As you can see, I have changed addresses, have moved to a little lost mews in darkest Brooklyn … for various reasons: I wanted most to get away from hectic, nerve-wracking influences, to escape and get on with my work.66 I had reached a point where I was so nervous I could hardly hold a cigarette, and my work was not going too well. So here I am living in quiet Victorian splendor in a private house belonging to two elderly, rather mad ladies; I have a charming (moderately) parlor, and a rather cheerful bedroom: I can’t wait for you to see it. There is a telephone: Main 2–7070 … but under no circumstances are you to tell it to anyone, neither family (not even my mom knows it) or friends. I want to get in touch with Ankey [Anky Larrabee]. Please send me her address. What other news? Newton is well. He gave a wonderful evening lecture at Smith, and the Bazaar has bought it. He will be in New York next weekend.
Dearest Malcolm, I hope you are well. I miss seeing you, and want to so much. When you come to town next do try and save a goodly share of your time for me. And write me at once. Much love to you, darling
T
[Collection University of Delaware Library]
TO JOHN MALCOLM BRINNIN
[1060 Park Avenue]
[New York]
[December 1946]
Malcolm dear,
Thank you for the letter; it cheered me enormously—indeed, took the chill off an otherwise icy day. And I was glad to hear of your pleasant weekend with Howard [Doughty]. But, my dear boy, however did you manage five heavyweights over such a protracted period?
And thank you, too, for being so kind about the Hawk.67 If you really liked it, then nothing would please me more. There is a story coming out in the Atlantic with which I feel a little more satisfied.68
I had dinner last night with Aaron Copland. He wants me to do the libretto for an opera. However, I do not think myself at all qualified. Would you be interested?
Yes, I certainly wish I could clear away a few of the obstructions, and “get on” with my work. Alas, there are so many. Dramatic as it may sound, I wonder really whether I shall be able to live through the winter: everything I do seems to turn against me. It is very hard now for me to be alone: there are so many things I cannot do for myself. Yet there is no one for me to turn to, really no one. Newton, poor darling, never could cope with it, try as he does, and try as he will. Of course, all my friends are wonderful to me, and I know, would do most anything for me. Unfortunately, there is no stability in this. Oh Malcolm, dear Malcolm, do please excuse such running on: I am very ashamed to so indulge myself. And anyway, I expect the new year will bring me better luck.
I am going to Northampton on Friday, and will be back the following Tuesday. If you’re coming to town, drop me a line, please. My very best love to you
T
P.S. I have read The Wound and the Weather.69 It is not a particularly exciting talent, but certainly a most pleasing one. And three or four of the poems approach a kind of perfection. I think I should be more interested in his second book.
[Collection University of Delaware Library]
TO HOWARD DOUGHTY
17 Clifton Place
Brooklyn 5, N.Y.
December 18, 1946
Howard dear,
It has been so long since I’ve seen or heard from you; of course I’ve probably owed you a letter all along, but I’m not sure: in any case, I never write under that theory, but only when I most genuinely want to.
As you may know, I’ve moved over here to Brooklyn to an old Victorian house furnished, I should say, after the owners read one of Mrs. Belloc-Lowndes’s penny-shockers. It is pleasant, though, quiet and warm and such a relief after what I once rather absurdly referred to as my ‘proper setting.’ Malcolm has been here to visit, so he probably has given you a description. I shall probably stay here until May … unless, that is, I can find something more convenient.
Since seeing you in Northampton, I have been in still another hospital. I am getting quite bored with whatever my mysterious ailment might be.
I had cocktails with Elizabeth [Ames] the other day; it was really very pleasant, and I enjoyed it; away from Yaddo, she is a much more agreeable person. She told me you were working hard, which was of course good news. Speaking of work, Newton has really out-done himself, and is, I’m afraid, in a very high-strung state. I am going up there on Saturday, and will be there for Christmas. Every day this last week I’ve devoted to buying his presents, and I think I’ve done quite well: a Mark Cross brief case with his initials and a departmented [sic] interior of blue morroco [sic], a pair of antique mercury-glass candlesticks which are very beautiful, the new Daumier book, an album of Maggie Teyte,70 and an album of records all selected seperately [sic]. God knows how I am going to get all this to Northampton.
