I know you fear freedom itself, that you may repeat the errors of the past, but what I hope for you is this: that the infinite value and beauty of freedom, its preciousness, will be so strong that it will resolve the conflict just as a great love can resolve a conflict by being so much stronger than the obstacle. Your enjoyment of freedom will become stronger than feelings of bitterness, rebellion, doubts of yourself. What I hope will happen is that life will seem so precious, so enhanced that it will erase resentments. You will be so hungry for everything. There is a choice to be made. We do choose people, situations, to prove whatever we seek to prove. At one time you wanted revenge upon society for the bank which took your home away from you. But you have done that. It is behind you. Now you can live out the other side of yourself, the side which inspired love in a little boy, friendships....It all begins with a feeling. If we awake angry we tune in and find the events or people who will make us angry. This death you have known, do not let it deprive you of your life. A new life begins. Having been an actor, having written plays, can you imagine yourself beginning completely anew, a new self?

  We have just heard of an experience with LSD which is enough to frighten anyone. A doctor friend of ours took too heavy a dose as an experiment. He was staying with friends up in Lake Arrowhead. He purposely stayed with them because they were very close and loving friends. But once under the influence of LSD he felt they wanted to kill him. He was so convinced he ran away. He ran down the road. He signaled to a car passing. They stopped. It was filled with people going to a masquerade, but for the doctor it was an intensification of his nightmare. Their grinning faces, their laughter, their joking, became another persecution. His friends came to the rescue. They gave him a sedative. He still talks about it, as if he still believed the nightmare was a reality.

  Letter from Roger Bloom:

  George Dibbern wrote recently and as I had told him that nothing had been done concerning an adjustment of time for some of us here he told me that if I wished he would make an effort to have me paroled to New Zealand. I immediately answered and told him that if the Authorities would accept me on the terms of my being an "habitual criminal" I would be most happy to join him. I spoke to the secretary of the Board and asked that my March "review" be set back until May, of this year. By so doing I can have some idea of what might be done by George "down under." I have wanted to speak of this to the Warden but I feel that it is best to wait until something definite has been made—then I will do it. The biggest problem will be to convince the Board that they would be doing a good thing by permitting me to go there. I am sure the Federal Courts will approve, so I am made to believe, and if they concur I am sure that this Board here will go along. Too, am still awaiting some action from Milwaukee and the Federal Court regarding a return to that Court.

  I fully believe that since I have come to know you I have made a complete turn to reality—not that there wasn't a spark of it all the while—but through the many kindnesses you have bestowed I have found the verve to seek—to regain some measure of happiness—but mostly to prove my worthiness for this friendship. I will stop. This is not what I intended to write. May I do so again come Sunday??????

  Letter to Roger:

  I do admire George Dibbern. I will do all I can to help him, as he is trying to get you paroled to New Zealand.

  But about Mailer, I feel differently. I think it is too bad that because he is so vociferous, so loud a writer, his work is not considered as it should be, a case of mental unbalance. It is unsound and dangerous....In The White Negro he wrote that it takes courage to kill an old lady. He influences young people. A young poet who writes me from jail admires Mailer and thinks an act of violence would liberate his creativity. On the contrary, violence is a symptom of impotence.

  Letter to George Dibbern:

  I have come to know you through Roger Bloom's references to you in his letters and of course the piece in Two Cities. I regret to say I do not know Roger Bloom personally, but from the first letter I received from him I judged him to be a sincere man and a man of feeling who had gone through a great change and responded to kindness. It so happened I was receiving at the same time letters from a young writer in jail and the contrast between them brought out A FINE quality in Roger (the young writer after 10 years in jail is still angry and violent and will surely repeat his rebellion, whereas Roger responded to the books I sent, to my writing to him to be sure and understand Why he had acted thus in the past so as to avoid repetition, etc.). His willingness not to blame society or any others, to examine his past, to respond to kindness, his freedom from bitterness or revengefulness—all point to a changed man. And as you know neither books nor psychiatric help are given to men in jail. He also seems to have an influence on the others around him. He is generous and he does not try to embellish his acts; he could have blamed his environment. In short I would trust him. I have corresponded with him for over a year and as you and I both know writing reveals character as well as a friendship.

  My only supporting reference is that for two years I was a psychoanalyst under control of Dr. Rank—that I believe I am a good judge of character objectively—Dr. Rank used to say to me: "A man who has a sense of guilt, of right and wrong is never dangerous to society." I hope this is enough.

  Letter to Daisy Aldan:

  Thinking today about poetry I wanted to be sure you did not feel I did not appreciate yours. I really do. When I speak of not being interested in poetry in general it is because I am more interested in poetry in the novel, in prose writers such as Virginia Woolf or Djuna Barnes, or Marguerite Young. But this is purely personal. I feel the novel needed the poets. I felt that Genêt went further than Rimbaud, Giraudoux further than Claudel, Djuna Barnes further than Dylan Thomas. I am always trying to convert poets to the novel because it is dying. What a novel you would write! But you are an exceptional poet and poetry is right for you. It is just that my devotion went to the novel. But you also have a sound critical faculty and are rendering poetry an enormous service. You are teaching it, inspiring it, encouraging it in others. You not only have written superlative poetry but you have fought for quality and discrimination.

