Letter: March 10, 1963

Letter: March 10, 1963

March 10, 1963

Tamara—

I write this in the Jehovah’s Witness Kingdom Hall. The only reason I write it is that there’s nothing else to do in this tomb. I can’t write poems, stories, or plays any more because I’ve given it up recently (You remember that Saturday I cam in babbling about finding the truth. At that time I had only begin to find it. It is a long process.)  I analyzed myself and all my accomplishments and found that I was a near-psychotic and what I was writing was merely self-indulgence. It’s no good, and I stopped. I have progressed in my writing from rewriting the classics for kids to read (long ago) to howling angry, self-pitying adolescent pieces, and through all sorts of meaninglessness until I finally arrived at the conclusions that to be a good writer I had to be honest, and that the only way to be completely honest in it would be to write about my immediate environment. Thus an autobiography with the names change to protect the asinine. Well, I began it, felt briefly the satisfaction that I was finally creating something great and true, and then watched my story literally crumble before my eyes. The ultimate in my self-expression proved to be worthless. I quit. I’m not so much concerned with writing any more as with finding myself. By this I don’t mean The Answer To Everything, but merely solving the enigma of self and deciding on my way of life. The Answer To Everything is not to be found, and I’m glad because if it was, there would be nothing left to search for, to wonder about, and life would be a bore. I have come to believe that the answer does not exist, but rather in a sort of relativity principle, that is, that all the world is made up of good and evil—seldom clearly deaned [sic] as one or the other—and that both are neccessary [sic] for existence. This complicates things terribly, but it’s true. We need evil just as we need good, and we must condone its existence, YET NOT CONDONE EVIL ACTS. This is sort of walking a tightrope, but it’s necessary if one is to find a deeper purpose for oneself. Good and evil are inextricably linked. If suddenly men found it impossible to murder each other, we would all be frustrated to the point of insanity. We need vile to live the same as we need good. Yang and yin. This finds its essence in the death instinct, which is in us all as surely as the will to live.

            When one sees this it makes life much more meaningful.

            Life is a labyrinth, and anyone who contents himself with staying in the mass hall of conformity at the labyrinth’s entrance instead of searching till he finds his own corner is a fool. As Ben said, “You are a fool,” but your [sic] foolishness is innoffensive [sic] because it is what you have chosen as your way instead of joining a group, yours is a delightful Henry Miller^[1]/Jack Kerouac^[2] type of foolishness, the foolishness of the person who throws up his hands and says: “F**kkk it! I’m going to quit searching and enjoy myself,” which is not so foolish after all, but merely a mild form of cop-out for the lazy (you must admit that you are), for he who’d rather listen to Ornette Coleman^[3] than play the music himself. I am the world fighter rebel type though—if I can’t play the alto sax as good as Ornette, then and only then, after I’ve tried, will I say “Later for the music making bit” and t urn on the record player. That’s me. You have your view and I have mind, and both are correct.

            Another reason I have given up trying to write poems and stories is that I had a sort of revelation—it began when I looked at a painting in “Time” magazine of four indescribable figures on an also indescribable landscape watching the unknown. Indescribable—yes, and this is what I realized: In all my description, I had lost the indescribably, I had lost the dream, the transcendental beauty. I had lost heaven.

            I had forgotten the beauty beyond humanity, the beauty in the cloudy sky, the rain, the mud puddle of water with shining sediment on cement. I had lost the crashing ocean surf and screaming gulls and dream swims, I had lost—purity. Occasionally, as you know, I recaptured a smattering of it, even though distorted, in my poems, but I had lost, almost forever, the pure, overwhelming, meaningless joy of nature—of GOD. Until I can return to this, until I can re-enter the raindrops and reeds and mist over the sun, I will write nothing but that required for school and occasional letters to my friends.

            One thing is certain: if ever again I dash off any more of those mediocre, absurd poems and stories of my past style, I will immediately destroy them.

            Another though occurs to me, and with it I will close the letter: Today in “Esquire” I was reading Norman Mailer’s column^[4] and he said something vital: That all of us, the whole human race, are addicts. We are all addicted to one thing or another. My mother is addicted to her religion, some are addicted to TV, I used to be addicted to listening to records. Most of us are addicted to absurdity. I’m not expressing this very well, but if you will think about it you will see that it’s true. I was addicted to writing stories, but I have broken that addiction. How I wish I had the talent to paint paintings—far more important tome now are the indescribable feelings that cannot be expressed in words. I want to see, and feel, the unnamable, and relieve myself of my addiction to my humdrum life. I want to achieve, as the Zen Buddhists, a wisdom beyond expression. That would be achieving the wisdom of the universe

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