Eric MOTTRAM continues here his roving commentary on his own work and mine, but it is difficult to disentangle his account of our relationship which is embedded in his concern over my situation: that's inevitably part and parcel of the story of the man, himself.

King's College, Strand,
London W.C.1
March 19, 1960

Dear Wignesan,

I know you wanted me to reply earlier but I could not -- a note would have been all I could manage -- This is end of term, plus a visit of Saul Bellow, plus my own arrangements to visit America in the summer, plus the descent of my Mother for two days this week (which I enjoyed, but there were the two days gone again). I find London a bit breathless: term ends next Wednesday, and I am really looking forward to it. The piles of books and journals unread, letters unanswered, things undone which I ought to have done, grows larger, begins in fact to loom, as the cliché tempts me.

After your long letter I felt unhappy but glad that you seem to believe the worst is over. I admire your resilience and articulate self-preservation. I can only humble myself, and perhaps add, without being too farcical, that you may some day use such an experience -- not directly as your Malayan childhood, but indirectly as earned emotion in any poem or story you may write.

You mistook my feelings over the last year or so: I was alarmed for your safety, in a quite elemental way, and for your continued existence as a man, a writing man, and a loving man. I was annoyed because it seemed to me – and I admit now I was wrong, although I don’t see how I could have been righter – that you wallowed a bit in your extremity, if that’s the word, by not getting money somewhere by some kind of living work – even part time. Affection which I can’t make over into assistance always makes ùme irritable and old-womanish : I cannot accept without over-compensated giving. It’s been occuring before and before : so I know what happezned probably. Not that this matters any more.

But when you speak of « the evil » you « wreaked upon yourself » : well, there it is, just as I felt it – except for the corny « wreaked’, for goodness’ sake. Destruction seemed to ooze from your pores : and I’m not surprized you found consolation and food in Dostoevsky. (The idea that you actually re-read my letters makes me feel like a mean old Dostoevskian character in about chapter 109.)

Part of my irritability towards you was a feeling of helplessness before your obvious need of help which it broke me not to be able to supply in any way. I felt I wanted to leave you as soon as I’d been with you five minutes, only because I’m sensitive in this way – a bit morbid, I suppose. But I just couldn’t stand it : and now here am I being a garrulous, confessing, Dostoevskian Indian like yourself !
You’d be happy among the San Francisco beach beats : I can imagine you happy there – half way between Europe and Asia, living on next to nothing, working now and then, reading your poems to your fellow masses of poets. For that NW area is where poets [underlined} are the masses and we [underlined] are the outsiders. (I’ve given up poems : at least I’ve no energy left since October.) Allen Ginsberg and his mob get audiences of 300 or more paying listeners, and Ferlinghetti sells over a thousand copies of his poetry collections. Living is cheap and easier than the usual urban rat-race. But getting there and « in » would be something like breaking in[underlined],to a jail.

I look forward to seeing your work on three months starvation in London : it might be a truth worth having. I imagined you went through hell but I did not know whether you could avoid it or whether it was purely voluntary.
Page 3 of your letter seems to believe that I’ve « come round to allowing » your poems « to be described as ‘good’   – and you find it « flattering and elevating ». Well, well. You still don’t understand that I’ve come round to nothing : I simply think something is all right and want to say so. Whether you find it flattering or not is your own damn funeral. I mean, how many poems are good ? Many are readable : that’s just not it.

As for advice about publishing matters, I’m really not the man to ask, you know. I’ve beern at parties where [Stephen] Spender was a guest twice really but felt too timid to speak iup about anything ! If you can get published in a book in Germany, why not ? But English or American publishing is better – « Hand and Flowezr » press publishes small volumes of unknowns quite often. « Evergreen Review » might be something in US. The back of most numbers of New World Writing carried a large listing of US magazines which published original work -- have a look there, too. « New World Writing » ceased after No. 16, but No. 17 is being issued by a new publisher, so it is to continue : you ought to write for it, if possible, especially since in the past the title has been no large-sounding empty boast. As I’ve told you before, if ypou can get little magazines to print you, you will stand a better chance of book-formin England soon afterwards. I think yoiur view of poetyry in England a shade pessimistic ; Ted Hughes has just had a new volume out, and every week or so some new volume by new or relatively unknown poets seems to appear – and the host of poetrty-publishing little journals is quite large – a glance in Zwemmer’s would confirm this.

By the way, you really must not expect me to send back your stuff at all immediately: I am a v »ery occupied person during term time and often in so-called vacations as well.

I don’t understand about your son : why do you feel « they » are making it seem you’ve no right to him ? Are you or are you not a married man ? Are you or are you not happily married ? Why should you even talk about yourself as a « coloured » person ? – it’s ridiculous. I was upset to hear that you feel you ought to be out of his way – or you have been made to feel this. And if your wife is being encouraged to get rid of you, you really must have it out now and not let it hang round your neck for years of unpleasantness. It takes two to be responsible for a child & it takes two people to make each other happy. There can be absolutely no compromises here.