  I wish someone would make a record of our reading of Un Coup de Dés in French and in English.

  [Spring, 1961]

  Back in New York, I found myself faced with the sordid aspects of publication and distribution. Four thousand copies of Cities of the Interior were offset. Many requests from bookshops, but because I was not one of the big publishers, they never paid me. I had to package and mail books in answer to individual requests. It was time-consuming, and, in the case of the bookshops, shabby.

  After many months of this, in desperation I wrote to Alan Swallow in Denver. I had been told that he started as a poet himself, printing other poets by hand in his garage, that he was a one-man, idealistic publisher, doing only the books he loved and content with small profits. Reginald Pole had introduced me to him when I was passing through Denver.

  I explained my situation in a letter to Alan Swallow:

  It is many years since we visited you, when I was on my first visit West. I was reminded of it when I saw your name on the books of Glenn Clairmonte and talked about you with Maude Hutchins, whose Victorine you published.

  As you probably know, for years I continued with my own Press doing my own books, but I am having difficulties with distributors who do not pay, and so I am two books behind and seeking a new solution. I have one new unpublished manuscript, and one which has long been out of print and which I get orders for: Winter of Artifice (which I meant to put together with The Voice, and Stella, as three novelettes). I wonder if there is anything we can work out together? Would you care to do the new manuscript, Seduction of the Minotaur, or the reprint? I could guarantee that I myself would sell one thousand copies. Do you have any organization so that you might consider distributing my books? They have sold well and continuously without advertisement, without reviews, without any outside help, at the rate of 2 or 3 thousand a year. The paper edition of Spy in the House of Love sold in Avon books 170 thousand copies. (But the editor who worked with Avon is no longer with them and now with Hearst ownership the titles and qualities of the books have changed.) Have you any suggestions? I know you only print hard-cover books. Would you like to do an omnibus of Cities of the Interior which I did in a limited edition and put a hard cover on it and your imprint? Do think this over and write me. There is one added factor, that I have always said whatever publisher puts out my novels I will give an option on the diaries (for the future).

  For the distribution of the books I would give sixty per cent on condition that they are paid for in cash. Do you have copies of my books? Shall I send you some?

  Letter from Alan Swallow:

  I have now read the materials you sent me, including the manuscript of the new novel which came from Mr. Gunther Stuhlmann. (I am sending a copy of this letter to Mr. Stuhlmann as your agent.)

  I think it makes just about perfect sense that I become your U.S. publisher. The sales of your works have apparently demonstrated that they are not suitable or of interest to the large commercial publishers. Yet, there is a kind of victimization involved for an author to be handled by too many smallish "avant garde" publishers—who seem to be fly-by-night much of the time, who appeal to a certain clientele (an avid one but a limited and changeable one); or for you to be attempting self publication of the works. I fall in between. I don't manage the very large, large sales; but I am a determined and persistent devil, and I manage a very respectable sale for the materials in which I am interested. (Indeed, for many books, I feel that my methods will get more sales over a period of time than can be achieved by others—for I have seemed to develop them for the kind of work in which I am interested, which I find will not support themselves well upon a publishing situation of high overhead, etc., but are quite satisfying to me and, in the end, to the author.) As I say, for the kind of sale which seems to me your destiny in this country, I feel that I am in a better situation than anyone else. I am loyal to my titles; I keep them in print if humanly possible (for example, such a book as Winters' In Defense of Reason, which bigwigs in NY publishing told me I could not sell in 2,000 quantity, is now in its third edition, has sold more than 5,000 copies and still sells as fast as it ever did; and eight years ago I did his Collected Poems, stuck with them, sold them out, then in 1960 reissued a new, slightly augmented edition, placed it both in cloth and in Swallow Paperbooks, and it won the big Bollingen Prize for 1960 and was one of thirteen finalists for the National Book Award in poetry). This is the sort of thing I can do better, I feel, than other publishers and is the particular role I can play in the over-all field of publishing.

  Furthermore, I publish only what I admire, and everybody knows this; and I admire your work. So it should be a fairly good "wedding" of work and publisher, I think. I shall hope so, anyway!

  Now as I see it, the over-all problem is to "rationalize," to make sense of your works in a publishing "package" way. If I have all the work of consequence now, I seem to see it shaping up this way. One cannot achieve it just overnight, but it should be achieved as rapidly as possible.

  The novels. You wish ultimately that all of these (five in present volume and the new Seduction of the Minotaur) be in one volume...

  The novelettes. These should be the three—Winter of Artifice, The Voice, and Stella—in one volume, which should be available ultimately in both paper and cloth editions...

