Free Selected Letters of William Styron by William Styron

have been lost. And the product of their search and wonder—an end indeed as perishable as the flowers, or any other thing—will nevertheless have been enriched and ennobled, and the way made more plain, through their having known one man, for a moment, who was gentle, wise, honest and good. Some do not know it—others, who know, will not speak it—and I for one know it, and say this with all certainty and humility.
    I would appreciate your giving me an opinion of the story, and hope to hear from you soon.
    As ever,
    Bill S.
    T O W ILLIAM C. S TYRON , S R .
    October 28, 1947 New York
    Dear Pop,
    I received your letter the other day, and was glad to hear that we are both coming into a little cash. P Your borrowing half of my share is perfectly all right with me—better, in fact, since it assures me, for a time, of a steady income each month. I am now listed with the New York State bureau as a “self-employed” veteran and will be receiving $80 a month from that department which, along with the $60 you send me, will make a tidy $140—about the same as my starting salary at McGraw-Hill.
    I was also happy to hear that you are coming to N.Y. next month, and I’ll certainly be on hand to give you a big welcome. I wrote Aunt Edith and told her when you are coming, and expressed the hope that she would be here at the same time, so we could all do the town together.
    The story I mentioned in my last letter was read in Hiram Haydn’s seminar at the New School. Haydn, as I think I told you, is editor of Crown Publishers and also editor of the extremely respectable AmericanScholar , journal of the Phi Beta Kappa organization. Haydn, who is a fairly harsh critic, said that the story was “terrific,” “powerful,” and “certainly publishable,” all of which delighted me no end. I also sent a copy to Blackburn and Brice, both of whom thought the story was excellent. Brice suggested that I send the story to The New Yorker , which I have done (no answer yet) and then to the various literary quarterlies. The New Yorker is very particular about the names of their authors, and I doubt seriously if they will accept it; but both Blackburn and Brice are convinced that I can get the thing published somewhere so I’m going to keep trying until I get an acceptance.
    I’m very glad that you see eye to eye with me about my present attitude concerning my attempts at writing, and about the loss of my job. I realize that I’ve finally come to grips with myself, and that the job was in reality merely a delaying action. Writing for me is the hardest thing in the world, but also a thing which, once completed, is the most satisfying. I have been reading the letters of Joseph Conrad, and really feel a kinship—if nothing but in spirit—with the late master, for one discovers in the letters that writing, for Conrad, was the most despairing, painful job in the world. Q It most definitely is that way for me. But someone—I think it was Henry James—said that only through monstrous travail and agonizing effort can great art be brought forth from those who, like himself (James), are not prodigies or, like Shelley, spontaneous founts of genius. Anything less than unceasing toil will produce nothing or, at best, facility. I am no prodigy but, Fate willing, I think I can produce art. For me it takes much girding up of loins and an almost imbecile faith in my potentials—but I suppose that’s part of the satisfaction.
    I’d better close now. Give my love to Eliza, and I’ll see you soon.
    Your son,
    Bill jr
    T O W ILLIAM B LACKBURN
    December 10, 1947 1453 Lexington Avenue, New York
    Dear Professor Blackburn,
    I have been most terribly dilatory in writing letters lately, but I hope you won’t lay it to thoughtlessness, since scarcely a day goes by that I don’t think of you—and think of writing you.
    I am progressing at about the same level as I have been during the last few months. The writing proceeds in a slow, somewhat haphazard