Now let me try to answer a few of your questions: 1. Drag racing is the strictly illegal sport of adolescent amateur automobile mechanics who transform an ordinary car into a racer. They hold outlaw matches on back roads, attain speeds of a hundred fifty m.p.h. or better, and are often killed.2. One can "c.o.c.k" the wheel of a Thunderbird-that is the driver's wheel can be pushed forward so that the driver may seat himself without inconvenience.3. I don't remember what I meant by an axle type but I may have been thinking of [Villiers de l'Isle-Adam's] Axel, Axel, the one about the young man who says, "As for living, our servants can do that for us." the one about the young man who says, "As for living, our servants can do that for us."4. Hog belly should really be pork belly. Pork bellies are traded in the commodities market.5. A pig-in-a-wig is reminiscent of a pig-in-a-poke in the old saying, poke being an old word for sack or bag. Then there is pig-in-a-blanket or ground meat cooked in cabbage leaves. Lastly, we come to the nursery rhyme Barber, barber, shave a pig, how many hairs to make a wig? Barber, barber, shave a pig, how many hairs to make a wig? Put this all together and you get the image of a porcine man wearing what looks to be artificial hair. Put this all together and you get the image of a porcine man wearing what looks to be artificial hair.6. A Roto-Rooter man is an expensive American specialist who unstops clogged drains by inserting a long phallic segmented steel instrument called a "snake." And that is what a Roto-Rooter man is.7. "Pet" [means here] arbitrary-one's favorite form of obstinacy or crankiness.8. Vacate the personae simply means to abandon one's favorite masks.9. To launder money is a well-known Mafia expression. The illest-gotten gains of gangsters cannot legally be declared as income. The underworld has its own ways of making dirty money respectable by sending it through channels, etc.10. Castro is a manufacturer of folding beds or "hideaway" sofa beds. These generally have dangerously prominent hinges which have been known to injure hasty lovers.11. What Charlie means on p. 89 is that he believes he can see Cantabile's aura, a personal quality generally invisible.12. P.102, line 7, "There were a few windbreaks up here on the 50th or 60th floor, and those the wind was storming." These windbreaks, made of stout canvas, protect the workers from the weather. When the wind is high the canvas flaps mightily. On this occasion, the wind was storming, i.e., a.s.saulting the canvas.13. "Sailing to Byzantium" is a poem by Yeats.14. Hegel, in his Philosophy of History. Philosophy of History. 15. The "quiet" quote is from Rudolf Steiner and comes, I believe, from a book called 15. The "quiet" quote is from Rudolf Steiner and comes, I believe, from a book called Knowledge of the Higher Worlds and Its Attainment. Knowledge of the Higher Worlds and Its Attainment.

Alexandra and I will be knocking about in June, probably in England. In July and August we will be at Cape Cod or Martha's Vineyard and in September we will return to Chicago. I will tell her what you say about her smile.

As ever,

To Norman Podh.o.r.etz March 8, 1976 Chicago Dear Norman: I did give a talk in Miami but I intend to make it part of a longer piece.

And now tell me this: If you were described in someone's magazine as a "burnt-out case" would you be at all inclined to contribute articles to that magazine?

Sincerely yours,

In his unfavorable review of Humboldt's Gift Humboldt's Gift in in Commentary Commentary, Jack Richardson had wondered whether Bellow was "a burnt-out case."

To Ben Sidran May 21, 1976 Chicago Dear Ben: You're right about your father [Louis Sidran] and me. And I often feel, when I'm writing, that I'm a composite person. Your father is certainly part of the mixture. It comes over me now and then that I'm trying to do something he wanted done. When, dying, he drove so many hundreds of miles in the station wagon with Ezra from Gettysburg to East Hampton to see me, I got the message quite clearly. I knew what he wanted, whom he loved. I admired and loved him.

I can see why it was hard for you to write to me. The difficulty makes your letter all the more valuable.

Best wishes,

To James Salter May 26, 1976 [Chicago]

Cher collegue: I write, as always, in nasty haste, a chronic condition. I am doing what I oughtn't to do, a journalistic job. Dreadful pressure.

Yes, I was miffed by the Graham Greene thing, but not seriously nor for long. Greene didn't find me "difficult"-by "difficult" he meant Jewish. I can't see how any reader of his novels can miss that. American is bad enough [according to Greene]. But to be Jewish as well-well, no combination could be worse.

