Beschreibung:

STEINBECK, JOHN. Autograph letter signed ("John") to Dennis Murphy, n.p. [Discove Cottage, Bruton, Somerset], "I guess this must be about July 15" [1959]. 3 pages, folio, in blue ink on two lined white legal-pad sheets (each with two punch-holes in left margin), some light staining and fold rubbing, skilfull repairs to small fold holes (with loss of a few letters) and slight marginal tears; with typed transcript, and with a photocopy of a 1969 letter from Elaine Steinbeck to Murphy on the death of John Steinbeck. "MY TRUE CHILDREN ARE WORKS" In this last letter to Murphy Steinbeck tries to help him through psychological problems: "...Dennis, you are what is called a gifted person...You are also sensitive...The sensitive person must be much tougher than the insensitive because he is tried more deeply...When a man like Van Gogh cracks, it is because the pressures are beyond the conception of most people, not because he is weak...Do you have the horrors? I did about a series of incidents which had seared. I tried to keep from thinking about it with no success. It was always there -- waiting to pounce...This is the method. When you lie down to sleep and the ghosts begin to walk -- do not avoid them. Go to them or force them to come to you. Welcome them...with me the result was that they faded gradually when in trying to avoid them they became stronger..." Steinbeck discourages Murphy from settling in rural England: "...It is a middle aged place and only rewarding when you have made your peace. I think it would bore the hell out of you. Ireland might be better. The Irish are permanently schizoid and paranoid. England has made its peace with itself. It knows how it wants to live. It makes no bold strokes, defies no Gods. Its innovations are miniscule, its methods diplomatic. There is nothing young to do. Tennis, horses, gardens. The pubs close early. People do not drink much. Companionship is through a series of understandings developed centuries ago..." Steinbeck discusses problems confronting a writer: "I wonder whether the two inevitables have stirred to life in you yet. The first is that you are not going to rear your children. You haven't the time, the patience nor the ability...I think you know by now that you can't and won't do it. I love my sons as you love your children. But my true children are works and so are yours. To lose sight of that is to be as unfaithful to your children as you are to yourself. The best parent (for the kids) is a fulfilled one. There is no ogre more horrible than the self sacrificing parent. He destroys himself and his children to the end that he may feel virtuous...The second inevitability is probably beginning to stir now. You will have to go back and make peace with your own people before you can be free...So strange are memories. When my father died and I was destroyed by the usual feeling of guilt and inadequacy and awful despondency because I had not liked him much nor loved him enough. Then at his funeral -- almost with loathing I took the handle of his coffin and felt his might inside, and I was free and good and suddenly happy for him and for me. I didn't know why -- but there it was. It wasn't until long after that a memory dared to come awake. I remembered walking with him up Fremont's Peak and he said without preface -- 'When my father died, he had fine sons to carry him.' Isn't that odd. He put a duty on me and when I fulfilled it the debt was paid. And I suspect this is usually true. One must find what the true debt is -- and pay it..."