Salinger's New Novella

[Anonymous]

HAPWORTH 16, 1924

by J.D. Salinger

first published in the New Yorker Magazine, 1965

SOME comment in advance, as plain and bare as I can make it: My name,
first, is Buddy Glass, and for a good many years of my life,--very
possibly, all forty-six--I have felt myself installed, elaborately
wired, and, occasionally, plugged in, for the purpose of shedding some
some light on the short, reticulate life and times of my late, eldest
brother, Seymour Glass, who died, committed suicide, opted to
discontinue living,when he was thirty-one.
I intend, right now, probably on this same sheet of paper,
to make a start at typing up an exact copy of a letter of Seymour's
that, until four hours ago, I had never read before in my life. My
mother, Bessie Glass, sent it up by registered mail.
This is Friday. Last Wednesday night, over the phone, I
happened to tell Bessie that I had been working for several months on
a long short story about a particular party, a very consequential
party, that she and Seymour and my father and I all went to one night
in 1926. This last fact has some small but, I think, rather marvelous
relevance to the letter at hand. Not a nice word, I grant you,
"marvelous," but it seems to suit.
No further comment, except to repeat that I mean to type up
an exact copy of the letter, word for word, comma for comma. Beginning
here.
May28, 1965
Camp Simon Hapworth
Hapworth Lake
Hapworth, Maine

Hapworth 16, 1924, or quite
in the lap of the
gods!!
Dear Bessie, Les, Beatrice, Walter, and Waker:
I WILL write for us both, I believe, as Buddy is engaged
elsewhere for an indefinite period of time. Surely sixty to eighty per
cent of the time, to my eternal amusement and sorrow, that
magnificent, elusive comical lad is engaged elsewhere! As you must
know in your hearts and bowels, we miss you all like sheer hell.
Unfortunately, I am far from above hoping the case is vice versa. This
is a matter of quite a little humorous despair to me, though not so
humorous. It is entirely disgusting to be forever achieving little
actions of the heart or body and then taking recourse to reaction. I
am utterly convinced that if A's hat blows of while he is sauntering
down the street, it is the charming duty of B to pick it up and hand
it to A without examining A's face or combing it for gratitude! My
God, let me achiever missing my beloved family without yearning that
they miss me in return! It requires a less wishy-washy character than
the one available to me. My God, however, on the other side of the
ledger, it is a pure fact that you are utterly haunting persons in
simple retrospect! How we miss every excitable, emotional face among
you! I was born without any great support in the event of continued
absence of loved ones. It is a simple, nagging, humorous fact that my
independence is skin deep, unlike that of my elusive, younger brother
and fellow camper.
While bearing in mind that my loss of you is very acute today,
hardly bearable in the last analysis, I am also snatching this
stunning opportunity to use my new and entirely trivial mastery of
written construction and decent sentence formation as explained and
slightly enriched upon in that small book, alternately priceless and
sheer crap, which you saw me poring over to excess during the
difficult days prior to our departure for this place. Though this is
quite a terrible bore for you, dear Bessie and Les, superb or suitable
construction of sentences holds some passing, amusing importance for a
young fool like myself! It would be quite a relief to rid my system of
fustian this year. It is in danger of destroying my possible future as
a young poet, private scholar, and unaffected person. I beg you both,
and perhaps Miss Overman, should you drop by at the library or run
into her at your leisure, to please run a cold eye over all that
follows and then notify me immediately if you uncover any glaring or
merely sloppy errors in fundamental construction, grammar,
punctuation, or excellent taste. Should you indeed run into Miss
Overman quite by accident or design, please ask her to be merciless an
deadly toward me in this little matter, assuring her amiably that I am
sick to death of the wide gap of embarrassing differences, among other
things, between my writing and speaking voices! It is rotten and
worrisome to have two voices Also please extend to that gracious,
unsung woman my everlasting love and respect. Would to God that you,
my acknowledged loved ones, would cease and cut out thinking of her in
your minds as a fuddy duddy. She is far from a duffy duddy. In her
disarming, modest way, that little bit of a woman has quite a lot of
the simplicity and dear fortitude of an unrecorded heroine of the
Civil or Crimean War, perhaps the most moving wars of the last few
centuries. My God, please take the slight trouble to remember that
this worthy woman and spinster has no comfortable home in the present
century! The current century, unfortunately, is a vulgar embarrassment
to her from the word go! In her heart of hearts, she would zestfully
live out her remaining years as a charming, intimate neighbor of
Elizabeth and Jane Bennet, continually being approached by those
unequally delicious heroines of "Pride and Prejudice" for sensible and
worldly advice. She is not even a librarian at heart, unfortunately.
At all events, please offer her any generous specimen of this letter
that does not look too personal or vulgar to you, prevailing upon her
at the same time not to pass too heavy judgment on my penmanship
again. Frankly, my penmanship is not worth the wear and tear on her
patience, dwindling energies, and very shaky sense of reality. Also
frankly, while my penmanship will improve a little as I grow older,
looking less and less like the expression of a demented person, it is
mostly beyond redemption. My personal instability and too much emotion
will ever be plainly marked in every stroke of the pen, quite
unfortunately.
Bessie! Les! Fellow children! God Almighty, how I miss you on
this pleasant idle morning! Pale sunshine is streaming through a very
pleasing, filthy window as lie forcibly abed here. You humorous,
excitable, beautiful faces, I can assure you, are suspended above me
as perfectly as if they were on delightful strings from the ceiling!
We are both in very satisfactory health, Bessie sweetheart. Buddy is
eating quite beautifully when the meals are stomachable. While the
food itself is not atrocious, it is cooked without a morsel of
affection or inspiration, each string bean and simple carrot arriving
on the camper's plate quite stripped of its tiny, vegetal soul. The
food situation could change in a trice, to be sure, if Mr. and Mrs.
Nelson, the cooks, man and wife, a very hellish marriage from casual
appearances, would only dare to imagine that every boy who comes into
their mess hall is their own beloved child, regardless of from whose
loins he sprang in this particular appearance. However, if you had the
racking opportunity of chatting for a few minutes with these two
persons, you would quite know this is like asking for the moon. A
nameless inertia hangs over those two, alternating with fits of
unreasonable wrath, stripping them of any will or desire to prepare
creditable, affectionate food or even to keep the bent silverware on
the tables spotless and clean as a whistle. The sight of the forks
alone often whips Buddy into a raw fury. He is working on this
tendency, but a revolting fork is a revolting fork. Also, past a
certain important, touching point, I am far from at liberty to tamper
with that splendid lad's furies, considering his age and stunning
function in life.
On second thought, please do not say anything to Miss Overman
about my penmanship. It is best for her daily and hourly position to
dwell or harp on my rotten penmanship to her heart's content. I am
inutterably in that good woman's debt! She has been meticulously
trained by the Board of Education. Quite unfortunately, my rotten
penmanship, coupled with the subject of the late hours I enjoy
keeping, are very often the only grounds for discussion she finds
thoroughly comfortable and familiar. I do not know where I have failed
her in this respect. I suspect I got us off on quite the wrong foot
when I was younger by allowing her to think I am a very serious boy
simply because I am an omnivorous reader. Unwittingly, I have left her
no decent, human notions that ninety-eight percent of my life, thank
God, has nothing to do with the dubious pursuit of knowledge. We
sometimes exchange little persiflages at her desk or while we are
stepping over to the card catalogues, but they are very false
persiflages, quite without decent bowels. It is very burdensome to us
both to have regular communication without bowels, human silliness,
and the common knowledge, quite delightful and enlivening in my
opinion, that everybody seated in the library has a gall bladder and
various other, touching organs under their skin. There is much more to
the question than this, but I cannot pursue it profitably today. My
emotions are too damnably raw today, I fear. Also the precious five of
you are innumerable miles from this place and it is always too damned
easy to fail to remember how little I can stand useless separations.
While this is often a very stimulating and touching place, I
personally suspect that certain children in this world, like your
magnificent son Buddy as well as myself, are perhaps best suited to
enjoying this privilege only in a dire emergency or when they know
great discord in their family life. But let me quickly pass on to more
general topics. On my God, I am relishing this leisurely
communication!
The majority of young campers here, you will be glad to know,
could not possibly be nicer or more heartrending from day to day,
particularly when they are not thriving with suspicious bliss in
cliques that insure popularity or dubious prestige. Few boys, thank
God with a bursting heart, that we have run into here are not the very
salt of the earth when you can exchange a little conversation with
them away from their damn intimates. Unfortunately, here as elsewhere
on this touching planet, imitation is the watchword and prestige the
highest ambition. It is not my business to worry about the general
situation, but I am hardly made of steel. Few of these magnificent,
healthy, sometimes remarkably handsome boys will mature. The majority,
I give you my heartbreaking opinion, will merely senesce. Is that a
picture to tolerate in one's heart? On the contrary, it is a picture
to rip the heart to pieces. The counsellors themselves are counsellors
in name only. Most of them appear slated to go through their entire
lives, from birth to dusty death, with picayune, stunted attitudes
towards everything in the universe and beyond. This is a cruel and
harsh statement, to be sure. It fails to be harsh enough! You think I
am a kind fellow at heart, is that not so? God reward me with
hailstones and rocks, I am no! No single day passes that I do not
listen to the heartless indifferences and stupidities passing from the
counsellor's lips without secretly wishing I could improve matters
quite substantially by bashing a few culprits over the head with an
excellent shovel or stout club! I would be less heartless, I am
hoping, if the young campers themselves were not so damned
heartrending and thrilling in their basic nature. Perhaps the most
heartrending boy within sound of my ridiculous voice is Griffith
Hammersmith. Oh, what a heartrending boy he is! His very name brings
the usual fluid to my eyes when I am not exercising decent control
over my emotions; I am working daily on this emotional tendency while
I am here, but am doing quite poorly. Would to God that loving parents
would wait and see their children at a practical age before they name
them Griffith or something else that will by no means ease the little
personality's purpose in life. My own first name "Seymour" was quite a
gigantic, innocent mistake, for some attractive diminutive like
"Chuck" or even "Tip" or "Connie" might have been more comfortable for
adults and teachers wont to address me in casual conversation; so I
have some acquaintance with this petty problem. he, young Griffith
Hammersmith, is also seven; however, I am his senior by a brisk and
trivial matter of three weeks. In physical bulk, he is the smallest
boy in the entire camp, being still smaller, to one's amazement and
sadness, than your magnificent son Buddy, despite the gross age
difference of two years. His load in this appearance in the world is
staggering. Please consider the following crosses this excellent,
droll, touching, intelligent lad has to bear. Resign yourselves to
ripping your hearts out by the roots!
a)He has a severe speech impediment. It amounts to far more
than a charming lisp, his entire body stumbling at the brink of
conversation, so counsellors and other adults are not pleasantly
diverted.
B)This little child has to sleep with a rubber sheet on his
bed for obvious reasons, similar to our own dear Waker, but quite
different in the last analysis. Young Hammersmith's bladder has given
up all hope of soliciting any interest or favor.
C)He has had nine (9) different tooth brushes since camp quite
opened. He buries or hides them in the woods, like a chap of three or
four, or conceals them beneath the leaves and other crap under his
bungalow. This he does without humour or revenge or private relish.
There is quite an element of revenge in it, but he is not at liberty
to enjoy his revenge to the hilt or get any keen satisfaction out of
it, so totally has his spirit been dampened or quite smothered by his
relatives. The situation is thoroughly stubborn and rotten, I assure
you.
He, young Griffith Hammersmith, follows you two eldest dons
around quite a bit, often pursuing us into every nook and cranny. He
is excellent, touching,intelligent company when he is not being
hounded by his past and present. His future, I am fairly sick to death
to say, looks abominable. I would bring him home with us after camp is
over in a minute, with complete confidence, joy and abandon, were he
an orphan. He has a mother, however, a young divorcee with an
exquisite, swanky face slightly ravaged by vanity and self-love and a
few silly disappointments in life, though not silly to her, we may be
sure. One's heart and purse sensuality go out to her, we have found,
though she does such maddening, crappy job as a mother and woman. Last
Sunday afternoon, a stunning day, utterly cloudless, she popped by and
invited us to join her and Griffith for a spin in their imposing,
ritzy Pierce-Arrow, to be followed by a snack at the Elms before
returning. We regretfully declined the invitation. Jesus, it was a
frigid invitation!I have heard some stunning, frigid invitations in my
time, but this one quite took the cake! I am hoping you would have
been slightly amused by her utterly false, friendly gesture, Bessie,
but I doubt it; you are not old enough, sweetheart! Not too deep in
Mrs. Hammersmith's transparent, slightly comical heart, she was keenly
disappointed that we are Griffith's best friends in camp, her mind an
admirably quick eye instantaneously preferring Richard Mace and Donald
Wiegmuller, two members of Griffith's own bungalow and more to her
taste. The reasons were quite obvious, but I will not go into them in
an ordinary, sociable letter to one's family. With the passage of
time, I am getting used to this stuff; and your son Buddy, as you have
very ample reason to know, is no man's fool, despite his charming,
tender age on the surface. However, for a young, attractive, bitter
lonely mother with all the municipal advantages of swanky, patrician
facial features, great monetary wealth, unlimited entree, and
bejeweled fingers to show this kind of social disappointment in full
view of her young son, a callow child already cursed with a nervous
and lonely bladder, is fairly inexcusable and hopeless. Hopeless is
too broad, but I see no solution on the horizon to damnable and subtle
matters of this kind. I am working on it, to be sure, but one must of
necessity consider my youth and quite limited experience in this
appearance.
