Amidst the detritus as we’re clearing out the house after the fires, the hurricane winds, and the downpouring rain, I came across a small packet of letters.

They were letters I had written to Shirley before our marriage.

This was only a sample. There must have been more.

I decided to share this bit of documentation from the archive of my life.

Archives, by their very nature, have great value. They prevent the past from disappearing.

In this New Age that has descended upon us, the past is being denied, altered, destroyed, replaced.

I take this personally. It is my life that is being obviated.

I owe it to the world to preserve a little bit of history.

And my little letters startle me, intrigue me, enchant me.

I had forgotten so much of myself.

I see myself as I was then, warts and all.

I like myself.

I did then, still do.

I was forgivably endearing.

I see my youthful arrogance, and I forgive it. Fortunately, I did not do irreparable harm.

I see my brash ignorance, learning bits and pieces from Shirley who taught me almost everything, who in her areas knew so much more and was still learning herself.

My smug denouncement of Balanchine did do harm. I was accusing him for being what he was not, failing to praise him for what he was.

I plead youthful ignorance.

My criticism of modern dance shows my judgmental nature. I have learned over the years to refine my observations, but to insist on the right to judge, to winnow right from wrong,

The mentioned wrong I did to Shirley, for which I apologized so profusely, I do not remember.

The overwhelming love for Shirley infuses every page. It is not just the youthfulness of youth, it is the joy of discovering so early and completely the meaning of life.

There are so many who hope for such and never found it.

There are those who found such love in their own lives and smile in satisfaction and say, “Yes.”

Shirley and I were the first in our graduating class to marry, surprising everyone, including ourselves.

My letters are the bursting life of a young boy man off at college on his own, discovering everything at once.

I can read them more than once.



Riverside Calif.
7-9 pm
Mar 1
1961

Mlle. Shirley Seip
2442 No. Charlotte Ave.
So. San Gabriel, Calif.

After five days return to Huitre

February 28, 1961

Darling Chou,

I’m in the middle of German & I seem to be terribly behind in everything. Tonight, I’ll translate for an hour or so, but that’s not so bad. I haven’t done history reading for several weeks. I haven’t done Humanities reading for several weeks, & want to read at last one chap. tonight (we have a test next week, prob. Mon., when Herbie’s paper is due). I am balancing precariously with caught-upness in both English classes – I finished “The Way of the World,” fortunately because we can expect to write a paper in class on it tomorrow.

I’ve spent vast sums of money renewing my prescription ($2.34), getting some plastic cement because my glasses are broken (frames – I’m going to get a glasses case) (15c for plastic cement) & a Lindy pen (this one I’m using) (39c, utility size, medium point). I love you.

Have you sent back the notice to RCA yet? HURRY! I was idly writing down our records that I can remember – we have deficiencies in Symphonies…the only ones we have I can think of are: Beethoven all 9 – Toscanini; Beethoven 4 & 5 & 7 – Walter; Beethoven 1 & 8 in STEREO – Keilberth;; Brahms No. 1 – Van Beinum; Brahms No. 3 – Boult; Mozart 38 & 39 – STEREO – Keilberth; Mozart 40 – Prohaska; Schumann No. 1 “Spring” – Szell; Britten Simple Symphony – Goosens; Berlioz Symphonie Fantastique – Van Beinum;

We need all kinds of things where there are gaps: Schubert 8 & 9; Tchaikovsky 5 & 6; Mendelssohn 4 & 5; Mozart 41; Brahms 2 & 4; Mozart 29; Dvorak New World Sym No. 5 (we don’t have any Dvorak at all! (except a Slavonic Dance on your Safeway) – do we?) We need all kinds of things like Ravel, Debussy, Bartok, Kodaly, Prokofiev, etc., etc. I love you.

But we have an exciting start, and by the end of the semester we’ll have our first hundred records, some in stereo. (we have already at least 8). I love you I love you I love you I love you.

