8 May (1929): Thomas Wolfe to Mabel Wolfe Wheaton

Below, Thomas Wolfe writes to his elder sister, Mabel Wolfe Wheaton, about his soon-to-be published novel, Look Homeward, Angel. Maxwell Perkins, Wolfe’s editor at Scribner’s, had also worked with Hemingway and Fitzgerald. Perkins had a large say in the final manuscript: Wolfe allowed him to cut nearly 60,000 words, and when the novel was published, some argued that Perkins was its true author. For Wolfe’s centenary, the original version of the work, sans Perkins’ edits, was published under the title that Wolfe had initially suggested: O Lost: A Story of the Buried Life.

27 West 15th Street

New York

May, 1929

Dear Mabel:

Thanks for your letter which I got to-day. I don’t suppose I have written much lately — I have very little sense of time when I am working. I am working every day with the editor of Scribners, Mr. Perkins, on the revision of my book. We are cutting out big chunks, and my heart bleeds to see it go, but it’s die dog or eat the hatchet. Although we both hate to take so much out, we will have a shorter book and one easier to read when we finish. So, although we are losing some good stuff, we are gaining unity. This man Perkins is a fine fellow and perhaps the best publishing editor in America. I have great confidence in him and I usually yield to his judgment. The whole Scribner outfit think the book a remarkable thing — and Perkins told me the other day when I was in the dumps that they would all be very much surprised if the book wasn’t a success. When I said that I hoped they would take another chance on me, he told me not to worry — that they expected to do my next book and the one after that, and so on indefinitely. That means a great deal to me. It means at any rate, that I no longer have to hunt for a publisher.

I’ve already seen the title page and a few specimen sheets of the type. They call this the “dummy.” Of course, I’m excited about it. I can’t say enough for the way Scribners have acted. They are fine people. They sent me to one of the most expensive photographers in town a few weeks ago, a woman who “does” writers. What it cost I can’t say, but she charges $150-200 a dozen, I understand, and she kept me half a day. What in heaven’s name they’re going to do with them all I don’t know — they say it’s for advertising. They are going to begin advertising, I believe, this month or next, and they have asked me to write something about myself. Of course, that’s always an agreeable job, isn’t it? When the story and the book are coming out, I don’t know, but everyone has become very busy this last month — I now have to go up to see the editor every day. I think the story will be held back until just before the book s published. Scribners are good salesmen, good business people, good advertisers. They are doing a grand job for me, and they believe in me.

That’s enough about the book for the present. I am very I am very sorry to hear of Mr. Jeanneret’s trouble. Your letter brought back to me the memory of my childhood, and of Papa leaning on the rail talking politics, and everything else with the old man. When my short story comes out read it — you will see them again as you have seen them many times — but don’t mention this to anyone. Jeanneret was a true friend to Papa and admired and respected him. He belongs to a world that is gone, a life and a time that is gone — the only Asheville I can remember, as it was in my childhood and boyhood. Perhaps I see the change even more clearly than you do because I have been away from it. I think the Asheville I knew died for me when Ben died. I have never forgotten him and I never shall. I think that his death affected me more than any other event in my life. I was reading some poems the other day by a woman who died very suddenly and tragically last December. I met the woman once. She was very beautiful, but I suppose by most of our standards we would have to say that she was a bad person. She ruined the lives of almost everyone who loved her — and several people did. Yet this woman wrote some very fine poetry, and is spoken of everywhere now. I thought of Ben — he was one of those fine people who want the best and highest out of life, and who gets nothing — who dies unknown and unsuccessful.

I can certainly understand your desire to be alone. With me it’s a necessity. Yet in my heart I like people and must have them. Sometimes, as you know, I have gone away for months without letting people know where I was. But I always got homesick for the familiar faces and had to come back. I think I live alone more than any person I have ever known. I know many fine people in New York — some of them I see very often, but I must spend a large part of my day alone. I hate crowds and public meetings. You could not live the way I do: you must be with people, talk to them, join with them. But this is the only life I can lead. Sometimes I love to go out and join in with the crowd, and have a good time. But not often. The truth of the matter is that most people I meet bore me until I could cry out. This ought not to be but it is. And I am not often bored with myself or with my reading or writing. I have tried a great many of the things I dreamed of when I was a child — travelling about, Paris, Vienna, theatres, ships, and so on — but about the only real satisfaction I have had has been in work, the kind of work I like to do. And I have not worked hard enough. Most people are not happy when working, simply because very few people have ever found the work they want to do. It’s pretty hard to think of a cotton mill worker or a ditch-digger getting much joy out of it, isn’t it? And that goes as well for most business men: “realtors,” pants makers, shoe dealers.

I may take your advice and come home for a few days when school is over. I could not come for long, because of my work here at Scribners, but I should like to stay a few days or a week…

I suppose you are right about most of the money being in New York: there is certainly a lot of it here, although I have seen very little of it myself. Our “Prosperity” is a very uneven thing. There are great many rich and well-to-do people, but there are millions who just make enough to skin through on. Most of the people in New York are like this — scraping by, with nothing left over. What’s your politics? I suppose you are a Democrat or Republican, since the South is the most conservative place left. I believe a Socialist is regarded down there as being the same as an Anarchist. But wait until the poor people have to endure an empty belly and you’ll see a change. I think if I had any politics I’d be a socialist — it’s the only sensible thing to be (if you’re not a capitalist, and I’m not). But you think that’s “wild talk,” don’t you?

I don’t blame you for letting some of the club work go. I buy an Asheville paper once in a while, and there seems to be a club for everything under the sun, including hog raising. Apparently the women are getting all the “culture” — what do the men do? It is probably a farce — this club business — because most of these women don’t give a damn if Shakespeare wrote “Hamlet” of “The Face on the Barroom Floor”: it gives them a chance to sit around on their rumps and look “literary.” I am sorry Mrs. Roberts is in so much of it. She runs the business down when she talks to me and winks over my head at J.M. Of course, I see everything, but the poor woman thinks I’m fooled. She’s very ambitious for Margaret, and I think has just a little bit of the snob in her. But then we all have. She’s a fine woman — one of the few who have stood the test of time with me. I shall always like her.

I’m glad to know all are reasonably well — sorry to hear of Fred’s automobile accident, and to know it has upset him. It upsets me just to look at them here in New York: the average taxi driver is a dangerous criminal with no respect for life. If I am ever in a taxi that runs down a child — and I have feared this a dozen times — I think I shall be tempted to kill the driver. I no longer think it’s smart or daring to drive fast. I am the one remaining American who knows nothing about driving a car and who has no desire to own one. Is this another sign of my “queerness”?

Well, I sometimes feel like the only sane person on a stroll through a madhouse: all the maniacs are nudging one another, and saying: “See that guy? He’s crazy.”

I have written the last several pages today (Tuesday) — the weather was fine: about the first real sign of Spring. All the people were out and God knows there are plenty of them. The buildings are so big and high, and the people swarming up and down look like insects. Most of them are. I think I know pretty well what I want to do with my life — but a lot depends now on what success my book has. Pray for me.

As I say, I hate crowds and parties, but I’m being dragged out to dinner with some swells on Saturday. I hate it, but my agent has arranged the thing, and says it will be good for me. I don’t believe it, but maybe they’ll give me a drink.

I’ve written too much and said too little. Give my love to everyone and ask them to write when able. Don’t be afraid of going crazy — I’ve been there several times and it’s not at all bad. If people get to be too much for you take a long ride on the train.

From The Letters of Thomas Wolfe. Edited by Elizabeth Nowell. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1956. 177-180.

FURTHER READING