bless and thank you all, especially Pete.
But I am worried about Alvin’s stomach troubles. I am sure he has been to a good doctor—I hope it is better (though I know this is a long-time complaint).
Such a lot to tell. First off, we had (in Spain) the great storm and floods—1,000 dead or missing, thousands more homeless: an appalling catastrophe. We missed the worst of it but it was bad enough—no electricity, road washed out, sea-waves at the door. BUT, having survived that, we (Charlie, Sister and my friend Jack Dunphy), set forth for Switzerland—a two day drive. But at the Spanish-French frontier the most horrible thing happened. My Carte de Grise (a document that makes it possible to take a car from one country into another) proved to be outdated by five months. The French customs refused to let the car (which we filled with about 8 tons of luggage) into France, and the Spanish said if I brought it back into Spain they would confiscate it. What a dilemma! Finally we left the car at the border and took a taxi to Perpignan, the nearest French town of any size. I spent two hellish days going from office to office; they all said I would have either to abandon the car or pay a custom duty of around $1,000 and wait eight to ten days for new papers! At this juncture I blew my top. I decided to let them know with whom they were dealing. I called Paris and spoke to my friend the French Minister of Industry. And, after all that runaround, three hours later I drove the car into France with everybody bowing and scraping and apologizing like mad. I suppose the cynical moral of that little tale is: never bother with petty officials—go to the top (if you can).
Anyway, here we are back in Verbier, and very nice it is, too. Except for a brief visit sometime in November to Paris and London I expect to stay here working on Our Book until I go to New York (and Garden City) in the early months of 1963.
Dear God, do you realize it will soon be 3 years since all this started?! Yes, and I was a fairly young man when I began this book—but, before it’s over, I shall be fat and bald and middleaged—heaven knows I’m well on the way.
I’m so glad the boys are doing well in school: I feel as though they were my nephews!
So Shyster Shultz is gone, and now we have this unknown Mr. Turner. Somehow I wish Shultz was still around. At least we knew he was a fool.
Write me! I love you all. Hugs & kisses
T.
[Collection New York Public Library]
TO NEWTON ARVIN
Verbier, Switzerland
15 October 1962
Dearest Sige—
There are certain people with whom one can be the closest and longest and most loving of friends—and yet they can quite quickly drop out of one’s life forever simply because they belong to some odd psychological type. A type that only writes when he is written to, that only telephones when he is telephoned. That is—if one does not write him or phone one just will never hear from him again. I have known several people like that, and this peculiarity of theirs, this strange eye-for-an-eye mentality, has always fascinated me. Phoebe Pierce was like that: I have not heard from Phoebe in six years—merely because one day, in the nature of a test, I decided I’d wait and let her call me. And she never did. Never. After 16 years of the closest friendship! No quarrel. Nothing. It was just that all the mechanics of our friendship had been worked by me. But, of course, she would have behaved the same way with anybody: as I say, it’s a type. Barbarra [Barbara] Lawrence is another good example. So is Jack Dunphy. And so, my dear, are you. Last winter, when I called you from New York, you said: “I was just thinking about you. I was wondering if I would ever hear from you again.” But why shouldn’t I have heard from you? Why, with people like you, must all initiative always come from the other side? I might be lonely, I might be ill, I might last month have drowned in the Spanish floods (and damn near nearly did); but you would never bother to inquire. These observations are not meant meanly; I just would like to know what makes people like you and Phoebe and Jack behave as you do. I’m sure you will write to tell me: you are always meticulous about answering letters.
Anyway, am back here bedded down with my never-ending book—now going into its fourth year. I hope you have been able to finish-up all your money-making projects and get started on the mysterious and exciting-sounding project.
Have you read the fantastic volume of Oscar Wilde’s letters edited by Rupert Hart-Davis? I cannot tell you how fascinating I found them. Poor man, he was spared nothing. Nothing. I think it has been, or is being, published
