Selected Letters of William Styron Read Free

child, Susanna. One letter of note, from May 15, 1972, shows the affectionate thoughtfulness that characterizes his correspondence.
    As for your existential “wrassling,” I’m sure that I don’t have to tell you that your pondering and wondering and troubling are only extensions of what people have been doing ever since they had the capability of thought, which is to say hundreds of thousands of years. Gods and the idea of a God were of course born out of just this troubled pondering, so it may or may not be a consolation to you that your intense wonder and turmoil about the meaning of the human condition is, in fact, a part of the human condition—or at least as it is experienced by sensitive and questing souls like yourself (no joke). It may just be that there is no reason or purpose to existence. Many great men—thinkers and artists—have thought this to be true, yet have not despaired over this assumption but have created great work through their very vision of mankind enduring triumphant over the sheer purposelessness of the universe, and in spite of the bleak and soulless aspect it so often presents. The whole concept of tragedy is of course embodied in this notion.
    I am not aware of many parents who would take the time to write to their children with such care and profundity, much less treat the subject and the child with such humor, compassion, and respect. The historian in me revels in other examples. Writing to James Jones on August 12, 1965, Bill recalled writing Lyndon Johnson’s Voting Rights Act speech with Vineyard neighbor Richard Goodwin. That letter screams its importance, with juxtapositions of Jackie Onassis water-skiing, Frank Sinatra as a lifeguard, and Bill self-consciously announcing the letter as “Notes of a Waif Astray in the 20th Century.”
    There is rollicking humor and deep sadness in these letters; signs oftowering ego and profound insecurity; sweet affection and stinging bitterness. You will find elements of all in Bill’s letter to Philip Roth on January 29, 1973. Ostensibly, Bill wrote to comfort Roth after Norman Podhoretz and Irving Howe viciously attacked Roth’s character in an article in
Commentary
. But before Styron addressed the
Commentary
piece, he offered a lengthy excursus about his experiences during the
Nat Turner
controversy and the sheer absurdity of the critical establishment. The nearly 2,000-word letter is a testament to both the isolation and the camaraderie of the modern American novelist. Expressed in classic Styronese, Bill signed off with “Yours in the slime we sometimes find ourselves up to our asses in.”
    As one follows the vicissitudes of the writerly existence in these pages, it is hard not to develop a deep attraction to Styron’s mind and pen. My own passion for this correspondence led to a meeting with Bill’s widow, Rose, in the fall of 2007. When Rose asked if I would like to edit Bill’s letters, I naively leapt at the chance. Little did I know that the process of gathering, transcribing, and notating those letters would take the better part of five years, but what an incredible journey it has been. Benefiting from serendipitous circumstances and generous support from various institutions, I was able to meet with Rose daily for almost an entire year. Each morning, we would sit together in the Styron home in Vineyard Haven, Massachusetts, and work through my previous day’s transcriptions and notations. Rose would retrieve names, books, and obscure events at a constant clip. Working intimately with this sparkling soul, the matriarch who knew about or experienced most of what transpires in these pages, has been a distinct privilege.
    As this collection grew in size, scope, and quality, Rose and I shared the joy of uncovering a new narrative about William Styron. Quite distinct from a biography or a memoir, these selected letters narrate one writer’s lifelong struggles and joys—captured in private dispatches about professional life,