That's all there was to that.

Alexandra and I are taking off for Dublin and Milan tomorrow. I haven't finished my piece either. I must, tonight.

Yrs. as always,

In an interview Salter conducted for People People magazine, Graham Greene had recalled Bellow as "difficult." magazine, Graham Greene had recalled Bellow as "difficult."

To Samuel S. Goldberg July 26, 1976 Chicago Dear Samuel, [ . . . ] A gossip item from the Chicago newspapers announcing the triumph of Susan Bellow greeted me when I returned from Europe. I thought you might like to run your jurist's eye over it. You know, I'm really beginning to think badly of the legal profession. Judges and lawyers simply don't understand how a writer makes his way through life. Page five speaks of the "defendant's misrepresentations." I didn't misrepresent. I simply had no idea what my future income would be. It's true that I took an advance of fifty thousand, but suppose I had been unable to complete the book?

Maybe when you have studied the doc.u.ment you will be able to explain it all to me and especially the murky paragraph at the bottom of page six.

As ever,

The First District Court of Chicago had issued a ruling that Bellow misled former wife Susan Gla.s.sman Bellow about his income and directed him to pay increased alimony and child support.

To Owen Barfield August 13, 1976 Chicago Dear Mr. Barfield- By now you will perhaps have written me off as someone who straggled in and then faded out in pursuit of other enthusiasms. The fact is that I continue as well as I can with Steiner and that I am still trying to train myself. I haven't been able to do this steadily. Last autumn I decided-took it as a duty-to write a short book about Israel. I'd never seriously studied Zionism (i.e. the terrible question of the fate of the Jews) but having come to Jerusalem with my wife I "discovered" it; I began to a.s.sume a degree of responsibility for it. A solution is beyond anyone's powers, but I wanted at least to state the problem of Israel clearly to the civilized public. For six months I soaked myself in the literature of the subject and spent my nights in reading and my days taking interviews and writing them down. The results have just appeared in The New Yorker The New Yorker (July 12 and 19). They aren't satisfactory but they seem to have had a certain effect. I worked very hard at them. I worked myself into such a state of fatigue that I was unable to pull myself together physically, much less write thoughtful letters. The morning meditations, which I continued faithfully, helped somewhat, although there were days in which I could only ramble through them in a promissory way. Later, I would do them properly. (July 12 and 19). They aren't satisfactory but they seem to have had a certain effect. I worked very hard at them. I worked myself into such a state of fatigue that I was unable to pull myself together physically, much less write thoughtful letters. The morning meditations, which I continued faithfully, helped somewhat, although there were days in which I could only ramble through them in a promissory way. Later, I would do them properly.

I didn't mind your dismissing Humboldt Humboldt. I expected that. It is a comical and very American examination of the cares and trials of "civilized" people in a civilized country. These cares are by now plainly ludicrous and one can't be truly serious about them. The ultimate absurdity is that it is the spiritual matters, which alone deserve our seriousness, that are held to be absurd. Perhaps it was wrong of me to put this longing for spiritual fruit in a comic setting. I knew that you could never approve and would think it idiotic and perhaps even perverse. But I followed my hunch as a writer, trusting that this eccentric construction would somehow stand steady.

I shall send you the little Jerusalem book when it is published in October.

With best wishes,

To Louis Lasco August 25, 1976 [Chicago]

Highly esteemed Katastrof Efimovitch-my dear school friend: I thank you for your congratulations. I am afraid I have too many irons in too many fires; letters go unanswered. Like yourself I should be thinking of retirement. I used to flinch from this as a bourgeois idea. Whenever I emerged through the door of a jet plane into California sunshine my first thought was: "Retirement!" And then: "But I am too young!" (Meaning, in fact, that I had not yet satisfied my adolescent ambitions.) But now I think more kindly of people who move gracefully and tranquilly give up, surrender themselves to a quiet and gentle elderliness. Maybe this [long adolescence] is the only maturity I am destined to know.

I don't see Glotzer in Chicago-nor Freifeld, nor Peltz, nor S. J. Harris; none of the Division St. children. Some of them are annoyed with me. I can't say that this causes me much regret. I'm fond of them but nearly fifty years of the same bluffing have worn out my powers of politeness. I seem to have been an extraordinarily polite young person. I sometimes miss Peltz, a good man to have a hearty dinner with. He has some sort of grievance against me. I suppose it will last a decade or so, and we will be reconciled just before the articulo mortis articulo mortis [ [84].

