LITMIR.BIZ

      To Edith Gaddis

      Valencia, Spain

      21 March 1949

      dear Mother,

      As you see, I have the machine back, and marvellously cleaned and refurbished, thank heavens, ready to work if its master can.

      At the moment I am in Valencia, a town I like a great deal, though plan to leave it tomorrow for Sevilla, in a nightmare 29hour trainride, not first-class either. The weekend has been fine; the ‘Fallas’, which is Valencia celebrating the arrival of spring—in every plaza, and there are many, a great statue affair is erected, cardboard sort of stuff on wood frames, representing aspects of current life which the people consider untoward, high price of food, dead state of art & letters (though of course those things they feel heaviest cannot be represented . . .); these things range 30 to 40 feet high, and include figures of people, ships, houses, anything; then the great night they set off explosives and burn the whole thing; insane, and Spanish. And the bullfight on Saturday was a very good showing. Now Bill has gone back to Madrid, and I recommence my peanuts-and-bread-and-oranges-in-the-pocket existence. No, it is I who have managed badly, and quite consistently so; so that it is my own fault if I must now sit on board seats for 29hours instead of stepping onto an aeroplane. And you say, what is right? what is best? let me know . . . Lord, I sometimes think robbing a bank sounds like an entirely reasonable gesture. One does make out; but often enough making out is little different than it might be in a town in Kansas. One may say, why don’t you get a job (enough do), but working in Madrid would be working in New York in Chicago in Emporia Zenith—no, as Walker Evans said, to not stay in one place but move around. And thank God now I am out of Madrid, for better or worse but out. I do think of people who could and would manage things quietly and well in my circumstances; which is maddening; the bad thing is to fall behind, and when the remittance appears to have to pay for what is past, and not have it for what is ahead; that is where I have messed things up; how we all cry out for a fresh start, spiritually, financially, sartorically—and the promises made, the resolutions. Well, I shall have about 50$ to go on until the next, and think I can manage, as one does in any circumstance. Dammit, I do want to settle down to respectable and gainly livelihood, but not to see Spain while in Spain is preposterous.

      A remarkably wonderful letter from Barney Emmart, in London, to say that in a few days he is leaving northern France and cycling down to the Spanish border, plans to be in Spain for two or three weeks! If things do not get confused I hope to meet him in Sevilla around the beginning of April; and am of course quite excited about it, seeing a friend again. One imagines the things that might go wrong, I picture us both on the same train, having missed each other at one place, and riding hundreds of kilometres but never meeting because he is in 1st class and I in a 3rd class carriage . . . well. [...]

      A very nice letter from Miss Williams, who is now in Nice and liking it all very much, tells me to come up if I am still sick (which I am not) and relax with them on the Mediterranean shore. Though no; at the moment I am too disgusted with myself for any company but one like Barney, who also spends time being disgusted with himself, pretending he weighs 300 pounds, similar productive pastimes.

      When I came back from the monastery I had a note to call a Baroness Borchgrasse, she sounds like a real bloody fascist on the ’phone, had had a note from a friend (I suppose Mrs Fromkes) saying you were worried; and you know I am sorry for that; I had not realised too much time had passed since writing you; and I guess the flu would have gone away sooner under a doctor. [...]

      I have three grey hairs. In front.

      And so, quietly,

      with love,

      Bill

      ‘Fallas’: in R, a crass American tourist “wants to see the big fair they have in Valencia [...]. They call it the Fallas, it’s all fireworks” (882).

      Baroness Borchgrasse [...] Mrs Fromkes: unidentified.

      To Edith Gaddis

      Sevilla

      29 March 49

      As Becky Sharp once said, “I think I could be a good woman, if I had five- thousand (she meant pounds 25000$) a year . . .” And so it is, and the pity of it how “money” makes the world all smiles, and this afternoon (having got your ‘note’) I pass through the streets offering benediction to sundry wretches who hours before would have merited curses between the teeth . . .

      It is some time since you have recieved a cheerful letter from me, isn’t it. And here I hasten, under the aegis of wealth, to try to make up. Really; you must get tired to death of niggling notes from rocky places, detailing nothing but the weather (cold), the food (vile), the health (absence of), the prospects (ditto) . . . Because—though it does seem so at times—it is not all disaster, beggarly wonderment. Why, with the possibility of change of lodgings immediately in view, I can even tell you here in all good cheer that my stomach has succumbed to the culinary disasters of economical living, and when I lie down (which has been often) it really sounds like a huge hydro-electric plant, the Hoover Dam or the TVA or whatever, but something grand, in full operation: I hear valves open and shut, mighty rivers gush, canals furiously overflow their banks, whirlpools and cascading waterfalls, —indeed, if I do not seem to exaggerate, there have been times when I have heard the voices of men crying out down there in the darkness “Tote dat barge . . . Lif’ dat bale.” . . . well.

      Spain is not the kind of a country you travel in; it is a country you flee across. To get from one place to another (the eternal problem in any respectable metaphysic) is the object; and trains, hopelessly laden, occasionally set out bravely with just such purpose. One set out recently from Valencia, and I was one of the unshaven, bread-carrying, orange-peeling idiots ‘on board’. Olive trees. All you see is olive trees. They are pretty, planted in pattern and rather like our weeping willow—pretty until you understand their purpose.

      At any rate, the ‘train’ (that is a euphemism) got all the way to Alcazar that night, averaging almost 18miles per hour. Shocking age of speed. About 1:30 something thundered into Alcazar from Madrid, I climbed on its back and together we were in Sevilla the Very Next Afternoon! (I think that perhaps the reason for the trains’ pace is to give the people an illusion about the size of their country: those who have never seen maps probably believe, and with All Good Reason, that Africa would dwindle in comparison: no wonder Mr. Franco, as I read today, says ‘The Atlantic Pact without Spain is like an omelette without eggs’: He is a train-rider.) But back to my original complaint (it is hard to keep them in order), all they can grow is these damned olives, and so, logically (Spanish logic) all they eat is the oil. By they I mean we. Just today what was put before me would have roused even Old Grunter’s hackles; briefly described (I daren’t try details, the spirit is willing but the stomach weak) is was, or had been, an artichoke, now hoary and greyed with age and oil, in which it floated miraculously, the oil, slightly contaminated with a dark colouring-matter, sporting weary but invincible peas. Oh I tell you. Think of me, next mashed-potato-with-‘xxxxxbutter’ (such a foreign word I can’t even spell it) and green broccoli, beef bathed in its own juices, or perhaps a lamb steak or chop, seared but tenderly red inside, garnished with parsley (green) . . . not pityingly, just think of me. Tomorrow will be better.

      (You

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