At first, as you know, they put us in different bungalows in
their folly, advancing on the premise that it is quite sound and
broadening to separate brothers and various members of the same
family. However, acting upon a casual, comical remark made by your
incomparable son Buddy, with which I heartily concurred, we had a
damned pleasant chat with Mrs. Happy on the third or fourth ridiculous
day, pointing out to her how completely easy it is to forget Buddy's
absurd, budding age and delightfully human need for conversation and
lightening riposte, with the lively result that Buddy got permission
to move his personal effects as well as his fine, puny humorous body
in here the following Saturday after inspection. We both continue to
find relief, pleasure and simple justice in this turn of affairs. I am
hoping to hell you get to know Mrs. Happy quite intimately when or if
you get an opportunity to come up or resourcefully make one. Picture
to yourselves a gorgeous brunette, perky, quite musical, with a very
nice little sense of humor! It requires all one's powers of
self-control to keep from taking her in one's arms when she is
strolling about on the grass in one of her tasteful frocks. Her
appreciation and fairly spontaneous love for your son Buddy is a
handsome bonus to me, making tears spring to the eyes when least
expected. One of the many thrills of my existence is to see a young,
gorgeous girl or woman from sheer instinct recognize this young lad's
worth within a quarter of an hour of casual conversation beside a
charming brook that is drying up. Jesus, life has its share of
honorable thrills if one but keeps one's eyes open! She, Mrs. Happy,
is also a big fan of yours, Bessie and Les, having seen you many times
before the footlights in Gotham, usually at the Riverside, near their
residence. She unwittingly shares with you, Bessie, a touching
heritage of quite perfect legs, ankles, saucy bosoms, very fresh,
cute, hind quarters, and remarkable little feet with quite handsome,
small toes. You know yourselves what an unexpected bonus it is to run
into a fully grown adult with splendid or even quite presentable toes
in the last analysis; usually, disastrous things happen to the toes
after they leave a darling child's body, you would agree. God bless
this gorgeous kid's heart! It is sometimes impossible to believe that
this haunting, peppy beauty is fifteen (15) years my senior! I leave
it to your own fine and dear judgment, Bessie and Les, whether to
allow the younger children to get wind of this, but if perfect
frankness is to pass between parent and child as freely by mail as in
loving person, which is the relationship I have striven for during my
entire life with increasing slight success, then I must admit, in all
joviality, to moments when this cute, ravishing girl, Mrs. Happy,
unwittingly rouses all my unlimited sensuality. Considering my absurd
age, the situation has its humorous side, to be sure, but merely in
simple retrospect, I regret to say. On two or three haunting occasions
when I have accepted her kind invitation to stop by at the main
bungalow for some cocoa or cold beverage after Aquatics Period, I have
looked forward with mounting pleasure to the possibility, all too
slight for words, of her opening the door, quite unwittingly, in the
raw. This is not a comical tumult of emotions while it is going on, I
repeat, but merely in simple retrospect. I have not yet discussed this
indelicate matter with Buddy, whose sensuality is beginning to flower
at the same tender and quite premature age that mine did, but he has
already quite guessed that this lovely creature has me in sensual
thrall and he has made several humorous remarks. Oh, my God, it is an
honor and privilege to be connected to this arresting young lad and
secret genius who will not accept my conversational ruses for the
truth! The problem of Mrs. Happy will pass into oblivion as the summer
draws to a close, but it would be a great boon, dear Les, if you would
recognize that we share your heritage of sensuality, including the
telltale ridge of carnality just below your own heavy, sensual, bottom
lip, as does our own marvelous, youthful brother, the splendid Walter
F. Glass, young Beatrice and Waker Glass, those sterling personages,
being comparatively free of the telltale ridge in question. Usually, I
think you will agree, I freely trample on signs to go by in the human
face, for they are absolutely unreliable or may be obliterated or
altered by Father Time, but I never trample on the ridge below the
bottom lip, usually a darker shade of red than the rest of the lips. I
will not harp on the subject of karma, knowing and quite sympathizing
with your disdain for my absorbing and accidental interest in this
subject, but I give you my word of honor that the ridge in question is
little more than a karmic responsibility; one meets it, one conquers
it, or if one does not conquer it, one enters into honorable contest
with it, seeking and giving no quarter. I for one do not look forward
to being distracted by charming lusts of the body, quite day in and
day out, for the few, blissful, remaining years allotted to me in this
appearance. There is monumental work to be done in this appearance, of
partially undisclosed nature, and I would cheerfully prefer to die an
utter dog's death rather than be distracted at crucial moments by a
gorgeous, appealing plane or rolling contour of goodly flesh. My time
is too limited, quite to my sadness and amusement. While I intend, to
be sure, to work on this sensual problem without ceasing, it would be
quite a little windfall if you, dear Les, as my dear father and hearty
friend, would be a complete, shameless, open book with regard to your
own pressing sensuality when you were our ages. I have bad the
opportunity of reading one or two books dealing with sensuality, but
they are either inflaming or inhumanly written, yielding little food
for thought. I am not asking to know what sensual acts you performed
when you were our ages; I am asking something worse; I am asking to
know what imaginary sensual acts gave lively, unmentionable
entertainment to your mind. Without the mind, sensuality quite has no
organs to call her own! I fervently urge you to be shameless in this
matter. We are human boys and would not love or respect you the less,
quite the contrary, if you laid bare your earliest and worst sensual
thoughts before us; I am certain we would find them very touching and
moving. A decent, utterly frank criterion is always of splendid,
temporary use to a young person. In addition, it is not in your son
Buddy's nature or mine or your son Walter's to be in the least shocked
or disgusted by any sweet, earthly side of humankind. Indeed, all
forms of human folly and bestiality touch a very sympathetic chord
within our breasts!
Ye gods and little fishes! How cheerful and rewarding it is to have
a little leisure for communication with one's family during one's busy
camp life! You can easily fail to suspect how damn much blessed time I
have on my hands today to attend to the needs of the heart and mind;
full explanation to follow shortly.
Continuing my description, confidential and quite presumptuous, of
Mrs. Happy, whom I know you could learn to love or pity, she is at
great pains in private not to let her rather rotten married life spoil
the happiness and sweet burden of having a baby. She is currently
pregnant, though having at least six or seven months to go before the
event which she understands so badly takes place. It is an up hill
struggle for her all the way. She is verily a poor kid with a tiny,
distended stomach and a head full of very touching crap based on
confusion, maddening books by doctors who share the same popular,
narrow horizons, and the information supplied by a dear friend, with
whom she roomed at college, a superb bridge player, I understand,
named Virginia. Unfortunately, this whole camp is loaded with
heartrending, rotten marriages, but she, Mrs. Happy, is the only
pregnant person abroad, to my knowledge. Hence, in the absence of the
above Virginia, Mrs. Happy has enrolled my services as a
conversationalist, these being the services of a child of seven, mind
you! It affords me unlimited worry, also trivial amusement on
occasion, I am ashamed to say, that she is practically unconscious
that she is freely employing a child my age as an audience; however,
she is a shy, tremendous talker; if she were not spilling these sad
beans to me, to be sure, she would be spilling them to some other
emotional face that came along. One is obliged to take everything she
says with innumerable grains of salt. She is really a foreigner,
though a cute one, to absolute honesty of conversation. She believes
that she is a very affectionate person and that Mr. Happy is an
unaffectionate person. It is a very conversational theory, but sheer
crap, unfortunately. As God is my judge, Mr. Happy is no prize
package, but he is quite definitely an affectionate person. At the
other end of the pole, unfortunately, Mrs. Happy is a very
tenderhearted, quite unaffectionate person. One burns with impatience
toward her delusions when one is not secretly coveting her beauty! She
does not even know enough on occasion to pick up a little child like
your son Buddy, far from his mother and other loved ones, and give him
a decent kiss that will resound through the surrounding forest! She so
easily has no human idea of the terrible need for ordinary kissing in
this wide, ungenerous world! A flashing, charming smile is quite
insufficient. A delicious cup of cocoa, decorated with a thoughtful
marshmallow, is no decent substitute for a kiss or hearty embrace
where a child of five is concerned. She is in more hot water than she
knows, I freely suspect. If I am powerless to be of slight use to her
as conversationalist before the summer is over, this lovely beauty is
in future danger of immorality; a quite subtle downfall and
degringolade from mere flirtation and girlish conversation is
foreseeable. With her unaffection and great depths of ungenerosity,
she is growing prepared to make delirious, sensual love to an
attractive stranger, being too proud and hemmed in by self-love to
share her countless charms with a real intimate. I am very alarmed.
Unfortunately, my position is utterly false at moments of
conversational crisis, being torn between good, sensible, merciless
advice and corrupting desire to have her open the door in the raw. If
you have a moment, dear Les and Bessie, and the younger children as
well, pray for an honorable way for me out of this ridiculous and
maddening wilderness. Pray quite at your leisure, using your own good,
charming words, but stress the point that I cannot achieve an even
keel while being torn between quite sound and perfect advice and
simple lusts of the body and genitals, despite their youthful size.
Please be confident that your prayers will not go down the drain, in
my opinion; merely form them in words and they will be absorbed very
nicely in the way I mentioned to you at dinner last winter. Should God
choose to see me instrumental in this affair, I can be of quite
unlimited help to this beautiful, touching kid. The whole root of Mrs.
Happy's and Mr. Happy's private evil is that they have failed to
become one flesh quite to perfection. With daring and a careful
explanation of the proper, courageous method required, it can be
achieved quite briskly and in a comparative jiffy. I could demonstrate
very easily if Desiree Green were here, who is exceptionally daring
and open at the mind for a young girl of eight, but I can manage quite
nicely without a demonstration also. Do not hesitate to pray for me in
this delicate matter! Waker, old man, I particularly appeal to your
thrilling, innocent powers of prayer! Remember that I am not at
liberty to excuse myself from keen responsibility because I am a mere
boy of seven. If I excuse myself on such flimsy, rotten grounds, then
I am a liar or a cowardly fraud and maker of cheap, normal excuses.
Unfortunately, I cannot approach Mr. Happy, the husband, in this
matter. He is not too approachable in this or any other matter under
the sun. Should the proper time come for approachment, I will
practically have to strap him to a convenient chair to get his entire
attention. He made ropes in his previous appearance, but not very
well, somewhere in Turkey or Greece, but I know not which. He was
executed for making a defective rope, resulting in the deaths of some
influential climbers; however, it was really incredible stubbornness
and conceit, joined with neglect, at the root of the matter. As I told
you before we left, I am trying like hell to cut down on getting any
glimpses while we are up here for a pleasant, ordinary summer. Nine
times out of ten, it is an utter waste of time anyhow to let them pass
freely through the mind, whether or not the person involved would find
an open discussion of the matter helpful, quite spooky, or openly
distasteful.
This is going to be a very long letter! Stiff upper lip, Les! I
humorously give you my permission to read only one quarter of the
entire communication. Freely attribute the longness of the letter to
an unexpected bonus of leisure time, which I shall relate shortly.
Temporarily explained, I wounded my leg quite badly yesterday and am
confined to bed for a change, windfall of windfalls! Guess who
skillfully got permission to keep me company and attend to my personal
needs! Your our beloved son Buddy! He should be returning at any
moment now!
We have received quite a few more demerits since your thrilling call
from the LaSalle Hotel, which was an unspeakable pleasure for us,
despite the rotten connection. I have also mislaid my handsome, new
wrist watch during a recent Aquatics Period; however, everybody is
going to dive for it again tomorrow or this afternoon, so have no
fear, unless it is too hopelessly saturated. Returning to the subject
of the demerits, we got most of them for continuously sloppy bungalow,
followed by quite a few more in a neat bunch for not singing at pow
pow and leaving pow pow without permission. So it goes. Jesus, I hope
you can freely sense at this distance how much we miss you, dear
Bessie and Les and those other three peanuts after my own heart! Would
to God a simple letter were less fraught with the burdens of superb
written construction! One begins to despair of sounding quite like
oneself,
your son and brother, and yet quite uphold the excellent and touching
demands of splendid construction. This has the ear marks of being one
of the future despairs of my life, but I shall give all my consuming
attention to it and hope for an honorable, humorous truce.
A thousand thanks for your amusing and delightful letter and several
postcards! We were relieved and overjoyed to hear Detroit and Chicago
were not too tough, Les. We were equally delighted to hear that young
Mr. Fay was on the same bill in the Windy City; quite juicy news for
you, Bessie, if you still have a harmless, social passion for that
remarkable chap. I have been meaning to write to that chap out of the
blue for a whole year, dating from our rewarding and comical chat
together when we shared a taxi during that beautiful downpour; he is a
clever and mercifully original fellow and will be widely imitated and
stolen from before he is through, mark my words. Close on the heels of
kindness, originality is one of the most thrilling things in the
world, also the most rare! Kindly give us all the news in your future
letters, the more trivial and sweetly 97;691;2085;718]unimportant, the
more readable. The news about "Bambalina" is excellent and more than
arresting! Give it all you have, I beg you! It is a charming tune. If
you do it before camp is over, hastily send us one of the first
records, as there is a Victrola in poor condition in Mrs. Happy's
pleasant quarters and I would gladly impose upon our peculiar
friendship in such a case. Keep up the good work! Jesus, you are a
talented, cute, magnificent couple! My admiration for you would be
measureless were we not even related, be assured. Bessie, we hope to
hell you are enjoying magnificent spirits again, .sweetheart, and are
not too discontent with being on the road so quickly again. If you
have not got around to doing what you faithfully swore up and down you
would do to ease my ridiculous mind, please hurry and do it. It is
definitely a cyst, in my unhumorous opinion, and some respectable
physician should burn or cut it off post haste. I spoke to a
personable physician when we were on the train coming up and he said
it is quite fairly painless when they remove it, a gentle lop doing
the trick very nicely. Oh, God, the human body is so touching, with
its countless blemishes and cysts and despised, touching pimples
arriving and departing, on adult bodies, when least expected. It is
just one more pressing temptation to take off one's hat to God during
the distracting day; I personally cannot and will not see Him dispense
with human cysts, blemishes, and the odd facial pimple or touching
boil! I have never seen Him do anything that is not magnificently in
the cards! I pass over this delicate matter and merely send all five
of you about 50,0(X) kisses. Buddy would readily join me in this if he
were here. This leads to another delicate matter, I am afraid. Bessie
and Les, I soberly address you. Take no offense, but you are both
entirely, absolutely, and very painfully wrong about his never missing
anybody but me; I refer, of course, to Buddy. You ou would make me a
lot happier, quite frankly spoken, if you didn't press that kind of
painful and erroneous crap on me over the phone again, dear Les. It is
very hard to leave the phone on your own two feet when your own
beloved and talented father says something that damaging, wrong, and
quite stupid. The magnificent person in question does not wear his
heart on his damnable sleeve like most people, including you and
myself. The very first and last thing you must remember about this
small, haunting chap is that he will be in a terrible rush all his
life to get the door nicely slammed behind him in any room where there
is a striking and handsome supply of good, sharp pencils and plenty of
paper. I am quite powerless as well as dubiously inclined to alter his
course; it is an old affair, hanging upon innumerable points of honor,
be assured! As his beloved parents, you may not humanly be expected to
lighten his load, but you must not, I beg you, deliberately throw
weights of reproof on his little back. Beyond these subtle matters, he
is privately the most resourceful
creation of God I have ever run into, forever striving not to live a
second-hand existence on the fervent recommendation of practically
everybody one runs into. He will be swiftly and subtly guiding every
child in the family long after I am quite burned out and useless or
out of the picture. It is disrespectful and inexcusable for a young
boy my age to address his lovable father this way, but Buddy is the
one thing you don't know anything about. Let us quickly pass on to
more unticklish topics.
A certain United States congressman, a war buddy of Mr. Happy's,
visited the camp last weekend. As he was one of the most unwatchable
figures I have watched in many years, it would be wise to skip over
his name in this personal letter. A breath of insincerity and
personable corruption passed through the camp; the air still stinks to
high heaven. The kowtowing and artificial laughing on Mr. Happy's part
was beyond earthly description. In the privacy of an impromptu meeting
on the porch of her bungalow, I asked Mrs. Happy to take careful pains
not to allow the congressman and Mr. Happy's quite sickening responses
to him to upset her and that marvelous little embryo while all this
unamiable crap is going on. She quite concurred. Later in the day, for
her sake, I painfully accepted Mr. Happy's request and command that
Buddy and I come to their bungalow after third mess and sing and do a
few routines for his guest, the congressman in question, I have no
right whatever to accept a corrupt invitation for my beloved younger
brother; I am quite hoping, secretly, that the Almighty will take me
to task, quite harshly, for this criminal presumption; I have no
business making snap decisions without consulting this
brilliant
youth. However, we went into
consultation
after the invitation was accepted, privately agreeing not to wear our
taps when we went over, but this was a very false and self-deceptive
relief for us. In the heat of the evening, we consented to do a soft
shoe! In all irony, we were in superb form, as Mrs. Happy played her
accordion for accompaniment; it is very hard for us not to be in
superb form if a gorgeous, untalented creature accompanies us rottenly
on the accordion; it touches us to the quick, amusing us quite a bit,
too. For all our extreme youth, we remain quite vulnerable, amusing
foils where gorgeous, untalented girls are concerned. I am working on
it, but it is a fairly severe problem.
