New York City
M.F.,
How delightfully easily insulted you are, how unnervingly well informed. You also appear to be British (“humour”).
As you can see, I have rushed a reply out to you, so great is my anxiety that your opinion of me has been lowered. Has it? Say it ain’t so.
St. John
c/o Astor Press
490 West 58th Street
New York City
P.S. Your failure to include a photograph with your last letter has been noted.
July 11th, 1936
St. John Fox
c/o Astor Press
490 West 58th Street
New York City
You seem bitter, Mr. Fox. Are you having trouble with the next book?
M. Foxe
85 East 65th Street,
Apartment 11
New York City
July 16th, 1936
“Mary Foxe”
85 East 65th Street, Apartment 11
New York City
Dear “Mary Foxe,”
Is this your true name? Have we met someplace; are we acquainted? Have I wronged you in some way?
Be direct. Allow me to
make amends,
St. John Fox
c/o Astor Press
490 West 58th Street
New York City
July 22nd, 1936
St. John Fox
c/o Astor Press
490 West 58th Street
New York City
Dear Mr. Fox,
I found your questions asinine.
Yours sincerely,
Mary Foxe
85 East 65th Street,
Apartment 11
New York City
July 28th, 1936
Mary Foxe
85 East 65th Street, Apartment 11
New York City
My dear Miss Foxe,
That’s quite some vocabulary you’ve got there. But this is not the day and age to waste paper, ink, and stamps. What is it that you want from me?
S.J.F.
177 West 77th Street,
Apartment 25
New York City
August 2nd, 1936
St. John Fox
177 West 77th Street, Apartment 25
New York City
I’ve written a few stories, and I’d like you to read them.
M.F.
85 East 65th Street,
Apartment 11
New York City
August 6th, 1936
Mary Foxe
85 East 65th Street, Apartment 11
New York City
Why me?
S.J.F.
177 West 77th Street,
Apartment 25
New York City
September 1st, 1936
St. John Fox
177 West 77th Street, Apartment 25
New York City
Mr. Fox,
I apologise for the brevity of my previous note, which was due to a combination of factors: I was surprised by the frankness of your letter and the fact that you had included what appears to be your actual home address. Also I had been having a difficult week but wanted to reply promptly, so was forced to do so without niceties. Why you? My answer is unoriginaclass="underline" I-have-long-been-an-admirer-of-your-workand-have-found-it-a-great-encouragement- whilst-in-the-midst-of-my-amateurscribbling-to-imagine-you-reading-what-I- have-written. There, that’s over with. In short, I ask for nothing but your honest opinion of my stories. I’m aware that even asking this is an imposition, one that I would certainly resent if our situations were reversed, therefore I’ll take no offence at your ending this correspondence by dint of silence and shall remain,
Your interested reader,
Mary Foxe
85 East 65th Street,
Apartment 11
New York City
September 10th, 1936
Mary Foxe
85 East 65th Street, Apartment 11
New York City
Little Miss Foxe,
If you’d really been doing your homework you’d know that I am the last person in the world to consult with about your writing. It surprises me that you’re able to make reference to the January New York Times piece about my third divorce without also recalling the February piece that described me as “a suffocating presence across the breakfast table. . harsh destroyer of the feminine creative impulse.” Why don’t you write to the author of that piece? I’m sure she has some handy hints for you.
Sincerely,
S. J. Fox
177 West 77th Street,
Apartment 25
New York City
September 13th, 1936
St. John Fox
177 West 77th Street, Apartment 25
New York City
Mr. Fox,
You are suspicious of me. Don’t be. You feel exposed by recent scrutiny of your private life and you sense that I am mocking you or preparing the way for some kind of punch line, that I will send you some satirical pages about a writer with thirtyseven ex-wives, all of whom hate him and blame him for their own failures. I find it disappointing that you so transparently view your every interaction as a narrative. It is cliché, if you’ll forgive my saying so.
I had a birthday in June and became twenty-one years old. No, I am not pretty. Not at all pretty, I’m afraid. Yes, I am a Brit, in fact directly related to the author of Foxe’s Book of Martyrs (I am very proud — I consider Foxe’s Martyrs to be the sixteenth century’s best book). I grew up in a rectory, my father is a vicar, as a child I suspected him of having written the Bible. I am sole occupant of one medium-sized bedroom in a penthouse apartment not so very far from you; the place is full of Objects I am afraid I shall accidentally break. For almost a year now I have been tutor and general companion — there is not really a name for my job — to a fourteen-year-old girl who was asked not to return to school because the majority of her fellow pupils were frightened of her. On weekends the family usually leaves town, and that is when I take the opportunity to type what I have written in my notebook. I am not sure what I mean by writing this to you, or how much, if at all, my listing these things will strike you as reassuring, or even interesting. I’m not what you think I am, that’s all.