You must write & tell me what you think about “Copernicus” – I got it back from Hine & will give it to Edwards tomorrow, though it’s hardly worth all the trouble (I have little faith in myself yet; but I like it, even though I haven’t read it closely.) Hine said:

2/23/61
“Very interesting, Gary.
I found the poem genuinely moving.
These would be my only questions:
1.) light, shadow, mt., cloak, etc. all seem to fit nicely into the total imagery. But how about the fruit?
2.) I don’t like “fire” Do you mean “before”?
Can’t you improve this word?
3.) And I can’t figure the meaning of “It will” in the last line.
Otherwise – excellent.
RVH

This “critique” annoyed me somewhat because the one seems to regard “my poem” as a class assignment with a grade of A- or B+. I want to see what you will say – & also Dr. Edwards. My father will probably write some kind of criticism, so I get to be a collector. I love you.

I probably will be able to pick you up from your lesson Friday…& if I get there early, maybe I can watch – goodie goodie.

Vienna Choir Boys Saturday. I love you.

As I indicated, I have mounds of study to do. I hope you’re over your cold. If I don’t write on Old Goriot, I’ll leave it with you to read.
Father gave me some extra stamps, that I’m sending. Oh darling, almost 2 ½ -/month. I want you. x


Note on the back of the envelope after it was sealed:
Hine was understandably puzzled – I had a misprint l. 9 – “fore” instead of “for.” Stupid!

In “Copernicus,” l. 1, I might change “smiles” for something like “hangs red” because “Smiles” is a little too “poetic” – “the dimpled cistern of my heart.”

I played Netania [Davrath], but I don’t remember the song now. Terry [my roommate] liked it so much he wanted to hear the other side.

—-


Riverside Calif.
7:30 pm
Mar 17
1961

Miss Shirley Seip
2442 No. Charlotte Ave.
So. San Gabriel, Calif.


Return address: Huitre


March 16, 1961

Heh! Heh! We have a secret: you are a Chou and I am a Huitre. x

Petite Chou,

I’m rationalizing writing by deciding to write in installments – I want very much to write to you. I’ve been thinking about you strenuously all day. I want to be worthy of you – I’m only second best swimmer in the class. Though I’m first in your heart, I want it to be a better first, worthy of the joyous honor of your love – I’ve done all my outside reading for history except the article on trusts. I have 8 chapters in the book (about 150 pp.) and 100 pgs in Hofstadter…I don’t expect to finish by tomorrow (it’s 5:30 now), but I’ll try. I don’t get too much sleep – at least not much for me – but on the weekend I’ll revel in 8 hours of sleep a night. I wish you were here and I miss you and I want to tell you that I like Henry Adams & we must get his Education of Henry Adams, and I want to kiss you – I mean really, just kiss you. I just remembered something Terry [my roommate] said several weeks ago that he had heard in general – it’s nice for young married couples to wait a few years before having children, irregardless of financial reasons, because it gives them a chance to be with each other and spend all their time for each other. When children come, the family takes time and interest, and man and wife never have as much time for each other until after the children grow up and leave. By then they’re too old to live so overwhelmingly in life with youthful eagerness, and if they haven’t had that time together when they were young, they’ve missed so much that maybe they’ve “never really lived.” I suppose that’s why the honeymoon is so important, the happiest part of the marriage – because when it’s over, the man goes to work, a family begins, life becomes routine and starchy, doughy words like “contentment,” “security,” “satisfaction” replace the exciting terms of life and love. We have several special advantages, though – namely – we’re more in love than most people ever will or can be, so our love will never become tired or routine because it’s too big; our honeymoon will never really end, in a sense, because, though our family will be the most wonderful of all families, neither of us will lose our identity in the children (and we’ll have a looong honeymoon anyway, months in Europe, and several years before we have children…and children needn’t end our secret tenderness, because even with a houseful of them, I’ll grab you into the dark corners and kiss you and sneak up on you when you’re cooking and bite your ear); we’re remarkably intelligent, and the home we make, rather than destroy the special intimacy we’ve had for so many years after marriage, will instead be an extension, a fulfillment which we are intelligent and feeling enough to make unbelievably happy. We are remarkable! truly the parents of supermen. I happened to think of the family in Friendly Persuasion – remember the movie? They seemed very happy – that’s some kind of example of what we’ll be like, only, because we’ll have bigger lives, we’ll be happier. I respect and admire you XXXXX 0X0XX0. I also love you. x