I enjoy hearing from you. "Rosh Hashanah is at our throats again" made my day. Give your dear old mother my warmest regards. I begin to believe that her brother actually was reincarnated in me.

Your affectionate friend, Bedouin Trofimovitch To Teddy Kollek September 9, 1976 Chicago Dear Teddy, Yours was the first of the Israeli reactions [to To Jerusalem and Back To Jerusalem and Back] and I was understandably apprehensive. The form I adopted obliged me to write quite explicitly about people-and one never knows. There are art historians who explain that two hundred years ago people accepted unfavorable portraits of themselves; warts, harelips, paunches, wrinkles and all. See what Goya did to the Spanish Bourbons. They didn't seem to mind, but our far less n.o.ble contemporaries wish to appear without a flaw. One of the paradoxes of democracy.

Your letter pleased me very much and I have received many kind notices from Israel and from America. So I'm encouraged to return to Jerusalem. If you should know of an available apartment, we would be most grateful to have it.

With best wishes for the New Year, As ever,

To Margaret Shafer October 15, 1976 [Chicago]

Dear Margaret: Your note delighted me. There are days, in Chicago, when I think enviously of life in Annandale-on-Hudson, and of intelligent ladies who read and write under the beautiful trees. (Or beautiful ladies and intelligent-looking trees.) I wish I hadn't been so very stupid in Dutchess County-I missed so many things. But then the County was rather dumb about me. I wasn't received in the "best" places. It was funny, at times. Ellison and I would drink martinis together, and then he'd go off in his Chrysler to dinner, leaving me to grill my solitary steak. He and the n.o.bs loved one another. I was amused. Almost no damage to my self-esteem (not easily dented).

My best to you and Fritz,

Canadian-born Margaret Shafer, wife of Fritz Shafer, professor of religion at Bard, taught piano privately and organized music festivals in Annandale-on-Hudson. She and Bellow had been friends from his arrival there in 1953.

To Toby Cole October 18, 1976 Chicago Dear Toby, I am absolutely sure that you are right, and it comforts me to be so well protected by a lady for whom I have so much affection. I think though that everything should be done to protect that ninny [Leon] Kirchner. If he had as many feet as a centipede I know that he would manage somehow to get them all into his mouth. But he has worked long and hard, and I should like to see him produce his opera without interference. Let United Artists do what it will about his expired rights. We We should not remind those United Artists of their contractual powers. I don't like being on the side of Goliath, Behemoth and Leviathan. The proper course for us is to say nothing and to hope for Leon's sake that the mighty corporation will hear, see and feel nothing. [ . . . ] should not remind those United Artists of their contractual powers. I don't like being on the side of Goliath, Behemoth and Leviathan. The proper course for us is to say nothing and to hope for Leon's sake that the mighty corporation will hear, see and feel nothing. [ . . . ]

Yours as ever,

Leon Kirchner (1919-2009) was composing Lily Lily, an opera based on Henderson the Rain King Henderson the Rain King. It would have its premiere at New York City Opera in May 1977.

To John Cheever November 10, 1976 Chicago Dear John, Will I read your book? Would I accept a free trip to Xanadu with Helen of Troy as my valet? I am longing to read the galleys. Since I have to go to New York this weekend, and also to Princeton to see my son Adam playing Antonio, the heavy in The Tempest The Tempest, I shall get Harriet Wa.s.serman at Russell and Volkening to obtain a set of galleys for me from Knopf. I would like to see you too, but I don't know when I will be free from this mixture of glory and horror. But I will write to you p.r.o.nto about the book, which I'm sure to read with the greatest pleasure.

Yours,

"This mixture of glory and horror" refers to the decision of the Swedish Academy, on October 21, to award the n.o.bel Prize in Literature to Bellow.

