She also said at breakfast that there was some talk at the girls’ school of a tour of Greece in the summer, and my first thought was: “Summer! My God! Will we still be here, living like this then?” Why not? For years I have lived on the hope that Time would, just by passing, someday, somehow, provide an out (I do not mean death, or at least didn’t), but how wrong I’ve been. It is still my best bet, though, such as it is. What do I want? I can no longer describe it except in general terms — a million dollars, or even fifty thousand — and thus I leave the decision to later. The motto of the J. F. Powers Company is Shoot high and don’t miss, but it is one I can only hope to achieve in my work, if there, and seems more and more out of the question in my life, in which, alas, I still take an interest. So much for today’s gospel. Just trying to help you understand us. […]
Jim
LEONARD DOYLE
Trenarren Hotel
Greystones, County Wicklow
November 29, 1963
Dear Leonard,
[…] We were floored by the crimes in Texas. I realized I’d been too hard on Kennedy in my own mind and hadn’t given him credit for using the best kind of people, to the extent that this is possible (it isn’t possible in the arts), to run the ship of state. Ireland and England were in deep mourning. Our PP, perhaps the only liturgist in Ireland in communion with Collegeville, only stalked the aisles during the memorial Mass on Tuesday, commenting on the Mass and whatever else occurred to him, and in the end praised Kennedy for four things and said we should write them down when we left the church: “edgication, self-edgication, social-minded, and parish-minded.” On a call recently, he told Betty that there was only one place in the U.S. that he wanted to visit and that was Minnesota because of St John’s, the liturgical capital of the world. Even if I weren’t anti-laical (and of course anticlerical), I think I’d give thanks for the old guard in Rome, after divine worship with our PP calling the shots from the pulpit — a kind of triple dialogue Mass, celebrant and people patiently waiting to get a word in edgewise and the latter urged at the same time to speak up, say the prayers in any language they please, and, for the love of God, to pull themselves together and try to be more edgicated.11 […]
Jim
DICK PALMQUIST
Trenarren Hotel
Greystones, County Wicklow
November 30, 1963
Dear Dick,
[…] I try to keep in touch with reality by listening to the Armed Forces Radio from Germany — spot announcements telling me to turn down my radio, to install seat belts, to give blood, and to drive carefully. I followed the terrible events in Texas for several days (AFN had access to all three networks in America), and now that it’s over, I still don’t understand it, and I guess that is as it should be, sound and fury signifying nothing. […]
It is late. AFN’s Mr Midnight, a very romantic fella, has gone to bed. The wife and family have gone to bed. The only ones up are me and the Germans (on the radio), who never seem to go to bed. And now I’m going to bed. […]
The following morning. Frosty today, for the first time, a harbinger of the cold-assed days ahead, as we say in the writing game. […]
The house we’ll be moving into is comparatively new (1933) and consequently is snugger than we’re used to in Ireland. It has several rooms that appear to be quite livable — not perhaps as you would use the term, or I, ideally, but by the standards that apply here, at least to our income and experience. […] Best to you both from us both.
Jim
JOE AND JODY O’CONNELL
Trenarren Hotel
Greystones, County Wicklow
Christmas Night 1963
Dear Friends,
Just because this letter comes to you mimeographed,12 do not think it does not come from the heart. Well, another year has almost ended, and once again, as I sit here before my fire (electric this year), my thoughts range back through the days gone by, gone but not forgotten. There was much to be thankful for, more than I have space for here, but here are some of the highlights that come immediately to mind. January and February, so far as I can tell from my diary, were taken up, as were the previous six or eight months, with correspondence with, and dark thoughts about, my publisher. March, as some of you may recall, was the month I won the National Book Award for Morte D’Urban, now available in paperback at 60¢, and went to New York City to be honored by the publishers, book manufacturers, booksellers, and gentle readers of America. Unworthy though I was, I could see no way out and tried to conduct myself like a good arthur and family man should, and in this I think I can say I did good. April passed without an award, but in May I went to Chicago, that toddlin’ town, for another. June was unsensational, as were July, August, and September until we kissed St Cloud goodbye. The rest you more or less know, and that brings us up to Christmas. I received the following gifts from members of my family: napkin ring (Mary); talcum powder, with built-in deodorant (Katherine); diary (Boz); socks (Hugh); pipe cleaners and clothes brush (Jane); and Drambuie (Betty).
The latter hit the hay at 8:45 p.m. tonight, which may be a new record, but then the poor kid carried the rest of us through the ordeal of Christmas, no little thing in our present circumstances.
We were very glad to get your letters, for which we waited and waited, which is not to say that we do not understand the many reasons for the delay. One you don’t mention, namely the busy and exciting life you lead. By our standards, I’m not kidding. NOTHING HAPPENS HERE. Well, yes, Boz did lean on a window in the lounge yesterday, and getting it repaired, or perhaps repairing it myself, may keep me occupied for days in this town, where nothing is easy, where a piece of glass 38" by 36" may mean a trip to the next town (Bray), and this on a bus, if you can picture us, me and the glass and probably a strong wind blowing. […]
The panel for George looks good under my magnifying glass — and all I can say against it is the medium, wood, which always has a way of looking wooden, particularly when new. Or so I think, and seem to recall you do. I pray it all ends well, with you and George, and I think it will. And right here I knock out ashes from a pipeful of #400, specially blended for Rev. Urban Roche, which I smoke on feast days and great occasions or would if there were any of the latter. I am down to about 4 oz. of #400 and two small packages of Brindley’s and have bought my first Irish tobacco at the going price of $1.40 for 2 oz. I am rationing out the other on those dark nights of the soul which come a bit oftener than formerly, as I take up the eternal subject of dirt, disrepair, folly, and waste with myself. […]
I loved “a heavily insured bag of nuts,” and Dickie should have used longer tacks.13 It’s all too easy to use short tacks and hit them harder, but where does it get you in the end? When I was a householder, and a goddamn good one too, I always kept a plentiful supply of tacks in assorted sizes. I checked my stock regularly to see that I wasn’t running low, and I also checked against rust spores, which have a way of getting into a nest of tacks, and if anything plays hell with tacks, it is rust. Keep plenty of tacks on hand at all times, and don’t let rust get to them lest there be hell to pay. Keep tacks on a high shelf, under lock and key, away from children. […]