Have to eat now and then read like a lawyer for the defense. Will continue later. I miss you.

After dinner, UCLA sent my money back because all $1.50 tickets were sold out. So I sent back for $2.50 tickets. How much are tickets for the Folk Dance Festival Sat. March 25? If you can, let me know when (time – 8:30?) it is, and how much tickets are, so I can know how much to save for. x

It just occurred to me – what are you doing about your ballet lessons? Can you get to them in time, or have you changed to a later time? I hope you don’t have to drop them…I’d hate that.

Terry and I just made a pact – we’re going to stay up all night – he has a German test tomorrow & I have history. I wish you were here – or rather that we were together in our own home staying up late studying together. We could keep each other awake and watch the sun come up.

Have to study now. Have about 230 pages to read. I’m living for the time we can be together – but, you know, these two years before we marry are very beautiful and precious – they are our hard work years, but we’re not really separated, because we see pretty much of each other, and next year we will see each other still more often than now. If we didn’t know each other they would be empty years, and now that “we have each other,” they’re the beginning of our life together. I’m not saying anything very well. Ich muss studieren, liebling – schlafe gut, mein Herz schmiegend in seinem.

Love,
Gary

A really quite nicely drawn by me little cartoon of two love birds kissing and sending off sparks, saying “coo”, surrounded by an ocean of XXX and OOO and X inside O, and two hearts overlapping with x in the middle of each, and a little note I wrote in the corner, looks like “On fur mich und ich fur dich” with a drawn heart pierced by an arrow, an x at the center.


—


Riverside Calif.
3-pm
Mar 22
1961

Return address
Gary Sterling
640 Linden
Univ. of Calif.
Riverside, Calif. [my dorm address]

Miss Shirley Seip
2442 No. Charlotte Ave.
So. San Gabriel, Calif.


March 21, 1961

Dear Shirley,

I just finished Great Expectations (461 pp.). I have been reading for a long time, but very slowly, partly because I’m tired. I read until 5:30 or 6:00 a.m. this morning and started again before 8:00.

I remember I wrote you, probably in the last letter, lamenting your letter which was not comforting, and lamenting no later explanation. I was tired and depressed, and I don’t remember what I said about it, but I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings.

Great Expectations is a wonderful book and I want you to read it. I remember when I was little we had a commendable library of classic comic books, several Dickens, including this one. At that time I was quite impressed and considered it the finest Dickens I had read, that it was extremely more interesting and better conceived than the others, and that if I would ever read any of the “original novels,” this would be my choice. How precocious I was!

In German we read “Die lange lange Strasse lang” and I remembered your enthusiasm and excitement last semester – “Oh, it’s wonderful! And so beautiful, coming back from the war, and the yellow streetcar…” – that my excitement had an added impetus. Because of Dickens I’m behind in German, but may catch up tonight.

Terry is learning to walk on his hands – I may, but so far I’m discouraged from trying because I almost cracked my skull or broke my leg, I’m not sure which.

I can’t wait to see Schwarzkopf Sunday! Yea! (or Yeah!)

