In the letter below, James Wright writes to his ten-year-old son, Franz Wright, who, like his father, would go on to become a Pulitzer Prize-winning poet. Wright recounts a daydream to his son, and tells him that his imagination “goes on growing deep in my mind, regardless of the troubles I face, the loneliness I feel.”
St. Paul, Minnesota
March 4, 1964
My dear Franz,
Just now, it is almost midnight. Today the very air that we breathe in the twin cities is sagging heavily with a strange white snowfall. After I lectured three different classes today, and doing some other necessary work earlier this evening, I decided a little while to follow my custom of taking a solitary walk for a few blocks, to get a breath of fresh outdoors air, and generally to rest my eyes—and also rest my spirit—after the day’s labor. Then as I walked down Dale Street from Selby Avenue here in Saint Paul, I suddenly found that the very innermost, most secret part of my mind had become filled with a soft clear light—and light that is like the green radiance of the air at that beautiful moment in Spring or early Summer when the shower of rain, that sprang up suddenly and fell down just as suddenly, is instantly gone, and left behind it a few people—like you and me, who like rain—soaked to the skin but happy to be soaked to the skin, and to be standing on a street corner, and feeling as though we ourselves were slowly turning bright green. How strange it was to catch myself, this evening, in the act of having a daydream of that kind, when all the while I slogged pleasantly through deep lakes of slush by curbs or carefully picked my way across the six-inch snowfall on unfrequented sidewalks, balancing myself like a tightrope walker, in order to take advantage of the few big footprints left in the deep new snow by some gone and forgotten mailman, or milkman, or adventurous Great Dane—(of course, what I had secretly hoped to discover was the enormous footprint of somebody’s pet Elephant in the snow—but I’m sorry to say, the last pet Elephant who lived in this neighborhood has moved away, to take a job writing books full of People-Jokes).
But my most secret and most honest spirit, my dear Franz, was filled with light anyway, in spite of the snow. Because I walked into the fresh garden that still, and always, goes on growing deep in my mind, regardless of the troubles I face, the loneliness I feel, or the snowfalls I explore in search of some lost and mostly forgotten Elephant-prints. I walked into my garden; and you were there, waiting for me beside a dripping bright green house that grew up right out of the ground like a wild bush of flowers, a house with roots of its own; and you too were green and fresh, and you too were growing. You looked up patiently to greet me, and said, “Hello. You’re a litter earlier than usual; but then, I suppose I’m early, too.”
“Well,” I answered, “I was just taking a walk outside in the snow, and suddenly I found myself wanting to come into the garden. I didn’t know why, until I saw the light shining there; and I knew that Spring had come; and I knew you’d felt so strong and hopeful this year that you’d started to grow already; and I knew that the garden in my most secret heart was shining with happiness because it is time for your birthday; and so I just came in to see you.”
“Thank you,” you said, and smiled a bit vaguely, as if there were some question that you wanted very much to ask but still hesitated, out of politeness, to mention.
But I already knew the question, and had answered it even before you thought of asking it, or wanted to ask it.
“I want to tell you something special, something that should be made clear, Franzie. You see, this visit with you in the garden was just a single, sudden inspiration that I had this evening. It is a very happy inspiration; but it is nevertheless just a message to wish you joy of the Spring, and to wish you the happiest of all happy birthdays!”
“Yes, I see,” you replied, still looking entirely puzzled.
“In plain English, my dearest friend and fine son whom I love completely and forever,” I answered, “in plain English, what I’m doing now is just greeting you with words. But the present which I am arranging to send you for your birthday this year—well, now, that’s a horse of a different color!”
“Are horses green this year, like houses and boys named Franz?” you asked, still not quite sure what I meant.
“Whether or not horses are green; whether or not my letters to you are too short and too rare; it remains a fact that, in addition to this evening’s message—this letter to you—I am going to send you your present quite soon. It won’t be a letter, although I’ll write you a note about it. It will be a surprise, of course. Anyway, it will be a real solid present which you’ll receive in a package through the mail. Happy birthday, once again! And always!”
“Happy birthday—always!—to you, too,” you answered, smiling, “Happy birthday, Daddy, no matter what the date of the year is, and in spite of the snow.”
“Thank you, my beloved son and best friend,” I replied with true love in my heart, “I know just what you mean. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just go back and get a night’s sleep; so that, tomorrow, I can go ahead with plans for your present. Good night, my dear.”
“Sweet dreams,” you said.
And I said, “Yes.”
Love, and more letters soon, I promise,
Dad