J. F. Powers
J. F. Powers
J. F. Powers
Al Strobel died on January 22, 1963, only a couple of months after the death of his wife. The Powers family had to vacate the house they had been living in for over three years.
HARVEY EGAN
January 24, 1963
Dear Fr Egan,
[…] Al Strobel died Tuesday evening, in bed, from a heart attack. Bertie, I think I told you, his wife, died in November. This is a knockout blow, their deaths, the end of something. The children — wife of dentist, a physician, an optician, and a newspaperman — are on the scene now. The funeral is tomorrow. Al was a very good and gentle man. He grew flowers, had nails and screws of all sizes, and never got excited. The children, though he didn’t work at winning them over, loved him. I used to think of him as a typical small-town businessman, really only the husband to Bertie, but for several years I have known better and have respected him. He is someone I hope to see again. I was the last one to see him alive and, fifteen minutes later, the first one to see him dead. I shouldn’t be telling you this, I know, but that is what’s on my mind. No news otherwise.
Jim
Jim, filled with gloom about Morte D’Urban’s prospects, wondered how to make a living. One moment he would resolve to take the next good teaching job offered him; the next he would turn down just such an offer.
On February 10, 1963, the six leading contenders for the National Book Award were announced. In addition to Morte D’Urban, they were Vladimir Nabokov’s Pale Fire; Katherine Anne Porter’s Ship of Fools; Dawn Powell’s Golden Spur; Clancy Sigal’s Going Away; and John Updike’s Pigeon Feathers, and Other Stories. Publicity was hampered by the New York newspaper strike (which ran from December 8, 1962, until March 31, 1963). Jim was pleased to be nominated but believed that Nabokov would win.
HARVEY EGAN
St Cloud
March 2, 1963
Dear Fr Egan,
[…] I turned down a chance to lecture at Columbia University ($500), and also to teach this spring at the University of Chicago, and also to teach at Purdue ($10,000). On the other hand I was trying on a pair of used dress rubbers at the Goodwill a while ago: impossible to find cloth-lined dress rubbers, did you know that? I picked up an old 78 Victor record at the Goodwill which I’m looking forward to hearing this evening (we fell heir to the Strobels’ radio-phonograph), a little thing called “Sahara (We’ll Soon Be Dry like You)” from Monte Cristo Jr., which played at the N.Y. Winter Garden. It is sung by Esther Walker, whoever she was. On the flip side is “Nobody Knows (and Nobody Seems to Care),” also sung by Esther, composed by Irving Berlin. All right, so it doesn’t look like much of an evening. But that’s life in St Cloud and perhaps everywhere. […]
Jim
Morte D’Urban won the National Book Award, presented on March 12, 1963, in New York — where the newspaper strike continued. The judges were Elizabeth Hardwick, Harry Levin, and Gore Vidal. The prize was a thousand dollars. Jim was happy, except for having won over Katherine Anne Porter, who had done so much for him.
JACK CONROY
412 First Avenue South
March 10, 1963
Dear Jack,
The book has won the National Book Award, and I am leaving for New York tomorrow. […] I travel by train — Great Northern, Burlington, New York Central, and back — and should be returning through Chicago on Friday. I’ll give you a ring at your office. Sam Gadd mentioned that your novel would be out by now, and I hope to get a copy in New York — that is another reason to leave this town, where Morte D’Urban and Happiness Is a Warm Puppy are the bestsellers. […] Through two deaths in my wife’s family we will be losing our perch overlooking the Mississippi here. I wish you could be in the Americana Hotel on Tuesday (the cocktail hour) to hear my acceptance address. It starts out like this: Down in the Lehigh Valley/Me and my pal Lou …5
Jim
I’ll call you when I arrive at LaSalle Street Station, in the morning, on Friday — unless of course I am held up in New York, in any sense.
CHARLES AND SUSAN SHATTUCK
412 First Avenue South
St Cloud, Minnesota
March 15, 1963
Dear Chuck and Suzie,
Very good of you to write, Chuck. I am only just back from the Big Town, where I was wined and dined and pleasured in general but where I behaved myself as a holy founder should: your name, too, came up every now and then, and that kept me on course, but never fear: in all my interviewings I never once mentioned you or in fact anyone much but me, me, me. My acceptance speech was a little gem of cool conceit, a thing writers should display oftener on such occasions, I think, since they have nothing to lose anyway. It now belongs to the ages, my speech, but The NY Times Bk Review will pay me to use it in the event papers are published again in the Big Town (oddly enough, I was about the only one there using that term; I did not meet Walter Winchell).6 I did meet Hedda Hopper, though, and except for our age difference, and maybe not that, we have a lot in common besides our publisher.7 “Did Doubleday send you my book?” she asked (this after she said that she did indeed believe my success was due to hard work, clean living, and large advances). “No,” I said. “That’s Doubleday!” she cried, and there we were again, hitting it off. “This man won the fiction prize, Hedda,” said a famous newspaper editor, “but I think you should’ve had it.” Then we were parted, Hedda and I — it was impossible to talk with the Life people riding herd on Hedda — but later she asked to see me again, and I was soon standing before her, hitting it off again. “I wanted to say goodbye,” she said. “And I,” I said. “Goodbye, then,” she said. “Goodbye,” I said, “and—” “Yes?” she inquired, her hat inclining dangerously toward me. “Just stay as you are,” I said in a husky tone. She smiled back, and then she was gone. The truth was I liked the old gal — and, really, 75 isn’t so old …
I called on Bob Henderson, who said he’d had a bad fall of sickness but looked fine. He asked how you’d liked the book, mine. […] Blamed whatever faults it has on you because you failed to read it in the manuscript. Well, there was a lot more I might tell you, for kicks, but except for the thousand dollars there are no clear gains: I did feel, however, that my reputation is growing and not just in my own imagination. I was a long-shot choice — a good show bet, and I am sorry if KAP will be at all disappointed, as perhaps she has reason to be (I still haven’t read her novel); I hate the role I’ve been cast in, or will be, say, in Time, assuming, of course, the story appears there. (The Time interviewer, after finishing with me, said, “Now I’m off to Little, Brown.” “Is that the story?” I asked. “That’s the story,” I was told.) […]
The date for the awardees to appear on the Today program on TV was suddenly called off, our appearances, with only this by way of explanation and this only by hearsay: “Who’s heard of ’em?” This, after my poor wife, children, and bloodthirsty friends were all alerted to the time and channel. And had to be de-alerted, long-distance, late at night. In these matters, I am strictly eye for an eye and will quietly await an opportunity, coast-to-coast and prime time, to tell the nation. Hugh Downs, who represents all that’s best in our thinking today, is the emcee of the Today program and provided one of the lines in my book (speaking of Islamism), “That’s one of the world’s top religions.” Enough of this, Chuck and Suzie.