I think I forgot to tell you about one of the funniest things that happened to me. I was going to in my last letter when I started about my craving to hear you play the piano, but I don’t think I mentioned it. (If I did, skip this paragraph). I was walking from the mailboxes towards the stairway, passing the men’s lounge. The door leading down the hall to the back “rec room” was open and I heard the most miserable mis-representation of Chopin – I had to laugh because it was so funny and awful. I thought of all you told me about ___, and imagined her faults doubled, increased by unconscionable stopping, repetition trying again and going on at a speed the player could not at all keep up with, giving the effect of hitting clusters of approximate notes so as not to get behind the music, which had nothing to do with the player and the sounds he produced; all this I say, and executed with the heaviest hand imaginable (excepting my father’s) that I must really go and see who it was who committed such a series of deplorable atrocities. (a Dickens sentence)(almost). I half jokingly toyed with a guess, and was not therefore surprised to see the firm form of Mr. _____ moving with a kind of obese musicality back and forth as he placed his piggies indiscriminately on the keyboard. He gave up, said, “It’s too hard,” closed the book, but went on to please a bystander who said with undiscovered contempt, “Go on. Play that one.” He said he would, tried, gave up completely. He reached down his Bach, asserting its superiority in the trite phrases piano players always use but never understand because they are not musicians: “Bach is as hard to play right as Chopin, and harder than anybody else.” He set to with the familiar relish of a priest hearing the confession of a Jewish convert, and attacked the music with ten little meaty bludgeons, handling it slightly less tenderly than the man in the meat market saws a roast; there was blood on his musical meat market apron and on his fingers. He hit most of the notes, and many of them right ones, and made a few pauses and impatient corrections, so that I knew he was very familiar with the piece and well on the way to having it memorized. I left laughing in disgust and another listener made a gesture as if he were going to be sick. Mr. Olof ___ is indeed an accurate critic, though unwittingly. ____ is indeed “fantastic.”

I have study to do for tomorrow and I think I’ll sleep for an hour first, maybe an hour and a half.

I was thinking – maybe Sunday we could have the whole day together – in the afternoon we could see the concert at the museum, maybe getting there early to “walk around the coliseum” (a phrase sufficiently vague to allow a walk around almost anywhere); instead of ridiculously coming right back, we could stay downtown and have a picnic at Barnsdall or wherever you like; and from the picnic we can leave for Schwarzkopf. We’ll talk about it Friday, OK?

Be it known to one Miss Shirley Carol Seip, otherwise known as Chou, (a Dickens legal document) that one Mr. Gary Campbell Sterling, otherwise Huitre, is in love with the said aforementioned Chou, or Miss Shirley Carol Seip; and that this same Mr. Gary Campbell Sterling, i.e., Huitre, sends his respects, regards, and deepest devotion to the aforementioned Chou, i.e., Miss Shirley Carol Seip, and with them, an unqualified kiss. x


—-


Riverside, Calif.
7-pm
April 26, 1961

Return address: Huitre

To: Miss Shirley Seip
2442 No. Charlotte Ave.
So. San Gabriel, Calif.


April 25, 1961

Shirley,

Hello darling. I thought of you very much after I left, and yesterday, and I feel very bad about the way I treated you. I’m a nasty brutish hellion and it scares me to think of hurting you the way I did. I’m awfully sorry. I love you. Sweetheart, I love you so much it seems as if everything I do is stupid and meaningless unless it’s for you, that you’re somehow everything, more than a god or anything trite like that because you’re my whole life, not just a principle or force, and you’re ALL my life, not just what I devote it to, but how I live it, really everything is a part of the beautiful love we two have made together, something to which we bring our own identities which we’ve made as worthy as possible, and where identity doesn’t matter, where what we are is something more than either of our identities, and yet contains them – I can’t seem to say how much I love you, how much and how wonderfully we love each other.

Descartes built his universe on “I think therefore I am,” but our universe is built on something more than a single identity, and our universe is so much bigger than his (or maybe any other) universe.

The way I treated you was unforgiveable. Oh my darling I’m sorry. My sweetheart.