Please, please, PLEASE do not grow impatient and ice cold to this
letter because of its gathering length! When you are ready to despair,
swiftly recall how much leisure I have on my hands today and how
needful I am to have some pleasant communication with the five absent
family members of my heart! I am not constructed for continued
absences; I have never claimed to be constructed for them. Also, much
of my news and general communication promises to be very absorbing,
delightful, and emollient.
As you damned well know, we never change much in our hearts.
However, we are getting slightly tan and looking quite a lot like
healthy children and campers. We may need all the damnable health we
can get, to be sure. An unengaging incident recently occurred. In
addition to the common information that we are the children of the
esteemed Gallagher & Glass and that we are fairly experienced and
skilled entertainers in our own right, thanks to your touching and
thrilling example, news has traveled round about the camp that the
both of us, your small son Buddy and I, have been notorious, heavy
readers from a tender age and in addition have certain abilities,
prowesses, knacks, and facilities of very uncertain value and the
gravest responsibility, the latter being warmly attached to us like
cement from previous appearances, particularly the last two, tough
ones. Your son Buddy is currently taking most of it at the flood. It
requires broad shoulders, I can assure you. Consider, if you have a
minute, the sheer, juicy novelty and food for gossip and malice of a
chap of five who is an experienced reader and writer, daily increasing
in fluency by leaps and bounds, and who is also, despite his
ridiculous age on the surface, an exciting authority on the human face
with all its touching masks, vanities, spurts of pure courage, and
frightening deceits! That is the small fellow's present position.
Continue to imagine what would inevitably blossom out if some of this
confidential information leaked out and became common fact or rumor
among campers and counselors alike. That is quite what has happened.
Unfortunately, as he well knows, most of the recent commotion is his
own reckless fault. Oh, my God, this is a droll and thrilling
companion to have on life's bumpy road! Here is the entire crappy
incident in a nut shell, as follows: Mr. Nelson, a born neophile and
enthusiastic talebearer and gossip, is in utter charge of the mess
hall, as already related, along with Mrs. Nelson, a termagant, unhappy
woman, and inspired trouble maker. When nobody is in the mess hall, it
is the only charming place in camp where one can get any blissful
privacy whatsoever. Buddy has had his eye on this haven from the word
go. On Tuesday afternoon, a sultry day, he bet Mr. Nelson that he
could memorize the book Mr. Nelson chanced to be reading within the
space of twenty minutes to a half hour. If he did it perfectly, then
Mr. Nelson in his turn, to show his appreciation for the controversial
accomplishment, would let us, the Glass brothers, use the empty,
pleasant mess hall in our spare time for reading, writing, language
study, and other aching, private needs, such as evacuating our heads
of second-hand and third-hand opinions and views that are buzzing
around this camp like flies. My God, how I deplore and uncountenance
bargains of any kind, be they with responsible adults or adults
without honor! Without my knowledge of this quite terrible fact, this
astounding, independent chap went ahead and made this bargain with Mr.
Nelson, despite our countless discussions, in the wee hours, on the
desirability of keeping our mouths firmly shut on the subject of some
of our endowments and peculiarities. Fortunately, the incident was not
a total loss or debacle. The book itself chanced to be "Hardwoods of
North America," by Foley and Chamberlin, two magnificently modest and
quiet men, long admired by me from my reading experience, with very
infectious love for trees, especially beech and white oak; they have a
charming, unreasonable preference for beech trees! So the exchange of
words between Buddy and me was not too unbearably harsh or unpleasant;
no tears, thank God, were spent. However, Whitey Pittman, the bead
counsellor, hailing from Baltimore, Md., quite a laughing intimate of
Mr. Nelson's, got wind of the accomplishment when it was completed and
freely plucked the opportunity to cash in on it in conversation. In
all fairness and fascination, he has a remarkable gift for increasing
his own prestige at some child's expense; an intelligent scavenger and
conversational parasite. He is the same person, a fellow twenty-six
years of age, no spring chicken to be sure, who said to Buddy in the
midst of a throng of strangers: "I thought you were supposed to be
such a witty kid." Is that a conscientious remark to make to a little
fellow of five? Thank God for the avoidance of shame and embarrassment
to the whole family, I had no decent weapon on my person when this
revolting, crappy remark was made; however, quite afterwards, I
embraced an opportunity to tell Roger Pittman, the full name his
hapless parents gave him, that I would kill him or myself, possibly
before nightfall, if he spoke to this chap again in that manner, or
any other five-year-old chap, in my presence. I believe I could have
curbed this criminal urge at the crucial moment, but one must
painfully remember that a vein of instability runs through me quite
like some turbulent river; this cannot be overlooked; I have left this
troublesome instability uncorrected in my previous two appearances, to
my folly and disgust; it will not be corrected by friendly, cheerful
prayer. It can only be corrected by dogged effort on my part, thank
God; I cannot honorably or intimately pray to some charming, divine
weakling to step in and clean my mess up after me; the very prospect
turns my stomach. However, the human tongue could all too easily be
the cause of my utter degringolade in this appearance, unless I get a
move on. I have been trying like hell since our arrival to leave a
wide margin for human ill-will, fear, jealousy, and gnawing dislike of
the uncommonplace. Do not read this rash remark out loud to the twins
or possibly let it fall on Boo Boo's ears prematurely, but I admit,
with maddening tears coursing down my unstable face, that I do not in
my heart hold out unlimited hope for the human tongue as we know it to
day.
If the above paragraph is too illegible and irksome, try to recall
that I am writing at a swift, terrible rate of speed, with admirable
penmanship quite out of the question. In another handful of minutes or
quarter hours, it will be time for supper; I am writing against time.
In the Midget bungalow, one is required to sleep like a dog for ten,
exasperating hours every night, the bungalow being plunged into
darkness at nine o'clock sharp. I have approached Mr. Happy in this
matter several times, but to no avail. My God, he is a maddening man;
if he does not move one to wrath, he moves one to hysterical laughter,
an equal waste of time. If you could possibly write a short, amiable,
crisp letter, dear Les, if I may address you personally, advising him
that if one knows even the very rudiments of sensible breathing, ten
hours of sleep is sheer folly and imposition. We have our flashlights,
to be sure, but the arrangement remains a striking inconvenience to
us, entangling us in bad light and ill humor.
My contempt for myself for showing you merely the black and quite
dank side of camp life is immeasurable. In this rotten attitude, I
have failed to mention the countless things that are zipping along
with smoothness and beauty; despite my gloomy remarks in the above
paragraphs, each day has been generously studded with happiness,
sensuous pleasure, rejoicing, and fairly explosive laughter. Many
sweet animals loom into view when least expected, such as chipmunks,
unpoisonous snakes, but no deer. I am taking the dubious liberty, Les,
of sending you a few quills from a porcupine, dead but not diseased;
they may be a perfect answer to your old problem with the softness and
breakability of tooth picks. The general scenery is spellbinding, both
underfoot as well as to the sides. To my joy and sheer wonder, your
son Buddy has turned out to be utterly and thrillingly nemophilous! It
is an unexpected revelation to me to see him shape up in this manner.
While I take keen relish in country affairs, too, it is merely up to a
point; in my heart of hearts, I am outside my true element when away
from cold, heartrending cities of ludicrous size after the manner of
New York or London. Buddy, on the other hand, will forever break loose
from city connections, it is quite plain to see; we will not be able
to restrain him in another mere handful of years. I wish you could see
him striking through the dense forest here, when the powers that be
are not minding everybody's business for them, moving with
heartrending stealth, like a magnificent, amusing, berserk, Indian
messenger. Each night, to our entertainment and equal chagrin, I put
untold quantities of iodine on his stubborn, funny body, mutilated
from the blackberry thorns and other damnable outgrowths. Our pleasant
consumption of possibly a dozen books, excellent as well as mediocre,
before departure, on the subject of plants, edible and otherwise, has
been a superb boon to us, allowing us to cook many decent meals, under
the rose, of steamed pigweed, young nettles, purslane, as well as the
last of the tender fiddle heads, using the canteen cup as cooking
receptacle and frequently being joined by that heartrending little
peanut, Griffith Hammersmith, whose appetite in congenial surroundings
is quite stupefying and thrilling. Lest it slip my vacant mind, Buddy
asked me to tell you, Bessie sweetheart, to send him some more tablets
without lines, also some apple butter and corn meal, as he is
practically living on the latter, I daresay, when we are able to
prepare a pleasant, leisurely meal in peace. Be assured that the corn
meal is very nutritive for him; his little body is unusually suited to
corn and barley, if the truth be known. He will write to you very
soon, given the right opportunity and inclination. My God, is he a
busy boy! I have never known him busier, to the best of my
recollection. He has written 6 new stories, entirely humorous in
places, about an English chap recently returned from some stimulating
adventures abroad. It is an indescribable reward to see a person five
years of age sit back on his dear, comical, fleshless haunches and
dash off an engaging yarn with zest and no little acumen! I give you
my word of honor you will hear from this chap one day; no nightfall
passes that I do not mentally take off my hat to you for bringing him
into the world; your loving, charming agency in this lad's general
birth remains unspeakably moving to me; the picture is even more
moving and rewarding when one considers the abominable glimpse I had
at recess period after Christmas vacation, revealing that our intimacy
with you, dear Les, if you are still there, in our last appearance,
was fairly slight and fraught with discordancy. Continuing at leisure,
as for my own writing, I have completed about twenty-five (25)
reasonable poems for which I have a low regard, followed by 16 poems
that have some merit but no enduring generosity, as well as about 10
others that have turned out to be in unconscious, disastrous imitation
of William Blake, William Wordsworth, and one or two other dead
geniuses whose sudden passing never ceases to cut me like a knife.
With regard to my poetry, the general picture is poor and gnawing. It
is my absolute opinion that the only poem of personal, haunting
interest to me that I have written so far this summer is one I have
not written at all. During your expensive phone call from the La
Salle, you will recall, I mentioned that we and the other campers had
spent the entire day at the Wahl Fisheries. On the way there, a lunch
of sandwiches, quite filling, was prepared for us at Kallborn Hotel, a
well-bred, popular hotel frequented by loving, young couples on their
honeymoons. Strolling by the lake with Buddy and Hammersmith, I saw a
couple sporting and laughing. Putting two and two together, and
suddenly feeling disposed, from head to toe, to feel harmony with
those two unknown, young lovers, I wished to write a poem intimating
that the one millionth groom at the Kallborn Hotel had just playfully
splashed the millionth bride; I have personally witnessed young lovers
doing the same thing at Long Beach and other popular resorts. Bessie
dear, it is a little sight you would enjoy, thrill to, and faintly
smile at with a portion of your brain and heart; however, there is no
demand for this in any immortal poetry I have run into. One is left
holding the bag. Let us pass over this prickly topic. For your private
information and possibly Miss Overman's, but draw the line a bit
firmly there as she has no great gift for not repeating a confidence,
I regret to say, we are continuing to master Italian and reviewing
Spanish after taps. It is a broad, rotten hint, but some new batteries
would be a windfall.
Les, it is such a relief and pleasure to dash off a few lines
without listening for the damnable strains of the bugle that my ardor
is running away with me. If you are tired or frankly bored reading,
stop instantaneously, with my heartfelt permission. I am admittedly
taking advantage of your good will, fatherhood, and notorious,
humorous patience. Bessie, I know, will kindly give you the gist of
any communication that follows; light a cigarette with abandon, drop
my damn letter like a hot potato, and go down to the lobby of whatever
hotel you are staying at and enjoy yourself with a free conscience and
my undying love; a game of pool or pinochle might be refreshing!
Continuing at blissful random, we are not too popular with the other
campers in the same bungalow as yet, principally Douglas Folsom, Barry
Sharfman, Derek Smith, Jr., Tom Lantern, Midge Immington, and Red
Silverman. Tom Lantern! Is that or is that not an appealing name to go
through life with? Unfortunately, this youth seems determined not to
turn on any of his lights, so his delightful name is in danger of
going down the drain. This opinion is too harsh. My opinions are all
too frequently too damn harsh for words. I am working on it, but I
have given way to harshness too often
this summer to stomach. God speed you, Tom Lantern, with or without
your lights turned on! There is one boy on the top floor of this
poorly constructed bungalow who is the very salt of the earth; no
compliment heaped upon him would be too lavish be assured. He is often
dashing freely clown the flimsy stairs in his leisure moments and
passing the time of day with your unworthy sons, discussing with a
humorous and open heart his friends, acquaintances, and foes in Troy,
New York, a large hamlet beyond Albany, and generally finding life and
humanity magnificent under the deceptive surfaces. His valiance would
break your heart, I trust, or painfully chip it; an immeasurable
amount is required just to say a hearty hello to us; I have neglected
to say that we are currently being ostracized. His name is John Kolb,
8 years of age, by rights an Intermediate, but there was no room for
him in the Intermediates, so we are privileged to have his chivalrous
company in this crowded building. I beg you to write that valiant,
good-humored name upon your memory for now and all future time!
Unfortunately, anything over five minutes of conversation bores this
dauntless, active boy to tears, and one looks up, to one's touching
amusement, to find his winning, kind face gone from the premises! I
would give countless years of my life to be of some future help to
this lad. He kindly gave me his word of honor, quite blind to the
reasons that made me ask him, that he would never swallow whiskey or
any other liquors on reaching adulthood, but I have damnable, sad
doubts that he will keep his word. He has a waiting tendency to drink
himself into a soothing stupor; it can be defeated utterly if he uses
his entire mind, with a few lights turned on, but I am afraid he is
too kind and impatient a boy to use his entire mind for anything. We
have his address in Troy, New York. If I am alive when the crucial
years arrive, I shall rush to Troy, New York, without a second's delay
and if necessary act in his splendid behalf; it would slightly require
drinking the cup that stupefies myself, but you have to understand
that we have quite lost our hearts to this boy without a shred of
prejudice in his heart. My God, a valorous boy, 8˝ years of age, is a
moving thing! It is too ironical to bear, but I give you my word that
valorous people require far more protection than meets the eye. I kiss
your noble, unsung feet, John Kolb, native of Troy, brother of an
uncruel Hector!