To John Cheever November 23, 1976 Chicago Dear John: Well, I expected the best and that's exactly what I got in Falconer Falconer. It's splendid. For two days it was my cyclone cellar; I hid out in it. It wasn't without surprises. You generally take a lighter view of the ruins. This is much the toughest book you ever wrote-warlike, nothing softened. But the more decay you got into, the purer the book became. Falconer Falconer is elegant. You remember what Orwell said about Henry Miller, that Henry had put the spoken language back into literature and gotten rid of the language of protocol. True enough, up to a point, but Henry poured his peculiar cafeteria fruit salad-his "philosophy" and his "poetry"-over everything. You arrange to have the best and the worst live together in high style. But I know you don't go for this literary stuff, and I'm knocking it off now. What I felt all through was an enraged determination to state the basic facts. You stated them, all right, and gave your pal the most intense satisfaction. For which he thanks you from a full heart. is elegant. You remember what Orwell said about Henry Miller, that Henry had put the spoken language back into literature and gotten rid of the language of protocol. True enough, up to a point, but Henry poured his peculiar cafeteria fruit salad-his "philosophy" and his "poetry"-over everything. You arrange to have the best and the worst live together in high style. But I know you don't go for this literary stuff, and I'm knocking it off now. What I felt all through was an enraged determination to state the basic facts. You stated them, all right, and gave your pal the most intense satisfaction. For which he thanks you from a full heart.

You should sell hundreds of thousands of copies, unless the country is farther gone in depravity than I think. It delighted me that in the Paris Review Paris Review interview you mentioned the pleasant and intelligent people who read the books and write thoughtful letters about them and who have no visible connection with advertising, journalism or the academic world. I love those people. They sustain me, too, as you observed. Your interviewer might have followed up on this important statement. interview you mentioned the pleasant and intelligent people who read the books and write thoughtful letters about them and who have no visible connection with advertising, journalism or the academic world. I love those people. They sustain me, too, as you observed. Your interviewer might have followed up on this important statement.

Ever yours,

Don't you generally go off after you've finished a novel? What you want now is a delicious holiday.

To Teddy Kollek November 29, 1976 Chicago Dear Teddy, I want to get this off to you before I leave for Stockholm-I haven't even prepared the formal lecture. Under this inconceivable barrage I find it hard to concentrate. I did however take great pleasure in the review of the Jerusalem book that you wrote for The New Republic The New Republic-it was clear, it was just, it was intelligent and elegant; I doubt that any other mayor could have written it.

Now as to the requests: People of America have begun to speak of the protection of national resources. I have decided that I am such a national, and even international, resource and am issuing an appeal for protection. Here and now I have a choice to make between becoming a Jewish dervish (the whirling and howling kind) or remaining a writer. Your situation is different, you have a political vocation and you have to deal with all of these outfits. As for Mr. Bernstein, the UJA has contacted me. His letter said that he did not want to use an extract from my Jerusalem book and he urged me to write something "fresh and original" (a wonderful choice of words). The fact is that the Jerusalem book is coming out in France, Italy, England, Germany, etc. and even in j.a.pan, and I feel that it is important that I should maintain a stance of disinterestedness and that it would not be a useful thing for anyone if I were to identify myself with all good Jewish causes indiscriminately. I dread becoming an adjunct, a rubber stamp. I need say no more to you. Less than a word is all you need because you are wiser than most.

Yours with every good wish,

1977.

To Adam Bellow January 31, 1977 [Chicago]

Dear Adam - I've never been so cold. The weather, making me listless, proves that I have some lizard ancestors, connections with the Mesozoic. You probably suspected it all along. It is five P.M., the temperature is zero, the wind is blowing at twenty m. p. h. And I am about to pour myself a strong drink and rejoin the mammalian order.

