Prep For Karin Stephen Presentation

Hi all,

Karin Stephen is likely an unfamiliar name to you-- at least it was to me before beginning this project. The easiest way to reference her is by mentioning her marriage to Adrian Stephen-- Virginia Woolf's brother. She went to Cambridge and was part of the exclusive Bloomsbury Group, which included Woolf, Lytton Strachey, Maynard Keynes, among others. Wikipedia does not include the Stephens as being part of "Bloomsbury Proper" but Leonard Woolf later in life indeed lists the couple as "Old Bloomsbury" with Virginia Woolf and the rest. Regardless, history doesn't remember Karin Stephen like the others. After World War I, Karin Stephen studied medicine and later gave the first lecture on psychoanalysis at Cambridge University. Her lectures and medical books garnered immense esteem. Though quite successful from this standpoint, she seemed always to struggle to "fit in," whether at Cambridge or the psychiatric hospitals where she worked.  She herself suffered from deafness and depression. 

The letters I've chosen for you and will ask you to transcribe, at least in part (they are long and she has difficult handwriting), are from a young Karin Stephen at twenty-one years old. 

The first letter

She wrote during her travels through Europe and Southeast Asia with her older sister Ray and Ray's husband Oliver Strachey (older brother of Lytton Strachey of the Bloomsbury Group.) Here, she is departing from Rangoon, Burma. 

A little background to this letter--

During her travels, she doesn't reveal as much but she often plays the third wheel to Oliver and Ray who seem to "change their plans day to day." (Later, in the Jan. 24th letter she confesses that she had told Ray and Oliver how  she "suffered at their hands from moral browbeating" when they talk about literature and music. She describes herself as "a miserable moth [flung] into the destroying candle.") Karin desperately wants to go to Burma but the couple decide to sight-see more through January on their way to Bombay. Karin is dismayed and nervous at the idea of traveling to Burma alone.

...

The second letter

June 2nd, 1912

Karin Stephen has returned to Cambridge and immensely enjoys feeling like a veteran of the "heavenly" place. Her letters focus on the cultivation of her social circle. In the letter previous to this, she begins with the rather awkward phrase, "Yesterday afternoon 'Mappie' took me round to several social occasions, where I encountered some of the people I know and made social engagements for next week." She also writes at the end that she has "arranged to meet with this German philosophical genius at dinner; that might be great sport." 

You'll see the Keynes mentioned in the letter I've chosen for you. 

...

You will encounter many many names that will be unfamiliar. She writes her mother daily, so presumably her mother will recognize all these names.  I've gotten moderately comfortable with these folder in particular but I still struggle with all the characters-- going backwards to find original introductions of one person or another is extremely tedious and I often get the feeling that names are dropped in without a gesture of you-may-not-know-who-this-person-is.  

You may want to focus on how K.S. describes herself-- she can be at times quite self-deprecating and at other times quite proud. How does she think of others and what would you wager they think of her (at least in her view)? For such a brilliant mind, it seems interesting or odd, I'm not sure, that she should write so exclusively yet still so tentatively about these interactions with her peers. 

As a note, these are personal letters written to her mother. We're not asked by this collection to assess Karin Stephen's intellectualism-- though it may shine through in many moments, it is always framed by a sense of the social and the personal. For my presentation I will select a few more pieces from a later time period, but for now, assist me in a few questions. What was her place was in the Bloomsbury Group? Deborah-- you've been working with Virginia Woolf letters, do we have an idea of what the "mold" of a group member is? How should Karin Stephen be fitted into history? 

Privacy

Now that I've had some time to formulate my thoughts into cohesive sentences, I think I can explain why I personally feel uncomfortable reading Belton's journals. First off, I'd like to thank Erika for her marvellous presentation. I had had only a superficial knowledge of Don Belton and his work, and your insight enlightened me and brought up questions that I would have never thought to ask.

I can certainly see the academic and historical value of reading or even publishing Belton's journals, as outlined by Professor Irmscher. After all, I had no problem with reading Florence DeShon's incredibly intimate correspondence with Eastman - which is precisely why I couldn't figure out why reading Belton's journal bothered me so immensely. 

