“The Dance” has been expanded to 104 lines, and is now the best thing I’ve done. I shall send it soon to you—regardless of the Anthology, as I want you to see and adjudge it. I’ve had to submit it to Marianne Moore recently, as my only present hope of a little cash. But she probably will object to the word “breasts,” or some other such detail. It’s really ghastly. I wonder how much longer our market will be in the grip of two such hysterical virgins as The Dial and Poetry!

We have been without mail service all week. They may get the roads cleared out before Easter, I don’t know. To have the sun again and a little warmth again! My present quandaries, that extend to every detail of my life, personal and artistic, have brought me near lunacy. I couldn’t go on much longer on such a strain as the last year. Can you send me a few stamps? About a dozen—to last until Andy [the mail carrier] gets back on the road.

276: To Allen Tate

Patterson   March 10th

Dear Allen: I abducted a copy of your Sewanee Review essay from the envelope before sending it on; I hope you don’t mind. As you had already promised me one I thought it would save you the trouble of mailing it back. Winters is sure to be interested, and I’m glad you’re sending him one.

I’m too addled these days to have any ideas. And I may have a better perspective later—on Ransom. Just now, though, he doesn’t impress me very much, at least this last book. But I haven’t read nearly so much of him as you have. He, oddly, partakes somewhat of both Hardy and Wallace Stevens. Not that he imitates ... but that in my “reading” he seems to share certain aspects of both. And though I grant him a distinct personality I can’t feel that either his technique or his attitude come half way up to the importance of either of them. He exploits his “manners” a great deal. But his viewpoints don’t seem to me very profound, nor does he possess any overwhelming graces. He never has succeeded—and probably never will—in writing anything that compares with your “Idiot” in respect to these qualities. He can satirize well at times, very well.

Hardy is a marvel in skill. If it weren’t for my indifference to his never-absent “message” I think I’d regard him as next to Shakespeare in sheer dexterity. I’ve been reading him rather thoroughly lately, instigated by Winters’ frequent mention of him, I suppose.

Hope Torrence treats us well.... I haven’t heard anything yet. Nor from Marianne. What strange people these — — — —- are. Always in a flutter for fear bowels will be mentioned, forever carrying on a tradition that both Poe and Whitman spent half their lives railing against—and calling themselves “liberals.” —/—/

277: To Allen Tate

Patterson   14th March ’27

Dear Allen: Miss — — — — won’t even take tea, you know, because she finds it too “stimulating.” I’ve been to her house, so I know. AND so, what can we expect! I got my verses [“Van Winkle” and “The Harbor Dawn”] back also. They seemed to be too spacious for The New Republic.... Your letter was of course a piece of folly, but justified. It won’t do Miss T. any good, but it’s an admirable relief to me, and probably to you. I envy buckandwing dancers and the Al Jolsons of the world sometimes. They don’t have to encounter all these milksops ... and they do please. They’re able to do some “good” to somebody and when they laugh people don’t think they are crying. Out here one reads the paper—one sees evidence mounting all the time—that there is no place left for our kinds of minds or emotions. Unless we can pursue our futilities with some sort of constant pleasure there is little use in going on—and we must apprehend some element of truth in our mock ceremonies or even our follies aren’t amusing. I’m looking around for some new sort of “avocation,” but having gone half-blind with conjunctivitis (better known as “pink-eye”) I [am] waiting for the cornea to clear before taking any leap.

Phallus-es have been known to slyly leap out of some of Mr. Gilmore’s poems published in The Little Review, so — — — — had better watch out. But she probably doesn’t know one when she does encounter it! His poems, about as long as a cicada’s whir, might make an amusing booklet. His plays are even briefer, I’m told.

Thanks for the NR copies. Miss T. had informed me of the matter, saying “you must look out for it” (sic), so that I felt I might be standing in the middle of Seventh Avenue with a huge truck bearing down suddenly. Having bothered you so much lately I tho[ugh]t I’d worry Bill [Brown] for awhile, so I asked him to send me copies. I’ll certainly have plentEE now! I note that the one quotable paragraph (from the publisher’s standpoint) has been lopped off: the last, with the allusion to Whitman. The rest will be a sufficient warning to most readers not to read the book, for it’s one long dissertation on the subject of OBSCURITY.

The genial tactics of the editorial proofreader have even helped Frank on a little by falsifying his ms.—at least the copy I hold. For instance, “the obscure poet he is likely for long to remain” has been changed to read “ever to remain.” This not only alters the time-limit before my possible admission to the panting bosom of the generous reader, but changes the emphasis of the context in such a way that the reader infers the reviewer’s prophecy to be that I shall probably never write anything that is comprehensible! With the world all flying into trillions of tabloids I probably shall not!

Your review of Laura [Riding] was just according to my estimates. If I’m as obscure to others as she is to me—then I won’t even rail any more at Miss T——.

GOLDEN TEXT:

Wondrous the gods, more wondrous are the men,

More wondrous, wondrous still, the cock and hen!—BLAKE

278: To His Mother

Patterson, NY   19th March 1927

Dear Grace: My eyes are so much better today that I’m able to type a little without straining. I had to order a pair of glasses—and that seems to have done more good than medicine. I lost my old pair down on the Island, but really have not worn them for more than a few days at a time for years. Nervous crises always affect my eyes, however, and it may be that this present case of conjunctivitis was caused as much by that as by wind and sunglare on snow. At any rate there’s no snow left around here now, and the air is as balmy as you could wish. I do hope that the season has definitely arrived—and no more snow! My spirits react entirely too much to the endless gloomy days we’ve had for so long.

—/—/ I am so glad that you enjoyed the Columbus part. It is coming out next September in The American Caravan, a yearbook of American letters, just started by Paul Rosenfeld, Alfred Kreymborg and Van Wyck Brooks, and published by the Macauley Co. When I was last in NY the owners of the Macauley Co. gave a large party to all the contributors up in a huge but unbelievably vulgarly furnished and expensive apartment on West End Avenue. There seemed to be everybody there I’d ever heard of. Enormous quantities of wine, cocktails and highballs were served. I had just landed in town after three months with the bossy cows—and I had my share. It would take me ages to tell all the amusing things that happen at such parties. But to come back to the poem: Rosenfeld was so excited about it that he called me up long distance and urged me to let them have it. I had thought to have to deny it to them on account of some complications on the copyright, conflicting possibly with my terms with Liveright (he has first option on my next two books), but after some concessions were made I was glad to have them take it.

