To Toby Cole August 25, 1970 Dear Toby, [Roman] Polanski has agreed with me about the way to approach Seize the Day Seize the Day and I think if he can get Eli Wallach to play Dr. Tamkin and somebody like Alan Arkin for Wilhelm we may have something after all. I have suggested both these names and on that basis I am willing to negotiate the sale. I don't say that I will absolutely insist on the actors but I think both are obtainable and would prefer them above any others I can now think of. and I think if he can get Eli Wallach to play Dr. Tamkin and somebody like Alan Arkin for Wilhelm we may have something after all. I have suggested both these names and on that basis I am willing to negotiate the sale. I don't say that I will absolutely insist on the actors but I think both are obtainable and would prefer them above any others I can now think of.

Adam and I will be in Nantucket. I'd like to cross over to the Vineyard for a couple of days, though Adam has a thing about sharing his holiday with his little brother. Under my tactful management he'll probably explode when I suggest it. But I have a concrete bunker, and an asbestos suit from the Father's Department of Brooks Brothers.

Love to all of you,

A film version of Seize the Day Seize the Day would appear sixteen years later, but directed by Fielder Cook and starring Robin Williams as Tommy and Joseph Wiseman as Tamkin. would appear sixteen years later, but directed by Fielder Cook and starring Robin Williams as Tommy and Joseph Wiseman as Tamkin.

To Benjamin Nelson September 11, 1970 Chicago My dear Ben- Le destin has been against me, using its familiar agents-children, hostages to fortune. I longed to go to Montauk, but Gregory announced that he would be married in August, in San Francisco. He chose the middle of the month, just to make things interesting-a little test of his value to his dear Pa, with a slender golden edge of the Will to Power. To pa.s.s this new test I had to spend a large part of August in San Francisco. Next it was the turn of Adam, who is thirteen, to do his stuff. His choice fell on Nantucket. No, it hasn't been one of my better summers. It isn't retirement I dream of, only the majority of my sons. One will keep me going yet, for a long time. I will be seventy when Daniel gets out of college. Something had better be done to rescue me. has been against me, using its familiar agents-children, hostages to fortune. I longed to go to Montauk, but Gregory announced that he would be married in August, in San Francisco. He chose the middle of the month, just to make things interesting-a little test of his value to his dear Pa, with a slender golden edge of the Will to Power. To pa.s.s this new test I had to spend a large part of August in San Francisco. Next it was the turn of Adam, who is thirteen, to do his stuff. His choice fell on Nantucket. No, it hasn't been one of my better summers. It isn't retirement I dream of, only the majority of my sons. One will keep me going yet, for a long time. I will be seventy when Daniel gets out of college. Something had better be done to rescue me.

I hope you and Marie loved Russia. (Itself, of course; who could love the superstructure?) Please write me a forgiving note.

Ever yours,

To Robert Penn Warren September 19, 1970 Chicago Dear Red: There can't be too much philanthropy in this aging heart of mine but I'm going ahead with the publication of the magazine at my own expense. To borrow a term from crooks, I'm doing it as a public service, for the Locations Locations gentlemen have fallen away, welshed out (as they put it in Chicago, which is still basically underworld in its sympathies). I'm going to call the magazine gentlemen have fallen away, welshed out (as they put it in Chicago, which is still basically underworld in its sympathies). I'm going to call the magazine The Ark The Ark [subsequently [subsequently Anon Anon]. With three sons, I qualify as a Noah. I'm writing a book which will run as a serial and will set some sort of standard for the fiction. You're right absolutely. People will say, After such a squawk what sort of stuff are they giving us. I'm hoping that there will be stuff. No demons of optimism misleading me here. We shall have to wait and see whether good writers will turn up. With few exceptions the people of talent I've known these last thirty years haven't shown much spirit. After an early show of quality there seems little more than a love of status. We could forgive the sins of people who offered us at least With three sons, I qualify as a Noah. I'm writing a book which will run as a serial and will set some sort of standard for the fiction. You're right absolutely. People will say, After such a squawk what sort of stuff are they giving us. I'm hoping that there will be stuff. No demons of optimism misleading me here. We shall have to wait and see whether good writers will turn up. With few exceptions the people of talent I've known these last thirty years haven't shown much spirit. After an early show of quality there seems little more than a love of status. We could forgive the sins of people who offered us at least something something to read, but there isn't much of that either, I'm afraid. All right, we'll ship out the to read, but there isn't much of that either, I'm afraid. All right, we'll ship out the Ark Ark and wait for Ararat. and wait for Ararat.