As for other matters, we are mixing admirably when opportunity
allows, joining in all the incessant sports and other activities,
enjoying many of them to the hilt. It is a break for us that we are
fairly magnificent, limited athletes; at baseball, perhaps the most
heartrending, delicious sport in the Western Hemisphere, even our
worst foes would not deny our unassuming prowess. This is no conceit
or credit to us, being a humorous bonus from the last appearance; any
game with a ball we achieve easy excellence with a little application;
any game without a ball we tend, unfortunately, to stink. Apart from
games and activities, we are making a handful of lifelong friends
quite by accident. You, however, in the strenuous position of being
our beloved parents, Bessie, must try quite hard to look at certain
matters straight in the face with utter refusal to flinch as one or
two factors loom large. I tell you now, this very moment, to please
tuck away someplace utterly unmelancholy in your memory against a
rainy day, that until the hour we finish our lives there will always
be innumerable chaps who get very seething, and thoroughly inimical
even when they see our bare faces alone coming over the horizon. Mark
you, I am saying our faces alone, independent of our peculiar and
often offensive personalities! There would be a fairly humorous side
to the matter if I had not watched it happen with sickening dismay too
many hundred times in my brief years. I am hoping, however, that as we
continue to improve and refine our characters by leaps and bounds,
striving each day to reduce general snottiness, surface conceits, and
too damn much emotion, coupled with several other qualities quite
rotten to the core, we will antagonize and inspire less murder, on
sight or repute alone, in the hearts of fellow human beings. I expect
good results from these measures, but not thrilling results; I do not
honestly see thrilling results in the general picture. However, don't
let this place too large a shadow on your hearts! Joys, consolations,
and amusing compensations are manifold! Have you ever personally seen
two such maddening, indomitable chaps as your absent sons? In the
midst and heat of fury and gathering adversity, do our young lives not
remain an unforgettable waltz? Indeed, perhaps, if you perversely use
your imagination, perhaps the only waltz Ludwig van Beethoven ever
wrote on his deathbed! I will stand without shame on this presumptuous
thought. My God, what thunderous, thrilling liberties it is possible
to take with the simple, misunderstood waltz if only man dares! In my
whole life, I give you my word, I have never risen from bed in the
morning without hearing two splendid taps of the baton in the
distance! In addition to distant music, adventure and romance press us
hard; absorbing interests and diversions kindly prevail; not once have
I seen us unprotected, thank God, against half-heartedness. One has no
business spitting at these hopeful blessings. Piled on top of all this
good fortune, what else does one find? A capacity to make many
wonderful friends in small numbers whom we will love passionately and
guard from uninstructive harm until our lives are finished and who, in
turn, will love us, too, and never let us down without very great
regret, which is a lot better, more guerdoning, more humorous than
being let down without any regret at all, be assured. I merely mention
some of this painful crap to you, need I say, so that it will be
available to your sweet memories either before or after our untimely
departures; do not let it get you down in the meantime. Also on the
hearty, revitalizing side of the ledger, bear in mind, with good cheer
and amusement, that we were quite firmly obliged, as well as often
dubiously privileged, to bring our creative genius with us from our
previous appearances. One hesitates to suggest what we will do with
it, but it is incessantly at our side, though slow as hell in
development. It is insuperably strong after taps up here, I find, when
one's ridiculous brains finally lie down and behave themselves and the
entire, decent mind is at long last quiet and not racing around in the
slightest; in that interlude, one watches it play in the magnificent
light I mentioned to you privately last May, Bessie, when we were
chatting back and forth affably in the kitchen. I am also watching the
same heartening action take place in the mind of that magnificent
person and companion you gave me for a brother. When the light
mentioned above is insuperably strong, I go to sleep in absolute
assurance that we, your son Buddy and I, are every bit as decent,
foolish, and human as every single boy or counsellor in this camp,
quite tenderly and humorously equipped with the same likable, popular,
heartbreaking blindnesses. My God, think of the opportunities and
thrusts that lie ahead when one knows without a shred of doubt how
commonplace and normal one is at heart! With just a little steadfast
devotion to uncommon beauty and passing rectitudes of the heart,
combined with our dead certainty that we are as normal and human as
anybody else, and knowing it is not just a question of sticking out
our tongues, like other boys, during the first, beautiful snowfall of
the year, who can prevent us from doing a little good in this
appearance? Who, indeed, I say, provided we draw on all our resources
and move as silently as possible "Silence! Go forth, but tell no man!"
said the splendid Tsiang Samdup. Quite right, though very difficult
and widely abhorred.
While I am quite frankly skimming over on the debit side, I ought to
point out, regretfully, that the great percentage of your children,
Bessie and Les, if you have not already repaired to the diversions of
the lobby, have a fairly terrible capacity for experiencing pain that
does not always properly belong to them. Sometimes this very pain has
been shirked by a total stranger, perhaps a lazy chap in California or
Louisiana, whom we have not even had the pleasure of meeting and
exchanging words with. Speaking for your absent son Buddy as well as
myself, I see no way to quit experiencing a little pain, here and
there. till we have fulfilled our opportunities and obligations in the
present, interesting, humorous bodies. Half the pain around,
unfortunately, quite belongs to somebody else who either shirked it or
did not know how to grasp it firmly by the handle! However, when we
have fulfilled our opportunities and obligations. dear Bessie and Les,
I give you my word that we will depart in good conscience and humor
for a change, which we have never entirely done in the past. Again
speaking for your beloved son Buddy, who should be back any moment, I
also give you my word of honor that one of us will be present at the
other chap's departure for various reasons; it is quite in the cards,
to the best of my knowledge. I am not painting a gloomy picture! This
will not be tomorrow by a long shot! I personally will live at least
as long as a well-preserved telephone pole, a generous matter of
thirty (30) years or more, which is surely nothing to snicker at. Your
son Buddy has even longer to go, you will freely rejoice to know. In
the happy interim, Bessie, please ask Les to read these next remarks
when or if he returns from the lobby or any other enjoyable place of
his choice. Les, I beg you to be patient with us in your leisure time.
Try your utmost not to mind too much and get very blue when we don't
remind you very freely and movingly of other regular boys, perhaps
boys from your own childhood. At frequent black moments, swiftly
recall in your heart that we are exceedingly regular boys from the
word go, merely ceasing to be very regular when something slightly
important or crucial comes up. My God, I utterly refuse to wound you
with further discussion of this kind, but I cannot honestly erase any
of the previous, sweeping, tasteless remarks. I am afraid they must
stand. Also, it would not be doing you a true favor if I did erase
them. Largely through my own cheap softness and cowardice, you have
twice before in previous appearances gently neglected to face up to
similar issues; I have no idea if I could stand to see you repeat this
pain. Postponed pain is among the most abominable kind to experience.
For a pleasant change, here is a cheerful and quite uplifting bit of
news to put under your belts. It quite takes my own personal breath
away. Either this coming winter or the winter which briskly follows,
you, Bessie, Les, Buddy, and the undersigned will all be going to one
of the most pregnant and important parties that Buddy and I will ever
attend, either in each other's harmonious company or quite alone. At
this party, entirely in the night time, we will meet a man, very over
weight, who will make us a slightly straightforward business and
career offer at his leisure; it will involve our easy, charming
prowess as singers and dancers, but this is very far from all it will
involve. He, this corpulent man, will not too seriously change the
regular, normal course of our childhood and early, amusing youth by
this business offer, but I can assure you that the surface
upheaval will be quite enormous. However, that is only half my
glimpse. Personally speaking, quite from a full heart, the other half
is more after my own heart and comfort. The other half presents a
stunning glimpse of Buddy, at a later date by innumerable years, quite
bereft of my dubious, loving company, writing about this very party on
a very large, jet-black, very moving, gorgeous typewriter. He is
smoking a cigarette, occasionally clasping his hands and placing them
on the top of his head in a thoughtful, exhausted manner. His hair is
gray; he is older than you arc now, Les! The veins in his hands are
slightly prominent in the glimpse, so I have not mentioned the matter
to him at all, partially considering his youthful prejudice against
veins showing in poor adults' hands. So it goes. You would think this
particular glimpse would pierce the casual witness's heart to the
quick, disabling him utterly, so that he could not bring himself to
discuss the glimpse in the least with his beloved, broadminded family.
This is not
exactly the case; it mostly makes me take an exceedingly deep breath
as a simple, brisk measure against getting dizzy. It is his room that
pierces me more than anything else. It is all his youthful dreams
realized to the full! It has one of those beautiful windows in the
ceiling that he has always, to my absolute knowledge, fervently
admired from a splendid reader's distance! All round about him, in
addition, are exquisite shelves to hold his books, equipment, tablets,
sharp pencils, ebony, costly typewriter, and other stirring, personal
effects. Oh, my God, he will be overjoyed when he sees that room, mark
my words! It is one of the most smiling, comforting glimpses of my
entire life and quite possibly with the least strings attached. In a
reckless manner of speaking, I would far from object if that were
practically the last glimpse of my life. However, those two,
tantalizing, tiny portals in my mind I mentioned last year are still
far from closed; another brisk year or so will probably turn the tide.
If it were up471;9]to me, I would gladly shut the portals myself; in
only three or four cases, such as the present one, is the nature of
the glimpse worth the wear and tear on one's normalness and blessed
peace of mind, as well as the unembarrassment of one's parents. I
quite ask you, though, to imagine how marvelous it is to see this
chap, your son Buddy, spring in a trice from a lad of five, who has
already lost his heart to every pencil in the universe, into a mature,
swarthy author! How I wish I could lie on a pleasant cloud in the
distant future, perhaps with a good, firm, Northern Spy apple, and
read every single word he writes about this eventful, pregnant party
in the offing! The first thing I hope this gifted chap describes, as a
quite mature, swarthy author, is the beautiful positions of the bodies
in the living room before we leave the house on the night in question.
The most beautiful thing in the world, in a fairly large family g6ing
out to a party or even a casual restaurant, is the easy going,
impatient positions of all the bodies in the living room while
everybody is waiting for some slowpoke to get ready! I mentally
implore the touching, gray-haired author of the distant future to
begin with the beautiful positions of the bodies in the living room;
in my opinion, it is the most beautiful place to begin! I give you my
word of honor that I find the entire glimpse of the evening quite a
sober joy to behold, from start to finish. I find it magnificent how
beautiful, loose ends find each other in the world if one only waits
with decent patience, resilience, and quite blind strength. Les, if
you have returned from the lobby, I know you toy honorably with
disbelief in God or Providence, or which ever word you find less
maddening or embarrassing, but I give you my word of honor, on this
sultry, memorable day of my life, that one cannot even light a casual
cigarette unless the artistic permission of the universe is freely
given! Permission is too broad, but somebody's head must freely nod
before the cigarette can be touched to `the flame of the match. This
is also too broad, I regret with my entire body to say. I am convinced
God will kindly wear a human head, quite capable of nodding, for the
benefit of some admirer who enjoys picturing Him that way, but I
personally am not partial to His wearing a human head and would
perhaps turn on my heel and walk away if He put one on for my dubious
benefit. This is an exaggeration, to be sure; I would be powerless to
walk away from Him, of all people, even if my life depended on it.
To my amusement, I am sitting here, quite suddenly, alone in the
abandoned bungalow, crying or weeping, which ever you prefer to say.
It will pass in a trice, I don't doubt but it is saddening and
exhausting to realize in unguarded interludes what a young bore I am,
seventy-five to eighty per cent of my life so far. I am freely
saddling you, one and all, parent and child, with a very long, boring
letter, quite filled to the brim with my stilted flow of words and
thoughts. Speaking in my own behalf, it is less my fault than quickly
meets the eye; among many, onerous things, it is all too easy for a
boy of my dubious age and experience to fall easy prey to fustian,
poor taste, and unwanted spurts of showing off. As God is my judge I
am working on it, but it is a taxing struggle without a magnificent
teacher I can turn to with absolute abandon and trust. If one has no
magnificent teacher, one is obliged to install one in one's mind; it
is a perilous thing to do if you were born cravenhearted, as I was. In
my own, transparent defense, however, I have been lying here all day
picturing your faces, Bessie and Les, combined with the haunting,
fresh faces of the children, so the need to be in excessive touch with
you is circumstantial. "Damn braces, bless relaxes!" cried the
splendid William Blake. This is quite right, but it is not very easy
on splendid families and nice people who get a little nervous or worn
to a frazzle when their loving, eldest son and brother is damning
braces all over the place.
The reason I am in bed is fairly amusing, and I have delayed all too
long in mentioning it, but it does not consume my personal interest as
much as it might. Yesterday was rife with one trivial misfortune after
another. After breakfast, every Midget and Intermediate in the entire
camp was obliged to go strawberrying, possibly the last dubious
opportunity of the season. In the course of the morning, I wounded my
damned leg. We drove miles and miles to where the strawberry patches
were in a little, ramshackle, old-fashioned, maddening cart, quite
fake, drawn by two horses where at least four were required. The cart
had a ridiculous piece of iron sticking out of the hub of one of the
wooden wheels, penetrating my thigh or femur a good inch and
three-quarters or two inches as we were pushing the God forsaken cart
out of the mud; it had rained cats and dogs previously, on the day
before, making the road entirely crappy for a strawberry expedition.
With a dash of maddening melodrama, I was rushed to the infirmary,
possibly three miles to the rear, on the back of Mr. Happy's also God
forsaken motorcycle. It had several fleeting, humorous moments. Quite
in the first place, `it is very hard for me, I regret to say, to be
less than contemptuous and scathing around Mr. Happy personally. I am
working on it, but that man brings to the fore supplies of hidden
malice I thought I had worked out of my system years ago. In my own,
flimsy defense, let me suggest that a man thirty years of age has no
earthly business forcing small, useless boys to push a damnable, fake
cart out of the mud where a veritable team of four or six, young,
stalwart horses was really required. My malice shot forward like a
snake. I told him on the motorcycle before we started back that Buddy
and I, as he well knew, were experienced, fairly talented singers and
dancers, like our parents, though still amateurs. I suggested that you
would probably sue him, Les, for every dime he had in the event that I
lost my ridiculous leg from infection, loss of blood, or gangrene. He
pretended not to mind or heed this utter nonsense, which it was;
nevertheless, it didn't do his driving any good, twice nearly killing
us before we reached our destination. Although, from my point of view
entirely, it was risible situation from the word go. Fortunately, I
find that if a situation is funny or risible enough, I tend to bleed
less profusely. On the other hand, while I personally enjoy
attributing the stopping of the bleeding to the humor of the
situation, it is possible that the damnable motorcycle seat was
resting against a pressure point; my pressure points are usually quite
springy, with a pleasant pulse. What is beyond debate is that Mr.
Happy was far from delighted to see the blood of a young camper,
connected with him merely by enrollment and money, distributed on the
back of his new motorcycle, seat, wheel, fender, and tire sides. There
was no question of regarding it as his own; he would not even regard
Mrs. Happy's blood as his own, so how would he feel a human connection
with the blood of a strange child with prominent, quite ugly,
ludicrous features?
At the infirmary, a comical shambles, though possibly clean as a
whistle in the last analysis, Miss Culgerry cleaned the wound and
bandaged me. She is a young girl and registered nurse, age unknown to
me, far from gorgeous or lovely, but with a trim, superb body, which
most of the counsellors and one or two of the Seniors are trying very
hard to make physical love to before they have to go back to college.
It is the old story, I am afraid. She is a quiet person without any
private resources or ability to make sound, first-hand decisions.
Under the countless surfaces, she is confused and disastrously excited
to be the only available, female beauty in the camp, Mrs. Happy being
out of the picture. A sober, passive girl with a voice that sounds
very competent in the infirmary, she gives the impression of always
keeping her head in a ticklish situation, but it is merely a
heartrending pose. In a cruel manner of speaking, this young woman may
well have lost her head before she was born; it is certainly not on
her shoulders at this stage of the game. Only her deceptive voice,
which sounds quite cool and competent, in the mess hall as well as the
infirmary, is keeping her out of the complete clutches of the
counselors and Seniors mentioned above, who are all young, very
healthy, very gross in safe numbers, and quite cruelly attentive to
susceptible girls, particularly if they are not of classic beauty. The
situation is alarming and worrisome, but my hands are tied. One knows
at first glance that she has never discussed anything quite frankly
with either child or adult acquaintances, so there is no approaching
her in this matter; however, with another full month of camp life to
go, I personally would not answer for her safety if she were my child.
