(Charles R. Embry) Robert B. Heilman and Eric Voeg

ROBERT B.
HEILMAN
AND
ERIC VOEGELIN
ERIC VOEGELIN INSTITUTE SERIES
IN POLITICAL PHILOSOPHY
Other Books in the Series
Art and Intellect in the Philosophy of Étienne Gilson

by Francesca Aran Murphy
Augustine and Politics as Longing in the World

by John von Heyking
Eros, Wisdom, and Silence: Plato’s Erotic Dialogues

by James M. Rhodes
A Government of Laws: Political Theory,

Religion, and the American Founding
by Ellis Sandoz
Hans Jonas: The Integrity of Thinking

by David J. Levy
Lonergan and the Philosophy of Historical Existence

by Thomas J. McPartland
The Narrow Path of Freedom and Other Essays

by Eugene Davidson
New Political Religions, or an Analysis of Modern Terrorism
by Barry Cooper
Transcendence and History: The Search for Ultimacy

from Ancient Societies to Postmodernity
by Glenn Hughes
Voegelin, Schelling, and the Philosophy

of Historical Existence
by Jerry Day

ROBERT B. HEILMAN
AND
ERIC VOEGELIN

A Friendship in Letters
1944 – 1984
Edited with an Introduction by

Charles R. Embry
Foreword by
Champlin B. Heilman
UNIVERSITY OF MISSOURI PRESS

COLUMBIA AND LONDON

Copyright ©  by
The Curators of the University of Missouri
University of Missouri Press, Columbia, Missouri 
Printed and bound in the United States of America
All rights reserved
         
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Heilman, Robert Bechtold, 1906–
Robert B. Heilman and Eric Voegelin : a friendship in letters, 1944–1984 /
edited with an introduction by Charles R. Embry ; foreword by Champlin
B. Heilman.
p. cm. — (Eric Voegelin Institute series in political philosophy)
Includes index.
ISBN 0-8262-1507-6
1. Voegelin, Eric, 1901—Correspondence. 2. Heilman, Robert Bechtold,
1906—Correspondence. 3. Political scientists—Correspondence.
I. Title: Friendship in letters, 1944–1984. II. Voegelin, Eric, 1901–
III. Embry, Charles R., 1942– IV. Title. V. Series.
JC263.V632H44 2004
320'.092'2—dc22 2003022024
This paper meets the requirements of the

American National Standard for Permanence of Paper
for Printed Library Materials, z., .
Designer: Kristie lee

Typesetter: Crane Composition, Inc.
Printer and binder: The Maple-Vail Book Manufacturing Group
Typefaces: Adobe Garamond

Publication of this book has been assisted by generous
contributions from Eugene Davidson, Texas A&M University–Commerce,
and the Eric Voegelin Institute.
To Polly
This page intentionally left blank

CONTENTS

Foreword
by Champlin B. Heilman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ix
Acknowledgments . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xiii
Editorial Notes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xvii
Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
Letters
Delightful Acquisition
Letters ‒, ‒ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
With a Humble Request
Letters ‒, ‒ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
Philia Politike
Letters ‒, ‒ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
Hurried over the Face of the Earth
Letters ‒, ‒ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
Not a Postscript at All but a New Essay
Letters ‒, ‒ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
What Was Formed at That Time Holds Together
Letters ‒, ‒ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
Appendix A
Chronology of Letters and Locations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
Appendix B
Number of Letters and Publications Referenced in Letters . . . . . . . . . 
Appendix C
Selected Enclosures in Various Letters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

FOREWORD
Champlin B. Heilman

The kind invitation to write a foreword for a collection of my father’s corre-
spondence with Eric Voegelin brings up powerful feelings because my dad, the
consummate letter writer, sits, letterless, at age ninety-six, wheelchair bound, in
a dementia ward to which he refers, entirely without irony, as his “club,” whose
fellow residents are his “team.” However, my focus is not my father’s dramatic
change, but rather that for seventy-two years letters were a constant and domi-
nant part of his life. The letters in this volume testify to my father’s erudition
and eloquence, so in this foreword I want to reflect on his letter-writing habit
as I observed it and as I experienced it through nearly forty-three years of weekly
exchanges.
His last letters in  would lose their way, might change direction from one
recipient to another midway, or be addressed oddly, as when he wrote to his nephew
(a dean at Auburn University) as the “Dean in Alabama”; often they would not be
sent at all. Still, he tried to write as he had since age twenty-two, when he went
off to graduate school: a letter a week to his family and then a flood of letters at
various intervals to a staggering range of recipients, all reflecting his great faith that
the written word is the best form of communication. He was ever skeptical of tele-
phones, fearing that they were costly instruments of bad news.
Sometimes I suspect that this skepticism had more to do with his helplessness
when faced with any kind of mechanical task, even those involving the machines
he loved, like changing ribbons on his Smith Corona (later Royal). He always
used a portable typewriter, feeling that the “electrics” were way too finicky for
his pounding, and stuck with his portable to the end, utterly refusing to join the
world of “word processing,” a phrase he felt was an abomination. The computer
itself he thought a curse since it would not, as some hapless but well-meaning
colleague asserted, “help [him] to write better and faster.” He thought he com-
posed quite well enough on the typewriter. Had he become a computer user, I
think that he would have still sent his letters by U.S. mail rather than by e-mail,
believing that important matters like letters deserve a more traditional and for-
mal delivery.
ix
x Foreword by Champlin B. Heilman
Pound he did; my earliest recollections of going-to-sleep sounds were of his

typing in the neighboring room. He was a four-finger typist—rapid and virtu-
ally error free—and his many secretaries were in awe that so few fingers could
produce so many pages of manuscript so rapidly and accurately. While his arti-
cle and manuscript composition was more often reserved for the library, where
first drafts were handwritten, letter writing dominated his office: each day’s mail
was carefully lined up for reply by typewriter, an efficiency that sometimes must
have dismayed his correspondents, particularly when Robert’s reply made it into
the same day’s return mail. This decades-long pattern continued into later years
when I would line up letters for him, only to return several weeks later and find
the stack much as I had left it. Even then he would disappear to his desk to “an-
swer some letters,” as he would say.
Since correspondence was for him a form of written conversation, he main-
tained certain expectations for both himself and his correspondents. Not the least
of these was timeliness, a fluid standard that varied considerably, depending
upon subject matter, correspondent, urgency of material, and a mutually if in-
formally agreed-upon pattern of frequency. For example, Robert constantly wrote
letters to the editors of the Seattle Times, a paper he “memorized” daily, badger-
ing them about grammatical and spelling errors or oddities in expression, but
rarely about editorial issues; he grumbled that the Times did not respond to all
his letters, and was relieved when a Times columnist (whose name, coinciden-
tally, was Robert Heilman) told him that his letters were posted as admonitions
to write more carefully. As head of the English department, Robert developed
over the years many relationships with students who later became correspondents.
One of these former students was James Cole, now retired from the University
of Wyoming at Laramie. In a recent letter he remembered my father’s epistolary
style: “Your father was a faithful correspondent, writing detailed, incisive letters,
always friendly and personal, with good humor as with wit. His head apparently
ran lickety split all the time and his words kept [up] in a dazzling kind of spon-
taneous performance that . . . was a pleasure to behold.” For a while when he
was head of the English department at the University of Washington, Robert re-
sponded to people’s letters with questions about language, sort of a “Dr. English–
Dear Abby” responsibility that he seemed to enjoy. These single-response episodes
he dispatched fully and carefully in a few days whether the correspondent was
a schoolboy from Missouri or a worker in a local sawmill. He and I exchanged
letters weekly, usually a couple of single-spaced pages written on Sunday; if ei-
ther of us wrote later, an apology was issued. The frequency of his letters to Eric
varied, depending on their personal schedules as well as the subject matter of the
letters; sometimes, unusual delays occurred.
Foreword by Champlin B. Heilman xi
While a fluid punctuality was always a primary expectation, Robert also ex-
pected both himself and his correspondents to read carefully and to respond ap-
propriately, either noting or commenting on particular items. I developed the
habit, after paternal scoldings, of outlining items on which he would expect
some sort of response, and often more than half my letter would be taken up
with these topics. His expectation to be answered by his correspondents some-
times proved painfully expensive, especially at tax time when he would pound
out a page or two of single-spaced questions about his return only to be dismayed
that his bill contained a significant increase due to the CPA having spent “bill-
able hours” responding to his questions. That dismay often turned to fury, a fury
that he never understood was caused in part by his epistolary instincts.
For Robert, the epistolary give-and-take was like a good conversation, but even
better in that many such pleasurable conversations could be happening simul-
taneously with family members, old friends, colleagues, institutional writers of
various kinds, and of course with his favorites like Eric, who led him to think
and understand in new ways.
Beyond punctuality and careful responses, Robert and Eric shared institutional
frustrations, humor, and a sense of language. For example, Robert felt that a
search committee he chaired wanted someone who was “safe and simple” rather
than adventurous and visionary, and Eric noted of a proposed humanities pro-
gram that at least “some of the faculty will be compelled to read the books they
are supposed to discuss.” Both men could also be humorous; for example, Robert
was especially funny when he lamented to me his perpetual failure to have one
of his many submissions to the New Yorker published. Eric commented humor-
ously on his favorite place for inspiration—“sitting in the bathtub and smoking
a cigar”—and disagreed with a couple of LSU colleagues named French and Frye
by punning that he was neither “French nor fried.” Both Robert and Eric re-
sponded to the language of their correspondents or to writers they might be dis-
cussing. Since my style was fairly pragmatic, Robert would compliment me on
being unexpectedly fluent or witty, much as he appreciated my cousin’s letters that
were “playful” and “lively”; others’ letters he condemned as too “flat.” Similarly,
Eric felt that a colleague was guilty of “circumlocutory heaviness.”
Finally, just as Robert and Eric dealt with shared intellectual issues, particu-
larly in regard to manuscripts in progress, Robert and I would exchange letters
on my teaching, particularly novels or ideas I was playing with in regard to
motivating high school students. He was pleased to hear that his introductory
material on novels or ideas on tragedy and melodrama actually made their way,
even if casually, into my classrooms. The tone of these exchanges was definitely
more paternal than professorial.
xii Foreword by Champlin B. Heilman
That paternal tone also typifies my sense of Eric, although avuncular might
be more accurate a word. As a small boy, I found him gentle and friendly, if dis-
tant; perhaps he was just bemused at the small, towheaded creature that would
occupy a bed when the two couples were socializing. Later, when I visited Mu-
nich and the Voegelins took me in, I found him almost constantly smiling at
this fellow who was between student and soldier. While Lissy, who was always
talkative and warm, would show me around by taking me to their country cot-
tage, to museums, or to lunch, occasionally the three of us would go in the
evening to a concert and once to see the opera Wozzeck. This opera so excited
Eric that contrary to his usual affable distance he expounded on it to us vigor-
ously. Later, after Eric and Lissy came to the Hoover Institution, my wife and I
exchanged several meals with them; always Eric was friendly and curious about
our lives as teachers and parents of two small children. One such meal occurred
when Robert and Ruth were staying in Palo Alto with us, and we all marveled
at the lunar landing. Overall, Eric was amiable and interested, qualities his and
Robert’s letters often reflect, especially as the two men inquired about Lissy,
Ruth, Pete, or Mike (the Heilman family cat, named for the LSU mascot).
Now that the era of Robert’s correspondence with Eric and me has ended, I
fear that a useful, pleasurable, and valuable way of connecting with family,
friends, and colleagues is giving way to the ubiquitous e-mail with its ephemeral
convenience and speed. I miss the epistolary connection with my dad, I miss
those weekly, written discussions that cemented and expanded a filial bond, and,
judging from the flow of letters to him from all over the nation, many others
will miss their regular exchanges with him as well, maybe even the Seattle Times.
Champlin B. Heilman
Palo Alto, California
December 2002

A C K N OW L E D G M E N T S

It is my happy task now to acknowledge those persons who supported this
endeavor in various ways; of course, their generous support and help in no way
makes them responsible for any errors or lapses that appear herein.
First I would like to thank the many people at Texas A&M University–Com-
merce who have provided various types of support—both recently and through
the years. Mathew Kanjirathinkal, graduate dean until August , provided
several minigrants that supported this project in its early stages. These enabled
me to examine the Voegelin Papers (microfilmed) at the Eric Voegelin Institute
at Louisiana State University, and the Heilman Papers at the University of Wash-
ington, Seattle. I continue to appreciate his support and recognition of my work.
I am very grateful that Elton Stetson, interim dean of the graduate school, has
continued the support of the graduate school for this project. Natalie Hender-
son, doctoral degree coordinator, has always promptly answered all my pleas for
help and provided administrative support for my research. Finnie Murray, dean
of the College of Arts and Sciences, approved several research-load reductions
that helped me finish the manuscript and complete the tasks necessary for its
publication. I would also like to thank Paul Lenchner, head of the political sci-
ence department, for his encouragement and steadfastness throughout various
crises, his openness to a variety of academic activities, and, finally, for his sup-
port of a course-load reduction to complete this manuscript. I want also to thank
College of Arts and Sciences dean Finnie Murray for granting this time to com-
plete the manuscript. Charles Elliott, my friend and department head for many
years, supported all the crazy projects throughout my career here, projects that
ultimately culminated in this one. Assistant Dean Linda Matthei of the College
of Arts and Sciences provided additional funds for travel to the Eric Voegelin
Institute. Michael Odom, adjunct professor of art and friend, helped with the
identification of American artists. Philippe Seminet, assistant professor of liter-
ature and languages, helped me understand French phrases and customs. My col-
leagues in the political science department, JoAnn DiGeorgio-Lutz and Ayo
Ogundele, have provided welcome infusions of energy and new ideas for the old
curmudgeons such as myself. To my students, Sarah Gammage Ramm, Jackie Barr,
and Gretchen Boettcher, who helped me with various onerous proofreading tasks,
xiii
xiv Acknowledgments
I extend my thanks. The political science administrative assistant Jana Dooley

happily attended to those tasks that would otherwise make our jobs much more
difficult. Graduate assistants Aashit Shah and Hillary Gleason provided further
proofreading support.
I would be remiss in my acknowledgments if I did not recognize the daily sup-
port provided me by the professional staff of the James G. Gee Library of Texas
A&M University–Commerce and thank them for their help. Diane Downing,
director, Scott Downing, interlibrary loan librarian, and Carolyn Trezevant, ref-
erence librarian, have, over the years, taught me much about resources and have
always helped me when I came up against problems I thought insoluble. Mar-
sha Keenan maintains the Internet databases that were indispensable in the
preparation of this book.
I received help from a distance, too. Wanda Ashley, coordinator of the Eric
Voegelin Institute at Louisiana State University, helped make my several visits
to the microfilmed Voegelin Papers both pleasant and profitable. Gary Lundell
and Karyl Winn, as well as the entire staff of the Manuscripts, Special Collec-
tions, University Archives made me welcome and were most helpful while I
worked in the Heilman Papers at the University of Washington, Seattle. Gary
Lundell, as well as Carol A. Leadenham, assistant archivist for reference of the
Hoover Institution Archives, Stanford University, provided very timely support
late in the revision process, and I acknowledge their help with a special thank-
you. The staff of the Hoover Institution Archives, Stanford University, were also
helpful to me on the occasion of my visit there in August . Emily C. Howie,
reference librarian, Library of Congress, provided information on the U.S. Con-
gress. Scott Segrest, political science doctoral student at Louisiana State Univer-
sity, enthusiastically supported my early work on this project and generously
checked various items in the Voegelin Papers microfilm. Germain J. Bienvenu,
of the Special Collections Public Services division of Louisiana State University
Libraries, provided answers via e-mail, and other staff members of Special Col-
lections pointed me in the correct directions for ferreting out information dur-
ing my visits there. Christine Weideman, archivist at Yale University Library, an-
swered questions via e-mail as did Bob Bykofsky, records manager of the
Rockefeller Foundation.
The Voegelin scholars Manfred Henningsen, Geoffrey L. Price, Hans-Jörg
Sigwart, and Gilbert Weiss supplied information—also via e-mail—that helped
me annotate several of the letters. I acknowledge and thank them for their gen-
erous responses to these requests. Both Steve Ealy of the Liberty Fund and Bren-
dan Purcell, lecturer in philosophy at University College, Dublin, encouraged
me early to pursue this project when it seemed only a slight possibility.
Acknowledgments xv
To Brenda Bell, Dick Fulkerson, and Jim Reynolds, colleagues and friends who
for many years encouraged my interests in literature and who—fortunately—
never took me as seriously as I wanted to be taken, thank you for the years of
conversation and argument. I also acknowledge with gratitude the friendship of
Mary Elaine and Bob House, who, in remaining committed to the life of the
mind and creative endeavors, have constantly challenged my ideas in conversa-
tion, but have never faltered in their support.
I want to say a special thanks to Champlin B. Heilman who, on behalf of his
father, granted permission to publish material from the Heilman Papers, gener-
ously consented to write a foreword for this volume, and enthusiastically read
the correspondence in manuscript. I wish especially to thank three people at the
University of Missouri Press: Beverly Jarrett, for her early interest in this project
and for her continued support and advice during its development; Jane Lago,
for her helpful advice early in the revising process; and Julianna Schroeder, for
the scrupulous copyediting that saved me from many embarrassing inconsisten-
cies and errors.
Finally, I wish to thank three special persons who have long believed in and
encouraged my work on literature and philosophy. My mentor and friend, Ellis
Sandoz, introduced me to political philosophy and Eric Voegelin forty years ago
when I was a graduating senior at Louisiana Tech University. I thank him for
showing me the way long ago. To Tim Hoye, my friend and colleague (as well
as professor of government and history at Texas Woman’s University), thank you
for those spirited conversations in which we never allowed the other to finish
his sentence and for your devotion to a common enterprise. To Polly Detels, my
wife, I dedicate this book, for without her love, devotion, and encouragement I
would not have traveled this part of the road.