I'm still not quite certain of the reason for this personally stark difference in "acceptable" acts, but I believe it has to do with my distaste for heavily biographical reading of literary works. I came up against the same issue when we were studying Woolf's letters and comparing them to the Mrs. Dalloway page proofs. We claimed that the omission of Clarissa's "escape" was a reflection of Woolf's own suicidal tendencies; while I concede that the evidence is there, I just don't think that is a valid conclusion. In my experience, authors are always separate from their works, even if there is overlap or the authors "recycle" their personal experiences through characters. The characters, after all, are just that - fictional beings. Even in journals, the writer can create a narrative persona that speaks, acts, and even lives like the author, but who isn't the author exactly, but simply the author's reflection and interpretation of his or her life and the experiences he or she goes through. I believe someone mentioned Sylvia Plath in class today as an example of "acceptable" journals to read. If I recall correctly, Sylvia decorated the borders of her journals; all signs pointed to the conclusion that she expected them to be read someday. Even though they contain intensely personal insight into her life, she knew that the Sylvia in the journals was not Sylvia Plath, but represented a fictionalized doppelganger, the protagonist of a fictional story that ran parallel to reality, but did not entirely represent it. 

At this point I feel like I'm rambling, so I'll bring it back to Belton. I don't think we can use the journals to shed light on the "real" Belton, nor can we use them to interpret his unpublished poetry or the other works he left behind. Belton was a master of language and this is evident upon reading his journals. It follows, then, that even though he did not want anyone to read them, he still knew that the sensitive information would be sensitive only to a certain few, like his colleagues, and that the Don Belton in the journals was his portrayal of his own life. I guess I'm not so concerned with the privacy issue as I am with the use of the journals. 

Any poetry by Belton published?

Does any one know if any of Belton's poetry was published?  I greatly appreciated having the chance to read it in the folders, not just what Erika suggested but other poems and short stories as well.   I took a quick look around and couldn't find much of his that is published.  Am I missing something?

I especially love the beautiful poem for James Baldwin and would love to show it to my partner, but I have been good and have not shown it to anyone.  It seems tragic to me that these beautiful poems are not published (if that is the case, in fact).

Undated Florence Deshon letter

This is a transcription of one of the Florence Deshon letters. It is undated, but directly follows the Oct. 15, 1920 letter. It is mostly likely the letter that Deshon urges Eastman to send back to her, saying it is the letter she wrote when she broke her contract with Goldwyn.

Your letters have turned colder, the last drop of warmth you had in your heart for me was frozen by your great disappointment. But think of me. It is my disappointment, not one I can sympathize with in another, but my own which is with me all the time. I [?] began the race for success so well equipped, [now?] stand completely stripped with [the?] vision before my eyes but one of mediocrity. II cannot force it. I cannot give up all my bright hopes. I would die first. Utter utter despair fills my heart. It is myself I have to live with always it was myself I wanted to love. How can I care about this dark girl. She is no longer lovely to me, no longer beautiful. Do not think I mean I did not love you dearest. That is not so, but I cannot be happy with you unless I am happy about myself. You understand that don't you. I am not coming back to the little home on the hill. I have given up that dream completely. I cannot go back.

You do not have to answer the letter. you do not need to write me at all. It makes no difference.

                                                                                    Florence.

You were ever the brightest vision in my dreams.

On the verso of this letter:

1920

The "humble letter" written where Goldwyn broke his contract with her.

I decided to transcribe this letter because it is such a different tone from the ones we have read so far of Deshon's. There is an obvious sadness that pervades the letter, a pessimism and nihilism, even. It seems that there was a dramatic event which would have influenced her to write such a letter to Eastman. In the Oct. 15, 1920 letter, she alludes to her breaking her contract with Goldwyn, which may have been the even that has made her so depressed.

On of the more interesting points is that in the Oct. 15, 1920 letter, she states that she had broken the contract with Goldwyn, yet whoever wrote the part on the verso has put that Goldwyn has broken his contract with Deshon. It's much like a bad breakup in which both parties claim to have been the one to end it. The breakup analogy would also explain why she is so utterly stricken by sadness in this letter, saying that she had once had "bright hopes," but now is a "vision" of "mediocrity." We do not have Eastman's response to this particular letter, but we do know that they did still write one another since in the Oct. 15, 1920 letter, she writes to Eastman, she requests that he send back this one. Perhaps she felt ashamed of her depression and thought it better to take back all of this despair that she had written on the page. She did not want Eastmen to concentrate on this "dark girl" side she had.