The Dial has just informed me today that they have taken the main section of Part II, “Powhatan’s Daughter.” This is an Indian “Dance”—and will run about 4 Dial pages. I’ll be glad to have the cash to pay my arrears with Mrs. Turner and the doctor.... I have for some strange reason, heard nothing yet from London regarding the projected British edition of White Buildings. What you say about the reactions to it on Cornell Road are both amusing and touching. And when I read about Mrs. Jackson taking a copy to read to the Garrettsville Federated Women’s Clubs I rocked with laughter! The poor dears will never, NEVER know what in hell to make of it all! —/—/

I took enough veronal powders on the Island during those mad last days to convince me that there’s nothing worse. And they didn’t even give me sound sleep! The feelings next day were weird in the extreme. I hope that CA won’t keep them up very long. His attitude and emotions toward life would probably make one gasp if one could get a cross section of them. For a long time he has seemed to me as thorough a specimen of abnormality as I have ever heard of. I’ve given up even trying to imagine how he sees or thinks. I probably shall continue to not write him until he answers some of my former letters—or gives me some sign that he wants to hear from me. I sent him a copy of the recent New Republic, but without any note or comment. He probably likes to build up the picture that he’s creeping around in utter disgrace on account of the public “disgrace” his son has made of himself. Well, the thirty thousand people that read The New Republic probably wouldn’t give him much sympathy—regardless of their estimate of my particular value.

That was a happy thought—sending me the picture of the Kinsman house. It is particularly beautiful. — — — — Every once in awhile I have a dream with Warren scenes in it. Hall Kirkham, Donald Clarke, Katherine Miller, Leonard Bullus, Mrs. P—— with her great heart-shaped bosom—and Mrs. G—— gasping with her goitre—what has become of them all? I wonder. I once wrote a poem with Mrs. P—— as the subject—but it didn’t turn out to be much of anything but a sentimentality, and I guess I threw it away. You are right; I should write some prose. But to date I’ve never been able to think of things with plots to them. Somehow just can’t. When I do, there won’t be any particular difficulty in expressing myself. We’ll see what happens when I get through with this long Bridge poem. Right now I’m too occupied with it to think of other themes. —/—/

The enclosed letter may interest you. I am also enclosing the poem referred to—“O Carib Isle!”—which is one of three of mine which Jolas has translated into French to appear in a French anthology of American poems coming out this Fall. “O Carib Isle!” was written one hellish hot day on the Island—but the scene of the poem and its inspiration was Cayman! It is coming out soon in Poetry in this country. It’s not a bad poem. I’m crazy about those Caribbean waters and skies—even if they are hot! There’s a lot of the feeling they give you in the Columbus poem—don’t you think? Please return the letter.

279: To Allen Tate

Patterson   March 21, 1927

Dear Allen: —/—/ The B—— casques are 150 gallons full of successful and highly combustible nectar.—I celebrated to the full—returning to my boudoir late Saturday night—and knocking Senora Turner down besides hurling my Corona from the window in a high dudgeon because it wouldn’t write to President Calles automatically in Spanish and express my “untold” admiration for his platform. Bill has taken it to the hospital for long and I fear expensive treatment. —/—/

280: To Allen Tate

Patterson   March 26

Dear Allen: I hope my letter of yesterday hasn’t involved you in any great efforts so far! Written (and suddenly conceived) in the mood of waiting for the post—it reflected a too sudden flare of enthusiasm. There probably is no chance left to write Roebling’s life—but I would like the initials of the right Furman to address at Macauley’s—and sometime when you are up at the Library you might look in the file index and see if any life of Roebling has yet been written. The man was a genius—and his accomplishment stupendous at “that time.” There might be only slight public interest in his work. Nevertheless, he was a true Spenglerian hero—and his efforts brought tremendous wealth to his family. They might be interested—anyway tho they’d probably want some engineer friend of the family to do it. My “ideas” always have some unlikely catch to them! —/—/

281: To Allen Tate

[Patterson]  Sunday, March 27

Dear Allen: —/—/ As to the briefer,[55] I think that you give good reasons for assuming that Aiken wrote it. It might be more satisfying to ascertain this more definitely—but I do not feel that beyond that there is any particular justification for attacking him. He has a perfect right to claim that many of the poems are specious, and call them intellectual fakes, etc. He may quite well believe that he is right on the score. For years, remember, perfectly honest people have seen nothing but insanity in such things as [Blake’s] “The Tiger”—The only pity is what can be done about it. You have Aiken’s sentimentality beautifully defined. Personally the man is rather likeable, but I think he is full of poison. Let people like Hemingway have every convert they want. When he writes something vulnerable and signs it—we can backfire—and publicly—and that’s the only worthwhile way to spend—“we have so little breath to lose.” Thanks for the Davidson review. I certainly appreciate its tone of honesty and sincerity. A copy of transition #1 has reached me—and I’m enthusiastic about it. By all means send Jolas some poems—and why not your article on Marianne Moore? It doesn’t spoil re-sale of ms. over here, you know. transition has some weak contribs, of course, but the majority is respectable. Joyce, Gertrude Stein, Williams, Winters, Laura [Riding], Larbaud, Gide, MacLeish, Soupault, etc. It’s a wedge that ought to be used. Malcolm [Cowley] also ought to send things—and it seems to have a proof-reader!

Aunt Harriet [Monroe] has taken “Cutty Sark”—of all things—and I feel more cheerful. Have you sent her anything recently? Now seems to be the time. —/—/

282: To Allen Tate

Patterson   March 30,

Dear Allen: Thanks for the Times review. I am looking for Poetry review today—and by the way, Carolyn [Gordon] forgot to enclose the Fletcher letter to The New Rep. I’m anxious to know what it was about.

It’s damned interesting to notice how evident it is that your Foreword set the key—at least to a large extent—for most of Gorman’s comments on all six poets reviewed. I consider his comments on W.B. quite unexpectedly favorable. What they would have been without your preface is hard to imagine.... I see we have come to the same conclusions about the Aiken debate—and shall leave him in his achin’ void! I enclose a remarkable little surprise from the London Times [Feb. 24, 1927]. Altogether it’s the most satisfying newspaper mention we have had. One wonders who wrote the notice. As for space—they seldom give more to foreign editions. Please don’t lose this, as I may want it for quotations—Liveright, I mean.