E D I TO R I A L N OT E S

There are  letters in the correspondence between Robert B. Heilman and
Eric Voegelin; that this collection includes  results from my inclusion of a let-
ter from Lissy Voegelin to Heilman approving his request to dedicate Magic in
the Web: Action and Language in Othello to Eric. This is Letter . Also, included
with Letter , a note written by Heilman, there is a note written to Eric by
Ruth Heilman. Of the  letters, Heilman wrote  and Voegelin wrote . The
first letter was probably written in  or , although the first letter with the
date including year was written by Voegelin on July , . Most of the letters
were found in the Voegelin Papers, Hoover Institution Archives, box , folder .
Several were found in other boxes of the Voegelin Papers, and fifty-four were
found in various accessions of the Robert B. Heilman Papers, Manuscripts, Spe-
cial Collections, University Archives, University of Washington Libraries. The
Heilman Papers were given to the University of Washington Libraries in twenty-
nine separate accessions and there are several boxes that are “unaccessed.” I was
permitted to examine the materials of these boxes by the librarians of the Man-
uscripts, Special Collections, University Archives, but I found no additional let-
ters. It is apparent from reading the correspondence that several letters—perhaps
as many as three or four—are missing. These letters may, of course, no longer
exist, but then they may turn up in some unsuspected folder.
For the most part, the letters appear in this volume as they were written. For
convenience of reading I have standardized dating of the letters and spelling of
a writer’s name (such as Dostoevsky). Letters that were written entirely by hand
are indicated with “[OH]” (original holograph) at the top. Angle brackets (< >)
indicate that a remark, signature, or other material was handwritten onto an other-
wise typed letter. If a marginal note occurs in a letter, I have indicated in square
brackets ([ ]) the place that remark appears on the page of the original. Some
of the letters were unsigned because they are transcribed from copies found in
the writer’s files; I have inserted the customary signature—Bob or Eric—in
brackets. I have italicized all book titles and foreign phrases except for Latin
phrases that have passed into general English usage. In the case of obvious typo-
graphical errors or minor misspellings, I changed these silently. Punctuation has
remained essentially unchanged, except I silently changed punctuation to conform
xvii
xviii Editorial Notes
to standard typographical practice (such as placing colons and semicolons out-

side quotation marks, and periods and commas within them) and a few minor
commas for clarity in sentences. I have also silently eliminated some unneces-
sary dashes if a comma or period was already present.
Where persons are referred to only by their surnames, I have supplied upon
the first appearance of the surname their given names—where these could be
determined—in brackets in the text. If a title for an article or offprint that is
mentioned does not appear in the letter and I could determine same, I placed it
(with citation) in a footnote. Words that are added for clarification of meaning,
I placed in brackets. Where brackets appear in the original, I changed these to
ordinary parentheses.
For reasons unknown to me, Heilman spelled “Lissy” in various ways; I have
left these various spellings unchanged.
ROBERT B. HEILMAN
AND
ERIC VOEGELIN

I N T RO D U C T I O N

A special pleasure it is to say my thanks to my friend and colleague Professor

Robert B. Heilman (University of Washington) for his help in improving my
English. His thorough analysis of sections of the manuscript, his reasoned ad-
vice with regard to grammar and style, his congenial understanding of rela-
tions between philosophical subject matter and means of linguistic expression,
have had a pervasive effect. I can only hope that the disciple will not disap-
point the master too deeply.1
Thus wrote Eric Voegelin in the final paragraph of his acknowledgments in

Israel and Revelation (1956). Robert B. Heilman responded immediately after re-
ceiving the book; he wrote Voegelin:
I owned the book for an hour or two before, in that preliminary leafing
through the “back matter” and the “front matter” by which one explores the
periphery, I came across the “Acknowledgments” and the last paragraph on the
page. I am very much touched, as I am overwhelmed by your excessive gen-
erosity. . . . I should be in danger of a bad case of pride did not Ruth come to
my spiritual rescue by remarking firmly, “What a paradox! You as master and
Eric as disciple!” (I will omit her punctuation of this by exclamatory breath-
ing.) I am disposed to go beyond a literal reading of the paragraph and to take
it rather as evidence of a kindly personal feeling—a very fine thing to have.
There is nothing more gratifying than “my friend and colleague.” (Letter 66)
Heilman’s response—emphasizing as it does Voegelin’s phrase “my friend and

colleague”—acknowledged in turn the central components of the relationship
between Robert B. Heilman (b. 1906) and Eric Voegelin (1901–1985) that flow-
ered in 1942 and lasted to Voegelin’s death in 1985. The forty-year correspondence
opens a window on the nature and extent of their friendship, as well as their ab-
sorption in literary criticism. That Voegelin in his acknowledgments connected
the terms friend and colleague indicates a recognition of both the personal and
1. See the Collected Works of Eric Voegelin, vol. 14, Order and History, vol. 1, Israel and Revela-
tion (Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 2001), 25.
1
2 Robert B. Heilman and Eric Voegelin
professional dimensions of his relationship with Heilman. The personal dimen-

sions of the friendship include expressions of loving concern for the other per-
son and his family, while the intellectual dimensions include both matters of the
calculative intellect and academic issues, as well as the noetic as symbolized in
Plato and Aristotle. Although the noetic dimension of their friendship is never
articulated directly in the correspondence (or elsewhere as far as I am aware), the
relationship between Heilman and Voegelin was rooted to a large extent in
Aristotle’s homonoia, or like-mindedness. And while over time the relationship
also exhibited those other characteristics of Aristotle’s description of friend-
ship—the useful and the pleasant—it displayed a shared love of the Good,
which according to Aristotle characterizes the best form of friendship, and a
common commitment to excellence. Voegelin specifically refers to participation
in the nous while responding to Heilman’s argument that politics is melodrama.
He asserts:
Politics is indeed melodrama, if politics is understood as a relation between

friend and foe; as a compulsion to take sides in a struggle for power. . . .
Insofar as politics actually assumes this form, and unfortunately it does all too
often, the description is empirically adequate, and your thesis is correct. This
conception of politics, however, is in radical opposition to the classic concep-
tion of Aristotle: that the essence of politics is the philia politike, the friendship
which institutes a cooperative community among men, and that this friend-
ship is possible among men insofar as they participate in the common nous, in
the spirit or mind. (Letter 84)
The Friendship
Robert Bechtold Heilman was born in Philadelphia, was educated in English
literature, and received degrees from Lafayette College (A.B., 1927), Ohio State
University (M.A., 1930), and Harvard University (Ph.D., 1935). After teaching
at the University of Maine, Orono, Heilman joined the English department of
Louisiana State University in 1935.
Eric Voegelin was born in Cologne, Germany, moved with his family to Vienna
in 1910, and received his Dr. rerum politicarum from the University of Vienna in
1922. After the Anschluss, Voegelin fled Austria to Switzerland, and from there
he emigrated with his wife, Lissy, to the United States. He took a position in the
government department at Louisiana State University in 1942. It was here that
the friendship began.
Introduction 3
In his recollection of Eric Voegelin in The Professor and the Profession, Heil-
man remembers that he first met Voegelin when he lectured at Louisiana State
University in 1940 or 1941; they became better acquainted after Eric and Lissy
moved to Baton Rouge. By the time the Heilmans moved to Seattle in 1948 so
that Bob could head the English department at the University of Washington,
the friendship between Bob and Eric, which included Ruth and Lissy, had de-
veloped the marks of a lifelong friendship. This friendship would ultimately
sustain three sets of correspondence: a forty-year correspondence between
Heilman and Voegelin, a correspondence between Ruth and Lissy that lasted
beyond the death of Eric in 1985, and a correspondence between Lissy and Rob-
ert after Ruth died in November 1985.
After being courted by various universities in this country and abroad, Voe-
gelin left Louisiana State University to become a professor at the University of
Munich and founded there the Institut für Politische Wissenschaft in 1958 (re-
named Geschwister-Scholl-Institut für Politische Wissenschaft Universität Mün-
chen in 1968). He left the University of Munich in 1969 to become Henry
Salvatori Distinguished Scholar at the Hoover Institution on War, Revolution,
and Peace, at Stanford University. There he became a senior research fellow in
1974 and held that position until his death. Heilman retired from the University
of Washington in 1976 and was appointed professor emeritus the same year.
Robert Heilman was the consummate academic professional. Having chosen
English literature and criticism as his professional foci, he devoted his life to
these interests. Not only did he cultivate this commitment through research and
publication, he actively served English higher education and the American pro-
fessoriate. As the “executive officer” (department head) of the English depart-
ment at the University of Washington from 1948 through 1971, he defended
would-be visiting lecturers Kenneth Burke, J. Robert Oppenheimer, and Mal-
colm Cowley against university administrations influenced by conservative,
anticommunist critics, all the while attending to the daily work of leading and
2. Robert Bechtold Heilman, The Professor and the Profession (Columbia: University of Mis-
souri Press, 1999), 85.
3. In 1991, six years after Eric’s death, Heilman would dedicate The Southern Connection: Essays
by Robert Bechtold Heilman (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1991) to “Alex B.
Daspit, Thomas and Josie Kirby, Lissy Voegelin. Friends from LSU days to the present.”
4. Some of Lissy Voegelin’s letters to Ruth and Robert may be found in the Robert B. Heilman
Papers, accession 1000–5–90–19, box 3, folder 5.
5. See Appendix B, which matches the letters with publications referenced in correspondence,
year by year.
administering a large department at a major university. He belonged to and

served in national leadership positions in the Modern Language Association of
America, the American Association of University Professors, the Shakespeare
Association of America, and Phi Beta Kappa.
In Autobiographical Reflections, Voegelin recalled that his acquaintance with
Heilman, Cleanth Brooks, and Robert Penn Warren of the English department
at LSU was especially important to him “because I now had access to the inter-
esting movement of literary criticism and gained the friendship of men who were
authorities in English literature and language.” The intellectual connection with
Heilman was made soon after Voegelin moved to LSU. As Voegelin worked his
way back into the primary documents from which the History of Political Ideas
would grow, as his understanding of these documents deepened and changed,
he came to believe that consultation with scholars from various disciplines—
Greek philologists, theologians, specialists in ancient myths, as well as literary
critics—was a central part of his enterprise.
The personal and social dimensions of the friendship were likewise estab-
lished early. In July 1944 Voegelin wrote a long letter from Harvard telling
Heilman that Lissy had written him about the chicken creole she had enjoyed at
the Heilmans’ the previous Sunday; he added that he was jealous because he had
to put up with Harvard people and dull Sundays. He had been able, however, to
learn certain things in Harvard Yard. He wrote:
6. For documents and newspaper clippings relating to the controversies involving Burke,
Oppenheimer, and Cowley, see Heilman Papers, accession 1000–2–71–16, box 11, folders 7–10 and
12. Correspondence and documents relating to the administrative business of the English depart-
ment while he was executive officer are to be found in the Robert B. Heilman Papers, accession
1000–2–71–16, boxes 1–12, as well as in correspondence found throughout the twenty-nine acces-
sions. See also the note to Letter 40, Robert B. Heilman to Eric Voegelin, October 14, 1952, in the
Voegelin Papers, box 63, folder 11. Heilman also published articles on these affairs; see Heilman,
“Cowley as University Professor: Episodes in a Societal Neurosis” (Horns of Plenty: Malcolm Cowley
and His Generation 1, no. 3 [fall 1988]: 12–25); and “Burke as Political Threat: A Chronicle of the
1950s” (Horns of Plenty: Malcolm Cowley and His Generation 2, no. 1 [spring 1989]: 19–26).
7. Eric Voegelin, Autobiographical Reflections, ed. Ellis Sandoz (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State
University Press, 1989), 59. Brooks, Warren, and Heilman were active participants in the debates
occurring within the discipline of literary criticism and were members of the movement generally
known as “the New Criticism,” which opposed the hegemony of historical studies in the study
and interpretation of literature. Intermittent discussions of and/or references to some of these is-
sues may be found in Letters 35, 56, 57, 64, 65, 66, 137.
8. Protesting to Heilman in 1981, Voegelin asserted that “my business consists in knowing peo-
ple from whom I can learn something” (Letter 146).
Introduction 5
you learn a lot here about the war. For instance, that it will be over before next
spring. Reason: the grass in the Harvard Yard. The lawns were trampled into
mud by the army; this year they were reseeded and fenced in: —the vox pop-
uli says: the Corporation would not invest $1 in grass-seed, unless they had
precise information that the new grass will stay and not be trampled down
again—by a crop of soldiers. —I also know when the next world war will start.
The statisticians have found that there is a 100% correlation between the out-
break of world wars and the celebration of world fairs in Switzerland. World
fairs in Switzerland were held in 1914 and 1939, and the wars broke duly out.
The next world fair is in 1964!! (Letter 4)
Two events later in 1944 demonstrate the trust and goodwill that had already
developed between the Heilmans and the Voegelins. Acting as agents for the
Voegelins, who were away from Baton Rouge, the Heilmans purchased a house
on their behalf. Bob also accompanied Eric to his naturalization hearing where
he would testify to Voegelin’s “potential for good citizenship.”
From the first the two men seem to have been drawn together by a recognition
that they were engaged in a common enterprise and that they shared common
philosophical and academic values. Both were committed to an understanding
of literature as expressions of the human experience, to precision of linguistic
expression, and to excellence in scholarship. Moreover, they shared an opposi-
tion to positivism and historicism in the social sciences and humanities. Each
commented on the other’s work during the first three years of the correspon-
dence. In 1946 Voegelin wrote an eight-page letter commenting on the manu-
script of Heilman’s work in progress, an analysis of Shakespeare’s King Lear.
Heilman incorporated some of Voegelin’s suggestions, which included quota-
tions from Goethe, into the final manuscript, published in 1948 as This Great
Stage: Image and Structure in King Lear. The next letter in the correspondence,
dated November 4, 1947, contains responses by Heilman to one of Voegelin’s
working manuscripts for the History of Political Ideas. Nine days later Voegelin
wrote his now-famous letter on The Turn of the Screw by Henry James. The
intellectual dimension of the friendship was thus firmly established by the time
the Heilmans moved to Seattle in 1948.
As befits such a friendship, the correspondence between Heilman and Voe-
gelin ranged over many topics. From family matters to LSU gossip to travelogues,
9. Heilman, Professor, 91, 93. For Heilman’s complete recollection of Voegelin, see pp. 85–102.
10. Robert Bechtold Heilman, This Great Stage: Image and Structure in King Lear (Baton Rouge:
Louisiana State University Press, 1948).
from brief exchanges upon current political and cultural issues to extended com-
ments on academic politics, from substantial exchanges on philosophical and
literary issues to extensive commentaries on each other’s manuscripts and publi-
cations, Heilman and Voegelin reveal the depth and warmth of their friendship
in these letters. Heilman’s admiration for Voegelin and his work took several
forms: He would praise Voegelin’s insights in his latest manuscript or article; he
eagerly commented on and edited Voegelin’s manuscripts; and he campaigned
to keep Voegelin in the United States when Voegelin began to look for a differ-
ent position in the early 1950s. Voegelin’s affection and respect for Heilman’s
skills as a literary critic and writer were articulated in attempts to persuade
Heilman to return to LSU, in praise for his work on Shakespeare and drama as
well as for his elegant English style, in his invitation to Heilman to lecture to
students in Munich, and in the eagerness with which he looked forward to vis-
its to or from Heilman.
Heilman’s admiration for Voegelin’s work and Voegelin’s confidence and trust
in Heilman appear early, for example in the following exchange of 1952:
I am coming with a humble request today. Enclosed you will find the MS of
the first chapter of the History of Political Ideas, which [is] supposed to develop
the principles of interpretation for the whole subsequent study. The chapter,
thus, has a certain importance, both as the first one and as the statement of
principles. Hence, I should like to have it written as well as my inevitable
shortcomings will allow. I wonder whether you would read it (it has only thir-
teen pages), and while reading it mark on the margin any awkwardness that
still will need ironing out. Of course, I know that you are busy and that my re-
quest smacks of impertinence; and I shall not be surprised if you tell me flatly
that you just don’t have the time for it. Nevertheless, you will see that this is
not the sort of thing that I could give to just anybody for correction; and you
are simply my last resort. (Letter 37)
Ten days later Heilman replied:
That you ask me to read the MS is of course only an honor. . . .