This letter seems important in our view of Eastman and Deshon's relationship. It gives Deshon another dimension and it informs our assumptions about why she may have taken her own life later on. The fact that Deshon asks Eastman for this letter back (and we can only assume that he did send it back to her) says that she is self-conscious of how others may view her mental health. This letter is different in that it renders her emotions strongly and openly to a man she no longer felt cared for her at the moment.

A letter to Max

Florence's nonchalance at mentioning Charlie Chaplin struck me in this letter. While it might not be strange at all in context, I was shocked to read the film legend referred to simply as "Charlie." Her focus on Charlie's visits and all of his wonderful qualities seems to be a jab at Max, as she finished the first, shorter letter with "I fear...you will describe somebody you have fallen in love with." Though she mentions that Chaplin requested the three of them "go off together," Florence makes it clear that this was Charlie's idea and emphasizes the joy she extracts from her time with Charlie alone, away from Max. I'm curious to know if the "English actress" actually knew Barrie. The letter is actually two letters, separated by a red pencil that matches Max's commentary on the envelope: "copy in part." and "2 parts separated by dots."



Beloved. Charlie came to dinner last night and I gave him your book. He was so happy to get it. I saw his picture "The Kid" in the projection room. It is wonderful wonderful. I cried and laughed and smiled and was so worried some of the terrible policemen in the picture would get him. It was the most exciting thing I ever saw. I introduced him to an English actress that is visiting here. She loved him and made him so happy because she is an artist and a very generous one   she promised him so. She told me she was returning to England in April and was going right to see Barrie and tell him to write a play for Charlie.
Charlie is all excited about buying a yacht. He said lets [sic] you and me and Max and Elmer go off together. I said lets [sic] take pictures in all the _______ we _________ and he is crazy about you acting in them. Well we had a wonderful time. Anyhow as soon as he finishes this picture he asked me if I wouldn't take a trip in his car. We all had the wanderlust very strongly and were flying all over the world at a great rate.

Beloved I will write you a long letter to night as I have to ____ away now. Margaret is not much with me. I like it better alone. It was a little depressing her never accomplishing anything and her relation with Joe is so amazing   she ______ every letter religiously and at great length. I feel that is one reason nobody helps her.
I fear in each letter you write that you will describe somebody you have fallen in love with.

Florence

Reading private letters

Here are some beginning transcriptions of two letters written by Virginia Woolf and sent to her close friend, Mary MacCarthy.  As I read them and transcribe them, I can't stop thinking about the subject we have approached in class, but have not yet really discussed, the subject of the ethics of reading and writing about very private matters. 

In the first letter, Woolf (Stephens at the time she wrote) contemplates what marriage means to her.  Indirectly, she addresses two proposals she has received, one from Leonard Woolf (W in the letter) and one from Lytton Strachey.  Her poignant observations about marriage and what she expects from it are almost heartbreakingly intimate.  And yet, many decades later, students in a class are reading this very personal letter.  She could not have imagined that we would read her candid observation that Lytton is a female kind of friend, as just one example.  Even if she knew on some level that she would be a well-known and well-studied writer who would interest many people over a long period of time, she might easily leave such thoughts behind when processing her complex, personal experiences with a close intimate.

In the second letter, Woolf betrays her complicated feelings about her sexual life in a rambling and even rather incoherent letter.  Again, it is just the kind of letter that anyone might write when wrestling with confusing and intense emotion.  She sounds bitter at times, even slipping into sarcasm occasionally, as in these lines: "Everyone was so clever, too.  They sang.  Marjorie Strachey acted, and her obscenity was really sublime."  You'll need to read the whole letter to get the scope of her contrast between the younger generation who are "like crude hard green apples" and more mature people, such as herself, who are "merely a bag of potpourri." 

Holding these letters in my hands and transcribing them sends chills all over me.  I feel at once deeply honored to get so close to a writer who means so much to me and a little ashamed as if I am reading someone's letters without their permission, which is, of course, exactly what I am doing.

