You speak of certain names, and I guess we all like the lions who cut the way, yet I met a friend (backer) of one of these lions last year, and I’d rather be a dead cat than feed from certain hands. He told dull jokes all night, drank my beer and argued with his wife. then he tried to slip me a ten. “I’d like you to meet X.” “No, thanks,” I told him, “I’ve read his books.” Then his wife at the door (to me): “You’re so quiet. You never say anything.”

Hell no, they didn’t give me a chance.

Reminds me of when I was in New Orleans last month and 2 college profs drove some miles in to see me and then argued with each other into the night about their degrees and how they were going to take over the university magazine. Finally one of them noticed me, turned to me and said, “My balls hurt!” I told him that was too bad and then they went on with their talk.

Really, tho, I guess the gods let me off easy. My balls didn’t hurt once all night.

Then, you speak of my having starved. Of course, you know that starving doesn’t create Art. It creates many things but mainly it creates TIME, and I don’t mean the paper bit. If you’re good and you have time you have a chance, and if you’re good and you don’t have time you won’t be good very long. I think there is kind of an area of distillation you have to go thru and once this settles there isn’t much they can do with you, although you can do it to yourself (see Hemingway, S. Anderson and so on…). [* * *]

[To Douglas Blazek]

April 17, 1965

[* * *] the old typewriter finally fell apart to unrepairable stage. like the death of an old friend, all the fire we went thru, the drunks, the whores, the rejects, and the occasional home run. I have not learned how to handle this typer yet—it is a very cheap second hand and I see why now—you’ve got to hit the keys just right or it won’t work. I hope you can read the enclosed manuscript. [* * *]

I get these letters on the essay I wrote for Ole #2 and they seem to think I said something; I am a fucking oracle (oriol?) for the LOST or something, is what they tell me. that’s nice. but I AM THE LOST.

going on to the collection of letters you were talking about; some of them may be thrown away and some of the people might be pissed at me, and some of them may be too possessive, but I think most of them pretty good people and you ought to get some co-operation. sure, edit wherever you wish, edit out dull parts, print partials or what you think entertaining. no, I needn’t see what you’re going to print beforehand. that’s waste. I am not ashamed of anything I have written in letters. you print what you want and how you want. and I look forward to this bit and hope you can work it out. you see, I wonder what I said too. [* * *]