I'm delighted that you liked the piece. I thought you might. And of course you're busy; I'm glad of that and hoped you would be. What I really should have explained more clearly is that the magazine will publish all sorts of comment, unsigned. Something of the sort must surely come over you from time to time. You'll be getting the first number soon and will see for yourself what Botsford and I have in mind. Why not have a Menckenian column? It's a fine idea.

Yours most warmly,

To Margaret Staats September 27, 1970 Chicago Dear Maggie, I'm in the state I was in in Oaxaca, writing something while the days speed by as though I were on the safety island in the midst of zooming traffic. What I'm doing may be far less good than it feels to me. Delusion is always possible. Meantime, the hasting days fly by with full career, etc. I wake at five or six. I am afraid of being deluded.

Last year you sent me some pills I didn't take for an ailment I didn't seem to have. I don't know what happened to those tablets. Maybe Daniel played with them. You can try to get a copy of the prescription for me, or another batch of pills. Better yet, two batches, to give me a reserve. I don't like to bother you about this but I haven't the time to fuss with doctors.

In the end Adam condescended-he gave his hand like a princess. I had the inexpressible privilege of bearing him away to Nantucket. I was at work daily at 7:00; he slept until 11:00, very obliging. We had lovely afternoons in the water, and he taught me to hiss like a karate expert. Indispensable in Chicago. Best is to stay in nights.

I was delighted to see you looking so well and talking so sensibly and the affection we felt towards each other was a great improvement over states we've known. Barley wrote a letter of pure praise; she loves you dearly and wants you to come to London.

This is Daniel day-Sunday afternoon, pro football, kid programs, and I'm cooking spaghetti.

As ever,

To Margaret Staats October 26, 1970 Chicago Dear Maggie, Come to think of it, I've never before dictated a letter to you and never imagined that I would. So I apologize right off. It's this siege I'm under, with rocks flying over walls while I crouch down and scheme against my enemies. You were good about the pills, thank you very much. This time I'll make sure that Daniel doesn't play marbles with them. And of course the Ferrers can use me as a reference. I often think how Joe [Ferrer] held out against amputation; for certain dangers of life he has become my model. It occurs to me also-and this has to do with Penny [Ferrer]-that I am wearing my newest suit today which shows me off to splendid advantage and makes me look only half my age which is at the moment a hundred sixty-five. I too have heard from Barley. I read her letters and feel deeply grateful that I am not paying her by the word. When she comes to New York she ought to have a grand party and if she's not planning to visit Chicago I'll come in and of course I'll help you with the tab. She has knocked herself out for me and I'm no ingrate, whatever else. There's plenty else.

As for the rest of the scene, half my dogs are sleeping and lying. The Chicago half however is bowing and wowing in courtrooms and lawyers' offices. It's still a struggle unto the nothing. But Daniel's sweetness only increases and his cleverness too. This cuts my losses by a great deal.

I shan't come to New York without calling you. I haven't been there since September 1st. To which some of my cheerfulness must be ascribed.

Love, To Hannah Arendt December 1, 1970 Chicago Dear Hannah, Many students have shown great interest in the Kant seminar and David [Grene] and I feel that you would find it worth your while to visit Chicago this winter. Under the circ.u.mstances we would not of course wish to press you. I don't know how you feel about leaving New York now. I ran into Hans Morgenthau recently and he said that you don't much enjoy going out. Chicago in winter can be grim but perhaps the students would compensate for the grimness.

In any case we would be delighted to have you.

Sincerely yours,

Arendt's husband, Heinrich Blucher, Bellow's much-admired colleague during the years at Bard, had died in October. Stiff collegial courtesies between Arendt and Bellow evidently continued, despite his attack on her Eichmann in Jerusalem Eichmann in Jerusalem in in Mr. Sammler's Planet. Mr. Sammler's Planet. He was writing here in his capacity as chairman of the Committee on Social Thought. He was writing here in his capacity as chairman of the Committee on Social Thought.