Printed at the top of the letter, in the corner at a slant:          TELEPHONE

                                                                                                7267 CITY

 

Printed at the top and centered:                                            

38,

Brunswick Square,

W.C.

 

Handwritten in Virginia Woolf’s hand:

 

My dear Molly,

            I began a letter to you, +then went off to bed + never sent it.  All I had to say was thank you for writing—advice and all!

            I didn’t mean to make you think that I was against marriage.  Of course, I’m not, though the extreme safeness + sobriety of young couples does apall (sic) me, but then so do the random melancholy old maids.  I began life with a tremendous, absurd, ideal of marriage; then my birds eye view of many marriages disgusted me, + I thought I must be asking what was not to be had.  But that has passed, too.  Now I only ask for someone to make vehement, + then I’ll marry them!  The fault of our society always seems to me to be timidity + self-consciousness: + I feel oddly vehement, +very exacting, + so difficult to live with, +so very intemperate + changeable, now thinking one thing or another.  But in my heart, I always expect to be floated over all crises, when the moment comes, + landed heaven knows where!  I don’t really worry about W: though I think out that I did.  He is going to stay longer anyhow, + perhaps he will stay in England anyhow, so the responsibility is lifted off me.

            No—I shant float into a bloodless alliance with Lytton—though he is in some ways perfect as a friend, only he’s a female friend.

            I saw Desmond the other day, who said that you had gone off to Devon.  I think that shows great determination.  I wish you would write, if you don’t hate writing and say what you are doing.

            I spent a strange fortnight in bed, among faded old ladies, who might have been weeds at the bottom of a river, they were so placid + remote from everything + yet alive.  I am now leading a semi-invalid life, + it is very nice when the days are fine, doesn’t that sound old!  I wish you would come for a day’s outing with me to Richmond or somewhere where after sitting by a flower bed for some hours, we could have an enormous meal.

            Please go on being a friend whatever I take it into my head to do.

 

 

                                                            Yours always,                                                                                                                                     V. S.

 

Printed at the top centered:                           

HOGARTH HOUSE

PARADISE ROAD

RICHMOND

SURREY

Telephone: Richmond 496

 

Written in Woolf’s hand:

 

Friday

 

Dearest Molly,

            I was just taking up my pen when struck down by the usual old temperature, which sinks my head fathoms deep in the mud.  Ought one not to find one’s father’s eyes when one sinks fathoms deep?  But no such luck.

            This is, primarily, in answer to your letter to Hog. Press.  Of course we will bully the old wretch.  Perpetual letter? Telegrams?  Telephones? What do you advise?  He must be coerced.  I hate to think that all his words vanish into the cesspool (a horrid figure of speech—but then, I sometimes think that we ladies of the old guard, you + I that is, the solitary survivors ought to invigorate our language a little—I’ve been talking to the younger generation all the afternoon.  They are like crude, hard green apples: no hole, mildew, or blight.  Seduced at 15, life has no holes or corners for them.  I admire, but deplore.  Such an old maid, they make me feel.  “And how do you manage not—not—not—to have children?” I ask   “Oh, you read Mary Stopes, of course.”  Figure to yourself my dear Molly—before taking their virginity, the young men of our time produce marked copies of Stopes’  (crossed out word)  Astonishing!  Think of Aunt Gussie!

            This is an incoherent divide: but then I’m above normal.  You want news of that old bubble now flown over St Paul’s + for Nessa’s party.  Well, we were all awfully nice; I kept thinking of Shakespeare we were so mellowly and good fellowly; not any intensity or bitterness, but all serene + melodious.  Miss Sands; Sickert; Roger; then dancing, acting; it’s a great thing to be done with copulation + to be merely a bag of potpourri.  Do you recognize any of your friends in that?  Bunny Garnett went away and had a son the very next morning.  Everyone was so clever, too.  They sang.   Marjorie Strachey acted, and her obscenity was really sublime.  I want very much to come down.  I figure, as two, old friends, ladies, straying hand in hand down the glades of Savernake—talking.  Harry Norton was at the party: very very old; no teeth; no flesh; no lusts.  I felt that he was nothing but a pouch, a sort of puff ball, gone dry—but so amiable it made one weep.  How is Mona Wilson?  Please write me a diary letter; beginning “I was woken by a sunbeam at 8.A.M.” going on through every detail until the schoolmaster calls in the evening.