Altogether, I think this is the last time in our lives to be badly discouraged. The ice is breaking—for both of us, as near as I can see—in several different quarters—and I’m beginning to detect many salutary signals. Apparently our ideas and idiom evokes some response—however slow. And what we do win in the way of intellectual territory is solid—it can’t be knocked over by every wave that comes along—as could Masters, Bodenheim, Lindsay, etc. We wouldn’t believe the developments of the next five years if they could be detailed now!

I’m so unhappy without a machine [typewriter]. Hope I get my new one soon. Let us know as much beforehand as possible if (and when) you intend coming. We’re down to the last crust in the pantry—and no conveyance in sight to get any marketing done. —/—/

283: To His Father

Patterson, NY   May 7th, 1927

Dear Father: Your good letter of the third came yesterday, and I have been thinking over your kindness in offering me so pleasant a domicile in the Ohio hills as the tavern plan would seem to present. There is one big bugbear, in my case a permanent one, which you probably didn’t think of; and this in addition to a rather temporary but nevertheless important consideration makes me feel that it would be inadvisable to adopt the role of Ohio innkeeper, especially now.

I am referring to such divers matters as hay fever and “bridges.” I’m sure I’ve mentioned more than once that this particular valley out here—for God knows what reason—does, however, as a proven fact furnish me almost complete immunity from that nightmare affliction. It has so happened that for a number of years you haven’t seen me under the benign influence of Ohioan pollens during the months of June, July, Sept. & October,—so you probably don’t so sharply recollect what a miserable looking critter I become during those twelve or so weeks every year. Cleveland is severe enough, but what those months would mean out in the hayfields—I dread to contemplate. And, wouldn’t those be the most active months of all the year for a hostelry? I’m sure you will see my point and realize as well that I wouldn’t be much good to you, either, at such periods. I used to be asked to remain away from the office—often for several days—during my hayfever period with Corday & Gross. The fact is that I’m unusually susceptible. The altitude and extreme woodedness of these parts are probably what make the difference here.

The other drawback is the urgency of getting my Bridge poem completed by next fall. It will take all the concentration I can give it to accomplish this. And if I came out behind-hand on it I would disappoint Boni & Liveright, my publisher, very much: he wants it to appear by next spring. So you see how things stand.... It would be folly for me to add complications, however fine it would be to live in such a lovely place as you describe and be with you. Get the farm though, I think it’s a fine idea, and you will get a great deal of pleasure and relaxation out of it. One doesn’t lose money often on that kind of real estate, and as for someone good to run it—the range of your acquaintance will probably suggest a number of capable people. —/—/

—/—/ I looked for the May check in today’s letter. Hope you won’t forget it before plunging into the Canadian wilds as I have obligated myself somewhat for oil and other supplies on the pleasant prospect of being solvent. The Tates are definitely decided against coming out here this summer, so that makes it possible for you to comfortably visit me here whenever you feel like it. I wish you would consider it and come!

284: To His Mother

Patterson   May 27th, 1927

Dear Grace: We’ve had four days of continued downpour with such disastrous effects on my garden, newly planted, that I guess I’ll have to put new seeds in. There are several brooks and lakes floating around over the bean and corn rows, and I can almost swear there’s a geyser or so! —/—/

I’m in a considerable stew about money myself. CA’s fine promises have already shown their vacancy. The worst was—that on the strength of his word (I certainly thought he wouldn’t fail the very first month!) I went ahead and put in a wholesale supply of a number of commodities necessary here, and have been worrying ever since how I was going to pay for them. Meanwhile he has kept me so busy writing him successive excuses first for not going with him here, or managing some new tavern of his there, or what-not—ever since, that I’ve had no time to settle down to work or anything! DAMN it all!

This next month must see something accomplished on The Bridge or I shall be completely discouraged. I have done nothing but insignificant parts since last July, no major work has been done since then. And I must have it ready to hand over to my publisher this fall. I’ve got to clear my head of a lot of things, pleasant and unpleasant, and dig.

I don’t know what to tell you about your leg or work or anything. For so much depends on your alimony. If there were something you could work at for awhile, like library work, where you would not have to remain standing for long I should recommend it. But you said you didn’t care for that. I want you to come here and visit me later on in the summer when it gets hot and when there are some nice green things to be had from the garden. Meanwhile, can’t you make ends meet? While you are here your expenses won’t amount to more than ten dollars a week. Please understand me right; you are certainly welcome here at any time. I have the whole house to myself and shall continue to have it—there is a bedroom for you, etc. And the country around here is simply gorgeous. I never saw such profusion of wildflowers. And it is cool here at night throughout the whole year. The best thing in the world for you would be to spend long days of comparative solitude here—away from all the hubbub of life in the city, and in a totally new environment. I think that your nervous feelings are mainly responsible for your swelled leg—disordered nerves generate all kinds of poisons—and you must plan to come here awhile at least some time during the summer. —/—/

If this letter sounds kinda crabby please don’t mind. I’m feeling in fine shape—all too well—but you can’t blame me for having a conscience and getting a little upset at times at the slow progress my work seems to be making! And if I don’t always answer as promptly as you like, you’ll realize, I know, that a letter generally means losing a whole day’s work—I don’t care how slight it is, or to whom, it demands a completely different adjustment and takes one completely out of one’s creative subject matter. —/—/

285: To Yvor Winters

Patterson, New York   May 29th, 1927

Dear Winters: You need a good drubbing for all your recent easy talk about “the complete man,” the poet and his ethical place in society, etc. I’m afraid I lack the time right now to attempt what I might call a relatively complete excuse for committing myself to the above sentiments—and I am also encumbered by a good deal of sympathy with your viewpoint in general. Wilson’s article was just half-baked enough to make one warm around the collar. It is so damned easy for such as he, born into easy means, graduated from a fashionable university into a critical chair overlooking Washington Square, etc., to sit tight and hatch little squibs of advice to poets not to be so “professional” as he claims they are, as though all the names he has just mentioned had been as suavely nourished as he—as though 4 out of 5 of them hadn’t been damned well forced the major part of their lives to grub at any kind of work they could manage by hook or crook and the fear of hell to secure! Yes, why not step into the State Dept. and join the diplomatic corps for a change! indeed, or some other courtly occupation which would bring you into wide and active contact with world affairs! As a matter of fact I’m all too ready to concede that there are several other careers more engaging to follow than that of poetry. But the circumstances of one’s birth, the conduct of one’s parents, the current economic structure of society and a thousand other local factors have as much or more to say about successions to such occupations, the naive volitions of the poet to the contrary. I agree with you, of course, that the poet should in as large a measure as possible adjust himself to society. But the question always will remain as to how far the conscience is justified in compromising with the age’s demands.