I started trying to translate “Copernicus” into German – it’s very hard to do. Maybe I should try short things like “The Purple Cow.”

I love you. XXX O XO XXXO.

Last night I wrote a poem. I’m sending it to you. I was mad at myself, and that is probably why it’s an unpleasant poem, though not all unpleasant. Please don’t identify myself with the speaker, because I am not the speaker nor are you the girl. I would never do that nor am I like that – but the way I treated you Sunday made me feel unhappy, and that put me in the mood to write something like that. I was also undoubtedly influenced by T. S. Eliot’s “Love Song for J. Alfred Prufrock.”

I remembered another poem I wrote, I think last year, before I knew you. The only relation it has to Monkey Face is that I no longer thought I loved her; I idly considered what it would have been like if two people got tired of each other, but not because they were tiresome but merely had come to some proverbial “plateau” in their development – It’s not a good poem, too messy, gooey, childish, etc., but I like it with great reservations.

I think the one I wrote last night, “Letters,” is much better – I wrote it for you, as I do everything for you, but it has nothing to do with you personally.

I love you. I’m getting to be a better “poet,” I think, and I’ll be more worthy then, to write love poems for you.

We have a German test tomorrow which I’ll try to take – I have to read about 40 pages of German.

I’ll write later – you’ll probably get this Thursday.

I was thinking too that we might keep the Tchaikovsky Symphony No. 4 when it comes – it’s Monteux, isn’t it? I think that’s probably the best recording, and we don’t have any Tchaikovsky Symphonies – I’ll try to pay for it when I can.

I want to look at some furniture stores and see the light color you like for a bookcase – I want to try to make one this summer, maybe with a glass door. But I won’t tell you what it’ll look like, though maybe you can suggest some designs you like. Sweetheart, I want to be able to give you the world – I love you darling.

X
X0X X X X X X 0 XX 0

Huitre

Enclosures:

The inadequate poem:

A LOVE STORY

Like a hardened criminal who feels not
The pain nor the loss
He causes in others,
So we became hardened to love.
No longer would your breath come fast
With a glance soft brushing against your cheek.
Gone and unremembered were the times of waiting;
The trembling hopes
Became expectancy.
Somehow the “I love you” ‘s
Lost their significance, grew commonplace.
No longer
Like a flower offering petals to the sky
Was each new day
A universe blooming to eternity.

My love, have we killed our love
From too much loving?
My love, have we killed our love
From too much?

These things troubled our hearts
And we spoke of them together.
Then the groping of our loss in the darkness
Found a secret we had known
But had forgotten.
Love is not contained,
For it is a growing thing.
Love can outgrow the lover—
They must grow toward each other,
And with each other,

And to this there is no limit
Save infinity.


When we learned these things, we turned again to each other.
I looked at you with new eyes;
We smiled,
And in that smile
Came the youngness of our love
In a rushing torrent.

And there is no limit
Save infinity.

And now, in our hearts’ warmth,
Gentle as a summer night,
my love and I wander
under the sky
past waterfalls
falling
beyond the hills
running
together
laughing
hand in hand
the wind in our hair
blowing a song through our hearts.


— Gary Sterling


And the “better” poem, handwritten, April 24, 1961


Letters

Sometimes I sit alone in my room
And randomly thumb through a pile of your old letters,
Idly correct the grammar, refer a weaker idea to its betters,
Catch your silly girlishness with a line of red,
And then restack the long, thin, flat slabs of impersonal geometry, dead
In isolation – withered ink and old perfume.

Sometimes I read a passage. I take this part
Of you and give it life, reading with a feeling heart
And fine voice; I feel so close to you, and yet you write of me,
“My darling, can you love me?”


On the overside flap of the envelope, hand-drawn flowers and leaves growing out of a heart.


—–


AP 29, 6 pm, 1961

Miss Shirley Seip
2442 No. Charlotte Ave.
So. San Gabriel, Calif.