Now I don’t believe you are a scoundrel – your word, not mine – but you must be careful of not giving the impression of being irresponsible and egotistic, even if you know yourself not to be. I don’t know what you mean when you say you are « sick », you cannot « help yourself », life has « got the better of you », you have lost your pride, ego and purpose – all your words. You must not stake so much on your writing to carry you through to some more confident state. You will never live by writing – even established writers can by sheer flukes like Colin Wilson, and then only by lecturing, and hack-work, etc. as well.
So those studies will have to continue : I know a number of people who work at something for money during the days and study at Birkbeck College for a degree at night, which will eventually bring the chance of a less burdensome existence.

Your titles are all corny , old-fashioned, not sufficiently eye-absorbing. Perhaps you’d better leave it to the publishers. I can think of nothing less evidentally attractive t »The Sense of Movement »han « Childhood-day Sketches from Malaya » – sounds like a parish magazine report on a Christian missionary. And you are right : your poetry title does sound cheap – and all your others. Try and catch on to the way volumes are entitled these days – « The Sense of Movement », « Lupercal », « The Nightfishing », « One foot in Eden », « The Hawk in the Rain », – I don’t know who decides these, but they have the right intriguing, involving sound and look, don’t you think ?

Enright is a good contact : he is now professor at University of Malaya, you know. I should make the most of it you can. « Listen » (his recommendation) is associated with the group of Philip Larkin, Kingsley Amis, Donald Davis. They like precision, clear forms, intellectual content – but you had best look at a couple of copies and judge what of yours they might take up. (They refused my only poems I sent them!). The PEN anthology have been recently advertising for their next issue – so you’d better hustle up something. Why you sent a short story I don’t know: it’s a poetry thing excliusively.
Well : it’s a long letter because there was a lot to consider in your « ms ».

It’s a pity you are not after all coming over here : we miight have met again – and Germany is not possible for me. I’ve said little about myself in this : nothing to say really – I’ve not had time to be self-conscious . I was a bit worried by what I thought was a lack of response to my lectures, but it turns out I was wrong entirely – it was only my feeling of nervous newness ; I transferred my own sense of strain to my audience mistakenly. I find London wearing and expensive, and don’t awfully like it. But I’ll have to stay I think. It’s probably just nervous exhaustion after my first term in a new job.


The rest will be about your mss.

« The Thud…. » : rotten title. I’m not happy about section 3. 5.30 a.m. – dawn – yes : but why does « summer » pause [underlined] before the shower ? I see it’s all figurative but why pause ? And I don’t see the relationship with what proceeds. Have yiour figures got out of hand a bit ? Otherwise an interesting poem (I don’t say « good » after the beating you gave me) – « high » is odd with « turbaned sockets » (which I get – or « dig », as they say) : don’t dig it yet. (You’ve been reading Lorca in translation?) In the next to last section, p. 2 – « clog » seems out of place : I can’t determine why : something to do with iots over-use and blatancy – no visual, or feeling quality about the word somehow. Syntax of the « Stub-legged……. Pan » is confused (confusing). (I take it ‘ [apostrophe] after « fisher » is an ERROR.) Perhaps some sort of punctuation would help after « confidant ». The serious defect is the switch from third person to « you » in the lasty section, p.2 : I’d retain the same mode throughout if I were you : the whole thing loses tone and becomes sorta confessional and mawkish. The comma after « After » makes nonsense of the buses, etc. – because they are not supposed to be on the « side walks »
(pavements?) and rarely, fotunately, are. Anyway, the last section lacks significance , lowers the poem, concludes nothing, only gives a bit more scene. And shoving in « you » does not help.

First section, p. 3. – « durst » is archaic, « poetic »-- « dursn’t » is old-fashioned Londoner, but I don’t know how you’d clarify it in a poem ; better not risk it, I suppose. Why not « doves », eh ? The reversal in line 6 is a bit cheaply manufactured – I mean, the inversion shows up like a sore thumb.

After « Look » use : – you need no more emphasis than that with this injunction. « That [underlined] bald pate » might improve things. The very last jingle is horrible. Why not cut it entirely and end at « unknown » .
But I like the poem ; I like the organization. And I enjoyed the story. Try it on John Lehmann’s « London Magazine ». [EM here is dealing with the story – not the poem.] But : that dialogue is absolutely crucial & and in its present form will simply not do !

In the first place, the reader will have difficulty in interpreting your signs into Malayan pronunciation anyway, unless he knows the thing & has an ear for it. Secondly, you are not consistent with the onomatopoetic spelling. I suggest this : in between the opening snatches, say [underlined] that they spoke English with the squeezed vowels and slurred consonants oif their race. And say that you record this now : but then you spoke the same. This will give a time dimension which might be useful. Rule : lay your cards on the table – let the reader get on with (the) story. If any other changes, it might be to sharpen & tighten the conclusion. Your subject is : how war leaves great areas of the obsessive daily-ness of life untouched – childish needs, adult self-centredness & racial characteristics. This is good material & I think you do it basically well.

I hope all this is of some use to you. Best of luck with your writings and their publications.

Yours sincerely ,

Eric Mottram

(c) T. Wignesan - Paris - 1960-2023