You know how much I relish getting each piece of the opus that comes
along. Once again this time the usual experience, within my own limits, of
feeling let in on a complete new world, of having it organized, of seeing some
of the time how it can be used, and of having here and there the excitement of
finding a correspondence—so it seems—to some little idea of my own. (Letter
38)
Introduction 7
In the same letter, Heilman detailed how he approached the editing of Voe-
gelin’s manuscript:
As for reading the MS, that I have done with tireless literalness, putting
down—and often at what length!—every measly little question or uncertainty
or ignorance or stupidity that came to me, on the theory that the business here
was to try to be helpful, and that it was better to risk being a bonehead and
raise the issues than to look brighter, perhaps, and let them go unraised. You
will have to labor through my notes, of course, but it won’t take you very long
to decide whether they are idiotic or really have [a] point. I am selfish enough
to hope that a few of them do have a point, but realistic enough not to have
too many illusions about it. I decided that you know me well enough so that in
asking me to read the MS you knew precisely how much risk you took of get-
ting a well-meaning incomprehension that would have to be taken as the bale
of chaff amid the few grains of positive assistance. (Letter 38)
In Autobiographical Reflections (1973), Voegelin would gratefully recall this ser-

vice of twenty years earlier.
I especially want to mention the help extended by Robert B. Heilman, who

introduced me to certain secrets of the American history of literature and who
was kind enough to help me with my difficulties in acquiring an idiomatic
English style. I still remember as most important one occasion when he went
through a manuscript of mine, of about twenty pages, and marked off every
single idiomatic mistake, so that I had a good list of the mistakes that I had to
improve generally. Heilman’s analysis, I must say, was the turning point in my
understanding of English and helped me gradually to acquire a moderate mas-
tery of the language.
Heilman’s admiration for Voegelin’s work was often accompanied by frustration

that he lacked sufficient philosophical training to comprehend and make use of
it in his own work. In his response to The Ecumenic Age, he wrote, “As to the
hundreds of supporting ideas developed in the course of the exegesis, I only wish
I had what it would take to take them in, naturalize them, and make them pro-
ductive citizens in my own intellectual economy. Alas!” (Letter 139). Despite his
11. The manuscript with Heilman’s comments and corrections may be found in the Voegelin
Papers, box 65, folder 1. It is designated there as Introduction to Order and History, vol. 1, Israel
and Revelation, 1956, TS, Robert B. Heilman to Eric Voegelin, May 13, 1952.
12. Voegelin, Autobiographical Reflections, 59.
feelings of inadequacy, Heilman committed himself to helping Voegelin improve

his English fluency and this commitment represents a concrete and continuing
manifestation throughout the friendship of his belief in the value and quality of
Voegelin’s work.
His commitment was not confined to direct commentary on Voegelin’s manu-
scripts and publications. When Eugene Webb was preparing a glossary of Voe-
gelin’s terms for inclusion in his book, Eric Voegelin: Philosopher of History, Heilman
read and commented on the entire glossary. In a note accompanying his com-
mentary, Heilman wrote to Webb that
In a sense I am making the same kind of notes here that I have generally
made on EV texts and then asked him about, usually eliciting a deep sigh
meaning the labored suppression of impatience, which appears in sentences
beginning, “Vell, you see, Bop,” etc. I think that the problems represented in
my queries are the same problems that arise in well-intending, favorable read-
ers who presumably have some kind of intellectual equipment but are not pro-
fessional theologians or metaphysicians. To that extent I think they are worth
considering.
What lies behind them is my most earnest wish that Eric would get across to
people to whom he is not getting across, not getting across, I think, less be-
cause of foreignness of the ideas than because of the impenetrability of the lin-
guistic medium.
Believing that Voegelin was a national asset and should be kept in the United
States, Heilman made various attempts to advocate Voegelin’s hiring at the Uni-
versity of Washington. He also encouraged Voegelin’s interests in positions at
Yale and Johns Hopkins and, in the case of Yale, counseled Voegelin on the pol-
itics of the situation. Voegelin decided, however, to leave the United States for a
professorship and the opportunity to establish an institute for political science at
the University of Munich. While at Munich, he returned to the United States
periodically to teach at the University of Notre Dame. During one of these so-
journs at Notre Dame, he was mugged returning home from town one evening.
When Heilman inquired whether the unpleasant experience might destroy
Voegelin’s willingness to return to America, Voegelin assured him that it had not
(see Letter 91).
13. Robert B. Heilman to Eugene Webb, July 18, 1979, Heilman Papers, accession 1000–7–
90–60, folder VF 1933.
14. See Letters 17, 20, 23, 38, 66, 90 (especially), and Voegelin’s response in Letter 91. After Voe-
gelin told Heilman that he was returning to the United States in order to take a position at the
Introduction 9
Voegelin’s respect for Heilman as a friend and colleague also found expression
early in the correspondence. In the spring of 1949 Voegelin announced: “You
will have heard that [William O.] Scroggs is retiring; we want a bigger and bet-
ter dean; we want Heilman—I am a member of the boosters’ club” (Letter 22).
Four years later in 1953, Voegelin tried again to persuade Heilman to return to
LSU: “Bob [Harris] has told Pete Taylor to use the new Boyd Professorships to
get some good people back here, first of all you. Would you consider that a pos-
sibility? $9600” (Letter 46). Heilman’s negative response with explanation af-
forded Voegelin an additional opportunity to reaffirm his admiration and respect
for Heilman’s quality as a literary critic. He wrote:
It is certainly a matter of great regret to us that you roundly refuse even to con-
sider the possibility of coming back here—though this possibility up to now is
no more than an idea thrown in[to] a conversation with the Dean. Your rea-
sons are clear to me, in the sense of clarity of expression, but the professed
“confidence” crisis is not clear to me at all with regard to its basis in reality.
Look at your “Alcestis and The Cocktail Party”—what else, for heaven’s sake, do
you want by way of achievement as a literary critic? Or look at the incidental
remark in your letter: “This view of naturalistic tragedy that man is good
enough, or the counter-view . . . that man is exclusively a son of a bitch.” There
you have formulated the two halves of Calvinism and Pelagianism into which
in America the wholeness of man has fallen apart. (Letter 48)
After learning that Heilman had won the Explicator Prize for 1956 with Magic in
the Web: Action and Language in Othello—a work he much admired—Voegelin
wrote “do you begin to believe now that you are quite good? I hope Ruth is
hammering it into you” (Letter 76).
Perhaps one of the greatest and most telling testaments to Voegelin’s respect
Hoover Institution, Stanford University, Heilman wrote: “We were delighted to hear from you
both that you will be at Stanford, which has obviously beaten everybody to the punch, and there-
fore undermined my usual inclination to feel that the actuality of that place is generally less than
the reputation. Cleanth and I were both remarking that we’d failed to get any action out of our
own institutions. Three cheers for Stanford” (Letter 112).
15. See also Letters 47, 48, 49, and 50 for further exchanges on the Boyd professorship issue.
Voegelin himself was selected as one of the three original Boyd Professors at LSU in 1953.
16. The Explicator, a literary magazine published at the University of South Carolina during the
1950s, ran an annual contest to choose “the best book of explication de texte.” The judges who
chose Heilman’s book for this award were Elizabeth Nitchie of Goucher College, Charles C.
Walcutt of Queens College, and William K. Wimsatt of Yale University.
and admiration appears in a letter of 1964: “May I venture a question both hum-
ble and impertinent? Could you come to Munich, not only to visit with us, but
also to give a talk to our students? They have heard about you, as you can imag-
ine, and would appreciate it greatly to see you in the flesh and to have you for a
discussion” (Letter 92). After Heilman had lectured to Voegelin’s seminar, Voe-
gelin reported:
And now, most important, your lectures. They were greatly appreciated by
the students and the staff of the Institute. Not only because of their content,
but above all because of their linguistic quality and delivery. With regard to the
public lecture I heard from students that they were not able to follow you in
every detail, but that it did not matter as they were entranced by the music of
your language—what higher compliment could be paid to a Shakespearean
scholar? As to the content—the role given to Shakespeare—your analysis
moves along the same line as our studies do in the Institute; and as far as art is
concerned, they run parallel to [Hans] Sedlmayr’s studies on modern art as a
cult. . . . May I add, together with my admiration for these splendid lectures,
my thanks for the impression you have made on the students. What these
German boys need most, is to be confronted with solid examples of humanis-
tic culture—and you certainly have confronted them. (Letter 103)
Voegelin admired and envied Heilman’s mastery of English language style,

and as we have seen he was very grateful for the help that Heilman had extended
to him throughout the years of their friendship. Although he very often fol-
lowed Heilman’s editorial advice without objection, he was forced to eschew this
advice on other occasions because of the philosophical implications such changes
would bring with them. On these occasions Voegelin’s affection for his friend is
evident in the explanations he gave for his failure to take Heilman’s advice. In
his 1952 response to Heilman’s marking of the manuscript for chapter 1 of Order
and History, Voegelin wrote:
There were . . . a few emendations which I hesitated to accept, and I should

like to explain one of the two of the hesitations—partly in order to justify my
rebellious conduct, partly because the illumination which I received from your
correction might also be of interest to you. For, even though I did not accept
the emendation, it stirred up extremely interesting problems in a philosophy
of language. Let me give you an example:
“This horror induced Plato . . . to make the true order of society depen-
dent on the rule of men whose proper attunement to divine being man-
ifests itself in their true theology.”
Introduction 11
You suggest to change the end of the sentence to: “. . . in their possessing (or
mastering) the true theology.” I did not follow your suggestion, though I am
fully aware that it would bring a substantial improvement in style, for the fol-
lowing reason: In the history of philosophy, from Plato to Schelling, there
rages the great debate on the question: who possesses whom? Does man pos-
sess a theology or does a theology possess man? . . . If I insert the verb possess
into the passage in question I prejudge a theoretical issue that is a major topic
in the work—and besides I would prejudge it in the wrong direction. The only
permissible solution would be [a] cumbersome dialectical formula (“possess,
while being possessed by” or something of the sort) that would divert atten-
tion from the main purpose of the sentence. So I left it, though with regrets.
(Letter 39)
In 1974 (Letter 133) Heilman, commenting on Voegelin’s offprint “Reason:

The Classic Experience,” raised his concerns with Voegelin’s use of the word ten-
sion in the phrase “tension toward the ground.” In 1976 Heilman noted again
Voegelin’s nonidiomatic use of the word. This time Voegelin explained:
As always I could learn a lot from your detailed praise and criticism (even
with page-references!). And I am deeply in sorrow about the “tension” of
human existence which is characterized by its direction toward the ground of
existence. I simply do not know how to describe this phenomenon other than
by the word tension which the Latins have already used to render the Greek
tasis or tonos in reality. The Latin tensio derives from the verb tendere, which
means, just as the English tend, being stretched or tending in a certain direc-
tion toward something. I am a bit at a loss to understand why the philosophi-
cal meaning of tension, which stresses the directional factor in the existential
tension, should cause such difficulty? Especially since the cognitive direction
of consciousness is covered by the related term intentionality. . . .
But obviously, such questions need talk rather than writing.
We shall arrive in London on July 11th, and probably stay until the four-
teenth. Then we shall try to organize some visit to the southern cathedrals
(Salisbury, Winchester, Canterbury, not to forget Stonehenge). We are looking
forward very much to seeing you both as soon as possible. (Letter 140)
Voegelin’s affection for his friend Bob found expression in a letter Voegelin
wrote from Munich in 1959 when Heilman’s son, Pete, who was traveling in Eu-
rope, landed in Munich.
I happened to stand on the balcony . . . when he came down the street, and
recognized him immediately by his gait and general appearance, so closely it
resembled yours. And that resemblance was even more striking at closer inspec-
tion—not only his features, but his gestures, his way of throwing back his head,
of being deliberate and thoughtful, his careful speech, his choice vocabulary, his
wellbred gentleness, and above all his way of being articulate. It was a curious
experience to talk with the younger edition of an old friend. (Letter 84)
From the beginning of the correspondence in the 1940s, Heilman and Voe-
gelin had participated in a common quest for understanding literature, espe-
cially tragedy. The last work written by Heilman and sent by him to Voegelin
was Tragedy and Melodrama, published in 1968. After Heilman published The
Iceman, the Arsonist, and the Troubled Agent: Tragedy and Melodrama on the
Modern Stage (1973), he did not send Voegelin a copy on the grounds that it only
extended the argument of Tragedy and Melodrama. He writes: “My flamboyantly
entitled The Iceman, the Arsonist, and the Troubled Agent . . . came out a few
weeks ago. Since it is only a continuation of Tragedy and Melodrama, with more
recent drama as the subject, but no new theory to speak of, I will spare you by
not sending you a copy” (Letter 131). That he was working on The Ways of the
World: Comedy and Society (1978), Heilman mentioned in Letter 142. Possibly he
did not send Voegelin a copy, for it does not appear in the Eric Voegelin Library,
which was given in its entirety to the Institute of Political Science of the Uni-
versity of Erlangen by Lissy Voegelin.
Heilman continued into the late 1970s to work on tragedy and melodrama as
genres that expressed modern experiences, ideas that he and Voegelin had shared
into the late 1950s and early 1960s. He also extended his work to dramatic com-
edy. During this same time Voegelin’s interests were expanding. Commenting
upon his recently published Anamnesis: Zur Theorie der Geschichte und Politik
(1966), Voegelin wrote, “I wanted to experiment with a new literary form in phi-
losophy” (Letter 110). In 1967, he wrote Heilman: “You see, I am degenerating
more and more into a theologian” (Letter 111). By 1973 the scope of Voegelin’s
work included archaeological and prehistorical questions (Letter 132). Thus,
by 1976, Voegelin’s and Heilman’s academic paths had substantially diverged,
17. I find no written record that Voegelin commented on this book, although there is an earlier
letter in which Voegelin commented on Heilman’s article “Fashions in Melodrama,” which later
became part of Tragedy and Melodrama: Versions of Experience (Seattle: University of Washington
Press, 1968). In Letter 84, Voegelin commented that after reading “Fashions in Melodrama” he was
gratified “to see that we are both on the same track.”
18. Later, The Ways of the World: Comedy and Society (Seattle: University of Washington Press,
1978) won the Christian Gauss Prize of Phi Beta Kappa.
Introduction 13
a divergence acknowledged in Voegelin’s response to Heilman’s remarks on The

Ecumenic Age: “But I must tell you that I am deeply touched by the time and
labor you have invested in reading a book that, after all, moves somewhat on the
periphery of your main interests” (Letter 140). This divergence, and perhaps
other factors, would lead to a lessening in the frequency of letters, a change in
the pattern of letters exchanged, and ultimately to what Heilman would call a
“thinning:”
The disparity between the Giver and the Taker roles led, as it seemed to me it
must, to a thinning of our relationship. . . . Listening, however enthusiastic,
was not enough. I knew that Eric felt pressed by the vastness of the intellectual
tasks in which he was engaged, and by the sense of a rapidly diminishing time
in which to carry them out. I came to feel that I could be most helpful by not
taking up time he could use more profitably in his study. We gradually reduced
the number of our visits to the Voegelins, but there was never any diminution
of their wonderful cordiality.
An Exemplary Year in the Correspondence

While in the late correspondence there is very little discussion of ideas, from
the late 1940s into the early 1960s there were seven significant exchanges (of two
or more letters each) of ideas and statements of philosophical principles. One of
the most important exchanges took place in 1956. That year both men pub-
lished major works; Heilman published his study of Othello, Magic in the Web,
on which he had been working at least since 1951, and Voegelin published the
first volume of Order and History—Israel and Revelation—the first book-length
study to result from The History of Political Ideas, on which he had worked since
1939. These publications launched one of the most important exchanges of
19. Heilman, Professor, 102.