April 28, 1961

Darling Chou x

Sweetheart, I love you and I miss you especially right now, and I want terribly to be near you, to touch your lips, but even be closer than a kiss, to hold you warmly in my arms and kiss your hair and your forehead and say over and over “My darling, My darling. I love you, love you. My darling.”

I’m very unhappy now, and sad. I have a cold, but I think it’s worse than a cold. My eyes have been bothering me very much the past couple weeks and whether I wear my glasses or not, my eyes and my whole head feels swelled up and under pressure, and all my blood vessels feel tight in my eyes and head and my nose. The damned air conditioner is still blowing away, even though I set it at about 77, and the thermometer reads 74. My eyes got very red last night, and this morning they were very bloodshot and felt strained. Of course that gets in the way of my reading, and of everything else. For the past couple days I have slept ridiculously long – I just haven’t been able to get up, and I’ve felt worse for it. I’m scared to death when I think I might go blind, and that depresses me terribly. I’d be helpless, an invalid, I couldn’t do anything, and even if we did get married then, which we probably wouldn’t, it might be worse than if we didn’t. I love you so much I don’t want anything to happen. Don’t worry – I’ll live. I’ve never been known to die before. I don’t want to scare you, but I’m depressed.

This weekend is Scots on the Rocks, whatever that is. I’ll stay in my room and study. Not tonight, because the nurse said not to study at all tonight and she swabbed my throat & gave me some “red pills” and put ointment in my eyes. Tonight I’ll walk downtown to the library and then listen to music, and dream of a certain girl who is my darling chou. I love you x. I can write to you, but I’ll do it in shifts. I wish you were here. Your hands are magic and they could smooth away everything from my eyes and head. I want to put my head in your lap, and I want to have you play the piano to me. I’m very far behind in nearly everything, but I don’t want to think about it. Oh Shirley x

I didn’t go to town after all, just to the 5%er. I’m sweating. Ridiculous, I’m now listening to Beethoven’s 5th Piano Concerto played by Hans Kahn – yours is better. Beethoven is such a nice man, so good and clever. He is my friend. It would be worth learning sign language & German just to talk to him.

I have to tell you our “adventure.” In the paper there was a notice about the UCLA Modern Dance Co. that would present a program last night. I said it would probably be stupid, and Terry [my roommate] said he didn’t know anything about it. Neither of us saw the José Limón Dance Co. when it was here.

At dinner, when we were nearly finished, 4 girls came and sat at the empty places next us (it was otherwise crowded), and we discovered they were from UCLA and were going to dance that evening. We talked a little bit – e.g.: “When was this campus founded?” “1959.” etc. – and then I asked them a few questions: “Do you like ballet?” I knew beforehand pretty much what they’d say. The one next to me, a nice stupid girl, I don’t know in what grade, said, “Oh yes, I like ballet. I also like modern dance and primitive and African and rock and roll and jazz and mambo and cha cha…” and I don’t know what all. So I asked if she liked the New York City Ballet and of course she said yes. They all said yes. The conversation got sidetracked, but she said, “Am I to infer you don’t like the New York City Ballet?” And I started by saying, “I won’t even leave it to inference. No (hitting the table) I don’t like the New York City Ballet.” Another asked me what I think of Balanchine and I said that he’s senile, which seemed to disturb them, though they laughed. Of the 4, 3 didn’t have a brain in their head, and the other had maybe (though it was hard to tell) a half brain, but she was twisted. I was too loud, but I thought it was obvious I was serious about what I said, but that I said it in a joking way. We didn’t have a chance to talk long, and then Terry and I left. Steve Sherman – a friend – stayed to talk to some other friends. Afterwards he came up and told us that the girls had been offended and that a girl from UCR had to apologize and say that not all UCR students are like that. I have seen and heard the girl & don’t like her (she reminds me of two characters in Women in Love, & so I call her Hermione Gudrun, though I’ve never met her). However much of it was true, we three were hurt that they should be offended, but if we had been rude, we resolved to write a note of apology and give it to them at their “concert,” which we did. Terry and I only stayed till intermission. Neither one of us could take any more. Terry said he didn’t have any idea what it would be like and that he wanted to like it, but he couldn’t. He was very concerned about the “modern world” after seeing them perform. They were terrible! We gave our letter to one of the four who came out and sat in one of about 6 chairs that looked like an orchestra. She seemed surprised, and said she was glad we could come, and she was smiling when she read the letter, so we decided they weren’t mad at all, and that “Gudrun” is a complete mistake.