The question of virginity, to be sure, is a ticklish one; what
criteria I have carefully read on the subject are quite open to
question and heated debate, but that is not the point in question
here. The point in question here is that this lass, Miss Culgerry,
perhaps twenty-five years old, with no true, private head on her
shoulders, coupled with a voice that deceptively sounds competent and
full of excellent horse sense, is in no position to decide with
intensive, personal honor and forethought about such an important
matter as her own pretty maidenhead; this is my forward opinion. It
is, of course, no better or more final, to my regret, than the forward
opinion of any other person on the face of the earth. Without keeping
up a merciless guard, day and night, the variety of forward opinions
in this world could easily destroy one's sanity; I am not
exaggerating; in the last analysis, how long can one carry on with
rotten, unreliable criteria, very touching and human to examine,
respect, and uphold, but entirely liable to go to pieces with a sharp
change of company or passing scenery? You ask me many times in the
course of my life, Bessie dear, why I drive myself like a humorous
dog; in a fragmentary sense, that is exactly why I drive myself. Quite
in the first place, I am the eldest boy in our personal family. Think
how practical, pleasant, and thrilling it would be if one could open
one's mouth, from time to time, and something other than sheer,
forward, unreliable opinion came out! Unfortunately, a young jackass
of the first water, I am weeping slightly as I make this remark. There
is quite a bit of cause to weep, fortunately. If you jump to the
conclusion that I regard one thing as personal opinion, such as the
loss or preservation of a damsel's virginity, and some other thing as
quite unassailable, respectable fact, you will be jumping to a very
pleasant, easy going conclusion, but you will be bitterly wrong.
Bitterly is too broad, but you will miss the terrible mark by a mile.
I have never seen a quite unassailable, respectable fact that was not
the first cousin, at least, if not closer, to personal opinion. Let us
say, if you can stomach a small, passing explanation, that you
leisurely come home from a matinee performance, dear Bessie, and
soberly ask the person who opened the door for you, myself, your crazy
son, Seymour Glass, if the twins have had their bath yet. I will
heartily reply yes. My firm, personal opinion is that I have
personally deposited their wiry, elusive bodies in the tub and have
personally insisted that they use the soap and not just get water all
over the floor and generally squirt around. My young hands are even
still wet from my offices! One is tempted to say that
this is unassailable, respectable fact that the twins have been
bathed, as desired! It is not! It is not even unassailable respectable
fact that the twins are home! There is even quite a question of
pressing doubt, in the last analysis, I daresay. that any marvelous
twins, with snappy tongues and amusing ears, have ever joined our
family at any time in the past! For the dubious satisfaction of
calling anything in this beautiful, maddening world an unassailable,
respectable fact, we are quite firmly obliged, like good-humored
prisoners, to fall back on the flimsy information offered in excellent
faith by our eves, hands, ears, and simple, heartrending brains. Do
you call that a superb criterion? I do not! It is very touching,
without a shadow of a doubt, but it is far, far from superb. It is
utter, blind reliance on heartrending, personal agencies. You are
familiar with the expression "go-between;" even the human brain is a
charming go-between! I was born without any looming confidence in any
go-between on the face of the earth, I am afraid, an unfortunate
situation, to be sure, but I have no business failing to take a moment
to tell you the cheerful truth of the matter. Here, however, we move
quite closer to the crux of the constant turmoil in my ridiculous
breast. While I have no confidence whatsoever in go-betweens, personal
opinion, and unassailable, respectable facts, I am also, in my heart,
exceedingly fond of them all; I am hopelessly touched to the quick at
the bravery of every magnificent human being accepting this charming,
flimsy information every heartrending moment of his life! My God,
human beings are brave creatures! Every last, touching coward on the
face of the earth is unspeakably, brave! Imagine accepting all these
flimsy, personal agencies at charming, face value! Quite at the same
time, to be sure, it is a vicious circle. I am sadly convinced that it
would be a gentle, durable favor to everybody if someone broke through
this vicious circle. One often wishes, however, there were not such a
damn rush about it. One is never more separated from one's charming,
loved ones than when one even ponders this delicate matter.
Unfortunately, there is a great rush about it in my own case; I am
quite referring to the shortness of this appearance. What I am
seeking, with the very ample but in some ways quite scrawny amount of
time left in this appearance, is a solution to the problem that is
both honorable and unheartless. Here, however, I drop the subject like
a hot potato; I have merely scratched one of its myriad surfaces.
Upon bandaging my leg very badly and amusingly, as well as keeping
up a cool, falsely competent conversation that could drive one to
drink if unsupported by a little self-control, Miss Culgerry sent me
back to my bungalow, with an amusing crutch, to wait for the doctor to
come from the town of Hapworth, where he lives and has his dubious
practice. He, the doctor, arrived shortly after third mess,
transporting me back to the infirmary to take eleven (11) stitches in
my leg. A disagreeable problem arose in this connection, quite
damnable. I was offered a touch of anesthesia, which I politely
declined. Quite in the first place, way back on Mr. Happy's damnable
motorcycle, I had snapped the communication of pain between the leg
and the brain, sheerly for my own convenience. I had not used the
method since the little accident involving my jaw bone and lips last
summer. One sometimes despairs that anything peculiar one learns will
ever come in handy more than once or even just once, but it surely
does, with a little patience; I have even used the clove knot on two
occasions since we got here, which I thought would surely go down the
drain! When I politely declined the anesthesia, the doctor assumed I
was showing off, Mr. Happy, at his side, sharing this maddening
opinion. Like a born fool, which I can assure you I am, I foolishly
demonstrated that I had snapped the communication of pain utterly. It
would have been more foolish and quite offensive to tell them straight
to their falsely patient faces that I prefer not to allow myself or
any child in the family to give up his or her state of consciousness
for flimsy reasons; until I get further word on the subject, the human
state of consciousness is dubiously precious to me. After several
minutes of heated, rotten debate with Mr. Happy, I exacted the
doctor's consent to sew up the wound while I was pleasantly conscious.
This is a ridiculously painful subject to you, dear Bessie, I know
from previous experience, but I can assure you that it is a splendid
convenience for me, from time to time, to have a face humorously
speaking, that only a mother could love, with a foul nose and a chin
as weak as water. If I had been a fairly handsome boy, with fairly
charming features, I am quite convinced they would have made me take
the anesthesia. This is nobody's fault, swiftly be assured; being
human beings with personal opinions and brains, we are respondent to
any shreds of beauty we can get; I myself am hopelessly respondent to
it!
After my leg was sewed up, which Buddy was not permitted to watch,
because of his age, or to remain at my side, I was briskly carried
back to the bungalow and placed in my bunk. By a stroke of good
fortune, all the beds in the infirmary were taken; several boys with
high temperatures and myself are being allowed to stay in their own
bungalows till they get some empty beds again. I consider the bed
situation quite a windfall. This is the first utterly restful,
leisurely, fulfilling day I have had, in several ways, since getting
off the train, the case being exactly the same for Buddy, his having
got permission from Mr. Happy to be absent from all formations
throughout the day to attend to my wants. He nearly did not get
permission, but Mr. Happy would rather give him permission, in the
last analysis, than have to chat with him face to face, being far from
completely at his ease in his presence. There is a wealth of humorous,
bad blood between those two, partially stemming from Monday
inspection. At Monday inspection, which I myself regard as an
inexcusable and insulting imposition on every boy in this place, Mr.
Happy came in the bungalow when we were standing at attention and
started giving Buddy holy hell for not making his bed the way he, Mr.
Happy, did when he was a doughboy and quite miraculously managed not
to lose the whole, damnable war for us. He unleashed several,
unnecessary insults at Buddy in my presence. Watching your son Buddy's
face, quite able, I assure you, to fend for itself, I did not step in
or interfere with these bullying insults. I have complete confidence
in this young lad's ability to fend for himself at all times, and this
moment was no exception. Quite coolly, right while Mr. Happy was
bawling him out and embarrassing him in front of his bungalow mates
and fellow campers, Buddy did that humorous business with his
marvelous, expressive eyes, letting them slip away toward his pretty,
black eyebrows, quite lifeless, white, and fairly spooky from the
point of view of anyone who has never seen him do it. I doubt if Mr.
Happy ever saw anybody do that before in his life. Alarmed and
disconcerted, to say the least, he instantaneously went over and
inspected Midge Immingtun's bunk instead, leaving the immediate
vicinity entirely, even forgetting to give your self-reliant son any
fresh demerits! Oh, my God, he is a resourceful, entertaining chap for
five years of age! Gather up your pride, I beg you, and freely lavish
it on this little boy! He should be in any minute now and will
possibly be very eager to add a few lines of his own. In the interim,
please do not ask me to prevail upon him to be nicer to Mr. Happy or
to treat Mr. Happy with kid gloves; it is not a question of kid
gloves; it is a question of knowing when to use his ingenuity to
protect himself and his entire life's work from passing foes, short of
doing them any serious harm.
Goodbye for a short interlude of days or hours! I will have the
simple mercy and courtesy to finish writing to you; I can assure you,
parent and child alike, that you are all too good and worthy to have
such a consuming son, but I can't help it. We miss you far more than
words can tell. There you have one of the few, worthwhile
opportunities for the human tongue. Bessie, please attend to that
little matter already discussed. Also, please, utterly collapse more
between performances when you are on the road; among other reasons,
which I have no right to discuss quite freely right now, when you are
unrested and very tired is when you long most bitterly to quit being
on the stage. I beseech you not to rush it. I beseech you to strike
only when the iron we discussed at an earlier date is perfectly hot.
Otherwise, if you forsake a remarkable career at the chipper age of
28, no matter how many illustrious years you already have under your
belt, you will be tampering with fate out of season. In season, to be
sure, fate can be dealt stunning blows, but out of season,
regrettably, mistakes are quite usual and costly. Remember our sober
and intimate discussion the day the new, beautiful stove arrived, as
follows: Except when performing on the stage or engaged in fairly
rough stuff during the span of hours I mentioned, please try very hard
to breathe through the left nostril exclusively, at other times going
back swiftly to the right nostril. To get the breath started in the
proper nostril, to review slightly, warmly lock your fist in the
opposing armpit, bearing down with friendly pressure, or simply lie
down for several minutes on the desired nostril. I assure you again
that there is no rule against doing all this with quite utter distaste
but try, while the distaste is mounting high, to take your hat off to
God, quite mentally, for the magnificent complications of the human
body. Should it be so difficult to offer a brief, affectionate salute
to this unfathomable artist? Is it not highly tempting to take off
one's hat to someone who is both free to move in mysterious ways as
well as in perfectly unmysterious ways? Oh, my God, this is some God
we have! As I mentioned while we were taking our first pleasure in the
new kitchen equipment, this nostril business can be abandoned in a
trice at the very instant that one takes utter and complete reliance
upon God with regard to breathing, seeing, hearing, and the other
maddening functions; however, we are all merely human beings, damnably
remiss about this kind of reliance at all undesperate hours and
situations of the day. To make up for this neglect, quite touching as
well as shoddy, to rely on God utterly, we must fall back on
embarrassing, sensible devices of our own; however, they are not our
own, which is another humorous, wondrous side of the matter; the
embarrassing, sensible devices are His, too! This is merely my forward
opinion in the matter, but it is far from merely impulsive.
If the rest of my letter seems a little too brisk and impersonal,
please excuse it; I am going to devote the remainder of the letter to
economy of words and phraseology, quite my weakest point in written
construction. If I sound quite cold and brisk, remember it is for my
own practice and that I am not feeling cold and brisk where you,
parent and child alike, are concerned; far from it!
Lest it slip my mind during the curt remainder of the letter, I
practically beg you on bended knee, Bessie, to sing in your own
abandoned voice when making "Bambalina" with Les! I beg you not to
take the safe, customary way and sound like you are sitting in a damn
swing, in the center of the stage, bearing a charming parasol aloft;
this comes very gently and naturally to somebody like Julia Sanderson,
a pleasant performer, to be sure, but you are at heart a tempestuous,
disturbing person, with deep springs of highly likable and touching
coarseness and attractive passion! Les, if you are on the premises
again, I beg you about something, too. Please strive very hard to do
what I asked you to do the next time you make a record. Any words or
hold notes that freely rhyme with "Try" or "my" or "by" are very
tricky and dangerous in the circumstances! Rough shoals `ahead there!
Except when you are singing in public or engaged in heated or angry
discussion around the family hearth, your accent, I assure you, is no
longer detectable, quite possibly, to anybody but myself or Buddy or
Boo Boo or some person with the curse of unsparing ears. Please do not
misunderstand these remarks. Personally, I am hopelessly attached to
your accent; it is utterly moving. However, this is a question of how
your accent sounds to myriad people with ears that have no time or
inclination to listen with unprejudice; audiences in general find
French, Irish, Scotch, Southern Dixie, Swedish, Yiddish, and several
other accents comfortably diverting and likable in themselves, but a
fine, undisguised Australian accent does not seem to lend itself quite
freely to arousing affectionate regard; it is practically fool-proof
against pleasing or diverting for its own sake. This is a sad state of
affairs, with general stupidity and snobbery at its backbone, but
should be faced at record time! If you can possibly do it without
unhappiness, excessive strain, or the feeling that you are slighting
or offending the decent, charming Australian people of your childhood,
please keep your accent off the record, even though we, your
relatives, enjoy it to the very hilt! Are you furious at me? Please
don't get furious at me. My only selfish interest at heart in this
grave matter, is your own. deep, torturous desire for a smash hit
finally. With due apologies, I gratefully steer away from this
presumptuous subject; I1]love you, old man.
The following brisk messages are for the twins and Boo Boo. However,
kindly ask Boo Boo to read them by herself, absolutely without help
from her parents, which she is perfectly capable of doing! That
marvelous, black-eyed girl can do it if she tries!
Boo Boo, practice your writing of complete words! I am not
interested in the alphabet in itself! Do not fall back on conventional
excuses! Do not take any more crafty refuge in your tender age, I beg
you! Do not throw it in our face again that Martine Brady or Lotta
Davilla or any other child of four of your acquaintance is not
required to read and write fluently. I am not their mean brother; I am
your mean brother. On several occasions,I have given you my word of
honor that you are by nature an exhaustive reader, quite like Buddy
and myself; if you were not, I would gladly throw my meanness to the
wind, with good riddance! For an exhaustive reader, an early start
with pen as well as eye is very desirable. On the immediate, credit
side, think what untold pleasure you will give your astonishing
brother and myself, temporarily in exile, with an occasional postcard!
If you but knew how much we admire and relish your handwriting and
unimaginable choice of words! Just print two or three words in your
customary fashion on the card and then race it to the mail box in the
lobby or give it to a chambermaid of your choice. Also, my dear,
darling, unforgettable Miss Beatrice Glass, please work harder on your
manners and etiquette in private as well as in public. I am far less
concerned about how you behave in public than how you behave when you
are absolutely alone in a solitary room; when you accidentally look
deep into a lonely mirror, let a girl with stunning tact, as well as
flashing, black eyes, reflect!