The image of “the complete man” is a good idealistic antidote for the hysteria for specialization that inhabits the modern world. And I strongly second your wish for some definite ethical order. Munson, however, and a number of my other friends, not so long ago, being stricken with the same urge, and feeling that something must be done about it—rushed into the portals of the famous Gurdjieff Institute and have since put themselves through all sorts of Hindu antics, songs, dances, incantations, psychic sessions, etc., so that now, presumably the left lobes of their brains and their right lobes respectively function (M’s favorite word) in perfect unison. I spent hours at the typewriter trying to explain to certain of these urgent people why I could not enthuse about their methods; it was all to no avail, as I was told that the “complete man” had a different logic than mine, and further that there was no way of gaining or understanding this logic without first submitting yourself to the necessary training. I was finally left to roll in the gutter of my ancient predispositions, and suffered to receive a good deal of unnecessary pity for my obstinacy. Some of them, having found a good substitute for their former interest in writing by means of more complete formulas of expression have ceased writing altogether, which is probably just as well. At any rate they have become hermetically sealed souls to my eyesight, and I am really not able to offer judgment.

I am not identifying your advice in any particular way with theirs, for you are certainly logical, so much so that I am inclined to doubt the success of your program even with yourself. Neither do you propose such paradoxical inducements as tea-dansants on Mt. Everest! I am only begging the question, after all, and asking you not to judge me too summarily by the shorthand statements that one has to use as the makeshift for the necessary chapters required for more explicit and final explanations. I am suspect, I fear, for equivocating. But I cannot flatter myself into quite as definite recipes for efficiency as you seem to, one reason being, I suppose, that I’m not so ardent an aspirant toward the rather classical characteristics that you cite as desirable. This is not to say that I don’t “envy” the man who attains them, but rather that I have long since abandoned that field—and I doubt if I was born to achieve (with the particular vision) those richer syntheses of consciousness which we both agree in classing as supreme, at least the attitude of a Shakespeare or a Chaucer is not mine by organic rights, and why try to fool myself that I possess that type of vision when I obviously do not!

I have a certain code of ethics. I have not as yet attempted to reduce it to any exact formula, and if I did I should probably embark on an endless tome with monthly additions and digressions every year. It seems obvious that a certain decent carriage and action is a paramount requirement in any poet, deacon or carpenter. And though I reserve myself the pleasant right to define these standards in a somewhat individual way, and to shout and complain when circumstances against me seem to warrant it, on the other hand I believe myself to be speaking honestly when I say that I have never been able to regret—for long—whatever has happened to me, more especially those decisions which at times have been permitted a free will. (Don’t blame me entirely for bringing down all this simplicity on your head—your letter almost solicits it!) And I am as completely out of sympathy with the familiar whimpering caricature of the artist and his “divine rights” as you seem to be. I am not a Stoic, though I think I could lean more in that direction if I came to (as I may sometime) appreciate more highly the imaginative profits of such a course.

You put me in altogether too good company, you compliment me much too highly for me to offer the least resistance to your judgments on the structure of my work. I think I am quite unworthy of such associates as Marlowe or Valéry—except in some degree, perhaps, “by kind.” If I can avoid the pearly gates long enough I may do better. Your fumigation of the Leonardo legend is a healthy enough reaction, but I don’t think your reasons for doubting his intelligence and scope very potent. I’ve never closely studied the man’s attainments or biography, but your argument is certainly weakly enough sustained on the sole prop of his sex—or lack of such. One doesn’t have to turn to homosexuals to find instances of missing sensibilities. Of course I’m sick of all this talk about b—s and c—s in criticism. It’s obvious that b—s are needed, and that Leonardo had ‘em—at least the records of the Florentine prisons, I’m told, say so. You don’t seem to realize that the whole topic is something of a myth anyway, and is consequently modified in the characteristics of the image by each age in each civilization. Tom Jones, a character for whom I have the utmost affection, represented the model in 18th Century England, at least so far as the stated requirements in your letter would suggest, and for an Anglo-Saxon model he is still pretty good aside from calculus, the Darwinian theory, and a few other mental additions. Incidentally I think Tom Jones (Fielding himself, of course) represents a much more “balanced” attitude toward society and life in general than our friend, Thomas Hardy. Hardy’s profundity is real, but it is voiced in pretty much one monotonous key. I think him perhaps the greatest technician in English verse since Shakespeare. He’s a great poet and a mighty man. But you must be fanatic to feel that he fulfills the necessary “balanced ration” for modern consumption. Not one of his characters is for one moment allowed to express a single joyous passion without a forenote of Hardian doom entering the immediate description. Could Hardy create anything like Falstaff? I think that Yeats would be just as likely—more so.

That’s what I’m getting at.... I don’t care to be credited with too wholesale ambitions, for as I said, I realize my limitations, and have already partially furled my flag. The structural weaknesses which you find in my work are probably quite real, for I could not ask for a more meticulous and sensitive reader. It is my hope, of course, not only to improve my statement but to extend scope and viewpoint as much as possible. But I cannot trust to so methodical and predetermined a method of development, not by any means, as you recommend. Nor can I willingly permit you to preserve the assumption that I am seeking any “shortcuts across the circle,” nor wilfully excluding any experience that seems to me significant. You seem to think that experience is some commodity—that can be sought! One can respond only to certain circumstances; just what the barriers are, and where the boundaries cross can never be completely known. And the surest way to frustrate the possibility of any free realization is, it seems to me, to wilfully direct it. I can’t help it if you think me aimless and irresponsible. But try and see if you get such logical answers always from Nature as you seem to think you will! My “alert blindness” was a stupid ambiguity to use in any definition—but it seems to me you go in for just about as much “blind alertness” with some of your expectations.