Your affectionate Father

To Owen Barfield February 5, 1977 Chicago Dear Barfield: On the contrary, I should have written to you long ago. Nor did I expect you to acknowledge the Jerusalem Jerusalem book, which I sent in lieu of a letter, thinking that it would explain why I was so poor a correspondent. I find it most difficult to pull myself together. It is all too bewildering. Steiner makes matters sometimes easier, sometimes much harder. This is not because of the new perspective he gives me; in some ways I am drawn to him because he confirms that a perspective, the rudiments of which I always had, contained the truth. But to rea.s.semble the whole world after a different design isn't easy for a man of sixty. I keep my doubts and questions behind a turnstile and admit them one at a time, but the queue is long and sometimes life is disorderly. Besides I can't put into what I write the faint outlines I am only beginning to see. That would muddle everything, and it would be dishonest, too, in a novice. Writing as a comic novelist, I am capable of anything, mixing desperation and humor just as I like (in my own mind, defining Herbert's "wearie" in "The Pulley" as weary with one's own absurdities). But I was serious in the book, which I sent in lieu of a letter, thinking that it would explain why I was so poor a correspondent. I find it most difficult to pull myself together. It is all too bewildering. Steiner makes matters sometimes easier, sometimes much harder. This is not because of the new perspective he gives me; in some ways I am drawn to him because he confirms that a perspective, the rudiments of which I always had, contained the truth. But to rea.s.semble the whole world after a different design isn't easy for a man of sixty. I keep my doubts and questions behind a turnstile and admit them one at a time, but the queue is long and sometimes life is disorderly. Besides I can't put into what I write the faint outlines I am only beginning to see. That would muddle everything, and it would be dishonest, too, in a novice. Writing as a comic novelist, I am capable of anything, mixing desperation and humor just as I like (in my own mind, defining Herbert's "wearie" in "The Pulley" as weary with one's own absurdities). But I was serious in the Jerusalem Jerusalem book. It produced a great deal of discussion (to answer your question about its reception) and, in Israel, predictably, many polemics. I don't at all mind being attacked. It rather pleases me, even when the attackers are wicked or idiotic or ideologically muscle-bound. I'd sooner know how things are. Such is my present state of mind, anyway. Perhaps it indicates that I protected myself too well in the past. book. It produced a great deal of discussion (to answer your question about its reception) and, in Israel, predictably, many polemics. I don't at all mind being attacked. It rather pleases me, even when the attackers are wicked or idiotic or ideologically muscle-bound. I'd sooner know how things are. Such is my present state of mind, anyway. Perhaps it indicates that I protected myself too well in the past.

I confess that I disliked Mr. [Seymour] Epstein's article in the Denver Quarterly Denver Quarterly and I felt sure that you would ask me about it-I am put off by critics who tell the world with full confidence exactly what you were up to in writing what you wrote, as though they kept a booth at the fair in the middle of your soul. After reading him I thought of your words in and I felt sure that you would ask me about it-I am put off by critics who tell the world with full confidence exactly what you were up to in writing what you wrote, as though they kept a booth at the fair in the middle of your soul. After reading him I thought of your words in Unancestral Voice Unancestral Voice about the work of Ahriman, his chilling of everything in human thinking which depends on a certain warmth and replacing wonder by sophistication, courtesy by vulgarity. Of course one must be careful not to identify every detractor with the powers of darkness, so I shan't say much more about this. I disagreed. I hoped that he was wrong. I found amus.e.m.e.nt in thinking that many years ago critics were saying does Mr. B. expect us to believe that the spontaneity and verve of his novels are the real thing? And they are followed now by Mr. Epstein, who says, Mr. B.'s spontaneity and verve are gone, and he is a burnt-out case. But the subject can't bear further discussion. about the work of Ahriman, his chilling of everything in human thinking which depends on a certain warmth and replacing wonder by sophistication, courtesy by vulgarity. Of course one must be careful not to identify every detractor with the powers of darkness, so I shan't say much more about this. I disagreed. I hoped that he was wrong. I found amus.e.m.e.nt in thinking that many years ago critics were saying does Mr. B. expect us to believe that the spontaneity and verve of his novels are the real thing? And they are followed now by Mr. Epstein, who says, Mr. B.'s spontaneity and verve are gone, and he is a burnt-out case. But the subject can't bear further discussion.

I am looking forward to your collection of essays. Thank you for telling me about Rene Guenon. I shall inquire at the library about his books.

I pa.s.sed through London just before Christmas but didn't want to announce myself. I thought it might be inconvenient for you to see me just then. But I will be in England again in April. I'm going back to Jerusalem via Edinburgh and London. I'm due in London on the 17th or 18th. I very much want to see you, I need hardly say. Eager, is the word.

With many thanks for your letter, and every good wish,

To Marcello Mastroianni February 16, 1977 Chicago Dear Mr. Mastroianni, First of all, let me say that as one of your great admirers I'm delighted to have your letter. The film rights to Humboldt's Gift Humboldt's Gift have not been sold. I am sending your inquiry to my representative in New York who will, I am sure, reply promptly. have not been sold. I am sending your inquiry to my representative in New York who will, I am sure, reply promptly.

It is really very good of you to say so many obliging things. It pleases me to think that we could go on saying obliging things to each other for some time.

With perfect sincerity, Yours very truly,