To Nicolas Nabokov December 19, 1970 Chicago Dear Mr. Nabokov, Of course I remember you well. The long years mean nothing-at least certain faculties are not affected by the calendar. The invitation is not merely attractive, it is positively fascinating. It so happens that I know little about the Aspen Inst.i.tute. I know only the beautiful Mrs. Walter Paepcke whom I used to meet in Chicago's last salon, now closed alas by the death of our aged hostess, Mrs. Epstein, whose walls were hung with paintings by Botticelli, Rembrandt and Goya. No, I've never visited Aspen. At the moment I have only sketchy summer plans and before I can be more definite I must learn what the mothers of my children have in mind for the holidays. I would like to come to the Inst.i.tute, but what would I be asked to do? I am putting together a singular sort of book and it gives my life a certain oddity; not altogether agreeable, but what can one do? Let me say then that I'd like to come, I may very well be with you in Aspen next July; but I need to know what would be expected of me. With many thanks for your kind letter.

Very sincerely, Nicolas Nabokov (1903-1978) was for many years resident composer at the Aspen Inst.i.tute for Humanistic Studies. He is best remembered for his opera based on Shakespeare's Love's Labour's Lost Love's Labour's Lost (libretto by W. H. Auden and Chester Kallman), which premiered in 1973. (libretto by W. H. Auden and Chester Kallman), which premiered in 1973.

1971.

To Norman Podh.o.r.etz March 11, 1971 Chicago Dear Norman, Thanks for your note [about "Culture Now: Some Animadversions, Some Laughs"]. It seems that I have a feeling for polemics-evidently I've been holding it down, sitting on it. I've never wanted to become an infighter. Probably this article ought to have appeared in Commentary Commentary but I wanted Rahv to have it for old times' sake. The old but I wanted Rahv to have it for old times' sake. The old Partisan Partisan was very generous to Isaac and me when we arrived green and sincere from Chicago. William [Phillips] had no sort of character at all but Philip [Rahv] had a solid Roman-Russian personality, dignified, weighty, and even (there were signs of it) affectionate. was very generous to Isaac and me when we arrived green and sincere from Chicago. William [Phillips] had no sort of character at all but Philip [Rahv] had a solid Roman-Russian personality, dignified, weighty, and even (there were signs of it) affectionate.

I don't know if I will write anything else like this again, unless provoked. When I was in Paris, I was told that Mary McCarthy was screaming for my blood. Then, at nightfall, in London, who should turn up at a bus stop but Leslie Fiedler, his beard looking rather plucked about the chin. He was very friendly and proposed that we should have a friendly conversation next day. But I said No. And then Katie Carver also materialized and said I was in the wrong. I can never understand why revolutionaries try to hold on to liberal friendly relations with me.

Yours with good wishes,

To Margaret Staats April 30, 1971 Chicago Dear Maggie- Your birthday was not forgotten. On the 16th I was in New York and vainly twenty times dialed your number. Since then I've tried also from Chicago, but you seem no longer to live on 15th St. Wherever you reside now, you are remembered by me.

My own condition isn't too bad, but my sister's husband [Charles Kauffman] has had a stroke again, and this time is partly paralyzed. He lies in the hospital, all the sweetness of his character showing in the new softness of his face. Forgiving everyone. Coming into the intensive-care room, I'm moved by Charlie. And my sister is still pretty, high-school Janey at the eyes-otherwise withered.

So it goes.

And, these weeks, I am on jury-duty and spend many days in a jury-box.

Happy birthday and blessings,

To the cast of the Circle in the Square production of The Last a.n.a.lysis The Last a.n.a.lysis June 25, 1971 Aspen Inst.i.tute for Humanistic Studies To the entire cast: Bless you all, you've done the thing and done it marvelously! At the first preview, I knew that you could and would make the play go, that you saw life in the thing despite its many faults and that you would surely succeed with it. The blood of the art is still circulating. Not only is the play giving much pleasure to audiences but it is breaking down a stony professional prejudice against novelists in the theater. Six years ago this professionalism broke my back but I hobbled out again for another try [ . . . ] I can now set my crutch on fire and trade in my wheelchair for a motorcycle.