If you knew how little of a metaphysician I am in the scholastic sense of the term, you would scarcely attribute such a conscious method to my poems (with regard to that element) as you do. I am an utter ignoramus in that whole subject, have never read Kant, Descartes or other doctors. It’s all an accident so far as my style goes. It happens that the first poem I ever wrote was too dense to be understood, and I now find that I can trust most critics to tell me that all my subsequent efforts have been equally futile. Having heard that one writes in a metaphysical vein the usual critic will immediately close his eyes or stare with utter complacency at the page—assuming that black is black no more and that the poet means anything but what he says. It’s as plain as day that I’m talking about war and aeroplanes in the passage from “F & H” (“corymbulous formations of mechanics,” etc.) quoted by Wilson in The New Republic, yet by isolating these lines from the context and combining them suddenly with lines from a totally different poem he has the chance (and uses it) to make me sound like a perfect ninny. If I’d said that they were Fokker planes then maybe the critic would have had to notice the vitality of the metaphor and its pertinence. All this ranting seems somehow necessary.... If I am metaphysical I’m content to continue so. Since I have been “located” in this category by a number of people, I may as well go on alluding to certain (what are also called) metaphysical passages in Donne, Blake, Vaughan, etc., as being of particular appeal to me on a basis of common characteristics with what I like to do in my own poems, however little scientific knowledge of the subject I may have.

I write damned little because I am interested in recording certain sensations, very rigidly chosen, with an eye for what according to my taste and sum of prejudices seems suitable to—or intense enough—for verse. If I were writing in prose, as I sometime shall probably do, I should probably include a much thicker slice of myself—and though it is the height of conceit for me to suggest it, I venture to say that you may have received a somewhat limited idea of my interests and responses by judging me from my poems alone. I suppose that in regard to this limitation of poetic focus one should consult the current position of poetry in relation to other intellectual and political characteristics of the time, including a host of psychological factors which may or may not promote the fullest flowering of a particular medium such as verse. I am not apologizing. Nor am I trying to penetrate beyond a certain point into such labyrinths of conjecture and analysis. It seems unprofitable. One should be somewhat satisfied if one’s work comes to approximate a true record of such moments of “illumination” as are occasionally possible. A sharpening of reality accessible to the poet, to no such degree possible through other mediums. That is one reason above all others—why I shall never expect (or indeed desire) complete sympathy from any writer of such originality as yourself. I may have neglected to say that I admire your general attitude, including your distrust of metaphysical or other patent methods. Watch out, though, that you don’t strangulate yourself with some countermethod of your own!

286: To His Father

Patterson, New York   June 9th, 1927

Dear Father: Your good letter with check came yesterday. I’m certainly relieved to know that I can now meet my obligations and continue The Bridge with a free mind and imagination. You certainly have my enthusiastic gratitude for your loyalty and the general attitude you have toward my work. I venture to predict that you will not be disappointed in the final results. —/—/

287: To Mrs. T. W. Simpson

Patterson, N.Y.   July 4th, 1927

Dear Aunt Sally: Sunshine and a certain amount of heat seem to stimulate me to writing, that is, judging by the intensive work I did on the Island with you last summer, and by the returned activity I’ve been having lately. We haven’t had any particularly hot weather, but it’s been warm enough to sweat a little, and that seems to be good for me. As a little evidence of my activities I’m enclosing a new section of The Bridge called “The River.” It comes between “Van Winkle” which I sent you in the last letter and the Indian “Dance” which you are familiar with.

I’m trying in this part of the poem to chart the pioneer experience of our forefathers—and to tell the story backwards, as it were, on the “backs” of hobos. These hobos are simply “psychological ponies” to carry the reader across the country and back to the Mississippi, which you will notice is described as a great River of Time. I also unlatch the door to the pure Indian world which opens out in “The Dance” section, so the reader is gradually led back in time to the pure savage world, while existing at the same time in the present. It has been a very complicated thing to do, and I think I have worked harder and longer on this section of The Bridge than any other.

You’ll find your name in it. I kind of wanted you in this section of the book, and if you don’t have any objections, you’ll stay in the book. For you are my idea of the salt of all pioneers, and our little talks about New Orleans, etc., led me to think of you with the smile of Louisiana. I continue in a kind of “heat”—and I may have another section or so finished up before August. I sure want to get it all done by December.

Well, here it is the Fourth again. I keep thinking of last year at this time. I guess my ears were about healed by that time, but I was still in a blue funk, and I remember how I went to town and after four or five Tropicals came home again and read. We aren’t having much of any celebration up here this year. The Browns are rather broke, and so am I—neither of us able to indulge in either firecrackers or firewater to any extent. Eleanor Fitzgerald is going to give a little levee down at her place, however, and maybe there will be some cider.

I got a card from NY the other day saying that my old jack tar friend, J—— F——, was back from his long trip in European waters, so I just piked in and saw him! He was standing up on the forward deck when I saw him from the pier head, and after taking me all over the ship (a destroyer) we had a very pleasant evening, taking in a movie on hunting in a jungle, full of marvelous tiger close-ups and elephant stampedes. —/—/

I get very little news from Cleveland. But from all I have heard mother and grandma are both fairly well. They have moved into a new apartment, but I guess I mentioned that change as well as the address in my last. I have stopped writing anything whatever to mother about the Island and the Island property, because I don’t get any more return comment from her on that subject than you seem to get. She doesn’t seem to be able to get her mind settled on any matters relating to that problem. I don’t understand why, but I’m sure of this, and I hope you will believe me—she hasn’t anything but gratitude to you for all you have done, and certainly entertains the most friendly sort of sentiments toward you constantly. —/—/

I can’t get over thinking how sweet it was of you to sell the four copies of White Bldgs. Did they arrive alright from the publisher? If they didn’t I will see to it that they do. I somehow think of you as being out on the Golfo de Batabano today in a sailboat. Am I right? How I should like to be on the water! The sea’s the only place for me, with my nose. I’m just getting a little over my spring attack of hayfever now. And the next session begins before September. —/—/

Wish I could read “The River” out loud to you as I used to do last summer! Too damned bad the hurricane came—I liked my little study room there so much, with the mango tree to look at through the back window.... I achieved some triumphs in that little room.