20. Of the 151 letters in the men’s forty-year correspondence, 11 were exchanged in 1956, com-
pared with 13 in 1964 and 10 in 1969. Of the approximately 126,000 words in the entire corre-
spondence, the 1956 letters contain approximately 8,500 words while the 1964 and 1969 letters
contain ca. 6,150 and ca. 4,500 words respectively. While the 1964 and 1969 letters are important
for the friendship between the two, they are much less important as exchanges of ideas than the
1956 letters.
21. For a discussion of the history and vicissitudes of this proposed work, see Thomas A.
Hollweck and Ellis Sandoz, “General Introduction to the Series,” in the Collected Works of Eric
Voegelin, vol. 19, History of Political Ideas, vol. 1, Hellenism, Rome, and Early Christianity, ed.
Athanasios Moulakis (Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 1997).
ideas in the entire correspondence, as well as the opportunity, noted above, for
each to acknowledge publicly the influence and contributions of the other.
The 1956 exchange opens with a letter from Heilman requesting a reference
for his Guggenheim Fellowship application. He extended congratulations to
Voegelin on his own Guggenheim and then proceeded to “a lesser thing: do you
get away from Baton Rouge about June 1? My Othello book should be out near
the end of the month, and I want to send you a copy, but I don’t want to have
one either come when you aren’t there, or become a burden in some foreign
port” (Letter 58). Voegelin replied briefly on May 19 that he would be happy to
write for Heilman’s Guggenheim and then provided his schedule through an
early November return to Baton Rouge. He concluded, “And now for the ‘lesser
thing,’ you understater—your Othello. I am looking very much forward to it; I
am delighted to hear that you want to send me [a] copy fresh from the oven; and
it would be splendid if it were here about the 5th or 6th” (Letter 59). On June 8
Voegelin confirmed that he had received Magic in the Web and registered sur-
prise at having the book dedicated to him, “a complete outsider to the ‘profes-
sion.’ ” Pressed for time, and leaving for a conference in Pennsylvania, he
promised to take the book with him (Letter 60).
On July 20 Heilman wrote to Voegelin from Cortland, New York—he was
conducting research at the Cornell Library in nearby Ithaca—that he and Ruth
were in the East for part of the summer and were hoping to make “at least an
overnight stop in Cambridge to see you both” (Letter 61). Voegelin quickly
wrote back on July 23 to “hasten to get our schedules straightened out so that we
may get together if possible.” Voegelin indicated that he would have to be in
Cambridge for two more weeks and that he was very busy reading page proofs,
constructing indexes, and writing a preface for Israel and Revelation. But, he
asserted, “I want to see you at all cost” (Letter 62).
Before Heilman could reply, Voegelin wrote on July 24 to convey again his
gratitude for the dedication: “Last night I finished reading your Magic in the
Web—and at last I can thank you for the dedication in the only way I can thank,
by response to the contents” (Letter 63). His response opens with the observa-
tion that the formal quality of the book—its construction, which requires the
reader “to read from the beginning in order to get its full import”—“is inti-
mately bound up with your method and your philosophical position.” Voegelin
identified “exhaustion of the source” as the first principle of Magic, and explained
that this formal principle was the fundamental attitude with which he ap-
22. Voegelin constructed three indexes for Israel and Revelation: Biblical References, Modern
Authors, and Subjects and Names.
Introduction 15
proached classical literary texts himself: “no adequate interpretation of a major

work is possible, unless the interpreter assumes the role of the disciple who has
everything to learn from the master.” Exhaustion of the source is rooted,
Voegelin continued, in several assumptions: (1) that the author “knew” what he
was doing; (2) that the parts of the text work together; and (3) that the “texture
of the linguistic corpus” gives rise to meaning, thus precluding any preconcep-
tions vis-à-vis characters or motifs brought to the work by the interpreter.
“Under all these aspects,” he wrote, “your book is a model of interpretation.”
The second hermeneutic principle that accompanies exhaustion of the
source, he continued, requires that “the terminology of the interpretation, if not
identical with the language symbols of the source . . . must not be introduced
from the ‘outside,’ but be developed in close contact with the source itself for
the purpose of differentiating the meanings which are apparent in the work.”
This principle must be rigorously followed to avoid imposing an interpretation
that the work itself does not sustain. Voegelin complimented Heilman’s disci-
pline in adhering to this second principle, which “forced upon you a richness of
vocabulary for expressing nuances of emotions and ethical attitudes.”
Next he asserted that the work of the literary critic is simply an analytical, ra-
tional continuation of the poet’s work along the tracks laid out in the work of
art itself. The discipline of rigorously adhering to the language of the play ex-
tends from a “strand of compact motifs to the more immediate differentiations
and distinctions in terms of a phenomenology of morals.” Because philosophi-
cal anthropology lies at the heart of literary criticism, and because of the com-
pactness of the symbolic language of the poet, the literary critic can only rely
upon the “linguistic corpus” until he has exhausted the meanings embedded
therein. At that point the critic must develop a “system” of interpretation that
extends the poet’s compact symbolizations in the same direction indicated by
the poet into a philosophically critical language. In other words, the critic
must translate the analytical immediacy of the poet’s compact symbolism “of the
whole of human nature carried by the magic in the web,” into the rational order
of his work, in which the “whole of human nature” must “now be carried by the
23. Voegelin is groping toward an adequate articulation of what he later designates “reflective
distance.” Thirteen years later, in “Postscript: On Paradise and Revolution” (finished in December
1969) to the letter on Henry James’s The Turn of the Screw, Voegelin was moving toward formulat-
ing a symbol for denoting this awareness, which in his late work would be called “reflective dis-
tance.” In the postscript, however, he used the phrase “the critical consciousness of reality” as a
requirement for a reader, “critical distance” that must be maintained by the artist at some level to
make the work of art possible, and “critical reader” who must supply a “secondary critical dis-
tance” if the artist does not develop it (see Southern Review, n.s., 7 [1971]: 27, 39–40).
magic of the system.” “And here,” Voegelin enthused, “I am now full of admira-
tion for your qualities as a philosopher. For you have arranged the problem of
human nature in the technically perfect order of progress from the peripheral to
the center of personality. . . . You begin with . . . the problem of appearance and
reality; and you end with the categories of existence and spiritual order.”
Voegelin found Heilman’s “conception of ‘parts’ of a tragedy” generally im-
portant for the historical and social sciences, as well as for literary criticism. He
wrote:
You have used, or created, an ontological category that brings to philosophical

consciousness that action and language, body and soul, emotion and expres-
sion, experience and symbol, etc., though they must be distinguished, are all
“parts” of a whole, in this case of “tragedy” as a literary genus. The ultimate
consubstantiality of all being is recognized, when everything—from a storm,
or a sword, or a part of the body, through actions and speeches, to essences of
character and spiritual transfigurations of a soul—is part of the web that mys-
teriously carries the meaning of being and existence. (Letter 63)
Finally, Voegelin offered a point, “if not of disagreement, at least of hesitation in

acceptance,” in reference to Heilman’s formulation of a modern variant of trag-
edy: a situation in which a character intended as tragic “never knows what hit
him.” Voegelin pondered whether the term tragedy applied under such circum-
stances and then raised the more general problem of a particular culture’s spiri-
tual substance and the necessity of creating an appropriate symbolic form to
articulate that substance. The letter of July 24 ends with his observation that
We have no tragedies today. The phenomenon of the mass man cannot be

brought on stage authentically. The appropriate methods for describing it are
24. In his friend’s explication of Othello, Voegelin recognized an affirmation from Shakespeare
of a crucial component in his developing philosophy, that is, the consubstantiality of all being and
the access of that consubstantiality through the concrete consciousness of an individual human
being. In The New Science of Politics (1952) Voegelin had formulated this insight: “Science starts
from the prescientific existence of man, from his participation in the world with his body, soul, in-
tellect, and spirit, from his primary grip on all the realms of being that is assured to him because
his own nature is their epitome” (Collected Works of Eric Voegelin, vol. 5, Modernity without
Restraint: The Political Religions; The New Science of Politics; Science, Politics, and Gnosticism, ed.
Manfred Henningsen [Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 2000], 91; see also the Collected
Works of Eric Voegelin, vol. 6, Anamnesis, ed. David Walsh, trans. M. J. Hanak, Gerhart Nie-
meyer et al. [Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 2002], 398).
Introduction 17
again philosophy, the reflections of the moralist—or the work of the literary
critic—all of them addressed not to the general public (which has ceased to
exist) but to the enclaves of spiritual and intellectual culture that survive pre-
cariously the periods of disorder.
After this the Heilmans visited the Voegelins in Cambridge, where they had
ample opportunity to discuss Magic in the Web before Heilman answered the
July 24 letter in a letter dated August 19. After thanking Voegelin for a generous
and thorough reading, Heilman proceeded to the substance of Voegelin’s cri-
tique: “Some of the principles I can consciously claim,” he wrote, “others I fear
I have just blundered into” (Letter 64). He then considered Voegelin’s central
proposition that the interpreter must assume “the role of the disciple who has
everything to learn from the master.”
In a sense one can get out of it only what one brings to it; except perhaps that
if one, so to speak, lies open to it fully enough and long enough, it may enable
him actually to effect some transcendence of his own limitations (an interest-
ing possibility, that, which just came into my consciousness, as I was writing
this, and which needs further thought). But always in writing I wished I had a
Voegelin vocabulary for the phenomena of mind and spirit present in the play.
(Letter 64)
Heilman wrote that he hoped to have displayed “an adequate order of ideas (‘the
whole conception of human nature’) by means of which to make the critical
statement.” He asserted that the conception of parts was implicitly assumed in
critical practice even though it did not appear to have widespread formal accep-
tance in contemporary criticism. In fact, he acknowledged that his elaboration
of the doctrine of parts was aimed at the neo-Aristotelians at Chicago who
seemed to him “rigidly doctrinaire” and who would, at any rate, probably “jump
all over me.” Finally, he reminded Voegelin that during their visit in Cambridge
they had talked about the possibility of a “modern variant of tragedy” but that
he would have to think more about it.
At this point in the letter, Heilman raised an issue that would provide
Voegelin the occasion to elaborate upon his own vocation as a scholar. Heilman
observed:
Two theoretical points of mine you did not mention, probably because
they seemed either obvious one[s] on the one hand, or on the other too per-
verse to talk about. I mention these only because I do not feel completely sure
of myself and wondered how the propositions looked to you. The first was the
effort to distinguish two aspects of a work—the “was” and the “is.” To this for-
mulation I was driven by the dominance of historical studies, in which it is as-
sumed that the work has a single reality which is derivable only from the
historical context. This seems dangerous nonsense to me (and I need not ex-
plain to you that I do not contemn historical studies), for it appears to deny
the existence of a non-historical permanence which I find inseparable from
myth, fable, the artistic formulations of the imagination, etc. . . . The second
point followed from this: my assumption of the power of the critic to view the
work, at least in part, non-historically, i.e., to transcend the intellectual and
cultural climate of his own time and thus to be able to identify in the work
those elements that conform to the eternal truth of things. The historical rela-
tivists argue, of course, not only that the work is relative only to its times, but
that the mind of the critic is relative only to his own times, in which he is
hopelessly enclosed. Therefore the practice of literary history is the only true
humility in the literary student; the critic who pretends to be doing anything
but historicizing is an egomaniac. So I postulate his share in the divine power
to see all times in simultaneity. Frivolous? Reckless? (Letter 64)
He ended the letter with the hope that “it isn’t another eight years until we see
you and Lissie again.”
Voegelin wrote again three days after Heilman’s letter of August 19. The gen-
eral phenomenon identified by Heilman in his letter was familiar to Voegelin,
and he asserted that it was, indeed, the Victorian hangover of historical rela-
tivism.
The various questions which you indicate in your letter seem to me to be all
connected with efforts to find the critical basis beyond historical relativism,
and by that token they are connected with each other. The question of the
“was” and the “is” that you raise is, for instance, in my opinion only another
facet of the question raised earlier in your letter that, on the one hand, one can
only get out of the play what one brings to it while, on the other hand, if one
lays oneself open to the play, one can get considerably more out of it than one
thought one had brought to it. Let me dwell a bit on this issue, because it is
after all the central issue of my life as a scholar and apparently yours, too.
The occupation with works of art, poetry, philosophy, mythical imagina-
tion, and so forth, makes sense only, if it is conducted as an inquiry into the
nature of man. That sentence, while it excludes historicism, does not exclude
history, for it is peculiar to the nature of man that it unfolds its potentialities
historically. Not that historically anything “new” comes up—human nature is
Introduction 19
always wholly present—but there are modes of clarity and degrees of compre-
hensiveness in man’s understanding of his self and his position in the world.
Obviously Plato and Shakespeare are clearer and more comprehensive in the
understanding of man than is Dr. Jones of Cow College. Hence, the study of
the classics is the principal instrument of self-education; and if one studies
them with loving care, as you most truly observe, one all of a sudden discovers
that one’s understanding of a great work increases (and also one’s ability to
communicate such understanding) for the good reason that the student has in-
creased through the process of study—and that after all is the purpose of the
enterprise. (At least it is my purpose in spending the time of my life in the
study of prophets, philosophers, and saints). . . . History is the unfolding of
the human Psyche; historiography is the reconstruction of the unfolding
through the psyche of the historian. The basis of historical interpretation is the
identity of substance (the psyche) in the object and the subject of interpreta-
tion; and its purpose is participation in the great dialogue that goes through
the centuries among men about their nature and destiny. And participation is
impossible without growth in stature (within the personal limitations) toward
the rank of the best; and that growth is impossible unless one recognizes au-
thority and surrenders to it. (Letter 65)
The last clause of this passage—“that growth is impossible unless one recog-
nizes authority and submits to it”—deepens the meaning of the central princi-
ple of Voegelin’s literary criticism, which had been formulated with the aim of
accurately interpreting a work of the imagination. Heilman had responded to
that formulation with the (sudden) thought “that if one, so to speak, lies open
to it fully enough and long enough, it may enable him actually to effect some
transcendence of his own limitations” (Letter 64). Now, Voegelin clarified that
“submitting to authority” and “learning from the master” leads one to the dis-
covery of what one could not have expected prior to the submission, that is, the
education of the disciple. Submission to the authority of a major work or writer—
a Plato or a Shakespeare, for example—represents the crucial stance for one who
would educate himself in dialogue with a classical writer, and who would thus
25. As a rather amusing twist to the idea of lying open to a work of literature, I quote the last
few lines of Voegelin’s letter to Heilman on Henry James’s The Turn of the Screw: “I hope you do
not take it in ill that I pester you with this long letter. It is, of course, an unmitigated presumption
that I should express myself at length on James, exactly one week after I have read any work at all
of his for the first time. Nevertheless, I think, you will have seen that just now I am lying flat on
my stomach in admiration for James. And such a prostrate position sometimes distorts the per-
spective” (Letter 11).
participate in “the great dialogue that goes through the centuries among men
about their nature and destiny.”
At this point Voegelin turned the tables on Heilman’s historical relativists,
noting that it is the relativists who are indeed the egomaniacs: because they
maintain that no one can be understood, they themselves do not have to con-
front their own mediocrity. One would not even need to address their argument
were it not for the social force of historical relativism:
one may well follow the Roman question: cui bono? Who profits by the as-
sumption that works of the mind are so thoroughly determined by historical
circumstance that the pursuit of truth about the nature of man is not recog-
nizable in them? The answer is obvious: the spiteful mediocrity which hates
excellence. The argument of historical relativism is the defense of the little man
against recognition of greatness. If Plato is encased in the circumstances of the
4th c. B.C. and Mr. Jones in the circumstances of the 20th c. A.D. the com-
munity of the psyche is interrupted; no confrontation from man to man is
possible; the discomfort discovering and admitting one’s own smallness before
the great is averted; and above all, the obligations arising through confronta-
tion with greatness have disappeared. All men are on the same level of circum-
stanced equality. Behind the personal viciousness that puts social strength into
historical relativism, there lies the much larger issue of the revolt against God
and the escape into gnosticism. For “the measure of man is God,” and the life
of the psyche is the life in truth. By interrupting communication with those
who live in truth, the life in truth itself is avoided. Historical relativism is the
radical attack on the communication of truth through the dialogue in history.
(Letter 65)
But for a few historical examples of his point and an observation about the il-
literacy of the neo-Aristotelian “Chicago school,” the conversation that had
begun on July 24 with Voegelin’s response to Magic in the Web seems to end
here. In the antepenultimate paragraph of his letter, he mused:
The summer advances. Your visit was a high-point. To see you and Ruth
and after so many years, and in so excellent shape, was truly refreshing. I am
getting now in the years, where one has known people for a sufficient period of
time to see what has become of them. And the cases are rare where the
“promising young men” of their thirties have not become the disappointing
blighters of their fifties. But when the psyche is healthy, aging is not a blight
but a growth.
Introduction 21
Three more letters—one from Heilman and two from Voegelin—were to