I had dinner with Cyril Connolly last week.71 He is a fat, remote but pleasant guy, and is going to use a story in Horizon.
The picture of Malcolm in Junior Bazaar is awfully good. Did you see
it?
Lionel Trilling has finished his novel; I haven’t read it, but someone who has said it was not too good.72 A letter from Carson says she has been sick, but in love with Paris; she is going to live in Edita Morris’s house which is about twenty miles outside Paris.73 What other news? I may do the libretto for Aaron Copland’s potential opera; at least he has asked me. I just can’t make up my mind. I have written one new story and it is going to be in The Atlantic, of all places.74 The lecture Newton gave last November is going to be [in] the March issue of Harper’s Bazaar. It is beautiful.
Dear Howard, aside from love, there comes with this letter a very real wish for a happy new year.
T
[Collection Unknown]
TO JOHN MALCOLM BRINNIN
[17 Clifton Place]
[Brooklyn]
Sunday
[2 February 1947]
Malcolm dear—
It is so long since I’ve heard from you; I hope this doesn’t mean you haven’t been well. As for me, my various ailments seem pretty much at a standstill, for which, needless to say, I am thankful.
I am still in Brooklyn—off and on—not very often, really. My family are leaving for Cuba this week, and so I’m taking over Park Avenue for a few weeks: therefore, if you are in town, please call me there: ATwater 9-3319. Indeed, that brings up a point: why don’t you make a special trip? It has been so very long since we chewed our friends to pieces, and you could use the other bed-room (in perfect safety, I assure you.) Newton is coming next weekend; we are going to see Androcles, and am having a small party for him: Henri & Eli, Marylou and Barbara, Aaron Copland and his friend Victor: would you like to make it nine? A very brief party, to be sure: 5:30 to 7, Sunday, the ninth. In any case, perhaps you will be at Henri’s opening Tuesday night.
Your under-the-umbrella picture in Mlle. was awfully good.75 There is a morbid photograph of me in the new Feb. 1 Vogue; I’m so weary of those dopefiend pictures, which are interesting, I suppose, but which, after all, don’t really look like me. Or do they? In the same issue is a picture of your friend Valerie Bettis.76
A letter from Howard says you are going up to Yaddo soon. Well, best of luck. Do you think you will be spending any time there this summer?
Knowing your predilection for the movies, let me warn you not to miss, “Les Enfants du Paradis,” which is opening here next week. And avoid at all cost “The Best Years of Our Lives,” what a maudlin, false, dull piece of hokum!
Of course there are any number of things to write you, but it is getting late, and I have an appointment to keep. Let me hear from you. Meanwhile, much love from
T
[Collection University of Delaware Library]
TO MARY LOUISE ASWELL
[Northampton, Mass.]
[16 April 1947]
Marylou, divinely beloved
This must be love! For you are the only one I ever write: yes, it is love, but then of course who would not love one so beautiful and enchanting as M.L. Indeed, darling, I do not know that I have changed the course of your life (as Mr. Broaden Bowater77 suggests), but you, fair creature, have altered the course of mine: you have done me more good, darling, than a hundred thousand dollars worth of Dr. Moultar, Selven, and Max whats-his-name. There now, you can use that as a testimonial when finally you leave 572 Madison and start giving your own method of psycho-exercise.78I can just see you, pet! Oh yes, the Aswell method—ie: “Girls, if you want to keep a shapely mind and a [unclear] figure, then I tell you this: forget about men, sex, food, clothes, whiskey, friends (especially if their name is Lawrence or Barbara: those 2 names always accompany a dangerous type), furniture, music, books, politics—in other words, girls, just stretch out on a summery beach and forget: that is the Aswell road to happiness.” Honey, with that formula I’ll bet you could pick up a fast buck. Shall we write a
