Katherine Anne Porter Remembered

Frederic Prokosch

38 / frederic Prokosch frederic Prokosch (1908–89), American novelist, poet, critic, and translator, was born in madison, Wisconsin, and educated at Haverford college, yale University , and King’s college, cambridge. He was cultural attaché of the American legations in Portugal and sweden. He moved around in the United states and especially in europe, becoming acquainted with a large number of literary persons. His works include the poetry collections The Somnambulists (1933), Death at Sea (1940), and Chosen Poems (1945); and the novels The Seven Who Fled (1937), The Skies of Europe (1941), Nine Days to Mukalla (1953), and The Missolonghi Manuscript (1968). source: frederic Prokosch, Voices (new york: farrar, straus & Giroux, 1983); this excerpt was published as “the nightmare of Literary Life,” Harper’s march 1983: 58–59. monroe Wheeler, who was head of the museum of modern Art, gave a party one evening in honor of the sitwells.1 edith and Osbert had arrived in new york for a farewell visit.2 Poor Osbert was very ill, suffering from Parkinson’s disease, and poor edith was very bitter, nursing her persecution mania. [. . .] the guests had assembled and there was an air of cynical expectancy.the sitwells were a legend, but a moth-eaten legend. there had been some rather thinly veiled attacks on the sitwells recently. but all were eager to see the sitwells and even to rise to their defense, provided that the sitwells were appropriately ingratiating . marianne moore sat in a corner, looking pallid and timorous. edmund Wilson sat on a couch, leafing through The Unquiet Grave.3 three young painters stood in a corner, discussing the music of Paul Hindemith.4 A young composer stood by the bookcase and stared at the first editions. near the table, next to a rubber plant, sat Katherine Anne Porter. she looked so sad and lonely that i wanted to comfort her. she was a beautiful woman with stupendous eyes and foam-white hair. i was puzzled by the martyr- 182 / Katherine Anne Porter remembered like intensity in her eyes. i sat down close beside her, eager to console her in her anguish. she lifted her glass and stared at me accusingly. “A horrible thing they’ve done!” “Who? the sitwells?” “no! the swedes!” “What have they done?” “Giving that prize to a mediocre hack like steinbeck!” Her voice shook with rage. she gripped her glass feverishly. “it was all very well to give the prize to William faulkner.there is an integrity in faulkner which i thoroughly respect. i objected not in the least when they gave the prize to Hemingway.there is a flavor in Hemingway which deserves to be recognized. but the swedes must be mad. Pearl buck was bad enough. but to give that silly prize to a sentimental hack like steinbeck!”5 edmund Wilson came up and stood by the table impenetrably. He had a petulant fat face with a high, looming forehead and a babylike expression of benevolent implacability. “i’ve been leafing through this strange little volume of connolly’s. Palinurus, he calls himself. but it’s obviously cyril connolly. He guides us in his boat through the swirlings of the styx. very clever, that conception, and he attacks it with dexterity. cyril connolly has a certain way with words that is felicitous. As a rule i distrust all this verbal virtuosity, but in the case of cyril connolly it is more than virtuosity. it is clear that he has suffered. He has been tortured by acedia.” “Are they coming or not?” said miss Porter rather crossly. “Who?” said Wilson. “the sitwells!” Wilson looked puzzled. “Are we waiting for the sitwells?” “so it seems. Look around. they are positively twitching with excitement. they look like at bunch of flies waiting to pounce on a camembert.” edmund Wilson cocked his head. “A most intriguing notion. i have never thought of the sitwells as resembling a camembert, but now that you mention it i see what you mean. i do not pose as an authority on matters sitwellian. i liked Before the Bombardment and i was amused by Rustic Elegies. i browsed through The Gothick North and found it only mildly stimulating.” there was a hush of suspense. All the faces turned simultaneously. there was a rustling in the vestibule and the curtains stirred expectantly. it was edith who entered first. she was less angular than i expected, and more massive and myopic. [. . .] she was followed by Osbert, who looked rather startled. He moved in...