follow in this remarkable year. On October 13, Heilman wrote to Voegelin after
receiving a copy of Israel and Revelation and reading Voegelin’s formal acknowl-
edgment of his contribution to Voegelin’s idiomatic English. He praised Voegelin’s
style for its “easy mastery of a technical vocabulary” that rises to a “combination of
knowledge and feeling,” that sometimes “infuses a passage with especial power,
as of the scholar and prophet in one,” and that occasionally produces “a kind of
poetic effect” (Letter 66). He continued:
It’s hardly becoming of me to go beyond the verbal medium, but I have to

say that in reading just a few pages I experience again that very rare feeling of
being in the presence not only of great learning, which is clear to all, and not
only of great learning conjoined with the seer’s passion, which is much less fre-
quent than scholarship alone, but of this combination held with a sort of
serenity in which are both power and wisdom. And here, lest I become embar-
rassing, I stop. I will read, as you know, with limited competence, but with a
lot of application and enthusiasm, and with enough gifts to learn I hope, and
with the kind of perspicacity that will enable me to steal for the embellishment
of anything I may do hereafter.
Lest the unlimited admiration of even a grammarian become corrupting, I
will for your welfare include the modifying influence of Ruth’s comment on
the book, “But it has no illustrations!”
In the same letter Heilman applauded Voegelin’s remarks on historical rela-

tivism from the previous letter and commented on the connection between
Voegelin’s statement that the study of art “makes sense only if it is conducted as
an inquiry into the nature of man” and a sentence from Israel and Revelation that
“Amnesia with regard to past achievement is one of the most important social
phenomena.” He wrote:
In teaching the literature of the past I keep feeling that the best thing one can
do with it is to try to combat the characteristic amnesia of the 20th century—
not basically an amnesia of events and phenomena (though that is always con-
spicuous) but an amnesia with regard to the full human potential. Even in the
Victorian novel (which is likely to be revered now on what seem to me to be
very insubstantial grounds, that is, that it was “really revolutionary” and saw
through the foibles of its age) I find a spiritual breadth that one hardly gets
today, for instance, a presentation of the human capacity to move toward a dis-
cipline of the ego, toward caritas. In that sense, at least, it has a view of human
nature, of human possibility, that is needed in the interest of truth. Our own
discoveries about ourselves are almost exclusively in the direction of our
Iagoism.
In a brief letter dated October 17, 1956, Voegelin thanked Heilman for his
generous letter and noted how
Ruth is most refreshing with her complaint about the lack of illustrations—in-
cidentally, I agree with her. One could do really quite something through the
addition of two dozen photographs to a work of this nature. The changing
styles of the royal portraits in Mesopotamia and Egypt are an eye-opener for
the spiritual development; they reveal subtleties that cannot be caught by the
literary texts and their interpretation. (Letter 67)
Finally, in a letter dated December 29, 1956, from Frankfurt am Main, Voe-
gelin remarked on the pressure of affairs, assured Heilman that his Guggenheim
appraisal of him (a copy of which he enclosed) had gone to the foundation in
due time, and reported on his negotiations concerning a position in Munich.
He remarked that spending Christmas in Vienna with Lissy’s family had been
quite interesting because of the number of Hungarian emigrants filling the city:
What strikes one in talking with these people (historians, journalists, etc.) is
the long-range view which they take: the manifold of the Byzantine and
Asiatic cultures, as living in the manifold of Eastern peoples, is a living reality.
Marxism is one, but not a very important, representative expression for these
people—now on the wane. What interest[s] is what will come afterwards. And
there they regret that so little is really known in the West about the under-
currents of experiences and ideas in the East. They consider it the most impor-
tant task for science, to find out a good deal more about Eastern living culture
than is known in the West today. The Western literature, including the Ameri-
can, about Communism—based as it is on the reading of a few books and ar-
ticles of persons who hold the limelight—they consider ludicrous. (Letter 68)
Over the course of the correspondence between the two friends, multiple ex-
changes of ideas like that of 1956 occurred, but in 1971 such exchanges gave way
to reports on current work or the provision of an article offprint. From January
1971 through 1984, only twenty letters passed between them; of these Heilman
wrote twelve and Voegelin eight. Heilman’s last letter to Voegelin, dated Decem-
ber 8, 1981, reads in part:
Introduction 23
How very charming and generous of you and Lissi to propose lunching
Ruth and me once again. What sponges we are—not only of the bounty of
both of you but especially of your time. I rather feel that, like ladies about to
be hanged some years back, you might well “plead your belly,” i.e., its filled
state, relinquish the lunch, assign the care of the ladies to me, and devote the
needed time to your desk. But then, alas, we should miss your wit. So I can’t
push the really sensible idea too hard. (Letter 150)
And then he ended with:
Ruth coughs, and I hear the melodies of tinnitis. But we make out. You both
sound in excellent shape. Good.
Au voir,
Best greetings to you both,
Bob
In the last years of the correspondence, Ruth and Lissy visited often on the
phone, and from time to time Bob and Eric would join them in the phone con-
versations. Since Eric and Lissy lived in Stanford, and Pete Heilman and his
family lived in Palo Alto, Bob and Ruth Heilman visited the Voegelins from
time to time when they were in the area; they last visited the Voegelins in
December 1984, about ten days before Eric’s death in January 1985. In a recol-
lection of Voegelin, Heilman wrote:
After Eric’s death the matter [of the decreasing number of visits] came up in
a conversation between Lissy and me. Perhaps I brought it up, wanting to ex-
plain myself, no doubt hoping to have been seen as considerate and helpful
rather than indifferent or unfriendly. Lissy’s comment went something like
this: “Yes, Eric noticed that you weren’t coming over as much. He wondered
why. He was very sad about it. He was very fond of you.”
In Voegelin, Heilman had encountered a thinker who “kept me on my toes

and seeing over the usual border lines” (Letter 109). Heilman would thus de-
scribe himself as the “taker” in his relationship with Voegelin, but Voegelin had
found more in Heilman: a sympathetic, enthusiastic, and imaginative reader
who was eager to attend meticulously to Voegelin’s English style. He saw also in
26. Heilman, Professor, 101.

27. Ibid., 102.
Heilman an American intellectual untainted by the dominant trends in the

philosophical thought of Europe and firmly rooted in the texts and spirit of
English and American literature and culture. When Heilman spoke of himself as
“a native informant” for Voegelin on the American South, he spoke truer than
he knew. Heilman was the “native informant” on America—an informant whom
Voegelin could trust to approach his own ideas as an intelligent and sensitive
American interlocutor. In 1928 Voegelin had described his introduction, through
the offices of his mentor John R. Commons, to the American mind:
The stranger to any culture always faces the difficulty of making his way from
the periphery, where isolated details perplex him, to the center where they can
be understood. And only rarely is he lucky enough to find this deepest mean-
ing embodied in a living person, so that almost effortlessly he obtains direct ac-
cess to the center of a culture.
Voegelin might have said the same, later, of Robert Heilman.

Beneath appearances—the decreasing number of letters exchanged, the “thin-
ning” of the friendship, as Heilman put it—ran the deep and abiding friendship
founded at LSU and nourished, thereafter, more by letters than by the infre-
quent face-to-face meetings. In 1975, Eric wrote to Bob, “It was a great pleasure
to have you all here for X-mas. With you here, I was just reminiscing, and hav-
ing seen the [Robert] Harrises in November in Charlottesville, and having let-
ters from Cleanth Brooks, Louisiana was not such a bad place at all. What was
formed at that time holds together” (Letter 135).
28. Collected Works of Eric Voegelin, vol. 1, On the Form of the American Mind, ed. Jürgen
Gebhardt and Barry Cooper, trans. Ruth Hein (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press,
1995), 1.

D E L I G H T F U L AC QU I S I T I O N
Letters 1–36, 1944–1952

1. Baton Rouge, May 27 [No Year]

Dear Eric:
To fortify—or destroy, as it might be—my easy generalization about [Wil-
liam] Blake I have checked the OHEL Bibliography (II, 347 ff.),1 and I find that
I was substantially right, although I had not known the amount of the relatively
recent work on Blake.
Editions of Works: Facsimile, 1880–1900. Of complete works, other—see:
1874, 1898 [1893] ([William Butler] Yeats and [Edwin John] Ellis); next, 1904. Of
selections, 1839, 1874, 1887, 1880, 1893. The facts indicate very limited 19th cen-
tury interest.
Biography: [Alexander] Gilchrist 1888 ff., [Frederick] Tatham 1906, others
since.
Studies: There are a number of essays, all apparently biographical and super-
ficial, scattered through the 19th century. Nothing by anybody of critical stature.
The beginning of consistent interest appears late in the century, as the following
notations show:
1869—[Algernon Charles] Swinburne
1877—[Henry Gay] Hewlett
1893—[Joseph Antoine] Milsand, Littérature anglaise et philosophie (Dijon)
1895—[Richard] Garnett
1896—James Thomson
1900—R. Kassner, Die Mystik, der Künstler, und das Leben (Leipzig)
1903—[William Butler] Yeats
1906—Richter, H., Wm. Blake (Strasburg)
1907—P. Berger, Wm. Blake: Mysticisme et Poesie (Paris; tr. D. H. Conner, 1914)
1907—Stepford Brooke
1907—[Arthur] Symons
1909—[Basil] de Selincourt
1. Oxford History of English Literature.
25
1910—[G. K.] Chesterton

1910—T. Sturge Moore, Art and Life: Wm. Blake and his Aesthetic
And many others since, “too numerous to mention,” but the following look in-
teresting for one reason or another:
B. Fehr, “Wm. Blake und die Kabbala,” in Eng. Studien, 1930
Ba Han, M., Wm. Blake: His Mysticism, Bordeaux, 1924
“ The Evolution of Blakean Philosophy, Rangoon, 1926
Pierce, F. E., “Etymology as Explanation in Blake,” Phil. Qu. 1931
White, H. C., The Mysticism of Wm. Blake, Madison, 1927
([Cleanth] Brooks doesn’t think much of the female who wrote this)
By the way, I know that you don’t need and haven’t time to read this stuff:
I send it along only because you might be curious about the details.
Sincerely,
<Bob>
<P.S. An interesting amount of continental interest in W.B.>
2. [No date]
Dear Eric,
During some talk last night I happened to mention this poem by Hardy to
Lissie, who thought you might be interested in it:
On an Invitation to the United States
My ardors for <*>emprize now lost
Since life has bared its bones to me,
I shrink to seek a modern coast
Whose riper times have yet to be;
Where the new regions claim them free
From that long drip of human tears
Which peoples old in tragedy
Have left upon the centuried years.
For, <*>wonning in those ancient lands,
Encased and lettered as a tomb,
And scored with prints of perished hands,
And chronicled with dates of doom,
Though my own Being bear no bloom
I trace the lives such scenes enshrine,
Give past exemplars present room,
And their experience count as mine.
Delightful Acquisition, 1944–1952 27
The charm of the hosts and the delightfulness of the other company and the
suavity of the schwimp and the lovely deceptive mildness of the champagne all
made a beautiful dreamless night and a clear sky this morning. Encore!
<Bob>
<* note his use of archaic words as part of [a] method of creating [an] atmo-
sphere of age of the Europe to which he belongs.>
3. University, Louisiana [No Date] [OH]

Dear Voegelin,
Did you happen to see the note on Dostoevsky by James Farrell, the Chicago
left-wing realist, in the N.Y. Times Book Review Section, January 9, 1944, p. 3?
What he says about Dostoevsky, by way of explication, ties in very prettily
with your recent remarks on (a) Russia and (b) the inevitability of suffering in the
world; and his objections to D. are a fine illustration of “optimistic rationalism.”
Regards,
Heilman
4. Cambridge, Massachusetts, July 12, 1944 [OH]

Dear Bob:
I just had an enthusiastic letter from Lissy, telling of chicken creole, nice peo-
ple and generally, a lovely Sunday she spent with you and your family—but the
chicken creole came first. I envied her very much; nothing of the sort is to be
had here; just beans, Harvard people and dull Sundays. Last night—it was terri-
bly hot—I wanted to drink a glass of beer, the first since I am here; nothing
doing: of all days it was the day of primary elections.
But then you learn a lot here about the war. For instance, that it will be over
before next spring. Reason: the grass in the Harvard Yard. The lawns were tram-
pled into mud by the army; this year they were reseeded and fenced in: —the
vox populi says: the Corporation would not invest $1 in grass-seed, unless they
had precise information that the new grass will stay and not be trampled down
again—by a crop of soldiers. I also know when the next world war will start.
The statisticians have found that there is a 100% correlation between the out-
break of world wars and the celebration of world fairs in Switzerland. World
fairs in Switzerland were held in 1914 and in 1939, and the wars broke duly out.
The next world fair is in 1964!!—that’s the sort of [thing?] you can learn no-
where but at Harvard.
Otherwise, I am drowned in German constitutional history of the Middle