But I must stop.                                                                                             
Ever            V.W. 




             

Florence Deshon Airplane Letter

A very, very rough transcription of Florence Deshon's letter to Max Eastman about flying.
I have written [?] next to words I am unsure about and in some cases in place letters/words I couldn't quite make out.


Beloved, you will be jealous when I tell you of my adventure today. I have been flying: it was a lovely sunless day, and I thought I would like to fly, so I drove over to the ariation[?] field and said to the man, I would like to fly. He put a suit and hat and goggles on me and in ten minutes I was in the air. We kept going higher and higher, but the pilot promised to
 [Verso Page 1]
 turn the corners slowly, and to start down as soon as I wished. I loved it loved it. I was ??? I had to fly over a town I should have loved just looked down on h[??]r green fields. I didn’t like the house tops. I should think birds would hate the city. It looks as immovable and as hard too. I stayed up fifteen minutes I was sorry
[Front Page 2]
to come down. Let us write each other conversations as this[?] [??] mine[??] talking together in the t[??]. I feel ear(?) a little because in your letters you seem to feel that you must out here again. I wouldn’t have you come for any thing unless it just appealed to you as an adventure. How we jump from black despair to brightest hope. I am all excited again
 [Verso Page 2]
 and happy. The offers I had were for only one picture, but they were all leading parts and $400 was the salary. I might be [?????] from Goldmeyer[?] they are asking $300 for me and I would get my salary from them and the not. Nothing more has happened, but I have been offered a central as soon as I finish with Goldmeyer. I will tell you more about it when it is settled. Do not forget me sweetheart. Florence.


 Besides the adorable whimsy and heart of this story, I think this letter is also a gem because it is a small, tender moment in a dialogue of letters fraught with panicked love, a love that seems to be splintering in the miles that separate them, and the worries of maintaining such a love. Nearly every letter is about the state of their relationship in some capacity. And so my heart melts when Deshon writes "Let us write each other conversations as this." In this small sample of letters, we may divine a haunting sense of Florence as such a lovely, sad, and tender figure, one who seems to desire the stillness of a simple love in the panic and depression of Hollywood.

