Dawn Powell
Below is the last known letter written by Dawn Powell, who died of colon cancer in St. Luke’s Hospital on November 14, 1965. John F. “Jack” Sherman, Powell’s cousin, was among those by her bedside at the end.
TO JOHN F. SHERMAN
October 22, 1965, New York
Dear Jack:
It was good to talk to Rita the other night. Apples seem to be her chief problem and her little Volksher chief joy. I do not see how she manages that big place all alone although how do we know—maybe she has a Mr. Lahm stashed away there?
I am sorry that you have not so far found a magic professor who can make hard work seem pleasure—you did at Ashland, I believe. Your Jesuit priest sounds comforting and George, too. Will both of you come home Thanksgiving?
For two days I have felt like living and today even like looking into my work, though I haven’t been out and I peter out midafternoon and still repel callers. My longtime old friend, the director Robert Lewis, who always takes me to his openings since our old Group Theatre days, called to take me to the big new Alan Lerner musical On a Clear Day You Can See Forever, which will be a big hit for weeks even though the reviews were mixed. Anyway it seemed strange to say I couldn’t even dodder to the living room without difficulty—let alone nip out into the gay world.
Bobby (the little colored Bobby) is bringing Jojo home for the day Saturday as he is worried, not being home for six weeks or seeing me. Hannah will drive him back. Another patient cut his hand with a spoon because of some rattling of his cup, I believe, and he has had infected gums but he doesn’t complain except when he misses church.
Speaking of our old English novelists, Gerald Murphy got entranced by Richardson’s Pamela and had it by his bedside for night reading for months. I got that way about Trollope about ten years ago and I was always crazy about Fielding—especially his plays—terribly witty.
Your clipping re [Robert] Rurak seems okay to me as I got disgusted with the big conceited he-man Hemingway imitator some years ago. I think I know the reviewer—Don Robertson—if it is the Cleveland newspaperman (once) who wrote a Civil War novel which our friend Monroe Sterns groomed into a minor success about ten years ago.
Phyllis seems better and Carol sent me a luxurious nightie and a Christian Science editorial. Doesn’t she know I’m a Jehovah’s Witness?
My doctor’s wife (Dr. Solley) died this week and poor man is out in St. Louis with her family and his nine-year-old son so I am on my own for a while which is logical as there seems nothing anybody can do except recommend a change of laxative or something. Hannah cooks me a good plain supper and Jackie shows up when she can—she cleaned out my closets looking for something I could wear and found one closet full of live moths which she rapidly dispatched. I get Coby to spend the night and he makes breakfast very well now if I can keep him from getting tight by hiding bottles (at night) and I feel better knowing someone can open and shut things.
I admire your guts in the midst of strangers.
love,
Dawn
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For Gore Vidal’s wonderful essay on Powell (originally published in NYRB), click here.
For more on John F. Powell, “who played a profound role in the discovery and publication of previously unknown manuscripts by [Powell],” click here.