further. I always manage, however, to proceed somehow.
Perhaps you’ve been informed, but I am now living with friends of mine, the de Limas, at their house in Valley Cottage which is about 25miles up the Hudson from New York. It’s a delightful place to live and to work, and the de Limas—mother and daughter—are among the most exquisite humans who ever lived. Since I’ve been here—a little over a month—I’ve completed a good-size short story which I think is quite satisfactory and which is now going the rounds, and I’ve recommenced steady toil on the Peyton novel—following your advice and others’ and my own conscience—and I find it goes remarkably well. Maybe it’s just the atmosphere and the delightful and constant stimulation of my friends, but I’ve never yet hit such a period of steady and agreeable labor. There are also many books here, and also a very fine record player with a big record library, including the Bach BViolin Concerto—the slow movement of which almost paralyzes me each time I hear it. Then too, as a consequence perhaps of all these delights, I’ve taken to living a somewhat less disorderly life, rising at eight instead of twelve, working all day or as long as my imagination permits, and in the evening playing chess with Sigrid until midnight, at which time I go to bed properly and decently like most humans. Perhaps I will begin writing like Anthony Trollope. *l At any rate I am often conscience stricken, wondering what good works I’ve performed in order to merit such a life.
The actual writing of the novel I still find a fairly agonizing business, but not without its moments of charm and excitement. The big reversal in my plans came when one day I hit upon the idea of dividing the story into four or five sections, each section treating subjectively one of the principal characters, and the final section describing Peyton, the girl, on the day of her death. Thus I can still retain the motif of the story being told during a one-day cycle, and at the same time I have a good, not-too-contrived device for telling various things that happened in the past. The lack of such a device was what stopped me six months ago, though I still don’t know what colossal simple-mindedness caused me to fail in thinking of this device in the first place.
So I roll merrily along, trusting that the Gods will let me finish thebook, and will help keep me on the right paths. I have also determined that I’m not going to rush the thing. Most first novels seem to me to have a distinct quality of “spareness” about them; they seem to be rushed, in a mad effort, no doubt, to find print early at any cost. If necessary, I’ll take three years to finish this book, but I’ll not sacrifice quality for early printing. I’m tired of being prodded on all sides by people who wonder why I haven’t finished by now, why I’m not on my second or third book—by people who just don’t know really how much thinking and writing and scratching-out it takes to produce something worthy of the name of art. I’m quite serious about this whole business now. Suddenly—after a horde of vacillations—I’ve waked up to find myself at a realization that I am a writer, come what may; and I’ve really got to work like hell to become first-rate. Committed to the sea, as the saying goes, I’ve got to man the pumps.
For the first time, too, I’ve actually come to the conclusion that I want to write, not just be a “writer.” That, I suspect, is a good sign. Each day that goes by I find something else that I really want to say, while becoming gradually more and more secure in my own concept as to just how I want to say it. By that I mean that I’ve stopped taking the book-reviewers seriously, and the sorry little critics of the Partisan Review , people whom I once thought were soothsayers, but whom I now realize to be little more than spineless, gutless parasites. *m Not that I’ve deserted “artistic” principles;
Perhaps you’ve been informed, but I am now living with friends of mine, the de Limas, at their house in Valley Cottage which is about 25miles up the Hudson from New York. It’s a delightful place to live and to work, and the de Limas—mother and daughter—are among the most exquisite humans who ever lived. Since I’ve been here—a little over a month—I’ve completed a good-size short story which I think is quite satisfactory and which is now going the rounds, and I’ve recommenced steady toil on the Peyton novel—following your advice and others’ and my own conscience—and I find it goes remarkably well. Maybe it’s just the atmosphere and the delightful and constant stimulation of my friends, but I’ve never yet hit such a period of steady and agreeable labor. There are also many books here, and also a very fine record player with a big record library, including the Bach BViolin Concerto—the slow movement of which almost paralyzes me each time I hear it. Then too, as a consequence perhaps of all these delights, I’ve taken to living a somewhat less disorderly life, rising at eight instead of twelve, working all day or as long as my imagination permits, and in the evening playing chess with Sigrid until midnight, at which time I go to bed properly and decently like most humans. Perhaps I will begin writing like Anthony Trollope. *l At any rate I am often conscience stricken, wondering what good works I’ve performed in order to merit such a life.
The actual writing of the novel I still find a fairly agonizing business, but not without its moments of charm and excitement. The big reversal in my plans came when one day I hit upon the idea of dividing the story into four or five sections, each section treating subjectively one of the principal characters, and the final section describing Peyton, the girl, on the day of her death. Thus I can still retain the motif of the story being told during a one-day cycle, and at the same time I have a good, not-too-contrived device for telling various things that happened in the past. The lack of such a device was what stopped me six months ago, though I still don’t know what colossal simple-mindedness caused me to fail in thinking of this device in the first place.
So I roll merrily along, trusting that the Gods will let me finish thebook, and will help keep me on the right paths. I have also determined that I’m not going to rush the thing. Most first novels seem to me to have a distinct quality of “spareness” about them; they seem to be rushed, in a mad effort, no doubt, to find print early at any cost. If necessary, I’ll take three years to finish this book, but I’ll not sacrifice quality for early printing. I’m tired of being prodded on all sides by people who wonder why I haven’t finished by now, why I’m not on my second or third book—by people who just don’t know really how much thinking and writing and scratching-out it takes to produce something worthy of the name of art. I’m quite serious about this whole business now. Suddenly—after a horde of vacillations—I’ve waked up to find myself at a realization that I am a writer, come what may; and I’ve really got to work like hell to become first-rate. Committed to the sea, as the saying goes, I’ve got to man the pumps.
For the first time, too, I’ve actually come to the conclusion that I want to write, not just be a “writer.” That, I suspect, is a good sign. Each day that goes by I find something else that I really want to say, while becoming gradually more and more secure in my own concept as to just how I want to say it. By that I mean that I’ve stopped taking the book-reviewers seriously, and the sorry little critics of the Partisan Review , people whom I once thought were soothsayers, but whom I now realize to be little more than spineless, gutless parasites. *m Not that I’ve deserted “artistic” principles;
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