Walt, we received your message from Bessie. We were delighted to get
it, though it was frankly crap from the word go. We are all too
damnably prone to take refuge in our tender ages. The age of three is
no earthly, damn excuse for not doing the simple things we discussed
in the taxi on the way to the train; I laugh hollowly down the years
at the trite reports and customs firmly connected with the tender age
of three! At the roots, you yourself are perhaps more capable of a
healthy, hollow laugh at these prejudiced reports than anybody I have
ever met! If it is too "damn hot" to practice as reported, then at
least wear your tap shoes fairly constantly, such as at meals, on your
feet under the table, or while strolling about the room or the lobby
of which ever hotel you are staying; however, keep them on your
haunting, magical feet for at least 2 hours per day!
Waker, the same request, utterly mean and tyrannical, goes for
juggling in this heat! If it is too damn hot for juggling, at least
carry some of your favorite juggling objects, those of reasonable
size, about with you in your pockets during the stifling day. I know
Buddy would heartily join me in being content if you incomparable boys
should decide, quite overnight, to quit your chosen careers utterly.
However, you have not yet come to that decision; until you do, it is
terribly necessary that you do not estrange yourselves utterly from
your chosen career for more than 2 or 2˝ hours in a row! Your tap
shoes and juggling objects must be treated like unreasonable, jealous
sweethearts that cannot bear any form of estrangement from your person
for even 24 hours in a row. Your splendid, elder brother and I, God
knows, are keeping our own hand in at this place, despite countless
impediments and embarrassments. If this is bragging, let God
have the simple, rudimentary courtesy to chastise me in
the severest manner, but it is not dirty bragging; I am
merely saying that both you boys can do anything your elder brothers
can do; our own instability. I assure you, will match anybody's on
earth!
Boo Boo, I am more than disgusted with myself for saying just one
thing to you and having that one thing sound unfavorable and quite
ugly. The partial truth is, as follows,Your manners and etiquette are
getting more and more marvelous every day. If I slightly harp on one
or two discrepancies, it is only because you love pleasant, ritzy
things so much and have always preferred myself or Bessie to read you
books with well-bred, aristocratic, uncrude children and adults in
them, usually English persons with excellent manners on the surface,
tasteful clothes and interiors, as well as unassailably high class in
every visible respect. Oh, my God, you are a risible, amusing kid! You
quite take your elder brothers' hearts by storm! You are one of a
precious handful of persons I have met in my time, here and there, who
probably have God's entire permission not to think anything out! It is
a charming, magnificent blessing, and I have no intention of spitting
in its beautiful face, but you are also stuck with me as your brother;
I have no natural course but to assure you that if you grew up and
knew in your heart that your excellent, ritzy manners in public were
merely skin deep, leaving you free to be quite a dirty pig when alone
in a room, with no one watching but yourself. you would be far from
pleased; it would quite corrode you, in a subtle manner.
I will tyrannize no one any further! Goodbye for the interlude! We
send you our naked hearts!
To my relief and utter amusement, I have another pad of paper that I
didn't know I had, together with the pleasure of realizing that
Griffith Hammersmith's clock, which Buddy kindly borrowed for my
convenience, has not been wound up and is recording the time of
yesterday or the sultry day before! I will be quite brisk about it,
however. As well as yourselves, I assure you, my hand and finger are
beginning to rebel against the length of this letter, begun shortly
after dawn with only a tray or two of food for interruption, to my
delight. My God, I love a decent stretch of leisure! Quite rare, as
things go.
Les, while this opportunity is at hand, as well as quite before the
damnable bugle quite blows for third mess-and confusion reigns, allow
me to make one last request on behalf of both your eldest sons. I will
be entirely brisk about it. Should my written construction, as
follows, prove to be quite curt, pauciloquent, and too cold or chilly
in general impression, merely realize I have already consumed too much
of your time; I am now bending over backwards to save you further wear
and tear on the nerves.
Your road schedule, old man, has not been separated from my
ridiculous body since you entrusted it to me. At this very moment in
time, I am placing it on the counterpane before me for careful
examination. On the 19th of the current month, you and the
intoxicating Mrs. Glass, demon of the cinder path and toast of a
thousand continents, to give that cute devil her due, will leave the
Cort Theatre, long may it flourish, and leave for New York to fill an
engagement at the Albee, one reads, in Brooklyn. Would to God we, your
son Buddy and I, could be with you and two other, quite unknown boys
had this opportunity to stay off the streets and out of the stifling
heat of trains, hotel rooms, and other cramped accommodations all
summer. Here, free from bantersome remarks, is my bare request. When
you are comfortably settled back in Manhattan, please stop by at the
library, customary annex branch, and offer our compliments, as well as
our love, to the incomparable Miss Overman. At your leisure, please
ask her to get in touch with Mr. Wilfred G.L. Fraser at the library
council for us so that we may take him up on his friendly,
spontaneous, possibly rash offer to send us any required reading
material while we are away. I utterly dislike to ask Miss Overman,
quite a busy person, to go to this trouble, but she has his personal
address for the summer; he neglected to give it to us before we left,
perhaps from humorous design! If I could avoid asking Miss Overman to
step into this breach, I would gladly do so; I am not happy about
taking advantage of her leisure time; always friendship in this world
is being corrupted by countless strings attached and personal
interests, quite a vicious dilemma, despite the pronounced, humorous
side. However, perhaps you will briefly remind her that Mr. Fraser,
quite in person, offered this uncommon service to us, quite out of the
blue, flabbergasting us, I can assure you. He said he would send any
requested books personally or on his authority, should he be out of
town, no doubt assuming that friend or trusty relative would defray
mailing costs. Without further sparring around, here is a rough list
of books for your convenience and Miss Overman's that we would relish
having passed in this dubious direction. Mr. Fraser did not mention
how many books he would consent to send to us, so if I have taken too
many liberties with quantity, please ask Miss Overman to step in and
cut down the number, using her touching discretion. Tersely put, as
follows:
Conversational Italian, by R.J. Abraham. He is a likable, exacting
person, our good friend from the old days in Spanish.
Any unbigoted or bigoted books on God or merely religion, as written
by persons whose last names begin with any letter after H; to stay on
the safe side, please include H itself, though I think I have mostly
exhausted it.
Any marvelous, very good, merely interesting, or regrettably
mediocre poems that are not already too familiar and haunting to us,
regardless of the poet's nationality. There is a decent list of
exhausted poems in my drawer in N.Y. incorrectly marked athletic
equipment, unless you did finally let the apartment go and put
everything in cold storage at the last minute; you quite forgot to
tell us in your correspondence and I neglected to ask you in the heat
of the delicious phone call from the LaSalle.
The complete works again of Count Leo Tolstoy. This will be no
inconvenience for Mr. Fraser; this will be an inconvenience for Miss
Overman's cordial sister, also a damned beautifully self-reliant
spinster, whom Miss Overman refers to, very touchingly, as her "baby
sister," though past the flush of youth by many years. She, the
younger Miss Overman, owns the Count's complete works and may quite
consent to re-lend them to us, knowing by now that we take very
passionate and suitable care of books entrusted by friends. Please
accentuate, without rubbing any of these sensitive ladies the wrong
way, not to send "Resurrection" or "The Kreutzer Sonata" or possibly
even "The Cossacks" again, an intensive, second reading of these
masterpieces not being necessary or desired. Do not pass it along, as
it is not entirely up their alley, but we particularly wish to remake
the acquaintance of Stepan and Dolly Oblonsky, who quite captured our
hearts, humanity, and amusement when last we met; these are
characters, man and wife, in "Anna Karenina," magnificent in entirety.
To be sure, the young, thoughtful hero of the book is utterly
absorbing, too, as well as his sweetheart and future wife, an adorable
kid in the last analysis; however,
they are very callow; we are much more in need of the company of a
charming rogue at this place, with straightforward kindness in his
heart and bowels.
The Gayatri Prayer, by unknown author, preferably with original,
rolling words attached to English translation; utterly beautiful,
sublime, and refreshing. Incidentally, here is an important matter for
Boo Boo, lest I forget to include it. Boo Boo, my marvelous kid!
Discard entirely the temporary prayer you asked me to give you before
going to bed! If it takes your immediate fancy, substitute this new
one, which quite gets around your objections to the word "God." There
is no excusable law that says you have to use the word if it is
currently a stumbling block. Try this, as follows: "I am a young child
about to go to sleep, as usual. The word God is currently a thorn in
my side, being habitually used and reversed, perhaps in superb faith,
by two girl friends of mine, young Lotta Davilla and Marjorie
Herzberg, whom I consider appreciably mean, as well as liars from the
word go. I address the nameless hallmark, preferably without shape or
ridiculous attributes, who has always been kind and charming enough to
guide my destiny both between and during the splendid, touching use
of human bodies. Dear hallmark, give inc some decent, reasonable
instructions for tomorrow, quite while I am sleeping. It is not
necessary that I know what these instructions are, pending development
of understanding, but I would be delighted and grateful to have them
under my belt nevertheless. I will assume temporarily that these
instructions will prove potent, effective, encouraging, and quite
intensive, provided I hold my mind quite still and empty, in the
manner suggested by my presumptuous, elder brother." At conclusion,
say "Amen" or merely "Good night," which ever takes your fancy or
strikes you as sincere and spontaneous. That is all I was able to
think of on the train, but I tricked it away to pass on at my earliest
convenience. However, use it only if you find it undistasteful! Tamper
with it as freely and ardently as you choose! If it is distasteful or
embarrassing, discard it without a particle of regret and wait till I
get home and can freely re-consider the issue! Do not think me
infallible! I am utterly fallible!
The list for Mr. Fraser now continues at random:
Don Quixote, by Cervantes, both volumes again if not too much
trouble; this man is a genius beyond easy or cheap compare! I am
hopeful that Miss Overman will send this personally and not Mr. Fraser
personally, as he is quite unable to pass on to us a work of genius
without personal comment and maddening evaluation and condescension, I
am afraid. In tribute to Cervantes, I would prefer to receive these
works in the mail without useless discussion and other needless crap.
Raja-Yoga and Bhakti-Yoga, two heartrending, handy, quite tiny
volumes, perfect for the pockets of any average, mobile boys our age,
by Vivekananda of India. He is one of the most exciting, original, and
best equipped giants of this century I have ever run into; my personal
sympathy for him will never be outgrown or exhausted as long as I
live, mark my words; I would easily give ten years of my life,
possibly more, if I could have shaken his hand or at least said a
brisk, respectful hello to him on some busy street in Calcutta or
elsewhere. He was fully acquainted with the lights I mentioned
earlier, far in ore than I! One hopes that he would have not found me
too worldly and sensual a person! This devilish thought often haunts
me when his gigantic name passes through my mind; a very enigmatic and
saddening experience; would to God there were a better footing between
the un sensual and the sensual persons of this universe. I have no
stomach for gaps of that kind; I personally can't stand it, which is
another looming sign of instability.
For first acquaintance or renewed acquaintance, as sin all-size
editions as possible of the following writers of genius or talent:
Charles Dickens, either in blessed entirety or in any touching shape
or form. My God, I salute you, Charles Dickens!
George Eliot; however, not in her entirety. Please leave this
question to Miss Overman or Mr. Fraser to decide. As Miss Eliot is not
too dear to my heart or mind in the last analysis, leaving the
question to Miss Overman or Mr. Fraser also gives me a sorely needed
chance to be courteous and respectful, as becomes my ridiculous age,
without paying a very heavy price for it. This is a fairly disgusting
thought, quite bordering on the calculating, but I can't help it. I am
ashamed of it, but I am very worried by my inhumane attitude towards
unreliable advice. I am striving very hard to find a course of action
in a matter of this kind which is both humane and acceptable.
William Makepeace Thackeray, not in entirety. Please ask Miss
Overman to let Mr. Fraser deal with this personally. No harm involved,
mindful of the two books by William Makepeace Thackeray I have already
read. As in the case of Miss Eliot, he is excellent, but I cannot take
my hat off to him in utter gratitude, I find, so this is another good,
disgusting chance to fall back on Mr. Fraser's personal taste. I am
now exposing rotten weaknesses and calculations right in front of my
beloved parents and young brothers and sister, I realize,but my hands
are tied; also I have no excusable right to appear a stronger person
or youth than I really am, which is not damnably strong, by any human
taken!
Jane Austen, in entirety or in any shape or form, discounting "Pride
and Prejudice," which is already in possession. I will not disturb
this incomparable girl's genius with dubious remarks; I have already
hurt Miss Overman's feelings inexcusably by refusing to discuss this
girl, but I lack even the slight decency to regret it very much. Quite
in a pinch, I would be willing to meet somebody at Rosings, but I
cannot enter into a discussion of a womanly genius this humorous,
magnificent, and personal to me; I have made some feeble, human
attempts, but nothing at all meritorious.
John Bunyan. If I am getting too curt or terse, please excuse it,
but I am racing to a brisk conclusion of this letter. All too frankly,
I did not give this man a fair chance when I was younger, finding him
too unwilling to give a few personal weaknesses, such as sloth, greed,
and many others, the benefit of a few prickly, quite torturous doubts;
I personally have met dozens upon dozens of splendid, touching human
beings on the road of life who enjoy sloth to the hilt, yet remain
human beings one would turn to in need, as well as excellent,
beneficial company for children, such as the slothful, delightful Herb
Cowley, fired from one menial, theatrical job after another! Does the
slothful Herb Cowley ever fail his friends in need? Are his humor and
jolliness not a subtle support to passing strangers? Does John Bunyan
think God has some maddening prejudice against taking these things
into very pleasant consideration on Judgement Day, which, in my
forward opinion, quite regularly occurs between human bodies? Upon
re-reading John Bunyan this time, I am aiming to give his natural,
touching genius more recognition and admiration, but his general
attitude is a permanent thorn in my side, I am afraid. He is too
damnably harsh for my taste. Here is where a decent, private
re-reading of the touching, splendid Holy Bible comes in very handy,
freely preserving one's precious sanity on a rainy day, the
incomparable Jesus Christ freely suggesting, as follows: "Be ye
therefore perfect, even as your Father which is in heaven is perfect."
Quite right; I do not find one thing unreasonable there, far from it;
however, John Bunyan, a baptized Christian warrior, to be sure, seems
to think the noble Jesus Christ said, as follows: "Be ye therefore
flawless, even as your Father which is in heaven is flawless!" My God,
here is inaccuracy incarnate! Did anybody say anything about being
flawless? Perfection is an absolutely different word, magnificently
left hanging for the human being's kind benefit throughout the ages!
That is what I call thrilling, sensible leeway. My God, I am frilly in
favor of a little leeway or the damnable jig is tip! Fortunately, in
my own forward opinion, based on the dubious information of the
unreliable brain, the jig is never damnable and never up; when it
maddeningly appears to be, it is merely time to rally one's
magnificent forces again and review the issue, if necessary, quite tip
to one's neck in blood or deceptive, ignorant sorrow, taking plenty of
decent time to recall that even our magnificent God's perfection
allows for a touching amount of maddening leeway, such as famines,
untimely deaths, on the surface, of young children, lovely women and
ladies, valiant, stubborn men, and countless other, quite shocking
discrepancies in the opinion of the human brain. However, if I keep
this tip, I will firmly decline to give this immortal author, John
Bunyan, a quite decent re-reading this summer. I swiftly pass on to
the next author on the disorderly list.