Anyway, about the program. It was a dance & lecture program. A UCLA faculty member came out, the dance instructress, and started talking about the first dance. She assumed everybody knew what modern dance is all about, but I doubt if she herself knows. It was choreographed by one of the students, to music by Hindemith, which another faculty member (also a lady) played on the piano. The first lady, ____, rambled on about how “abstract” falling snow is and how finally we would see them (the dancers) form a crystal by a simple movement that is “beautifully expressive,” about the most unnatural twist of the shoulders you could imagine – she said this single movement was so wonderful and so beautiful because it was easy to do, which it was – any 3rd grader, no, any 1st grader could do that, even little urchin Judy next door could be a crystal — ____ said that’s what makes a good “dance,” a simple, easy to do movement. It was the best dance of those we saw, and I was bored.
A bunch of girls ran around on & off the stage, being abstract. Then there was a nice part where a couple of them picked up the snow and ran around tossing it in the air like children – but of course they overdid it, and did about 25 times, then everybody came back & formed a triangle like thing which waved its arms & legs & finally jerked its shoulders and became a crystal. The lights went out and some people even clapped.

From then on the whole thing was gone. ____came back and said something. And then a bunch of stupid girls came out in purple leotards with purple tights and feathers in their hair and did “Gossip.” The people we had thought were an orchestra were really a kind of chorus – they started out chanting: “Dull…dull…dull..dulllll…” and the purple dolts dropped around, one lifted her leg & another fell underneath backwards, really stupid. Then the chorus went on – “Yak, yak, yak, yak, gobble, gobble. Yes? Yes? No! Blah Blah. Blah Blah Blah. Gobble Gobble.” And the blobs danced around – I’ll show how they looked, and a couple more came out and they tried to imitate gossip how people talk behind each others’ backs & crud, and they did it for 10 or 15 minutes, the same damned gobble gobble over and over and over and over and over and over and over. And they think it was art. I think it was Dull.

Then there was more stupid lecture and a solo dance. “April Dance,” by one of the leading pupils – my god! Your ballet practice is not only better, but it’s more interesting to watch & really beautiful, but this crud, Miss April came out in brown tights & a gray/green top thing and proceeded to do nothing for about 7 minutes. She made some sloppy turns around, writhed on the floor for a while, ran around in a circle about 10 times and then bounced off the stage. All of the “company” are in lousy shape, they were awkward, made really ugly movements some of which were choreographed & meant to be the way they did them.

The last dance we saw a group “number” to the Second Mvt. from Ravel’s Quartet in F minor, had a long lecture where friend _____ had her robots demonstrate the “parts” of the dance, showing us the spastic “theme,” which she emphasized contained a figure 8 with the arms, that you couldn’t see, but that was important because it came back later. It seems that’s all there was in the dance – the variations she had jump across the stage – the boys were particularly bad – and the thing began. The two girls with the main theme ran across the stage and then somebody else came on to do variations. They were all in bare feet. One boy came on carrying a girl, but he set her down right away, then got his breath, carried her to the other side of the stage, though he almost didn’t make it, and set her down with the most agonized look, staring off into the distance and being abstract. Every now and then somebody would pose and look off at infinity with a soulful look and heavy makeup. And then began what I hate to call a pas de deux – two creatures from the wax museum, robots covered with wax, made the most hideous, inhuman twitches and gestures to what was supposed to be the “beautiful section” of the piece. Then three girls took off charging down the stage diagonally at the audience, sawing the air with their right arms in a figure 8 which ____ or whatever called “a wonderfully beautiful gesture, a magnificent development of the figure 8 with the arms.” She didn’t have a brain in her head either. She showed us what she called “a lovely ‘opening’ movement” – I’m sure she doesn’t know any French ballet terms, and doesn’t know & doesn’t teach the ballet movements. Their dances were not even fit to be called “practice” and they weren’t as rigorous as ballet practice. I wish you could have seen them. They all fancied themselves great artists, and they concentrated on trying to look like great artists. Their great feature was something done to a Passacaglia and fugue by Bach but we didn’t stay to see it.