Griswold & Robins

Below I have transcribed two letters addressed to Sarah Helen Whitman. The first is a follow-up letter written by Rufus Griswold regarding Whitman in his second edition of Female Poets of America. The second is a fragment from a letter sent by Sarah Elizabeth Robins, requesting a lock of Whitman's hair to have mingled with Poe's and enclosed in a locket. Philadelphia, July 26, 1855 Dear Madam- Returning to the city, after a temporary absence, I received your letter respecting a portrait, &c., of which I take this immediate notice. The portrait by Giovani Thompson has, I believe, the head finished: no more is necessary. If you will cause it to be forwarded to "Parry + Mc Millan, Publishers, Philadelphia," at their expense, by any of the express companies running from Prov- idence, I shall be much obliged. It will be beautifully engraved- and the drapery, &c. "filled in," by a tasteful artist. Should you consent to my wishes in the matter, it will be necessary that sufficient time may be spent on the plate, that no time should be lost in sending the painting. Your suggestion in regard to the poems will be complied with by filling the places of those referred to with new extracts from your volume. Very respectfully, your obedient Rufus W. Griswold. To Mrs. S. H. Whitman, &c. &c. In class on Tuesday I found it oddly inconsistent to my impression of S.H. Whitman to consent so excitedly to Griswold's portrait-request for his book. I thought perhaps this was a play to pacify Whitman and her fact-checking conquest against his publications of Poe. I feared this might make her seem "silly" or less aggressive, strong-willed, or domineering. However, the letter above is yet another testament to Whitman's determination. We can easily gather that Whitman did not send the portrait at Griswold's first request (the letter preceding this, not transcribed here), but replied with certain conditions. We might conjecture that Griswold's scare quotes around "filled in" regarding the drapery is in reference to a request made Whitman. The final paragraph necessitates no conjecture, as Griswold writes "Your suggestion in regard to the poems will be complied with by filling the places of those referred to with new extracts from your volume," signaling to us that Whitman made multiple suggestions (the poemS, the placeS, the new extractS). Surely, Whitman is an outspoken master of presentation, both of her own reputation and those of whom she loves. (As a side note-- the Lilly has a copy of Griswold's first edition of Female Poets of American. In it he has misspelled Whitman's name-- Sarah Helena Whitman. The mini-biographical sketches that precede each woman's poetry is more of a patrilineal "genealogy" of their talents than a written-portrait of each poetess's life.) Letter Fragment Sarah Elizabeth Robins to Mrs. Sarah Helen Whitman months before all the materials are di- gested and combined. When you are able again to write me, please mention whether the Gentleman of Missouri whom you told me had undertaken Poe's defence, has yet published anything. Mr. Davidson, from whom I have twice heard respecting Poe, has told me of the life of Baudelaire, and I have arranged to procure a copy of it- also of the auto- biographical sketch of Poe himself. [Verso Sheet 1] ly beautiful hair-in which, eloquent of the struggle his thirty eight years, there gleams one silver dread! I intend to have it enclosed in a ^rich locket- the gift of my father, who died in my ninth year. I am now going to dare pray that you will send me a lock of yours to enclose with it. I have never worn memento of this kind before. If you accord this I shall esteem it a favor altogether priceless. Putnam January 28, 1861* I am, with in expressible solitude and love Your friend, Sarah Elizabeth Robins. *Different handwriting, different pen I wanted only to include this transcription for it's strangeness (to us, 21st c.persons who are more often disturbed by dead hair) Regardless, this letter as Professor Irmscher has stated in his introduction the Mss., was written by a mad super-fan of Poe, a Miss Sarah Elizabeth Robins, who was composing her own biography of the late poet. This letter and the others in their correspondence (which also included Mrs. Clemm), testifies to how indelibly linked Sarah Helen Whitman quickly became to Poe's legacy. (That is, if Poe's superfan dreamed it necessary that a lock of the living Whitman's hair be mingled with that lock of "beautiful hair- in which... there gleams one silver dread!")

Whitman Mss. -- Clemm to Whitman

The following transcription is a part of an ongoing correspondence between Maria Clemm (Poe’s mother in-law) and Sarah Helen Whitman (Poe’s one-time fiancée). As you will see, the beginning of the letter exposes a polite discourse between Clemm and Whitman. Clemm begins by expressing her condolences for not being able to visit Whitman while she was close to her town. After she expresses regret over not having been able to personally visit Whitman, she continues on to describe her current transient state. Clemm mentions that she is headed south to visit some “warm friends”.  She also laments that she feels “desolate” and lonesome in this letter to Whitman.  Letters such as this can help give us an idea of the kind of relationship that Whitman and Clemm shared. Obviously, both of these women cared deeply for the then deceased Poe and wanted to protect and preserve his reputation. This is made apparent near the end of the letter in which Clemm admits to having sent a “cruel” letter in defense of Poe. She regrets this behavior but makes it clear that she will not stand for the slander of Poe’s name. It can be assumed that Whitman greatly appreciates her effort in this regard. Although complex and bordering on obsessive, the women in Poe’s life played an integral part in the discovery and preservation of his legacy. Letters such as this one are great proof of this! 

Milford Nov 7th 1852.

Dear friend,

I cannot express to you, how much I was disappointed, when I had to pass so near Providence and not see you. I had it in contemplation to go south, where I have warm friends, and know I would have a happy home. But I have been obliged to relinquish this truly delightful prospect for want of means. Oh if I could see you for a short time, I know for his sake you would advise me what to do. How often do I wish I could go to my beloved children! And oh how I regret my dear Fordham home. I have many kind friends, but I cannot open my heart to them, as I could to my beloved lost one. I sometimes feel so desolate, and think if I had but one left. I know it is very selfish to trouble you with my feelings but I think you will sympathize [page break in the letter]

with me. Do write me a long letter, I am always so happy to hear from you. Please direct to me, care of Wm Strong, Milford Conn. I do hope I will be able to make a short visit sometime this winter. Do you ever hear from Ms. Locke? As soon as I went to Lowell (three years ago) I was told she had said so many unkind and untruthful things of my dear Eddie, that I was induced to write her a cruel letter. I have often regretted it since, but I could not live and hear such falsehoods about him, without resenting them.

