A Critical Friendship: Donald Justice and Richard Stern, 1946-1961

Correspondence of 1949 to 1950

CORRESPONDENCE OF 1949 TO 1950 CORRESPONDENCE OF 1949 TO 1950 63 January 17, 1949 | 1015 Forest Ave. | Palo Alto, Calif. Dear Dick, Just got yours today. I thought the Eliot poem—brace yourself—was something you’d tossed off as a postscript, till I saw the date. I can’t make heads or tails of the Empson;1 like the little girl said, “It’s something about the wheels.”2 But I am as ever very fond of “This last pain for the damned the fathers found,” or however it goes.3 If you’ve got an extra of the novelette, send it on anyway. It can’t be as horrible as you make the minus imply. Only don’t blame me if I misread it—maybe my criticisms would be good too for that reason. Besides, I’m nuts about drafts—not only is that the only thing I seem able to write (I just finished one for the Faulknerian story), but I even had my students turn in their rough drafts for one assignment, and you’d be surprised at the improvements they either made or faked. And I’m sure yours isn’t rough anyway, but silky. By the way, I nearly choked on a swig of coffee from laughing at [the] Mann-Porter idea in reverse (probably a misreading too)—be sure to call the French woman novelist Madame Femme and the translator something like Cooley.4 It could probably be wonderful; get down to work tonight, right after writing a reply to this. To hell with graduate school. I’m not taking any courses this quarter, why should you? I have Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday, and of course Sunday, off—or maybe I told you this before—and should get something done, though I can’t compete with your terrifying speed. A campmate of yours named Dick Simmons was camped in my office this morning when I came back from the faculty john. Seems a nice boy. Mentioned Larry.5 Said he and Winters didn’t get along; an old story out here. I told him I was disgusted with Stanford and wanted to go to Harvard because you made it sound so intellectual, and he implied that you wanted to come to Stanford etc. By the way, if you really do, you’d probably stand a better chance with a novelette (stories, or a novel) than with poetry because Winters is so pig-headed. Don’t get me wrong: I am very fond of both Winters and your poetry, but habits are habits. Do I sound too much like a complete Relativist? Of course you could always get a job teaching here with a Harvard M.A., which would knock their provincial eyes out. But wouldn’t it be nicer if we could all—you and I and Paul, for example—get a teaching job at some little college 64 CORRESPONDENCE OF 1949 TO 1950 like Auburn in the South for next year? I just had that bright idea and must write it to Paul. Then we could really start a movement, though you know that isn’t exactly what I mean. But out here I feel that I am—to misquote—dying in Egypt, dying, for lack of fellows.6 Which reminds me that Edgar visited us the other night for the first time, bringing along six cans of “Eastern” beer for moral support. And to return to my train of thought—we certainly don’t intend to stay out here, even if they would give us fellowships. Jean likes it better than I do—as I’m sure I’ve told you before—but neither of us is very ecstatic. Even the weather, as you’ve doubtless read in the papers, has been disappointing. As soon as I polish my story I’ll send you a copy. Title: “A Hopeless Case.” Told from the point of view of the doctor who owns house and land on which the old colored man and boy work. (I’ve grown fond of de Maupassantish titles lately.) For the time being I’ve abandoned the “Desire under the Elms” story—I’ve never read that play, Dick.7 Thinking of another—did I mention this before?—about a bastard from New Orleans, like Gatsby with none of the advantages, who loves the Agrarian ideas, settles in a small Southern town as a high-school teacher...