Ages. It is a horrible experience, particularly the East. I am all in favor that the
Russians get East Prussia after what I have gone through with it. —By the way,
I wonder how soon they will get it: whether that [indecipherable] drive will go
on, or whether it will stop somewhere around Königsberg.
Macmillan and Harcourt-Brace, both seem to be interested now in the
“book.” But, oh!, the time they take to make up their minds! In my next life I
shall become a publisher; it seems to be a more leisurely occupation than that of
a writer. I hope very much, they will be through “considering” by September so
that I can give a definite answer to [?] Williamson.
Please, give my regards to Ruth: I regret infinitely that I could not enjoy her
company, nor the chicken creole, last Sunday, together with Lissy (please note
that Ruth’s company comes first with me, and the chicken creole second).
Yours very sincerely,
Eric Voegelin
5. Baton Rouge, July 21 [1944]

Dear Eric,
I am delighted enough at hearing from you to forgive the additional “n” with
which you adorned my name; it set Mr. [Lewis B.] Lucky and the whole
Legion Security Committee on me, being considered prima facie evidence of
enemy-alienism. And my forgiveness would have to be increased, also, by my
consideration of Ruth’s pleasure at the position which you gave her in your list
of the lovely things to be enjoyed on a Heilman Sunday. Yet I must say for Lissy
that her own placing of the chicken at the top of her joys showed, after all, a
quite exquisite tact: since her own cooking cannot be excelled, what better
point on which to offer praise to a rival? Now if you always ate at the Piccadilly,
her praise of Ruth’s chicken would have to be considered indeed to be lacking
in finesse.
Your news of the Harvard mind and its functioning is all delightful: the sto-
ries about the grass and the world fairs in Switzerland and their predictive values
have had a nice little circulation hereabouts. I hope that your search for beer is
not always impeded by the local political activities, and that the publishers has-
ten on to a quick realization of what they have got—and then start bidding
against each other.
It would be interesting to have you here to discuss all the events of the last
twenty-four hours—“fateful” ones, as the press would say: the fall of the Tojo
cabinet, the conclusion of the Democratic campaign, the progress of the war,
and most of all the events (or alleged events) inside Germany. Being victims of
the spirit of journalism, we all hung on radios all day today; nobody gets any-
thing done; and when it is all over, no one knows much either.
LSU continues its businesslike decline: at the moment we are all in a stew as
to who will succeed the deposed [Wendell H.] Stephenson. Even [John Earle]
Uhler, the Strode of LSU, has been mentioned; the very best we can hope for is
[Fred C.] Frey. Rumors fly; fama crescit eundo;  at the moment fama is, amidst
her growth, busily engaged in firing Brooks and me. After five years I am almost
used to this execution by act-of-tongue.
On personal grounds alone, but very strongly on them, we all anticipate your
return in the fall. My best wishes for a “productive” summer.
Sincerely yours,
<Bob>
6. Baton Rouge, October 25, 1944

Dear Eric,
Thank you very much for the reprints. Siger comes somewhat as an old
friend, but not one who doesn’t need further cultivation. Some of the Nietzsche
materials are familiar, but here they come in a pattern which I am glad to have.
2. The headlines for the Baton Rouge Morning Advocate on July 20, 1944, included the follow-
ing: “Six Nazis Killed in Quarrel: Disagreement over Hitler Strategy Leads to Fatal Shooting,” and
“Tojo’s Entire Government Resigns in Japanese Upset: Hirohito Plans Parley with Home Affairs
Minister to Direct Complete Reorganization, Form New Cabinet.” For July 21, 1944, they in-
cluded the following: “Hitler Reveals Army Plot to Overthrow Nazi Regime: Bomb Explosion
Fails to Kill Fuehrer; Would-be Assassin Dies; Himmler Begins Purge of ‘Usurpers,’” and “Hiro-
hito Names ‘Copremiers’ of New Jap Military Regime.”
3. Wendell H. Stephenson was professor of history and dean of the College of Arts and Sciences
in 1944. John Earle Uhler was a member of the LSU English faculty who wrote a locally contro-
versial novel, Cane Juice. The novel led to his firing; later he was reinstated with the help of the
ACLU and AAUP. He was also a member of a faction in the department opposed to Heilman,
Brooks, and Warren (see Thomas W. Cutrer, Parnassus on the Mississippi: The Southern Review
and the Baton Rouge Literary Community, 1935–1942 [Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University
Press, 1984], 18–19). Strode taught English at the University of Alabama (1914–1963), wrote travel
books, wrote a biography of Jefferson Davis, and edited Jefferson Davis’s letters. In 1949, Fred C.
Frey was dean of the university; he was replaced in 1953 by Charles E. Smith.
4. “Rumor gathers strength as it goes”: a reference to Virgil Aeneid 4.174–75.
5. Voegelin, “Siger de Brabant,” Philosophy and Phenomenological Research 4 (June 1944): 507–
26, reprinted in the Collected Works of Eric Voegelin, vol. 20, History of Political Ideas, vol. 2, ed.
Peter von Sivers (Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 1997), chap. 11.
6. Voegelin, “Nietzsche, the Crisis, and the War,” Journal of Politics 6 (1944): 177–212; reprinted
I hope that this article gets around to some of the popular philosophers who speak
so easily and knowingly of Nietzsche; and I wish there could be general circulation
of the interpretation of the meaning of the “war-guilt” business. It’s remarkably
convincing. But I enjoyed the whole thing: in the realm of information, not only
the Nietzsche but the establishing of the positions of [George] Santayana, [Stefan]
George, etc.: and in the realm of style, the nice understatement, like the one con-
cerning [Crane] Brinton, or that on [Rohan d’Olier] Butler on p. 186.
Since we’ve been on this before, may I point out three or four minor matters of
idiom? P. 198, for “despair to find” read “despair of finding;” p. 199, for “blame
others to be” read “blame others for being,” and for “ripe to fall” read “ripe and
ready to fall”; p. 202, for “insistence to create” read “insistence upon creating.”
Very sincerely,
<Bob H.>
7. Baton Rouge, November 20 [probably 1944]

Dear Eric,
I have finally read your contribution to the symposium on research in politi-
cal theory, and I have profited from it—as usual. To me it was pure, delightful
acquisition of information to read what have been the theories as to the sub-
stance of political theory; and what seemed to me to go most to the heart of the
matter is the distinction between political theory as the study of governmental
authority and political theory as including “problems of spiritual disintegration
and regeneration, and of the community-creating political myth . . .”
No idioms marked!
I tried several of the others, but truth to tell, they seemed relatively on the
surface; so I went away.
One Ruth Beattie, whom I sent to you in the fall, assures me that she will be
“eternally” grateful therefor.
All regards,
<Bob Heilman>
in the Collected Works of Eric Voegelin, vol. 10, Published Essays, 1940–1952, ed. Ellis Sandoz
(Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 2000), chap. 5.
7. On November 20–21, 1943, Voegelin participated in “Research in Political Theory: A
Symposium” at the American Political Science Association annual meeting. This was a meeting of
the Political Theory Panel of the Research Committee of the APSA. Voegelin’s contribution was
published as “Political Theory and the Pattern of General History,” American Political Science
Review 38 (1944): 746–54, reprinted in the Collected Works of Eric Voegelin, vol. 10, Published
Essays, 1940–1952, ed. Ellis Sandoz (Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 2000), chap. 6.
8. Cortland, NY, July 3, 1945 [OH]8

Dear Eric,
Here’s a ¶ from a recent Nation which, if you haven’t seen it, may amuse you.
Our trip was very hot but uneventful except for some anomalous—but ap-
parently innocuous—doings in the motor. For some reason—perhaps that I’m
having a bit of [a] hangover from my brief illness—it exhausted me, and I’ve
been good for nothing since we’ve come here. And things to be done are piled
up.
I hope that your social pleasures undergo a diminuendo so that you can get
into really exhausting work. I can say this now that we’re no longer around, for
we very much enjoyed seeing you. Our best wishes to you and to Lissie.
Cordially,
Bob
9. April 9, 1946
Dear Robert:
I have finished the Lear, —and I am still enchanted. It is a masterpiece of
careful, exhaustive analysis; and the organization of the subject-matter accord-
ing to the strata of meaning, from the sight-pattern to the religious attitudes, is
flawless. No criticism can be leveled against the construction of the whole. And
the only desideratum is, as I told you over the telephone, an Introduction for
the non-professional reader that would inform him on the state of the Lear-
question so that he can appreciate what you are doing and why.
Of course, you will not expect a dilettante to indulge in a critical evaluation
of details. Only to prove the carefulness of my reading let me relate some of the
notes which I penciled down while going through the MS.
Concerning the sight-pattern.
This whole part raises an interesting problem of method. You try to analyse
the pattern of imagery, that is of the structure of the poetic medium by which a
meaning is conveyed that itself transcends the level of sensual symbolisms, that
is of the sight, clothes, etc., expressions. This enterprise poses two questions:
(1) Not all of the language-body of the drama has significance as symbolism
for the transcendent meaning. A word like “see” may have symbolic function in
the structure of the whole, or it may be irrelevant to it because its meaning is
confined to a limited pragmatic context—as when a person would say “Look
8. This note was written on a clipping from an article in the Nation. I have not been able to find
the issue from which it was clipped.
here” or “There you see” in a determinative, pragmatic sense, without implica-

tions concerning the metaphysical problem of “insight.” Here begins the art of
the interpreter who has to catch all the “sees” which have a function as transcen-
dent symbols and to omit the “sees” that have no such function. As far as I know
the King Lear[,] you have done an excellent job of catching the sight-symbols. I
have found only two occasions for notes:
(a) On p. 21 you catch the “see” in IV, 7, line 55:
I will not swear these are my hands: let’s see;
I feel this pin prick.
I think you can defend this “see” as symbolic[;] though, if it stood alone, it
would perhaps be a border-case. I do not find mentioned in this context, how-
ever, the preceding lines:
I should e’en die with pity,
To see another thus.
These lines would give support to the symbolism of line 55, and should perhaps
not be separated from the second “see.” (Though they are quoted in another
context.)
(b) I do find in IV, 6 a “see” that I do not remember having been mentioned
in your study, though this may be simply my oversight. And I am too lazy to
recheck. Anyway here it is:
Edgar:
Let’s see these pockets; the letters that he speaks of
May be my friends. . . .
Let us see:
Leave, gentle wax; [sic] and, manners, blame us not;
To know our enemies’ minds, we’ld rip their hearts;
Their papers, is more lawful.
Here the relation between the “see” and the intelligence to be gained by opening
the letters is explicit.
(2) The sight-pattern that runs through the King Lear can be a basic symbolic
structure for the higher levels of meaning because the world of the senses is
loaded, indeed, with meanings beyond the physical context. “Ice” is not just
water at a certain temperature; it is “icy.” And “eyes” are not just optical appara-
tuses but mediums of intelligence. Here, as far as I can see, lies the root of the
symbolic value which words denoting sensual objects and functions can gain in
the context of a poem. The word-body of a verse can be loaded with meanings
beyond the meaning explicitly contained in the sentence as a grammatical unit.

That is to say: in a poem (and for that matter also in good prose; with certain
limits) the implied meaning of the word-body can be used to echo, amplify, sur-
round with fringes, etc., the explicit meaning of the statements. This raises the
second methodological question: the question of the interlocking of word-
symbols as carriers of implied meanings, with the explicit meanings of the text.
You have solved the problem of interpretation correctly, if I may be so insolent
as to venture the opinion, by first elaborating the word-pattern as the carrier of
the implied meaning and then proceeding to the levels of explicit meaning. You
have also indicated the shift from the implied to the explicit level of meaning by
a skillful change in terminology: you speak of the sight-pattern and the clothes-
pattern, but quite rightly of the nature-theme. The affair becomes complicated,
however, in the madness-pattern. I do not see in this later change of terminology
an inconsistency but rather an indication of the methodological difficulty. For
madness, indeed, belongs to the level of explicit meanings as well as to the level
of the senses in its variants of real and assumed madness in the acting persons.
The methodologically consistent solution would be, in my opinion, to adopt a
theory of meaning that would permit [one] to see the whole poem as one world
of meaning from the sensually implied (in objects, actions, states of mind of the
dramatis personae, etc.) to the most explicit (in blunt metaphysical propositions
in oratio directa). —As it is, I have the feeling there is a crack in method insofar
as the “sight-pattern” analysis leans a bit heavily on the objective, physical struc-
ture of the word-body. That does not mean that the term “pattern” should be
abandoned. On the contrary, it should be retained. But it should be made clear
that a poem can have a pattern, because it has a word-body; and that it can have
a word-body because the body is a carrier of meaning. Nothing, therefore,
should be changed in the text. But a few judicious remarks on the problem here
indicated would probably enhance the value of a masterful analysis and be a
contribution to a theory of poetry.
The nature-theme.
The locus criticus of the nature-theme is I, 2. You have dealt with it at length
on pp. 64 ff. and 123 ff. And, I think, you have got every ounce of meaning out
of the scene that is in it. Here I would have to make only one suggestion—al-
ways with apologies for my insolence: that this central topic needs a bit [of ]
“pulling together.” Again nothing need be changed[,] but a few summarizing
words might be in place which elucidate the internal structure of this most care-
fully knit scene. As I understand it, the problem is the following:
The conceptual apparatus of Shakespeare in handling the problem of nature
is humanistic. The position of Edmund (Thou, nature, art my goddess) is the

sophistic conflict between physis and nomos. The nomos, the order of society, ap-
pears as “the plague of custom” and “the curiosity of nations”—non-obligatory
for the man who represents nature in the form of the forces of the individual.
The Hellenic natural man of Critias and Callicles is the model, as well as, per-
haps, the virtù of the Machiavellian demonic personality. The existence of man
is natural, the substance is the natural will. (“Rationalism” seems to me only a
component in this idea of man as a demonic natural agent). —Gloucester on
the other hand (These late eclipses, etc.), represents the nature-complex of the
Timaios. As against the physis of Edmund he stands for the order of the whole,
the nomos. —Both positions have their right and their wrong—indicated in the
self-revelations and mutual criticisms of the two representatives. The physis of
Edmund is at fault for the reason stated explicitly by Gloucester: “Though the
wisdom of nature can reason it thus and thus, yet nature finds itself scourged by
the sequent effects.” That is to say: the view of nature which disregards the sym-
pathetic texture of the nomos can calculate eclipses and explain them rationally,
yet etc. the sympathetic context is thereby not abolished. Here lies the wrong of
Edmund and the right of Gloucester whose nature is not entirely superstitious
or superficial. (This point would also have to be taken into account in the ex-
planation of Gloucester’s religious development). —At the same time, however,
this passage contains Gloucester’s admission of his wrong: for the eclipses can be
calculated, and there is really a nature in the perspective of the calculating, prag-
matic will that one cannot neglect without incurring sanctions. —Edmund
again admits the wrong of his position in the self-revelation (which you have
pointed out very finely) when he wills the “base to top the legitimate,” moti-
vated by his resentment without any reason. The consciousness of this irrational
violation of order (the nomos) is present from the beginning and is acknowl-
edged as the guilt in the last scene (V, 3: “The wheel is come full circle”) when
the wheel of the nomos remains victorious over the will of the physis. —The
wrong of Gloucester is brought out, finally, by Edmund in his caustic analysis of
the rationalizing motives of Gloucester in shoving responsibility on necessity
and denying the will as an independent agent. —(One more level of meaning
seems to be touched in Edgar’s line: “How long have you been a sectary astro-
nomical?” This seems to be a sally against the astrological fad among Shake-
speare’s contemporaries).
Minor points.
p. 22 (pencil mark); “probably” perhaps too cautious; the line 263 hardly
leaves a doubt, that indeed the “promised end” is meant.
p. 29 the word “appearances” reminds me that all appearances are dissolved in

V, 3:
“The weight of this and time we must obey,
Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.”
p. 115 (pencil mark; see also the pencil mark on p. 67): “Christian transvalu-
ation of Lear’s pagan world”: This transvaluation is going on in Lear himself
perhaps more strongly than your comments on pp. 67 and 115 would suggest.
At least, that is how I understand the lines in V, 3 beginning:
“No, no, no, no! Come, let’s away to prison. . . .”
The stratum of rulership is likened here in the most revolutionary manner to

the sphere of the Gods—and hence unsuitable for man who knows his limits.
The humble are praised who are “God’s spies”; theirs is the lasting reality:
“and we’ll wear out
In a wall’d prison, packs and sects of great ones
That ebb and flow by the moon.”
Almost a Dostoevsky touch. (There are interesting angles to the “common

man”).
p. 136. The discussion of the oath “By Apollo.” These oaths of Lear and Kent
carry perhaps a meaning that would fit in your sight-pattern interpretation.
Apollo is the God of Light, who also can strike with blindness. Lear’s oath
“Now, by Apollo,—”
follows Kent’s lines

“See better, Lear, and let me still remain
The true blank of thine eye.”
and it is followed by Kent’s rejection

“Now, By Apollo, king,
Thou swearst thy gods in vain.”
Lay the accent on the “by Apollo,” and you get an interesting meaning that
would be fortified by the second oath “By Jupiter” which Kent obeys—Jupiter is
the God of governmental order.
There also may be some meaning in the exchanging of oaths “By Jupiter,”
“By Juno” in II, 4, due to Kent’s insistence that it is the son and daughter who
commit the outrage. Those women.
The closing scene.