Believe me to be your sincere friend.

      Maria Clemm.

Thoughts on Dissatisfied Authors

I noticed a few things as I was transcribing a letter from Ian Fleming to William Plomer, who served as Fleming's editor and sounding board for many of the James Bond novels. This was one of the last letters in the collection and was postmarked June 27th, 1964. Fleming died shortly after, on August 12th, 1964.

The letter reads:

My poor Wm,

            Any moment now, the great animal cow-pat, warm from the anu mondi (grammar right?) will plop upon your back. There will come the grunt of pain that only the elite among dung beetles is capable of exnding[?], the limbs will bend like so many angle-pose lamps (Ink II) x then slowly, courageously straighten mensdoes[?] to take the extra loed x the brave beetle, cursing as only dung beetles can curse, will be on his way again down the camel track under the hot sun, extending petulant sheets of green paper.

            Right?

            Right.

            Now, because I am not at the helm, this pat comes to you uncorrected, so be an angel x write "Uncorrected Typescript" boldly on the front. Secundo, expect many small errors such as 'scout' instead of 'secret' (!) on p. 28.

            And I really dont want any other than you x Michael to see it in its present form as I feel it needs much improvement.

            I would personally like to take it back to Jamaica x paint the lily next year, thus skipping a year which will do no harm, halving Cape's profits for 1965, which they probably deserve, x giving myself about the right-ized stint for my next semester.

            For this is is, alas, the last Bond and again alas!, I mean it. for I really have run out of both puff x zest and I would not like to short-weight my faithful readers on the dernier service. But we will talk about that.

            Anyway, read it him, x dont mince the words. There is no point in doing so.

            I am here for another good 10 days. In bed, dammit!! But promised an outing to the X Ray monster tomorrow!! These ship-codas have really got me on my knees. But I have a darling nurse with whom I hold deliciously infantile conversations. "That is the West Pier[?]. It is very pleasant to walk upon piers" "Yes I will walk upon the West Pier this afternoon." "You might play bingo on the pier. It is an amusing game.' 'Yes, it would be fun to play bingo on the pier" etc. etc.

            Quite a change from the rich babalum I am used to with Annie who comes tomorrow. The contrast is so sharp that the last time she came down for lunch she put my pulse up to 120!

            Amis was excellent. Just wading through an II class exhibit by a chap called O.F. Snelling, published by Spearman. Even Shakespeare never had it so good!

            Much love

            Ian

PS. Congrats on 'The Curfew" - but not enough about you in the Dreupts[?]!

Furthermore, on the envelope, there is another postscript that reads: "PS. Only  you x Michael to read 'the Man' please until we have talked. Ok?"

Three days later, on June 30, 1964, the final letter reads: 

My dear Wm,

            You have calmed my temperature x blood pressure, reduced the albumen in my wrine[?] x sent my spirits soaring.

            But I would still like to tinker with the book x skip a year. We will discuss, but bless you as usual.

            Ian.

 Despite Fleming's plans to skip a year and his seeming displeasure with the novel, The Man with the Golden Gun was published after Fleming's death. In an earlier letter, he also says "I will pan whether to publish in 1965 or give it another year’s working over so that we can go out with a bang instead of a whimper." While on several occasions, Fleming expresses interest in killing Bond, he fails to do so in this last novel. 

The things that I have been mulling over is the fact that we could be reading a text that Fleming was dissatisfied with and the ramifications of that. It doesn't seem from the letters that Fleming intended for his readers to see this draft. I felt this also tied into our discussion about Virginia Woolf and Mrs. Dalloway, considering her edits and the resulting versions of the novel. Which are we, the readers, supposed to see? 

But also, on a different note, would the James Bond franchise have been nearly as successful if there was a definitive end-point in the series? 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FKHoGSNu9yc

An effortless way to hear some of the rest of the song from Shakespeare's song form Cymbeline, here performed by Loreena McKennitt.  McKennitt just does the first two stanzas.  Here are all three.

‘Fear No More’
Fear no more the heat o' the sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages;
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Fear no more the frown o' the great;
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke:
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning-flash,
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finished joy and moan;
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.