A lady writing me about The Last a.n.a.lysis The Last a.n.a.lysis says it has to do with "getting it all back from the butchers." That is exactly what the play is about-and for me, personally, you have also redeemed it from the butchers. says it has to do with "getting it all back from the butchers." That is exactly what the play is about-and for me, personally, you have also redeemed it from the butchers.

I am grateful to you all.

The Last a.n.a.lysis, negatively reviewed upon its Broadway premiere in 1964, enjoyed a better reception when Circle in the Square revived it off-Broadway seven years later under the direction of Theodore Mann and starring Joseph Wiseman.

To Edward Shils June 26, 1971 Aspen My dear Edward- [ . . . ] Here in the mountains I feel a decided improvement in my state. But there's so much room for improvement. I hope, just once just once, to do the thing which would justify my survival for so many decades. I seem not to be ready just yet, though my spirit is beginning to clear somewhat. Here at least I am not troubled by ladies. No dear creature offers me love or even a stable daily existence. I live alone, now that Adam has gone, in a large house with splendid views. Aspen is fashionable, like the summer place in which Prince Myshkin fell to pieces.

I refused to go to New York for the revival of my revised farce. It seems to be having a succes fou succes fou. You don't approve of it, I know, but it has a few Aristophanic moments.

Bless you.

Please keep in touch.

Love,

To John and Kate Berryman June 27, 1971 Aspen Dear Kate and John- This is to greet and bless Sarah Berryman on her arrival in this gorgeous wicked world which has puzzled and delighted my poor soul for fifty-six years. I expect the planet will go on a few billion years yet and she will thrive on it.

Love to you all,

1972.

To David Holbrook January 4, 1972 Chicago Dear Mr. Holbrook: [ . . . ] I have an idea that we are all far too susceptible to fashionable ideas and that our power to discriminate has been seriously damaged in this consciousness-explosion of ours. An old Yiddish proverb crops up in my thoughts more and more frequently. It goes like this: A fool throws a stone into the water; then sages knock themselves out trying to recover it. (Very free translation.) The sages evidently are no cleverer than the fool.

There are by now enough fool-cast stones in the water to keep us silly sages going for quite a long time.

I shall try to get a copy of your "Human Hope" book. Sorry I missed you in Chicago.

Sincerely yours, David Holbrook is the author of many books including Human Hope and the Death Instinct Human Hope and the Death Instinct (1971). (1971).

To Robert Hivnor January 24, 1972 Chicago Dear Bob- I often wondered whether he would. I guessed that he wouldn't. I seldom guess right.

Not many of his sort left, and he was a dear friend.

Thanks for the note. I'll turn up in NY one of these days.

On January 7, 1972, John Berryman had leaped to his death from the Washington Avenue Bridge in Minneapolis.

To Grace Wade March 7, 1972 Chicago Dear Mrs. Wade: In 1956 I spent many months at Pyramid Lake, Nevada, and there I knew several elderly women who lived at mountain sides and in lonely canyons. According to some odd intuitive method of my own I put together something something. It was a year or two later that I wrote "The Yellow House," moved by my memory of those old women and the Nevada desert. One of the old girls, now dead, was my landlady. From her I rented a shack built of old railroad ties. It was at the water's edge and I dream sometimes of going back for a look. But I am told that the Lake has become a tourist attraction and I'm afraid of returning to cherished memories and finding only Disneyland.

Thank you for writing.

Sincerely yours,

To Nadine Nimier March 29, 1972 Miami Dear Nadine, I'm not moribund. I'm simply as usual-not pulled-together sufficiently. To cure myself, I've come down to Florida with Adam and Daniel and voila! voila!-suddenly I am able to reply to your note. Evidently I come back to life when I voyage. Next month I'm off to j.a.pan. I don't know a word of le j.a.ponais le j.a.ponais-pas un seul mot. But I'm fairly good at pantomimes of all sorts. In July I'm going to Aspen, Colorado, and in August I'll be in Europe. Perhaps we shall actually meet in France. I intend to stay until mid-September. I feel sometimes like a novel written by the ghost of Jules Verne and revised by Tutankhamen and Wm. Faulkner-about a Prince of Egypt reincarnated in the twentieth century, fond of southern whiskey and doomed to jet about the earth.

Yours ever,