288: To His Father

Patterson, N.Y.   August 12th, 1927

Dear Father: —/—/ Life goes on here pretty evenly and monotonously. I have managed to do a good deal of writing, but not as much of it is on The Bridge as I would have liked to have finished by this time. Difficult is no word to describe the sort of things I’m trying to “put across” in that poem, and I’ve been rather too much on a tension of worry lately about a number of things to give it the requisite concentration. Grace and her present pathetic circumstances is one cause and my own arrangements for the coming fall and winter is another. It’s obvious that I must get a job in town, and I’m casting out lines now even—for it generally takes ages to get anything definite worked up. I’m not asking for reassurances, but I do hope that I can count on your assistance to the extent of the monthly amount until I can get something on my hook—for otherwise I may not have the necessary carfare to ride in when the time comes for the preliminary interview! —/—/

289: To Otto H. Kahn

Patterson, New York   September 12th, 1927

Dear Mr. Kahn: I am taking for granted your continued interest in the progress of The Bridge, in which I am still absorbed, and which has reached a stage where its general outline is clearly evident. The Dedication (recently published in The Dial) and Part I (now in The American Caravan) you have already seen, but as you may not have them presently at hand I am including them in a ms. of the whole, to date, which I am sending you under separate cover.

At the risk of complicating your appreciation of Part II (“Powhatan’s Daughter”), I nevertheless feel impelled to mention a few of my deliberate intentions in this part of the poem, and to give some description of my general method of construction. Powhatan’s daughter, or Pocahontas, is the mythological nature-symbol chosen to represent the physical body of the continent, or the soil. She here takes on much the same role as the traditional Hertha of ancient Teutonic mythology. The five sub-sections of Part II are mainly concerned with a gradual exploration of this “body” whose first possessor was the Indian. It seemed altogether ineffective from the poetic standpoint to approach this material from the purely chronological angle—beginning with, say, the landing of “The Mayflower,” continuing with a résumé of the Revolution through the conquest of the West, etc. One can get that viewpoint in any history primer. What I am after is an assimilation of this experience, a more organic panorama, showing the continuous and living evidence of the past in the inmost vital substance of the present.

Consequently I jump from the monologue of Columbus in “Ave Maria”—right across the four intervening centuries—into the harbor of 20th-century Manhattan. And from that point in time and place I begin to work backward through the pioneer period, always in terms of the present—finally to the very core of the nature-world of the Indian. What I am really handling, you see, is the Myth of America. Thousands of strands have had to be searched for, sorted and interwoven. In a sense I have had to do a great deal of pioneering myself. It has taken a great deal of energy—which has not been so difficult to summon as the necessary patience to wait, simply wait much of the time—until my instincts assured me that I had assembled my materials in proper order for a final welding into their natural form. For each section of the entire poem has presented its own unique problem of form, not alone in relation to the materials embodied within its separate confines, but also in relation to the other parts, in series, of the major design of the entire poem. Each is a separate canvas, as it were, yet none yields its entire significance when seen apart from the others. One might take the Sistine Chapel as an analogy. It might be better to read the following notes after rather than before your reading of the ms. They are not necessary for an understanding of the poem, but I think they may prove interesting to you as a commentary on my architectural method.

1. “The Harbor Dawn”:

Here the movement of the verse is in considerable contrast to that of the “Ave Maria,” with its sea-swell crescendo and the climacteric vision of Columbus. This legato, in which images blur as objects only half apprehended on the border of sleep and consciousness, makes an admirable transition between the intervening centuries.

The love-motif (in italics) carries along a symbolism of the life and ages of man (here the sowing of the seed) which is further developed in each of the subsequent sections of “Powhatan’s Daughter,” though it is never particularly stressed. In 2 (“Van Winkle”) it is Childhood; in 3 it is Youth; in 4, Manhood; in 5 it is Age. This motif is interwoven and tends to be implicit in the imagery rather than anywhere stressed.

2. “Van Winkle”:

The protagonist has left the room with its harbor sounds, and is walking to the subway. The rhythm is quickened; it is a transition between sleep and the immanent tasks of the day. Space is filled with the music of a hand organ and fresh sunlight, and one has the impression of the whole continent—from Atlantic to Pacific—freshly arisen and moving. The walk to the subway arouses reminiscences of childhood, also the “childhood” of the continental conquest, viz., the conquistadores, Priscilla, Capt. John Smith, etc. These parallelisms unite in the figure of Rip Van Winkle who finally becomes identified with the protagonist, as you will notice, and who really boards the subway with the reader. He becomes the “guardian angel” of the journey into the past.

3. “The River”:

The subway is simply a figurative, psychological “vehicle” for transporting the reader to the Middle West. He lands on the railroad tracks in the company of several tramps in the twilight. The extravagance of the first twenty-three lines of this section is an intentional burlesque on the cultural confusion of the present—a great conglomeration of noises analogous to the strident impression of a fast express rushing by. The rhythm is jazz.

Thenceforward the rhythm settles down to a steady pedestrian gait, like that of wanderers plodding along. My tramps are psychological vehicles, also. Their wanderings as you will notice, carry the reader into interior after interior, finally to the great River. They are the left-overs of the pioneers in at least this respect—that their wanderings carry the reader through an experience parallel to that of Boone and others. I think [I] have caught some of the essential spirit of the Great Valley here, and in the process have approached the primal world of the Indian, which emerges with a full orchestra in the succeeding dance.

5.[4] “The Dance”:

Here one is on the pure mythical and smoky soil at last! Not only do I describe the conflict between the two races in this dance—I also become identified with the Indian and his world before it is over, which is the only method possible of every really possessing the Indian and his world as a cultural factor. I think I really succeed in getting under the skin of this glorious and dying animal, in terms of expression, in symbols, which he himself would comprehend. Pocahontas (the continent) is the common basis of our meeting, she survives the extinction of the Indian, who finally, after being assumed into the elements of nature (as he understood them), persists only as a kind of “eye” in the sky, or as a star that hangs between day and night—“the twilight’s dim perpetual throne.”

6.[5]> “Indiana”:

I regret that this section is not completed as yet. It will be the monologue of an Indiana farmer; time, about 1860. He has failed in the gold-rush and is returned to till the soil. His monologue is a farewell to his son, who is leaving for a life on the sea. It is a lyrical summary of the period of conquest, and his wife, the mother who died on the way back from the gold-rush, is alluded to in a way which implies her succession to the nature-symbolism of Pocahontas. I have this section well-nigh done, but there is no use including [it] in the present ms. without the final words.

The next section, “Cutty Sark,” is a phantasy on the period of the whalers and clipper ships. It also starts in the present and “progresses backwards.” The form of the poem may seem erratic, but it is meant to present the hallucinations incident to rum-drinking in a South Street dive, as well as the lurch of a boat in heavy seas, etc. So I allow myself something of the same freedom which E. E. Cummings often uses.