Warwick Deeping; not too hopeful, but strongly recommended by very
nice, chance acquaintance at the main library. While the consequences
are often quite hellish, I am absolutely and perhaps permanently
against ignoring books recommended from the heart by very nice people
and strangers; it is too risky and inhuman; also the consequences are
often painful in a fairly charming way.
The Bronte sisters again; here are ravishing girls! Please bear in
mind that Buddy was in the middle of "Villette," a softly gripping
book, when the time drew near to embark for camp; this zealous reader,
as you know quite well, brooks no interruptions that are not entirely
unavoidable! It may be remembered, as well, that his sensuality is
awakening at a very early date; one is at a human loss, at moments,
not to reach out to these doomed girls carnally. In the past, I
personally never reached out to Charlotte in a carnal manner; however,
in retrospect, her attractions are quite a damned pleasant surprise.
Chinese Materia Medica, by Porter Smith; here is an ancient book,
quite out of circulation, possibly unsound and annoying; however, I
would like to go through it under the rose and, if worthy, give it to
your magnificent son Buddy as a little surprise. You can easily have
no idea how much unawakened knowledge of weeds and splendid flora this
lad brought with him, principally in his spatulate fingers, from
previous appearances; unless it interferes with his life's work, this
unawakened knowledge must not go down the drain! I, his senior by two
years, am his earnest, ignorant pupil in these matters! Quite apart
from the delicious meals he has offered Griffith Hammersmith and
myself he is absolutely powerless to pluck an innocent flower without
examining and smelling its roots, dampening them with a little saliva
to remove the soil; they are crying out to this boy, awaiting the
return of his splendid ears! Unfortunately, the paltry number of books
on this subject, usually English, are fraught with inaccuracy, wishful
folly, and deplorable superstition, with gross exaggeration the
reigning hallmark! Let us, his loving family, turn with some hope and
good cheer to the wondrous Chinese, freely sharing with the noble
Hindus a wide, open mind on the subject of the body, the human breath,
and the staggering differences between the left and right sides of the
body. This leaves some refreshing hope to go on, provided the author,
Porter Smith, has given body and soul to the unlimited subject and is
not another maddening, pretentious dabbler merely keen on making a
pleasant niche for himself in the field, but do not let me castigate
this fellow without a handsome, decent trial!
In convenient amounts, suitable for the wear and tear of camp life,
please send the following Frenchmen, for practice or pure pleasure,
depending upon the magnetism of the individual French in an involved.
In fairly large amounts, please send books by Victor Hugo, Gustave
Flaubert, Honore' de Balzac or merely Honore-Balzac, as the latter
freely gave himself the aristocratic "de" from a touching, humorous
motive, quite unlicensed. The humorous lust for aristocracy in this
world is unending! It is not too humorous in the last analysis, in my
forward opinion. Some pleasant, rainy day, when you have the stomach
for it, examine the bowels of any effective revolution since history
began; deep in the heart of every outstanding reformer, if you do not
find personal envy, jealousy, hunger for personal aristocracy, in a
new, clever disguise, running a very close race with desire for more
food and less poverty, I will gladly answer to God for this entire,
cynical attitude. Unfortunately, I see no immediate solution to the
situation.
In smaller amounts, also in French for practice or pure pleasure,
diverse selections from the works of Guy de Maupassant, Anatole
France, Martin Leppert, Eugene Sue. Please ask Miss Overman to ask Mr.
Fraser not to insert any biographies of Guy de Maupassant by mistake
or design, quite particularly those by Elise Suchard, Robert Kurz, and
Leonard Beland Walker, which I have already read with untold pain and
sorrow and do wish Buddy to read at such a tender age. As sensualists
from the word go, I am afraid, we need every decent, thoroughgoing
warning sign we can get on the subject of sensuality, but neither your
son Buddy nor I have the slightest intention of dying by the phallus
as surely as the sword; we fully intend to come to grips with the
subject of sensuality, I give you my word of honor; however, I
absolutely decline to accept Guy de Maupassant as a good illustration
of abuse of sensuality, though it is very tempting. Had he not abused
his male organ, he would have abused something else. I do not trust
you, Monsieur de Maupassant! I do not trust you or any other
monumental author who thrives, day in, day out, on lowly irony! My
inexcusable ill-will freely extends to you as well, Anatole France,
great ironist! My brother and I, as well as myriad human readers, come
to you in superb faith and you give us a slap in the face! If that is
the best you can do, have the rudimentary courtesy to kill yourselves
or kindly burn your magnificent pens!
Please forgive the above, deplorable outburst; it is sorely
inexcusable, no apology being acceptable, but my attitude towards
universal irony and slaps in the face is admittedly harsh; I am
working on it, I assure you, but making fairly rotten progress. Let us
change to a less hopeless topic, returning to the list. Please ask
Miss Overman to send Marcel Proust, as a final Frenchman, in entirety.
Buddy has not yet had the onslaught of meeting this uncomfortable,
devastating genius of modern times, but is now swiftly approaching
readiness, his tender age quite aside; I have already prepared him
slightly, in the bowels of the main library, with many magnificent
passages, such as the following, from the tantalizing "A l'Ombre des
Jeunes Filles en Fleurs," which this remarkable reader has preferred
to remember by heart, as follows: "On ne trouve jamais aussi hauts
qu'on avait esperes, une cathedrale, une vague dans la tempete, le
bond d'un danseur." In a trice, this lad instantaneously translated
every word to perfection except "vague," which quite means an ocean
wave, as well as being captivated by the beauty of this incomparable,
decadent genius, he should be quite prepared to take the rampant
perversion and homosexuality in his stride; there is quite a bit of it
going on here anyway, particularly in the Intermediates. I see no
earthly point in approaching these matters with false, blind, kid
gloves. However, do not, tinder any human condition, advance the
impression to Mr. Fraser that I am offering any Proust book for
Buddy's benefit. Very dangerous shoals ahead! Considering Buddy's
youthful age, Mr. Fraser is not in the least above using things like
this to amuse or greatly interest his friends in casual conversation,
having a fairly violent passion for being the center of interest in
conversational matters! Such an event, I assure you, would slowly work
evil on us, quite undermining all our private, confidential training
in behaving as inoffensive, regular boys in quite
dangerous, heartless, public places! Although entirely kind at heart,
helpful, and educated widely, Mr. Fraser has quite a big mouth, be
utterly assured. Vanity plays a small part in this; forfeit of
individuality at an early age plays a much larger part. This
thoughtful, widely educated man is unscrupulous about using an
independent child as a conversational highlight, the sad, unrelenting
factor being that good people who do not strive hard enough to uncover
their own destinies and incessant responsibilities in life content
themselves with parasitic occupations, feeding upon other chaps' lives
to the marrow. Mr. Fraser, a damned charming person at frequent
intervals, has my sympathy from the word go, but I absolutely decline
to allow him to use my junior brother, as well as any other hopeful,
secret genius of remarkably tender age, to serve as host fish to Mr.
Fraser! Only harm without measure can come from this crap! At all
costs, as long as humanly possible, let this young boy keep his
precious shares in the divinely human state of nobodyness!
The list now continues at random.
The complete works, quite in full, of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, with
the exception of any books that are not utterly concerned with
Sherlock Holmes, such as "The White Company." Oh, here is cause for
mental frolic and amusement when I tell you what happened to me in
this regard one day quite recently! I was quietly swimming in the lake
during Aquatics Period, quite without a thought in my head, merely
recalling sympathetically to myself the pleasant passion of Miss
Constable, at the main library, for the great Goethe's works in full.
At this quiet moment, a thought occurred to me which raised my
eyebrows unmercifully! It was suddenly borne in upon me, utterly
beyond dispute, that I love Sir Arthur Conan Doyle but do not love the
great Goethe! As I darted idly through the water, it became crystal
clear that it is far from an established fact that I am even
demonstrably fond of the great Goethe, in my heart, while my love for
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, via his contributions, is an absolute
certainty! I have rarely ever had a more revealing incident in any
body of water. I daresay I shall never get any closer to drowning in
sheer gratitude for a passing portion of truth. Think for a stunning
moment what this means! It means that every man, woman, and child over
the age, let us say, of twenty-one or thirty, at the very outside,
should never do anything extremely important or crucial in their life
without first consulting a list of persons in the world, living or
dead, whom he loves. Remember, I implore you, that he has no right
whatever to include on this list anybody he merely admires quite to
distraction! If the person or the person's contributions have not
roused his love and unexplainable happiness or eternal warmth, that
person must be ruthlessly severed from the list! There may be another
list for that person, and quite a pleasant one, let us presume, but
this list I have in mind is exclusively for love. My God, it could be
the finest, most terrible, personal guard against deceit and lies both
to oneself and to any friends or acquaintances in casual or heated
conversation with oneself'. I have already made quite a number of such
lists in my leisure time, for private consultation, embracing many
types of people on earth. As a very revealing example of where this
can lead, and which I think you "ill enjoy to the hilt, who would you
say casually is the only singer on my list whose voice is represented
either on Victrola record or personal appearance? Enrico Caruso? I am
quite afraid this is not the case. Excluding family members, whose
voices have never failed to charm me, to be sure, the only singer I am
utterly prepared to say I love his singing voice, without fear of
lying or quite intelligently deceiving myself, is my
incomparable friend Mr. Bubbles, of Buck & Bubbles, merely
singing softly to himself in his dressing room next to yours in
Cleveland! This is not to disparage Enrico Caruso or Al Jolson, but
facts heartlessly remain facts! I cannot help it! If you make a
terrible list of this kind, you are quite stuck with it. For my own
part, I give you my word of honor that when I return to New York I
will never again leave my room for a moment without a very telling few
of my lists on my person, saving a simple trip to the living room or
bathroom. I do not know where it will all lead to, I can freely
confess to you, but if it does not lead to more lies in the world, it
is something. The worst it can do is to show that I am a stupid boy,
quite without any impeccable taste in the last analysis, but this may
not be exactly the case, thank God.
Moving rapidly along, kindly send any unflinching book on the World
War, in its shameful, exploitive entirety, preferably unwritten by
vainglorious or nostalgic veterans or enterprising journalists of
slight ability or conscience. I would greatly appreciate anything not
containing excellent photographs. The older one gets, the more
inclined one is to trample on excellent photographs.
Please send me the following, choice, foul books, perhaps coupled
together for convenient packaging, also that they may avoid
contaminating any books by men or woman of genius, talent, or
thrilling, modest scholarship: "Alexander," by Alfred Erdonna, and
"Origins and Speculations," by Theo Acton Baum. Quite without exerting
yourselves or my good friends at the library, please do your utmost to
drop these in the earliest mail at your convenience. These are
invaluably stupid books that I would like Buddy to have under his belt
before entering school next year for the first time in this
appearance. Do not trample too quickly on stupid books! One of the
swiftest ways, though very enervating and torturous, to have a young,
utterly competent boy like Buddy avoid shutting his eyes to daily
stupidity and foulness in the world is to offer him an excellent,
stupid, foul book. Perhaps in utter silence one can then say to him,
avoiding emotional sorrow or rank fury in the voice, merely handing
over the invaluable books on a silver platter: "Here, young man, are
two books both of which are subtle, admirably unemotional, and
unnoticeably rotten to the core. Both are written by distinguished,
false scholars, men of condescension, exploitation, and quiet,
personal ambition. I have personally finished reading their books with
tears of shame and anger. Without another word, I give you two,
godsent models of the feculent curse of intellectuality and smooth
education running rampant without talent or penetrating humanity." I
would not say a single, additional syllable to the young man in
question. You may quite think this sounds very harsh again. It would
be only foolish and humorous to deny it' it is very harsh. On the
other side of the ledger, you may not know the dangers `of these men.
Let us clear the air momentarily by examining them with simple
brevity, proceeding with Alfred Erdonna first. A professor at a
leading university in England, he has written this biography of
Alexander the Great in a leisurely, readable fashion, despite its
size, frequently making references to his wife, also a distinguished
professor at a leading university, and to his charming dog, Alexander,
and his former, old professor, Professor Heeder, who also lived off
Alexander the Great for a number of years. Between the two of them,
they have made an excellent living off Alexander the Great, quite in
their spare time, if not in monetary gain certainly in fame and
prestige. Despite this, Alfred Erdonna treats Alexander the Great like
just another charming dog in his damned possession! I am personally
not crazy about Alexander the Great or any incurably, militant person,
but how dare Alfred Erdonna finish his book quite giving you the
subtle, unfair impression that he, Alfred Erdonna, is superior to
Alexander the Great in the last analysis merely because he and his
wife, and possibly dog, are in a very cozy position to exploit and
patronize Alexander the Great! He is not even in the least bit
grateful to Alexander the Great for having existed so that he, Alfred
Erdonna, could have the privilege of quite sponging off him in a
leisurely, distinguished way. I am not even taking this false,
scholarly personage to task because he quite personally dislikes
heroes and heroism from the word go, even devoting a chapter to
Alexander and Napoleon, in similar capacities, to show what harm and
bloodful nonsense heroes have wrought upon the world. The germ of this
is very sympathetic to me, in acknowledge frankness, but two things
are necessary to write such a daring, unoriginal chapter. Surely it is
worth a moment's casual discussion; I beg you to be patient and
blindly affectionate with me till it is over! There is also a third
thing necessary.
1. You are in a much stabler position to dislike heroes and heroism
utterly if you yourself are quite equipped to do something heroic. If
you are not equipped to do anything heroic, you may still enter the
discussion honorably, but with terrible caution and reasonableness,
very deliberately and painstakingly turning on every single light in
your body, also perhaps re-doubling your fervent prayers to God not to
go astray in any cheap way.
2. You must have a model of the human brain handy for general
reasons. If you do not have a model of the human brain handy, a peeled
chestnut will do only too damn well! But it is quite necessary to see
with your own eyes, in a matter of this kind, involving such matters
as heroes and heroism, that the human brain is just a charming,
likable, quite dissectible agency, without a shred of reliable ability
to understand human history in full or what temporary role, heroic or
unheroic, it is time to play with all one's heart and conscience.
3. He, Alfred Erdonna, freely acknowledges that Alexander the
Great's personal teacher, when a lad, was Aristotle. Not once, at any
decent time, does Alfred Erdonna sadly take Aristotle to task for
failing to teach Alexander the Great to avoid becoming great! There is
utterly no mention, in any book on this interesting subject I have
ever read, that Aristotle ever even at least begged Alexander to
accept only the mantle of accidental greatness and refuse, quite like
excrement, if you will pardon me briefly, any other kind of greatness
whatsoever.
I will gladly close the damnable subject here. My nerves are quite
raw now; also I have quite forfeited the decent time I was going to
give to Theo Acton Baum's dubious and very dangerous, untalented,
coldhearted work of literature. However, to repeat, I will not answer
for my peace of mind if Buddy is allowed to enter school and the long,
utterly complicated road of formal education until he has had these
perilous, conceited, utterly commonplace books under his belt.