There are two interesting final touches to the sight-pattern on the occasion of the
death of Lear. Lear’s “Look on her, look, her lips . . .” is taken up by Edgar’s “Look
up, my lord.” But the time for looking at last has given way to sightless death.
Extremely important for the whole structure of the tragedy seem to me the
closing lines of Albany:
“The oldest hath borne most: we that are young,
Shall never see so much, nor live so long.”
The question imposes itself: Why should the younger generation not live so long
as the older, and experience the same disorder again? The answer seems to be
that with the end of the tragedy we do not simply pass on to the next generation
who will give us a repeat performance of the Lear, but that we leave the “old age”
in the sense of the saeculum senescens and enter a new era. The theme of “age” (your
MS pp. 68 ff.) would be enlarged beyond the biological age of the dramatis per-
sonae into the “aging of the ages.” And the old age in the biological sense, which
has caused so much disorder, would be a symbol of the senescence of the saeculum.
In the new era, people will not grow so old (but also not see so much). The tragedy
is not a “history” but is removed into a mythical aion before the present.
Goethe, Shakespeare und kein Ende (1813). Some excerpts that might interest you.
“On Shakespeare has been said so much that it might seem as if nothing
were left to be said; still, it is the quality of the spirit that it will move the spirit
without end.”
“If we call Shakespeare one of the greatest poets we mean to say that not eas-
ily anybody ever perceived the world as he did; that not easily anybody who
ever expressed his inner intuition thereby transposed the reader in a higher de-
gree into a consciousness of the world. It becomes for us completely di-
aphanous: all of a sudden we find [ourselves] as confidants of virtue and vice,
of greatness, littleness, nobility, damnation—and all this, and even more,
through the simplest means. If, however, we ask what these means are, it
would seem at first sight as if he worked for our eyes; but we are deceived: the
works of Shakespeare are not for the eyes of the body.”
“The eye may be called the clearest sense by means of which communication is
most easily possible. But the inner sense is still clearer and it is reached by the
most perfect means of communication, by the word: for the word is really
moving and fertile while what we perceive by the eye stands before us strangely
and by far not so efficaciously. Shakespeare speaks to our inner sense: it ani-
mates our imagination and a world of imagery with a complete effectiveness of

which we can hardly give an account.”
“Shakespeare associates with the spirit of the world (Weltgeist); like it, he pene-
trates the world; to neither one anything is hidden. But while it is the business
of the world-spirit to preserve the secret, frequently even after the deed, it is for
the poet to betray the secret and to make us the confidants of the deed.”
“Everywhere is England, girded by the ocean, ringed by mist and clouds, active
in all quarters of the world. The poet lived in a noble and important age and
represents its form, and even mis-form, with great serenity.”
“Hardly will be found another poet who realizes in his single works every time
another idea, an idea which is operative throughout the whole work—as can
be shown in Shakespeare’s.” —“The whole Coriolanus is permeated by the
frustration that the mass will not recognize the quality of the better man.
Caesar embodies the idea that the aristoi do not want to see the first place oc-
cupied because they believe mistakenly that they can act collectively. Anthony
and Cleopatra says with [a] thousand tongues that indulgence and action are
incompatible.”
<Congratulations on the completion of this piece of work.>

<E. V.>
10. November 4, 1947

Dear Eric,
My delay in returning your MS to you has meant not that I have been slow in
getting to it (except that I was away for several days), but that I have been read-
ing it very slowly and doing considerable re-reading in order to make myself as
sure as nature permits me to be that I got the point. I think that the complex
materials of Chapter 5 are excellently organized and presented, and, beyond
that, make fascinating reading from end to end. What one senses, if a tyro may
venture such a point, is an absolute mastery of the materials, and one has the
impression that the Laws could not have been expounded in any other way.
9. The MS to which Heilman is referring no longer exists in the form that he read it, unless it
may by chance be found in someone else’s correspondence with Voegelin as a copy. The problem
of manuscripts dealing with the early materials of the History of Political Ideas is excellently stated
by Athanasios Moulakis, in vol. 19 of the Collected Works of Eric Voegelin, in his introduction to
Voegelin’s History of Political Ideas, vol. 1, ed. Athanasios Moulakis (Columbia: University of
Missouri Press, 1997).
Aside from the unfolding of the substance, one especially enjoys the constant
irony, sometimes almost entirely concealed, at the views of the Laws which pre-
vail in a liberal, secularist world. And such a lovely parenthesis as “inseparable
parochialism (some call it love of freedom) . . .” And again, such fine clarity and
force of definition as in “the law of the spirit: that doing evil is worse than suf-
fering evil.” As always in reading your MSS I have the page-by-page feeling of
learning, not so importantly in the realm of historical information<*> [top:]
<not that there isn’t a world of that!> as of truth generally.
I enjoy something that I do not think will be widely perceived—the strong
emotional undercurrent that gives a touch of poetic quality to your exposition at
those moments when, as one sees even before you make the point explicitly,
there is a parallel between the existential situation which Plato deplores and the
20th century way of life.
You will pardon the element of selfish pleasure that creeps in when I feel, as I
perhaps should not do, that your exposition of the form of the Laws is a valida-
tion of my procedures with respect to Lear.
I like the symbolic poem which you have written at the end, using as your
materials the legend about Plato’s death. If I am correct it works on three differ-
ent levels.
At a very few places I have marked matters of idiom, etc. But there are so few
that it becomes rather ostentatious to mark those that are still apparent. How you
have mastered the language! On p. 414 I am in doubt about the word casuistry,
which in general usage means almost exclusively “equivocal, specious reasoning.”
At several places where I felt some lack of clarity I found that on re-reading I
could clear myself up. Indeed, in the whole 100 or so pages there is only one pas-
sage which, after several re-readings, I still am not sure about. I think I have got
the point straightened out <for myself>; but I am not quite sure; and it may be
that the exposition could be sharpened up a little for the aid of other such
numbskulls as I (if we are worth the effort). This passage is the last several pp. of
“2. Theocracy and the Invisible Church,” i.e., pp. 149–153. On p. 349 you say
that theocracy is Plato’s limit, that he cannot see that the solution must be in the
form of the church, that is, the invisible church. At this point one has a mental
picture of a shortcoming in Platonic thought. On pp. 350 and 351 you indicate
that the Laws represent a compromise with the frailty of men—the Pauline, ec-
clesiastical phase of the heroic thought that appeared in the Republic (the anal-
ogy with the development from the Sermon on the Mount to the Pauline
10. There is a discrepancy in the pagination to which Heilman refers in this paragraph. Since
the manuscript no longer exists, these cannot be corrected (see preceding footnote.)
church is wonderfully lucid and illuminating). Here, then, one has a picture of
a concession that Plato is making, and one wonders about its relationship to the
<*>failure [left:] <i.e., shortening> noted on p. 349—or are the two points just
juxtaposed without there being any relationship between them? (Doubtless this
point should not come into the reader’s mind; I am only indicating that in the
arrangement of the materials it does.) Then on 352 you clarify partially by saying
that theocracy is Plato’s limit in that he does “not distinguish temporal and spir-
itual order.” I take it this means that the polis is not an adequate embodiment of
the spirit—but I’m not sure, and perhaps a little amplification would help here.
Then the final point—that the deficient theocrat has still written a religious
poem which in its character as art does reach the universal of which he falls
short as political theorist (correct?). Thus the final contrasting picture which
comes to my mind is this:
Polis: temporal Laws as poem: universal
Form is not determined by spirit Form is determined by spirit
If this is all messed up, all I can do is confess to stupidity; but if it is correct or
approximately correct as a reading of your text, then I think that a little fuller
discussion and perhaps sharper pointing, especially of the antithesis of theo-
cratic concept and poem, might help.
I have noted down this loose commentary on the several pages simply to
show the kind of minor—obviously not very serious—obstacles one runs into in
the passage as a whole.
But in view of what is accomplished by the whole chapter, this is hardly more
than a quibble. I am privileged to have read the section, and I remarked again to
Ruth, as I have done so often, that this work must be on our ready reference
shelf about the hearth as soon as it is printed.
Yours,
<Robert>
11. November 13, 194711