“Cutty Sark” is built on the plan of a fugue. Two “voices”—that of the world of Time, and that of the world of Eternity—are interwoven in the action. The Atlantis theme (that of Eternity) is the transmuted voice of the nickel-slot pianola, and this voice alternates with that of the derelict sailor and the description of the action. The airy regatta of phantom clipper ships seen from Brooklyn Bridge on the way home is quite effective, I think. It was a pleasure to use historical names for these lovely ghosts. Music still haunts their names long after the wind has left their sails.

“Cape Hatteras,” which follows, is unfinished. It will be a kind of ode to Whitman. I am working as much as possible on it now. It presents very formidable problems, as, indeed, all the sections have. I am really writing an epic of the modern consciousness, and indescribably complicated factors have to be resolved and blended.... I don’t wish to tire you [with] too extended an analysis of my work, and so shall leave the other completed sections to explain themselves. In the ms., where the remaining incompleted sections occur, I am including a rough synopsis of their respective themes, however.

The range of The Bridge has been called colossal by more than one critic who has seen the ms. And though I have found the subject to be vaster than I had at first realized, I am still highly confident of its final articulation into a continuous and eloquent span. Already there are evident signs of recognition: the following magazines have taken various sections:

(I have been especially gratified by the reception accorded me by The Criterion, whose director, Mr. T. S. Eliot, is representative of the most exacting literary standards of our times.)

For some time past I have been seeking employment in New York, but without success so far. It’s the usual problem of mechanical prejudices that I’ve already grown grey in trying to deal with. But all the more difficult now, since the only references I can give for the last two years are my own typewriter and a collection of poems. I am, as you will probably recall, at least avowedly—a perfectly good advertising writer. I am wondering if you would possibly give me some recommendation to the publicity department of The Metropolitan Opera Company, where I am certain of making myself useful. I was in New York two days last week, trying to secure employment as a waiter on one of the American lines. I found that I needed something like a diploma from Annapolis before hoping for an interview. A few years ago I registered with the Munson Line with reference to my qualifications for a particular position which every ship includes—that of “ship’s writer,” or “deck yeoman”; but I always found that such jobs were dispensed to acquaintances of the captain or to office workers, and that my references were never taken from the file. I am not particular what I do, however, so long as there is reasonable chance of my doing it well, and any recommendation you might care to offer in any practical direction whatever will be most welcome. My present worried state of mind practically forbids any progress on The Bridge, the chances for which are considerably better under even greatly limited time conditions.

I am still assured of a definite inheritance, previously mentioned in my first letter to you; and if you care to consider advancing me, say 800 or 1,000 dollars, on the same basis of insurance security as your previous assistance I should be glad to come into New York and talk it over. There is no monetary standard of evaluation for works of art, I know, but I cannot help feeling that a great poem may well be worth at least the expenditure necessary for merely the scenery and costumes of many a flashy and ephemeral play, or for a motor car. The Aeneid was not written in two years—nor in four, and in more than one sense I feel justified in comparing the historic and cultural scope of The Bridge to this great work. It is at least a symphony with an epic theme, and a work of considerable profundity and inspiration. Even with the torturing heat of my sojourn in Cuba I was able to work faster than before or since then, in America. The “foreign-ness” of my surroundings stimulated me to the realization of natively American materials and viewpoints in myself not hitherto suspected, and in one month I was able to do more work than I had done in the three previous years. If I could work in Mexico or Mallorca this winter I could have The Bridge finished by next spring. But that is a speculation which depends entirely on your interest.

Please pardon the inordinate length of this letter. I shall, of course, hope to hear from you regarding your impressions of the poem as it now stands. Along with the ms., I am enclosing three critical articles which may interest you somewhat.

290: To Samuel Loveman

Patterson, N.Y.   Sept. 18th, ’27

Dear Sam: I was glad to hear from you. I had been totally at a loss to explain the basis of your resentment, and still am not quite clear on the subject—but as you say that it is now removed perhaps nothing is gained by probing old wounds and asking you what exactly it was all about. Certainly, if I borrowed some money from you and have forgotten to return it I shall have deserved the full measure of disapproval. Memory plays tricks with all of us at times, and mine is no more faithful to me than it ought to be. —/—/

291: To His Father

Brooklyn, N.Y.   October 11th, 1927

Dear Father: I have just had an interview with Otto Kahn, following his reading of the manuscript of The Bridge. Kahn is very enthusiastic about what I have accomplished and is most anxious that I keep on with the composition without interruption until it is finished. I told him about your willingness to extend me the assistance of the monthly allowance of $50 and he has come forward with an additional $300 which will provide me with necessary boat fare to Martinique for the winter. That is a much pleasanter island than the Isle of Pines and I will also be able to learn French and Spanish there, which will make it possible for me to earn my living up here later by translation work.

I know enough about Martinique from people who have recently been there to be sure that the allowance you have been giving me will cover my living costs there. The winter season will insure me against any of the excessive heat that I experienced on the Isle of Pines and I shall be able to get much more accomplished.

I shall probably sail on the 20th (Furness-Bermuda Line) and arrive about 8 days later. Am busy now seeing about my passport. Please let me hear from you soon.

292: To —— and ——

[Brooklyn]   Nov. 16, 27

Dear —— and ——: Traintime approaches, but I hope life does not continue to grow accordingly more hectic, as has been the rule so far! Several times I have all but lost my ticket, presented several days ago. Notably Tues. night in jail....

After a riotous competition with Cummings and Anne [Cummings] in which (I don’t know but I’m sure) I won the cocktail contest I found myself in the Clark St. station along about 3 o’clock playing with somebody’s lost airedale. The cop who rushed at me, asking me what I was doing is reported to have been answered by “why the hell do you want to know?!!!” in a loud tone of voice, whereat I was yanked into a taxi and was sped to the station (slyly and en route tossing all evidence such as billets doux, dangerous addresses, etc., out the window) and the next I knew the door crashed shut and I found myself behind the bars. I imitated Chaliapin fairly well until dawn leaked in, or rather such limited evidences of same as six o’clock whistles and the postulated press of dirty feet to early coffee stands.

