New York City]
I spent 30 hours at Jack’s – we talked, drank bottles of beer, showed each other the latest manuscripts, and mooned about you – The great even was your letter – we had assumed your were in jail or something – I of course had fantasized your dead, more or less, and even suspected suicide some months back. Myself, this spring has been one of madness, much like yours. Frenzy, frenzy, creation that is worthless, drinking, school, etc. I’ve been working part time and so I had about an even stint of money, and bought a lot of records. What finally pulled me out – to name an external cause since they are the signs by which we mark season – was Jack’s novel. It is very great, beyond my wildest expectations. I never knew.
But I will let him tell you himself, and then fill in another time; I want to talk to you myself.
Now, I suppose I should congratulate you on your marriage, So OK Pops, everything you do is great. The idea of you with a child and a settled center of affection – shit, I don’t like to write prose because you have to say something simple & direct. My mind isn’t made up into anything but compete amused enthusiasm for you latest building
I wish I had your letter here, but it is just as well. I have an image in my mind of the vast realistic vision you spoke of and am struck with a joy at the thought of your possibilities – moving toward realization toward expression.
When (by implication of ideas or directly) I criticize you, you know and I know I do it our of tension and self justification on obvious levels, obvious ways, and it is hatred showing; so take it as that and if I seem unaware, and you are offended, point it out to me, so there will be no mistake.
However I am slowly coming back or (going forward) to where I can accept you for yourself (whatever that is) without hassles & tension & competition for power; and would be done with my “wrath” toward you and I believe by next season in NY we will be closer than last and I less returning and arbitrary. Is this not great gentility? Sweet fate.
ALLENP.S. I seem to have thrown out Jim Holmes's letters.