March 7, 1953

Mr. James Baldwin,
Paris, France.

Dear Mr. Baldwin,

Arna Bontemps called my attention to your piece
in the current PERSPECTIVES 2 which I read with
interest. I have long admired your critical
writing, and believe I once wrote you about an
article in COMMENTARY some years ago. I agree
that the more fences young writers jump over,
the better. What a bore if they kept on repeat-
ing the old! More power to you! And good luck
with the forthcoming book.

March 25, 1953

Dear Mr Hughes :

I'm very happy that you wrote me again. Yes, I do remember that you wrote me over four years ago concerning an article in *Commentary*. I wanted to answer you then, but, as I remember, you said that you were travelling somewhere outside of the States; and, at that time, I was in a state of great excitement because I was just about to leave for France. My excitement, I guess, caused me to suppose that people travelling outside the States couldn't possibly receive any mail and by the time I came to my senses and realized the utility of the Forwarding Address - I was ashamed to write. So, you see, your second letter comes in a way as my second chance.

You say that you have 'long admired' some of the things I've written- and this pleases me more than I can say. Just the same, I have a head-start on you, having admired you long before you ever could have heard of me. When I was in Jr. High School (P.S. 139) I wrote an awful lot of poetry, at least I called it that, and I remember once showing something to the late Countee Cullen, who was doing his best to teach me a little French. (I wasn't very apt, perhaps because of the poetry, something I regretted when I finally came to France). All he said was, 'It's an awful lot like Hughes'. He was right. It was a quite bewildering moment for I was pleased by the comparison at the same time what I was crushed by the clear inference that I would never be able to do more in poetry than imitate other people. But, as it turned out, Cullen was right about that, too.

Thank you for your good wishes about the book. I know it's very maudlin of me, but the closer the date of publication comes,

the harder it is for me to keep those butterflies in my stomach
under control. I'll be very glad when the suspense is over -
they tell me this moment can only come once in the life of any
writer and I certainly can see why. Nobody could stand it twice.
Something awful happens with a book when it's out of your hands.
God knows I'd almost rather die than touch my book again. But
sometimes I think it's a wretched performance; and sometimes I
think with panic that I'll never write anything as good again.
To keep my senses, I'm working on a play - it's a little like
deciding to bruise your foot in order to be distracted from the
pain in your arm. But, so far, it works and when the play is
finished I'll come limping home.

I hope when I come home that I'll be able to meet you.
And I would be very glad if you would give my warmest regards
to Arna Bontemps. I have never met him, either, but I would
very much like to, and I would like to be able, one day, to
thank him personally for helping me to get the Rosenwald
Fellowship in 1948. I would certainly have thanked him sooner,
but I have just discovered ( through Knopf ) that he was res-
ponsible. That Fellowship saved my life, and I'm not kidding.

Well. Wish me luck. And, again : thank you very much.

July 25, 1953

Dear Mr. Baldwin,

Just a note to send you some extra copies
of reviews I've cut out for you. Sure you've seen them
all, but extra copies, I've discovered, never hurt to have
to give away or something. I'm very happy your book has
been getting such good write-ups. It and "Simple" was
reviewed together a couple of times, but my clipping bu-
reau only sends one copy, so no extras on those. We both
came out mutually O.K.

What I liked best in your book was the
story about the sad boy who killed himself. That's the
part I read over twice lately. It's beautiful!

If you go to Geneva look up a very good
friend of mine (and lots of other writers) who has just
flown over there for the summer with her brother who is
head of UN Health organization there. (They're coulored.
*I put the u in the wrong place: coloured, I mean.) She's:
Miss Dorothy Peterson,
c/o Dr. Sidney Peterson,
6 Chemin des Crets de Champel,
Geneva, Switzerland.

And did you ever meet Nancy Cumard in France. Should.
Lemme know if you go there. She is unique in this world.
If you want to die, be disturbed, mal-
adjusted, neurotic, and phychotic, disappointed, and dis-
jointed, just write plays! Go ahead!

Sincerely,

*Man, after reading
your piece in "Per-
spectives" I didn't
expect you to write
such a colored book
—without the y.

May 10, 1960

Mr. James Baldwin,
81 Horatio Street,
New York City.

Dear Jimmy!

Quite a time ago your note came from Paris
saying you were sending the Committee as a
gift to Ghana a copy of your NOTES OF A
NATIVE SON and some pages of drafts of
ANOTHER COUNTRY. So far they didn't arrive,
so I thought maybe you were bringing them
with you. Everything's assembled and the
presentation to the Ambassador from Ghana
is now planned for May 21st (you'll get an
 invite) so if you could send on the inscri-
bed book and a draft page or two of something,
please do so....Hope all goes well with you,
and it was good seeing you the other day.
Cordial regards,

POSTAL CARD TO JAMES BALDWIN AFTER
READING GALLEYS OF "NOBODY KNOWS
MY NAME"

May 4, 1961

Jimmy:

I fear you are becoming a
"NEGRO" writer---and a propaganda one,
at that! What's happening????? (Or am I
reading wrong?)

Anyhow, NOBODY KNOWS MY NAME is
fascinating reading, wonderful for many
evenings of discussion for the talkative
uptown and down-and surely makes of a
sage---a cullud sage---whose hair, once
processed, seems to be reverting.

Hope it makes the best-seller
list. You might as well suffer in
comfort.

POSTAL CARD TO JAMES BALDWIN AFTER
READING GALLEYS OF "NOBODY KNOWS
MY NAME"-----

May 4, 1961

Jimmy:

Anyhow, NOBODY KNOWS MY NAME is
fascinating reading, wonderful for many
evenings of discussion for the talkative
uptown and down---and surely makes of you a
sage---a cullud sage---whose hair, once
processed, seems to be reverting.

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Dear Langston:

Forgive me for being so late, but your letter reached
me late. I've been moving about a lot.

I'm on my way home, so there isn't time to have any
of my work sent to me here. So, I can only send you what
I have, which turns out to be _Notes Of A Native Son_. I'd
rather send _Mountain_, but ---

Also sending some illegible pages from the
forthcoming _Another Country_. I can't imagine any
writer in the world being helped by them. They damn
near killed me.

I'll probably just miss Christmas in the old hometown,
but have a Merry one, day hello to our friends, and have
a drink for me.

The material, under separate cover, goes out with this
letter.