Moving along quite at a trot now, humorously speaking, please send
me any thoughtful books on human whirling or spinning. You will
recall, quite with my undying, humorous sympathy, that at least three
of your children, in sheer independence of each other, and utterly
untaught, have picked up the delicate custom of spinning the body
around with alarming speed, after which regrettably ostentatious
experience the person who does the whirling can often, though not
always, by any means, arrive at a decision or an impressive answer to
a problem, usually quite sin all. The practice, to be sure, has been
invaluable to me on more than one trivial occasion in the library,
provided one can find a place unseen by the naked eye. To date, of
course, I have discovered a few people spread widely throughout the
world who have used this practice with success, even the touching
Shakers, to a sin all extent. Also, there is an impressive rumor that
St. Francis of Assisi, a marvelous person, once asked a fellow monk to
do a little spinning when they were on an important crossroad with
hesitation which direction to take. There, to be sure, you have the
Byzantine influence on the Troubadours, but I am far from convinced
that the practice can be limited to one corner of this thrilling
globe. While I am very shortly going to give tip the practice for the
rest of my life, leaving more responsibility on another portion of my
mind, the fact quite remains that copious information on the subject
will be very
welcome, as the other children may, for personal reasons, prefer to
continue the practice well into maturity, though I doubt it.
To continue and mercifully conclude this list, I would be thankful
to read anything in English written by the tolerable Cheng brothers or
anybody else passably gifted and heartrendingly ambitious who had the
disagreeable luck to do any religious writing in China after the two
geniuses of Lao-tse and Chuang-tse, not to mention Gautama Buddha! One
need not approach Miss Overman or Mr. Fraser with kid gloves on this
subject, as I have already broken the ice repeatedly, but delicacy of
approach is still quite advisable! Neither Miss Overman nor Mr. Fraser
has ever been even slightly bitten by the subject of God or essential
chaos in the universe, therefore casting quite a cool, dissembling
countenance on my consuming interest in such affairs. Their concern,
thank God, is far from petty or unaffectionate, the distinguished
Edgar Semple having told Mr. Fraser that I have the makings of a
splendid American poet, which is quite true in the last analysis. They
are quite fearful, one and all, that my consuming admiration for God,
straight-forward and shapeless, will upset the delightful apple cart
of my poetry; this is not stupid; there is always a slight,
magnificent, utterly worthy risk that I will be a crashing failure
from the word go, disappointing all my friends and loved ones, a very
sober, rotten possibility that brings the usual fluid to my eyes as I
bring the matter into the open. It would be quite a moving, humorous
boon, to be sure, if one knew quite well, every single day of one's
splendid current appearance, exactly where one's everlasting duty
lies, obvious and concrete! Quite to my regret and secret delight, my
glimpses are ludicrously helpless to aid me in such matters! While
there is always a flimsy possibility that one's beloved, shapeless God
will surprise one out of the blue with a charming, useful command,
such as "Seymour Glass, do this," or "Seymour Glass, my young foolish
son, do that," I utterly fail to warm up to this possibility. This is
quite a gross exaggeration, to be sure. I am utterly warming up to the
possibility when I am freely and deliciously pondering it, but I am
also utterly and eternally abhorring it, from the very roots of my
dubious soul! `7ulgary speaking, the whole possibility of getting
charming, personal commands from God, quite shapeless or adorned with
an impressive, charming beard, stinks to high heaven of sheer
favoritism! Let God raise one human being up over another, lavishing
handsome favors upon him, and the hour has struck to leave His
charming service forever, and quite good riddance! This sounds very
harsh, but I am an emotional youth, frankly mortal, with innumerable
experiences under my belt of mortal favoritism; I cannot stand the
sight of it; let God favor us all with charming, personal commands or
none of us! If You have the stomach to read this letter, dear God, be
assured that 1am meaning what I say! Do not sprinkle any dubious sugar
on my destiny! Do not favor me with charming, personal commands and
magnificent short cuts! Do not ask me to join any elite organization
of mortals that is not widely open to all and sundry! Recall quite
fervently that I have felt equipped to love Your astonishing. noble
Son, Jesus Christ, on the acceptable basis that you did not play
favorites with Him or give Him carte blanche throughout his
appearance! Give me one, single inkling that You gave Him carte
blanche and, I will regretfully wipe His name from the slim list of
those human beings I respect without countless reservations, despite
His many and diverse miracles, which were perhaps necessary in the
general circumstance but remain a dubious feature, in my forward
opinion, as well as a nasty stumbling block for decent, likable
atheists, such as Leon Sundheim and Mickey Waters, the former an
elevator operator at the Hotel Alamac, the latter a charming drifter
without employment. Foolish tears are coursing down my face, to be
sure; there is no decent alternative. It is humorous and kindly of
you, Your Grace, to allow rue to remain absorbed in my own dubious
methods, such as industrious absorption with the human heart
and brain. My God, you are a hard one to figure out, thank God! I
love you more than ever! Consider my dubious services everlastingly at
your disposal!
I am freely resting for a moment, dear Les and Bessie and other
loving victims of the above onslaught. Across the empty bungalow,
through the view offered by the window above Tom Lantern's fortunate
bunk, the afternoon sun is shining in a very moving manner, provided
my brain is not merely shining in a very moving manner. With or
without absolute proof, it is sometimes folly not to accept the
happiness of which ever is shining.
I will conclude the interrupted list of books for Miss Overman and
Mr. Fraser with a few, brisk strokes:
Please send anything on the colorful and greedy Medicis, as well as
anything on the touching Transcendentalists, quite in our own
backyard. Also send copies, preferably without exhibitionistic pencil
marks on the page, of both the French edition and Mr. Cotton's
translation of Montaigne's essays. There is a charming, shallow,
delightful Frenchman! Let one's hat be doffed to any gifted, charming
fellows; my God, they are rare and impressive!
Please send anything interesting on human civilization well before
the Greeks, although quite after the list of civilizations in the
pocket of my raincoat with the unfortunate gash in the shoulder, which
Walt humorously declined to wear in public.
This is of unspeakable importance. Please send any books on the
structure of the human heart that I have not read; a fairly compact
list last lay in the top drawer of my chiffonnier, either beneath my
handkerchiefs or in the vicinity of Buddy's guns. Unusual, accurate
drawings of the heart are always welcome, as any well-meaning, crude
likeness of this incomparable organ, the finest of the body, is a
pleasure to see; however, drawings are not essential in the last
analysis, merely covering the pure, physical characteristics, leaving
out the uncharted, best parts entirely! Unfortunately, quite to one's
eternal chagrin, the best parts can only be viewed at very odd,
thrilling, unexpected seconds when one's lights are quite definitely
turned on; without a healthy talent for drawing, which I utterly tack,
one is at a terrible loss to share the view with one's intimate and
interested acquaintances. This is an unpretty state of affairs, to say
the least! The entire view of this magnificent organ, without compare
in the human body, should be in the possession of everyone and not
merely of dubious young fellows like the undersigned!
Conveniently on the subject of the body, seen or unseen by the naked
eye, please send any book devoted exclusively to the formation of
callus. It will be very difficult or impossible, so please do not ask
Miss Overman or Mr. Fraser to strain. However, if a book on this
compelling subject should be found, be assured that it will be
consumed eagerly around here, particularly any discussion of callus
that unites a broken, human bone while it is healing, its intelligence
being quite staggering and delightful, quite knowing when to begin and
cease, without intentional assistance from the brain of the injured
person. Here is another magnificent accomplishment that is maddeningly
attributed to "Mother Nature." With all quite due respect, I have been
sick, for many years, of hearing her dubious name.
In February of this memorable year, I had the unspeakable pleasure
of chatting back and forth, for a delicious quarter of an hour, with a
handsome woman hailing from Czechoslovakia, a figure in sombre costly
clothes, yet with interesting, touching, dirty fingernails. The
incident occurred in the main library, a month or so after the
Honorable Louis Benford, in reply to my letter, swiftly and
humorously made my dubious presence possible. Professing to be the
mother of a young diplomat, which had a comfortable ring of truth to
it, she softly introduced the subject of her
favorite poet, Otakar Brezina, a Czech, urging me to read him. Perhaps
Mr. Fraser can find one of his works for me, in English translation, I
am afraid. The possibilities are quite hopeful, as this stunning
woman, though very nervous and unbalanced in the last analysis, had a
marvelous, lonely spark! Mr. Brezina has a stunning champion there!
God bless ladies with costly, tasteful clothes and touching, dirty
fingernails that champion gifted, foreign poets and decorate the
library in beautiful, melancholy fashion! My God, this universe is
nothing to snicker at!
In conclusion, quite absolutely final, I would greatly appreciate it
if you would ask Miss Overman to ask Mrs. Hunter, possibly on the
phone if it is convenient, to please track down the January, 1842,
issue of Dublin University Magazine, the January, 1866, issue of the
Gentleman's Magazine, and the September, 1866, number of the North
British Review, as all these unrecent magazines contain articles about
a very dear friend of mine, purely by correspondence, in my last
appearance, quite frankly, Sir William Rowan Hamilton! I am very
seldom able to do this, which is quite a blessing in disguise, but I
can still see his friendly, lonely, sociable face before me, at wide
intervals! Do not, however, mention any of these personal connections
to Miss Overman, I beg you! Her set of automatic revisions on this
subject is perfectly normal; she is invariably taken aback with alarm
and disappointment on the rare occurrences when I am damn foolish and
thoughtless enough to introduce the unpopular subject of appearances.
There is also another reason for not going into dubious details with
her, as follows: It is, unfortunately, a subject that makes quite a
rotten subject for casual, social conversation. Although Miss Overman
does not generally use us, your son Buddy and myself, as dubious
subjects of conversation to entertain her friends or associates, being
an honorable lady and wont to consider other people's feelings and
dubious positions, she is utterly incapable of withholding peculiar or
slightly novel information from Mr. Fraser or any well-dressed,
cultured gentleman with distinguished, white hair; they are her
permanent weakness, being inclined to fall slightly in love with them
if they are kind and attentive to her or use conversational persiflage
with her, with or without sincerity. This is quite a gentle, humorous
fault, to be sure, but it would be very expensive to indulge too
freely. Please just ask her to phone Mrs. Hunter and see if the
magazines in question can be tracked down without great inconvenience,
mentioning no reasons, perhaps requesting in the same breath, quite
casually, that she, Miss Overman, pass on to us any delightful light
reading that she has enjoyed lately. This stinks to high heaven of
rank duplicity, but her taste in light reading is also often
delightful, so I regretfully recommend the ruse. I trust your
discretion in this and all affairs completely, needless to say, Bessie
sweetheart. Also we would appreciate it if you would casually slip Mr.
and Mrs., Moon Mullins, and perhaps a few copies of Variety into a
convenient envelope when you are done with them. Jesus, what a
millstone, bore, and general nuisance I am becoming in your lives! No
day passes that I am not mindful of my rotten, demanding traits of
character. Also, quite by the way, I think I should warn you to warn
Miss Overman that Mr. Fraser may well be vexed and quite floored at
the number of books requested, though he himself failed to mention the
maximum number he he would be willing to send us while we were away.
Please ask Miss Overman to impress upon him that we are both reading
with increased, incredible rapidity every day of our lives and can
return any very valuable books in a trice, where speed of return is
essential and we can get stamps. Difficulties, I am afraid, will be
myriad. He, Mr. Fraser, is really a very generous, kind man, with an
astonishingly high tolerance for my rotten traits, but there is also a
small catch in his generosity, as he likes to see the grateful
recipients' faces in person when he does them a favor of this
magnitude. This is entirely human and cannot be expected or uselessly
desired to
disappear from the earth overnight but please keep the warning under
your belts anyway. In my private, humorous opinion. we will be very
damn lucky if Mr. Fraser sends us as much as two or three books on the
entire list! Oh, my God, there is a maddening, comical thought!
Guess who entered the bungalow with a broad smile on his face! Your
son Buddy! Also known as W.G. Glass, the superb author! What an
inexpugnable lad he is! He has obviously had a productive day's work!
I wish to God you were all here, quite in the flesh, to see his
stunning, appealing, slightly tanned face; in more ways than one, dear
Bessie and Les, you are paying a very exorbitant price for our
frivolous summer's enjoyments and recreations. Au revoir! Buddy joins
me in every sincere wish for your continued health and happy existence
in our prolonged absence. We remain,
Your loving sons and
brothers, Seymour and W.C. Glass;
united forever by spirit and blood and uncharted depths and chambers
of the heart.

In my haste to bring this letter to a swift termination, as well as
my joy to see your astounding son pop into the bungalow, following an
absence of seven and one half hours, I am in danger of overlooking a
small cluster of final requests, quite slight, let us hope. As already
mentioned, the chances are blackly excellent that Mr. Fraser will fall
into a pit of dejection upon receiving this list of books, utterly
regretting his sociable, spontaneous offer to me; however, I may be
doing him quite a grave injustice with this thought; in the hopeful
event that I am, which I sadly doubt, please ask Miss Overman to
remind him that this will be absolutely our last fling for 6 long
months at the very least! With summer's glorious end, we will be
devoting the remainder of this memorable year to dictionary
consultation entirely; we will avoid even poetry during the critical
period in the offing; this freely means that Mr. Fraser will not have
the experience, more trouble than rewarding, of seeing our young,
exasperating faces in any public library in Gotham for the entire,
comfortable period of six, full months! Who will not be quite relieved
to hear this, with the heartening exception of perhaps no one! Quite
in connection with the 6 months just mentioned, I am freely asking
you, as our beloved parents and brothers and sister, to issue a few,
crisp, earnest prayers in our behalf. I am personally very hopeful
that great layers of unnatural, affected, stilted fustian and rotten,
disagreeable words will drop off my young body like flies during the
crucial period to come! It is worth every effort, my future sentence
construction quite hanging in the balance!
Please do not get annoyed with me, Bessie; however, here is my
absolutely last word on the subject of retirement from the stage at an
uncommonly early age. I beg you again not to do anything out of
season. At least wait, quite patiently, till October and then keep
your eyes very peeled for retirement opportunities; October could be
very clean sailing! Also, lest I forget, Buddy requests that you be
sure to send him some of those very big tablets, quite without lines,
for his haunting stories. Absolutely do not send him the kind with
lines, such as I am using up for this day of pleasant communication,
as he despises them. Also, though I haven't dared to discuss the
matter with him in a frank manner, I think he would enjoy it very much
if you sent him middle bunny, having lost big bunny when the porter on
the train made the bed in the morning; please, however, do not refer
to this matter in your future correspondence, merely placing middle
bunny silently in a convenient package, perhaps an empty shoe box or
container, and dispatching it in the mail. I know I can leave this or
any
other matter quite to your discretion, Bessie; my God, you are as
admirable as you are lovable! As well as not sending him any more
tablets with lines for his stories, also absolutely do not send him
any tablets with very flimsy paper, such as onion skin, as he merely
drops this kind in the garbage can for general disposal outside the
bungalow. This is wasteful, to be sure, but I would appreciate it if
you did not ask me to step in in a delicate matter of this kind. I am
hesitant to say that certain kinds of waste do not offend me; indeed,
certain kinds of waste tend to thrill me to the marrow. Also worth
keeping in mind, it is this chap's leonine devotion to his literary
implements, I give you my word of honor, that will be the eventual
cause of his utter release, with honor and happiness, from this
enchanting vale of tears, laughter, redeeming human love, affection,
and courtesy.
With 50,000 additional kisses from the two looming pests of Bungalow
7 who love you,

Most cordially,
S.G.

1965