  The House of Incest. You have this in paperback. I do not have it clear in mind if you have this in present stock. If so, I should take over this stock and add it to the list, then plan to reprint; or if you do not have it any longer in stock, I should agree to publish it as rapidly as possible...

  The short stories. Now in your letters you have not mentioned this, but when the present volume Under a Glass Bell sells out and then the two novelettes in it (Winter of Artifice and The Voice) are pulled out to make up the new volume of three novelettes, then the short stories in that volume would be left out of print. In the over-all plan, I should think that one would want to do a volume of these stories alone—that these stories and The House of Incest, as quite small volumes, should be kept in paper editions (Swallow Paperbooks editions) alone.

  Now I hope I have seen clearly the problem and your wishes. If I have failed to see something or have misinterpreted, please set me straight...

  All right, in summary: I am willing to embark on the long-range project for your work as it seems best. First steps would be preparation of a contract for Seduction of the Minotaur; your indication of exact stock you have in the material in print, and your cost figure for that stock, and its exact condition—cloth, paper, unbound sheets, etc.; signature of contracts covering rights and royalties upon such stock; signature of contracts for books "intended" as above. I am indicating my willingness, even my eagerness to do this. I would sign any contracts, of course, after seeing your willingness in the over all plan and the particular contracts, etc., that is, that they be such that I can approve. I don't think we would have any problems there. The big problem now is the ultimate intent and then the development of the plans.

  A genuine association started. I review and help his writers. He distributes the books as well as he can. Big newspapers never review small press books. That is the greatest handicap. I soon found out that to be distributed by Alan Swallow was almost as frustrating as to be my own distributor. He could not get reviews except in college magazines.

  I helped him with my appearances on the Pacifica Foundation F.M. stations in Los Angeles, San Francisco, and in New York. They were playing my reading of the "Party" from Ladders to Fire which I had given at The Living Theatre.

  Letter to Alan Swallow:

  We both want to make things as easy as possible. I consider our association as a partnership among non-commercials. I don't want you to lose money; we must pool our efforts so we can enjoy the success of a sincere effort.

  Story of Alan Swallow: Born February 11, 1915, in Powell, Wyoming, according to Current Biography. His father was a farmer. He graduated from the University of Wyoming. Began to write poetry and prose in his teens. Founded his own literary magazine. He published and edited Modern Verse. "Has long been connected with literary quarterlies and little magazines. In 1949 he published Index to Little Magazines. Little magazines, in his opinion, perform an important corrective and supplementary function, since they serve as a forum for poetry, and new and experimental writing is seldom published in mass magazines. The function of the little publisher, according to Swallow, is analogous to that of the little magazine. He has been a little publisher for over 20 years; firm has become the best known of its kind. From 1940 to 1954 he published on a part-time basis, and in 1954, the first year in which his business yielded enough profit, he left teaching and engaged in publishing on a full-time basis.

  " 'So now I feel I'm one of the world's luckiest guys, to be concentrating so single-mindedly, working so many hours, on something I want so much to see done and have a modest living out of it!' "

  Swallow is a man of quality, a modest man, with courage and integrity. He knows that by protecting the minority writers he is enriching the majority just as research scientists enrich science itself. By his absence of greed, he shows the same vision of future needs as the foresters who are concerned with replanting lost trees. He is the last of the idealists. His concept should not be allowed to die out. He should not die without progeny.

  His own writing is wise, human and warm, and his poems crystal clear.

  Karl Shapiro went off to Europe without giving me a comment which would have helped the books, after writing me such emotional letters. In one he said my books had to be read in secret, in a locked room, and that he had wept. This is like Maxwell Geismar repeating over the telephone: "Spy in the House of Love is so alive, so alive," and then writing a perfunctory review. Private and public statements are so different.

  Alan Swallow published Maude Hutchins, a writer I admire, the equivalent of Colette, meticulous and lyrical studies of family relationships, and a fine suggestive touch in erotic subjects.

  Cities of the Interior was never sent to reviewers, and was considered a reprint, though it contained a new section, Solar Barque.

  Gore Vidal is now a critic, which means he is cremating people.

  New York.

  Women look like flowerpots, hats of lilies, poppies, cherries. Windows full of orange and shocking-pink dresses. An explosion of color. Dogs running away from their masters in the park. Central Park much better for Piccolo [my poodle]. The Village is full of Bowery bums, beggars, staring tourists.

  Lila in conference with a millionaire from Phoenix about magazine she wants to start.

  Albee is a fascinating writer. Went early to see Zoo Story and The American Dream as I had no tickets. Expected to eat a sandwich while waiting. Bought one and was told I was not allowed to eat it in the shop. Woman cast me out in the rain. Next door to the old theatre a house was being wrecked. A pile of stones, twisted iron, wood glistening with oily stains, a ragpicker's atmosphere. Sat there and ate my sandwich in the rain. Perfect preparation for the plays. A torn, faded, rusty, toothless house, a rundown theatre, but a young crowd. Zoo Story tense and dramatic; American Dream wild surrealism, satire, wit, interesting every moment.