I was good and mad. Made an impassioned speech to a crowded court room, and was released at 10 o’clock without even a fine. Beer with Cummings in the afternoon which was almost better than evening before, as C’s hyperbole is even more amusing than one’s conduct, especially when he undertakes a description of what you don’t remember. Anyhow, I never had so much fun jounced into 24 hours before, and if I had my way would take both C’gs and Anne along with me to heaven when I go. —/—/

293: To Charlotte and Richard Rychtarik

Altadena, Cal[ifornia]   Nov. 29th, ’27

Dear Charlotte & Ricardo: —/—/ I have just been here a week and a day, having left NY on the 17th in company with my new “boss,” his valet, chauffeur and 3 dogs. I am more-or-less his secretary and companion, but I’m treated more as a guest and have practically all of my time to myself. Boss is a semi-invalid, a wealthy Wall Street broker who travels most of the time, and who has been sent out here for six months rest by his doctors. Lord! I never lived in this style before! It’s almost oppressive! But maybe I’ll get used to it in time....

As I said, about all I have to do is to be agreeable, talk about Aristotle, Einstein, T. S. Eliot, Gertrude Stein, etc., etc., (in other words, my boss is really a very cultured man and didn’t want to take too much of a chance on running into a vacuum as regards companionship out here). He is also interested in my writing, and it is with some regard to helping me with my work that he has taken me out here. We’re living in an amazing house, rented for the season from the president of the American Express Company. It is all bath rooms and bad furniture—but such bath rooms! And there is a huge patio in the center, on which all the rooms open—very much the Spanish style of course.

It all came about as a sudden surprise to me. I was in Patterson only about two weeks after I left Cleveland. Came into New York and found a job in a little book shop almost immediately. I thought I was lucky until the bad lighting of the store (it was a black little hole!) got to working on my eyes. But I’d been there less than two weeks when Miss Fitzgerald of the Provincetown Theatre told me about this opportunity. As she is a very good friend of my boss her recommendation was seriously considered, and after a few preliminary “try-outs” dining, riding in the park, etc., I was formally invited. So here I am! —/—/

My boss has a curiosity about meeting some of the movie people—and later on, when he gets to feeling better, expects to do some entertaining. I’m hoping that Charlie Chaplin will remember my evening with him and Frank in NY and possibly be friendly. Then there’s an old “flame” of mine from Cleveland, Alice Calhoun, who has since become a movie queen who lives out here. My boss is only 34, a bachelor, and has a furious love of excitement, so there may be some amusing developments. But at present, it’s part of my “task” to keep him quiet on a more-or-less intellectual and sedentary diet. Well, well—not at all! Where will I be next? Tahiti? It’s not so far from here! — — — —

294: To Slater Brown

Santa Monica, California   Monday—Dec. 19

Dear Bill: Yes, one can hear the sea seven flights below—and I’ve been walking on the beach most of the day. The boss, finding that I didn’t get along too well with some of his Hollywood week-end guests, advised my taking a vacation, and with means happily provided here I am until tomorrow night. Wall Street seems to carry a slight oppression and madness with it wherever it “extends.” It has been good to come over here where places are rather deserted of crowds and hear the gulls cry overhead and watch the solemn pelicans eye you awhile—and then haul up their legs and sprawl into the air.

Viennese cooking with caviar and port every night for dinner is playing hell with my waistline—and I sleep as never before, excepting the cradle. One can’t seem to wake up out here without the spur of scotch or gin. There has been plenty of that—in fact last Saturday night I danced the “Gotzottski” right on Main St. Los Angeles, while — — — —, an aviator from Riverside and a Kentuckian—danced the Highland Fling—or as good an imitation of it as he could manage. This after having invaded the Biltmore ballroom and dancing with fair ladies of the haute mondaine. Albeit—and having got our waiter drunk and having left in high dudgeon—I don’t think I’ll dare attend that[?] supper club again.

After a good deal of fair “sailing” since arriving here—I am now convinced that “flying” is even better. Right now however—and until next weekend—I am “all fives” on the ground and life can run as high as it wants to over in our villa without my batting an eye. -/-/

God! you never know who you’re meeting out here.... First there was a snappy collegiate hanging around the studios, who turned out to know Allen [Tate]—and then today on the beach a mile below here, at Venice, I found myself talking literature, Spengler, Kant, Descartes and Aquinas—to say nothing of Charles Maurras and Henri Massis—to a Bostonian of French descent who knows Stewart Mitchell, and especially his Aunt, very well! He turned out to be one of the best scholars I’ve ever met—a great reactionary toward the same kind classicism that Eliot and Lewis are fostering in England. I had him spotted as a Romanist in less than five minutes—but he wouldn’t admit until we parted. The dialectic we had was more rousing than the aforesaid tonic combustions of alcohol, I admit....

Winters and wife will be here visiting relatives during Christmas week—and I look forward to that as a real event. Really, it’s terribly dulling having so many servants around, so much food, so much tiptoeing, and ceremony. —/—/ The present “star” was once “Ariel” in The Tempest—and though she still makes the welkin ring I fear her voice will never do it again. She has adopted the pronoun “we” to signalize her slightest thought, whim or act—and her conceit was so wounded on spying my “Chaplinesque” during the course of her drunken and exclamatory rampage through Edificios Blancos—that she nearly passed out—and insisted on the spot that I make instant amends by composing a sonnet to her superb P.A. (Hollywood shorthand for physical attraction) as displayed in her erstwhile success in Peter Pan. Hence here I am by the sea—and mightily pleased—until the storm subsides....

My Spanish quotation from Slater Brown reminds me that I now have Joyce’s Arista Adoloscente—a translation sent me by Marichalar who wrote a very interesting introduction.[56] He was greatly interested in The [American] Caravan and is going to review it in the Revista de Occidente. I must get started at my Spanish again. Richards’ Principles of Literary Criticism is a great book. One of the few—perhaps the only one in English excepting stray remarks by Coleridge—that get to bed rock. Weston’s book, From Ritual to Romance, was quite fascinating—but Winters claims that scholars regard half her data and deductions as imaginative bunk. Did I rave[?] to you about Elizabeth Madox Roberts’ new book—My Heart and Flesh—before! Anyway, I hope you’ll read it. I think it a great performance. —/—/

I’m glad you liked the Breughel book. Its humor really belonged to you, if you get what I mean, and you therefore were more capable of “owning” it than anyone I ever knew. If you were dead and gone I think it would have been a better commemoration than flowers—so take good care of it—and hand it on to your grandchildren—for you never can tell—you may have them, you know!