Terry was “greatly disturbed” and I was “profoundly bothered.” We both hate modern dance. I can’t even imagine what “jazz ballet” must be like. Shirley, I’m proud of you. I love you. XX XO XOXXX XXXX.

About the only other exciting thing that has happened (next week I’m going to more classes) was that in English 23B we got back our papers on Women in Love. Remember, I told you the book bothered me and I didn’t know how to read Lawrence “right,” whatever that means? I finished the book Thursday and turned the paper in Fri., having written it Friday morning. I was discouraged, because I was rushed (I don’t remember how long it took to write, but I finished typing it at 3:00 and ran to class). I had the strong feeling that it wasn’t very good, that I didn’t say quite what I had wanted to, that it was repetitive, etc., etc., and I felt I would be sad if I got less than a B, but I might. Especially since it was 2 days late. I got it back and looked, and there was an A on it, which surprised me very much. I’ll show it to you. I’m quoting because I want you to be able to be proud of me. I love you. Edwards wrote all kinds of nice comments on it, like, “An excellent perception…” and finally said: “Really first-rate criticism – you sketch deftly and concisely your (excellent) main points about each novel, and then tie the two together in a really impressive way (on p.4 you push at a point you can’t quite express, but the try is admirable). A hard assignment – which makes your achievement all the more remarkable!” Well, this is pretty high praise, or it sounds like it, certainly, and I didn’t feel that my paper was that good. It may sound funny, but my conscience was bothered, and I went to his office and told him so and asked for a lower grade, at least to put a minus after the A. I said, and though I hadn’t really had a chance to read the paper, I felt it was not as good as all that, and on grounds quite apart from the merits of the paper, an A- would encourage me to write a better paper to get an A. Dr. Edwards was himself greatly surprised and said that no one has ever asked him to lower a grade before. He defended the grade, and then said, “Sure, I’ll put a minus in my grade book, and a minus on your paper, but those two little marks don’t change it from being an A, because in my mind it’s still an A.” He wants me to come in and talk to him after I’ve read the paper, and he seems very interested. I hope so, because I like him. I can learn a lot from him and I want and need friends in the English department. And I want to have at least one professor I can introduce you to, Sweetheart – I’m jealous of Dick Unwin. [a rival suitor]

I shouldn’t go on so long. You’ll think I’m a gobble gobble. When I come home Friday we can dig a garden that weekend. I hope you have some idea of what you want to plant.

I’ll write more later, darling. You’ll probably get this Monday. I should go to bed now and wake up well tomorrow. – I wish you were here to sleep beside me – you feel safe in my arms and I feel safe in yours – our world is just as big as both of us, and without you I’m very incomplete and alone and unhappy.

Terry said I was crying in my sleep – I don’t believe him, and anyway I don’t know what he means. But I miss you, darling. It’s close to two years. We’ll be very happy because we will have waited so long, have waited so long already.

Good night darling. Sleep well. We have a rapport, and we’ll sleep nestled close through our rapport because my heart is with you and yours is with me. I love you.

XX OOO XX OOXXXX OO XXX

Yours,
Huitre

_____