Dear Robert:
With avidity I have swallowed your interpretation of the Turn of the Screw, as
well as your article on the Freudian interpretation. Both pieces have gratified me
11. Since this letter was edited for publication in the Southern Review (n.s. 7 [1971]: 9–24), I have
included it here virtually as it was originally written by Voegelin. For clarity the following minor
changes were made: a few amendments were made using brackets, a comma was silently deleted,
and house-keeper was regularized to the closed spelling.
very much. The article on the Freudian interpretation is a revelation for an out-
sider concerning what is going on in the select circles of intellectual interpreters
of literature—if I hadn’t just had my hair cut, it would have stood on end. Your
own interpretation (for what my opinion is worth) looks most convincing to
me. That is, indeed, the proper method to be employed: follow the pattern of
symbols and see what emerges by way of meaning. I must qualify my agreement,
however, in one point: I agree as far as you go; but in my opinion (again for
what it is worth) you are not going far enough. If I try to substantiate this opin-
ion, I find myself, however, at a bad disadvantage. Of course, I know nothing
about James; and there seem to be extant various utterances of his by which he
himself has indicated a line of interpretation—and again, of them I know noth-
ing except what you quote in your article. This is a particularly awkward situa-
tion because the suggestions for further interpretation (which I shall permit
myself presently) seem not to agree with the lines indicated by James himself.
Let me state, therefore, the principle which I am following in my suggestions:
the basis for the analysis of a literary work must be the work itself; if the author
has expressed himself on the meaning of his work, such utterances are most
valuable if they clear up obscure points; but if (as it seems to be in this case) the
utterances of the author are in open conflict with the text of his work, then the
meaning offered by the text has to prevail. This, by the way, is a nice puzzle for
you as a historian of literature; thank God, I can express myself about a work of
James without professional responsibility.
I.
Let me anticipate a few results of the analysis so that we have firm points of
reference for the remarks concerning details. I believe that the Turn of the Screw
is a study, not on the mystery of good and evil only, but on this mystery in rela-
tion to the complex of consciousness-conscience-virtue. Specifically, I have the
suspicion that this study of the tensions of the soul has a coloration to its generic
character which permits us to characterize it more closely as a study of the Pur-
itan variant of the generic problem. Moreover, in the symbolization of this
problem through the persons and movements of the story, all of the figures are
of equal importance. The characterization of the study as a piece of child-
psychology is not wrong, but it touches only one aspect of the whole structure.
Let me begin, not with the children but with the grown-ups—an order which is
permissible because the children enter the stage later. (The chronology of en-
trance, by the way, is of extreme importance for the symbolic play.)
The grown-ups are, in the order of their social hierarchy, the employer, the
governess and the housekeeper. They symbolize, in this order, God, the soul,
and the earthy, common-sense existence. The soul is released by God to enter on
its struggle with forces of good and evil (children and apparitions). This release
has the form of an employment and of its acceptance on very interesting condi-
tions. The central problem of the relation between God and the soul is the problem
of communication. In the prelude to the story itself the relation is characterized
explicitly as one of confidence with erotic implications. The “prospective pa-
tron” is “a gentleman, a bachelor in the prime of his life, such a figure as had
never risen, save in a dream or an old novel, before a fluttered, anxious girl out
of a Hampshire vicarage.” The gentleman is ready to employ the girl under the
curious condition: “That she should never trouble him—but never, never: nei-
ther appeal nor complain nor write about anything; only meet all questions her-
self, receive all moneys from his solicitor, take the whole thing over and let him
alone.” The soul is on her own, burdened with full responsibility for its problems,
equipped with nothing but the embodiment (money from the solicitor) which is
the scene of the struggle. The girl accepts: “She promised to do this, and she
mentioned to me that when, for a moment, disburdened, delighted, he held her
hand, thanking her for her sacrifice, she already felt rewarded.” At this point, the
mystery of good and evil begins to unfold. There is the “gentleman,” “rich, but
fearfully extravagant,” “of good looks, of expensive habits, of charming ways
with women,” unloading the responsibility on the girl (the anima); and there is
the girl, accepting an employment which looks like a sacrifice—for whom? for
God! It is a fascinating sacrifice, which has its “reward” in the “obligation” to the
employer; it is for him that she undergoes the ordeal. “She succumbed to his se-
duction.” Is God a seducer? We shall see. Meanwhile, the sacrifice is not quite
imaginary. We learn, that the girl had a “predecessor” who met a horrible end;
and we learn that there were others who refused employment on such condi-
tions. Others have rejected employment in this fashion. This seems to be the
crucial point for answering the question whether the study of the soul is, in-
deed, generic, or whether it has a specific coloration. The strange condition is
the assumption of full responsibility, without recourse to communication (prayers
for help) and consequently without help (grace). From the beginning, James has
defined his study carefully as a study of the demonically closed soul; of a soul
which is possessed by the pride of handling the problem of good and evil by its
own means; and the means which is at the disposition of this soul is the self-
mastery and control of the spiritual forces (the symbol of the governess)—end-
ing in a horrible defeat.
II.
The key-passage concerning the problem of communication occurs in
Chapter XIII of the story. The situation between the governess and the children
has reached the critical point where both parties to the struggle know that the
other knows but keep silent on their mutual knowledge. The unbearable ten-
sion, the sense of imminent peril, however, increase the moments when they
discuss the “precious question that had helped through many a peril:” “When
do you think he will come? Don’t you think we ought to write?” But they do not
communicate; they only talk about the writing; and the inquiry carries off many
an “awkwardness.” The situation, however, has gone beyond an “awkwardness”
that can be carried off by “inquiring” whether “He” will come. It would be ur-
gently necessary that “He” comes really and saves them from the peril. But why
do they not write to “their uncle in Harley Street,” the uncle in the street of the
physicians, to the great healer?
The failure to write is complicated. The children actually want to write; and,
as a matter of fact, they have written; but the governess has intercepted the let-
ters. The “inquiry” thus remains at the stage of an expectation of the coming.
“We lived in much profusion of theory that he might at any moment arrive to
mingle in our circle.” But will he really come and save them? “It was impossible
to have given less encouragement than he had done to such a doctrine, but if we
had not had the doctrine to fall back upon we should have deprived each other
of some of our finest exhibitions.” And what are these fine exhibitions? The psy-
chology of these “exhibitions” is one of the masterpieces in the story. The analy-
sis of the “exhibition” begins with the flat statement: “He never wrote to them.”
But why does the uncle not write to the children? Perhaps “that may have been
selfish.” But it is not quite selfish; the relationship between the employer and the
governess enters this strange silence of the uncle for his children. His silence
“was a part of the flattery of his trust of me; for the way in which a man pays his
highest tribute to a woman is apt to be but by the more festal celebration of one
of the sacred laws of his comfort.” The responsible rule over the forces of good
and evil is entrusted to the soul itself, as a lieutenant of God. It is most “flatter-
ing”; the employer knows how to handle women; the vanity is tickled by the di-
vine charge of salvation by proxy. Hence the governess intercepts the missives of
the children; “I held that I carried out the spirit of the pledge given not to ap-
peal to him.” The legalistic formulation of “the spirit of the pledge” shows that
the anima is up to tricks. The letter of the pledge had only said that she, the gov-
erness, should not appeal to the employer; the interpretation of the spirit, that
the children should not write, is her own. The employer had only enjoined the
governing conscience, the responsible ego, not to appeal to him; he had not en-
joined that no appeal should rise to him from the depth of the soul, overriding
freedom, conscience and ego. The “spirit” of non-communication, and of the
repression of the desire for communication, is not the spirit of the employer; it
is the spirit of the governess. Moreover, the governess does not simply intercept
the letters; she lets the children know “that their own letters were but charming
literary exercises.” She does not simply interrupt the communication of the chil-
dren; she poisons their effusion by the consciousness that the attempt to reach
the “employer” is a literary exercise, not a real appeal that even could reach its
address. And why this peculiar game of the make-believe appeals? These letters
“were too beautiful to be posted; I kept them myself; I have them all to this
hour.” The letters were not just too beautiful to be thrown away; they were too
beautiful “to be posted.” The motive of the interception begins to emerge: it is
not the “spirit” of the pledge; it is the vanity and jealousy of the soul bent on
self-salvation. The governess does not discourage the letters to be written; on the
contrary, she lets the children write them in the full consciousness that they will
reach nobody but the governess herself. The cry for salvation becomes a game; it
“added to the satiric effect” of the supposition that the savior “might at any mo-
ment be among us.” And then follows the revelatory sentence: “It was exactly as if
my charges knew how almost more awkward than anything else that might be for
me.” —that is, if the real savior would come and by his coming humble the pride
of the governess who has undertaken to rule her charges by her own means. And
one step deeper into the abyss of the pride of self-salvation: the governess notes that
in all this nothing appeared more extraordinary “than the mere fact that, in spite of
my tension and of their triumph, I never lost patience with them. Adorable they
must in truth have been, I now reflect, that I didn’t in these days hate them!”
When the crisis has advanced (Chapters XVI, XVII) to the open outbreak of
the daemonic forces, the governess at last is ready to direct her appeal to the em-
ployer. But now the situation is reversed; now it is her letter that no longer can
reach the employer; Miles in whom the daemonic forces have gained the ascen-
dancy, intercepts and burns the letter, thus preparing the final tragedy without
the hope of grace.
III.
The spiritual process of the catastrophe is introduced by a page (Chapter
XXII) which explains the title of the story. Flora, in fever, has disappeared with
the housekeeper; the governess prepares to face Miles alone over the dinner
table. She is badly shaken. At this juncture she felt “how my equilibrium de-
pended on the success of my rigid will, the will to shut my eyes as tight as possi-
ble to the truth that what I had to deal with was, revoltingly, against nature.”
The interruption of communication with the “employer” is now driven a step
farther; the will has become rigid to be blind for the fact of the supernatural.
The supernatural is, “revoltingly, against nature.” And what is this “nature”?
Here James himself puts the term into ironical inverted commas. “I could only
get on at all by taking ‘nature’ into my confidence and my account.” What is
going on must still be happening within “nature.” The “monstrous ordeal” of
the governess, can be no more than “a push in a direction unusual, of course,
and unpleasant.” It can demand no more by way of treatment than the means
which she has employed hitherto, that is, “another turn of the screw of ordinary
human virtue.” She has a little doubt whether it will work, for, after all, this is an
“attempt to supply, one’s self, all the nature.” No more will be thrown into this
last battle than the nature and the will of the ego. And, let us not forget, the na-
ture and common sense of the housekeeper has departed with Flora. So she be-
gins turning the screw still further.
The turns of the screw do not bring the desired result of salvation. The oper-
ation starts under a ray of hope. The boy is about ready for the confession, when
the face of Quint appears at the window “like a sentinel before a prison.” The
governess closes Miles in her arms and prevents him from seeing the horror; and
the confession actually comes under way. The disappearance of the letter is
cleared up, and the confession of the misconduct in school is half out. This,
however, is the turning point in the operation. Miles has surrendered the rigid-
ity of this silence. “He almost smiled at me in the desolation of his surrender,
which was indeed practically, by this time, so complete that I ought to have left
it there.” But she does not leave it there; the screw turns on. “I was infatuated—
I was blind with victory, though even then the very effect that was to have
brought him so much nearer was already that of added separation.” She presses
on, extorting the confession, until she extorts the name of his ultimate evil ob-
session, the name of Quint. With this supreme moment of consciousness, in
naming the evil one, the obsession ceases—but with the obsession ceases the life
of the little soul. The evil is gone, but the good is gone, too. “His little heart, dis-
possessed, had stopped”; and human virtue holds in her arm a dead soul.
IV.
All this is no more than the outline of the spiritual story; we have no more
than scratched the surface of the symbolism. In penetrating to the deeper layers
of the structure, we may start with that other masterpiece of the story, the page
on the apparition of Quint. (Chapter III.)
Quint does not simply appear, without previous warning. He materializes out
of the mood of the garden in which the governess takes her walk, in the twilight,
at the most restful hour of the day, after her duties are discharged and the chil-
dren brought to bed. What is this mood? It is the mood of possessiveness and
justification. At the hour of the walk the governess can enjoy “almost with a
sense of property that amused and flattered me” the beauty of the garden. It was
a pleasure at these moments “to feel myself tranquil and justified.” The peace of
the just soul originates in reflections “that by my discretion, my quiet good
senses and general high propriety, I was giving pleasure—if he ever thought of
it!—to the person to whose pressure I had responded.” She is doing what her
employer expects her to do “and directly asked of me”; and what greater joy can
there be than to live up to expectations and direct orders? A sense of righteous-
ness is spreading. “I fancied myself, in short, a remarkable young woman.” And
she takes comfort in the faith that her high qualities “would more publicly ap-
pear.”
Something, however, was missing in this paradise of righteous fulfillment.
On her walk in the garden, the governess dreams; she dreams of the face in
Harley Street—that it would be “as charming as a charming story” suddenly to
meet “someone.” “Someone would appear there at the turn of a path and would
stand before me and smile and approve. I didn’t ask more than that—I only
asked that he should know (James’ italics!); and the only way to be sure he knew
would be to see it, and the kind light of it, in his handsome face.” This kind,
handsome face is present to her, smiling approval, knowing her in her righteous-
ness; and, indeed, turning out of a grove, her dream comes true, “someone”
stands on the tower of the house, “someone” is looking down on her. But the
figure that faces her is not the image that had been in her mind. “I had not seen
it in Harley Street.” It is the face of Quint. The apparition has materialized out
of her dream—and when a woman dreams of someone who will know her, it
may turn out that she has dreamt of someone else.
V.
Quint has materialized out of the dream of the righteous soul to be approved
and to be known, “publicly.” Let us next consider the relation of the governess to
Miss Jessel, her predecessor. Miss Jessel is throughout the story associated with
Flora, as the corrupting daemon of the angelic innocence of the child; as Quint
is associated with Miles. But there is a moment when Miss Jessel comes closer to
the governess. After the scene on the churchyard with Miles, the governess re-
turns home with the intention of leaving her charges. What has happened? The
conspiracy of silence between the governess and Miles has been broken. The boy
wants to go back to the school that will not receive him back; if not to this
school, then to another one. The suspense cannot drag on forever; if the gov-
erness does not find the way out, the “uncle from Harley Street” himself must
“come down.” Miles asks the crucial question: “Does my uncle think what you
think?” The question makes her “drop straight down on the stone slab” of a
tomb by the side of which they are standing. Miles continues: Does he know
“the way I’m going on?” The governess perceives that a straight answer would
ultimately result in a “sacrifice” of her employer. She wants to avoid this “sacri-
fice” and puts the boy off: “I don’t think your uncle much cares.” But Miles can
no longer be put off; the uncle can be made to come down, and if the governess
will not do it, then, the boy says “with extraordinary brightness and emphasis”:
“I will!”
This is the point from which the governess takes her road to damnation.
“The business was practically settled from the moment I never followed him.”
She is agitated; but her awareness of this agitation “had somehow no power to
restore me.” There she sits on a tomb that now has become her tomb. “I sat only
on my tomb and read into what my little friend had said to me the fullness of its
meaning.” And what is this meaning? The boy now knows that she is afraid of
facing the “employer.” “He had got out of me that there was something I was
much afraid of and that he should probably be able to make use of my fear to
gain, for his own purpose, more freedom.” The judgment would have to be
faced; the “intolerable question” of the dismissal from school would come up.
“That his uncle should arrive to treat with me of these things was a solution
that, strictly speaking, I ought now to have desired to bring on; but I could so
little face the ugliness and the pain of it that I simply procrastinated and lived
from hand to mouth.” The boy “is immensely in the right”; he has the right to
ask of her: “Either you clear up with my guardian the mystery of this interrup-
tion of my studies, or you cease to expect me to lead with you a life that’s so un-
natural for a boy.” The question of “nature” is touched again; and it is touched
in its ambivalence. From the position of the boy it is “unnatural” to lead this life
of seclusion in the garden by the side of the governess; his “nature” requires that
the mystery of his evil be cleared up by the guardian. From the position of the
governess [what] is unnatural, [is] “this sudden revelation of a consciousness and
a plan” in the boy. The question can no longer be put off; its putting off is now
the evasion of judgment. The consequences do not fail to appear: the boy, who
now knows of her fear, has gained a new freedom, the freedom for his evil; and
in the governess a strange transformation takes place.
The governess is sitting on her tomb. Her pristine nature is buried; but what
is the shadow that now rises from the tomb and takes the way back to the house?
She does not know yet, while she leaves the churchyard in order to prepare her
flight. But in the hall, “tormented with difficulties and obstacles,” “I remember
sinking down at the foot of the staircase—suddenly collapsing there on the low-
est step and then, with a revulsion, recalling that it was exactly where more than
a month before, in the darkness of night and just so bowed with evil things, I
had seen the spectre of the most horrible of women.” The sense of this identifi-
cation drives her on and up the stairs, towards the schoolroom, in order to
gather up some belongings. And there, at the table, sits the “predecessor” herself.
The apparition rose “with an indescribable grand melancholy of indifference
and detachment, and, within a dozen feet of me, stood there as my vile prede-
cessor.” The apparition fades, but “Dark as midnight in her black dress, her hag-
gard beauty and her unutterable woe, she had looked at me long enough to
appear to say that her right to sit at my table was as good as mine to sit at hers.”
The identification has advanced, and there is an instant of chill feeling “that it
was I who was the intruder.” In wild protest against this inversion, the governess
cries out loudly; and the air is cleared for the moment.
VI.
“There was nothing in the room the next minute but the sunshine and a
sense that I must stay.” Miss Jessel has come close to the governess; their fate is
linked; the relief is only momentary. The children return from church; the at-
mosphere is now heavy with the suspense of catastrophe. Miles has gained his
new “freedom.” On the first occasion he uses it to charm the governess by the
offer to play for her the piano for half an hour. Too late she discovers that he has
bound her by his spell long enough to give Flora the opportunity to escape for
the meeting with Miss Jessel. In despair she sets out with the housekeeper to
save the child; they find the girl on the lawn beyond the pond; and on the other
side of the pond, plainly visible to the governess, stands Miss Jessel. At last the
evil is brought into [the] open—but now something unexpected happens. The
housekeeper sees nothing, in spite of the admonitions: “She’s as big as a blazing
fire! Only look, dearest woman, look—!” And Flora does not look in the direc-
tion where the governess sees the apparition; she looks at the governess herself.
“Without a convulsion of her small pink face” Flora [has] not even feigned to
glance in the direction of the announced prodigy; instead she turned “at me an
expression of hard, still gravity, an expression absolutely new and unprecedented
and that appeared to read and accuse and judge me.” The girl was somehow
converted herself “into the very presence that could make me quail.” The pres-
ence of the judgment has come over the governess: “I quailed.” But not yet can
she read the verdict; or rather she can read the verdict, but she is blind for its
truth: “My certitude that she thoroughly saw was never greater than at that in-
stant,” that is at the instant when the judging eyes of the girl rest on her. “In the
immediate need to defend myself,” the governess calls the prodigy as witness;
she directs the gaze of the girl to the spot beyond the pond: “She’s there, you lit-
tle unhappy thing,—there, there, there”; and then the revealing ambiguity: “you
see her as well as you see me.” But the gaze of the girl cannot be averted; her face
has become that of an “old, old woman”; and “she simply showed me, without a
concession, an admission of her eyes, a countenance of deeper and deeper, of in-
deed suddenly quite fixed, reprobation.”
Flora has seen Miss Jessel, indeed, while the governess sees her predecessor yet
beyond the pond, in one of “the strange and high places” where the evil spirits
formerly appeared. But “Flora continued to fix me with her small mask of repro-
bation”; “her incomparable childish beauty had suddenly failed, had quite van-
ished”; “she was hideously hard; she had turned common and almost ugly.” She
protests now that she never has seen anybody; she sees nobody now. “I think
you are cruel. I don’t like you.” And then she wails to Mrs Grose: “Take me
away, take away, —oh, take me away from her!” “From me?” cries the governess;
and the little girl confirms: “From you—from you!”
Flora is removed to the house; the next day she falls ill; it is decided upon that
the housekeeper will take her away from the place and bring her, at last, to her
uncle.
VII.
The common sense and simple nature of the housekeeper have left the scene;
and with her she has taken the angelic child. The “governess” has now the field
alone with Miles. The atmosphere of the “house” has changed; the scene is set
for the salvation of Miles. The governess has “hurried” Mrs. Grose out of the
house[:] “Leave us, Leave us!” The boy is ready for the confession: “I’ll get it out of
him. He’ll meet me—he’ll confess. If he confesses he’s saved. And if he’s saved—.”
“Then you are?” —asks Mrs. Grose. Then she kisses the governess and goes, cry-
ing “I’ll save you without him!” But as soon as the housekeeper had left, “the
great pinch really came.” “Now I was, I said to myself, face to face with the ele-
ments.” The “crisis” is conscious to the household; the “total wreck” can be
avoided only by clutching the helm firmly. The governess wanders all over the
place, “very grand and very dry”; looking as if she were ready “for any onset.”
“So, for the benefit of whom it might concern, I paraded with a sick heart.” The
“house” has changed; and Miles has subtly changed with his new freedom. “I
scarce put it too strongly in saying that what had perhaps sprung highest was the
absurdity of our prolonging the fiction that I had anything more to teach him.”
Flora has suddenly become an old woman; now Miles is beyond teaching; he is
grown up and has become the equal of the governess. During the meal, and
while the servant girl clears the table, suddenly the eroticism of the situation
springs up. “We continued silent while the maid was with us—as silent, it whim-
sically occurred to me, as some young couple who, on their wedding-journey, at
the inn, feel shy in the presence of the waiter.” And then the boy takes up the
“whimsicality” of her silent thought: “He turned round only when the waiter
had left us. ‘Well—so we’re alone!’ ” Dreamlike this scene recalls the other scene
in which the desire of the woman to be known had materialized in the appari-
tion of Quint.
The double-act of confession and salvation has, from the beginning, the sous
entendu of a love scene. The abrupt dialogue: Are they alone? No, there are the
others in the house. But they don’t count much. “It depends on what you call
‘much.’ ” “Yes, everything depends!” “You have seen much of Bly today.” “Yes, I
have never been so free.” “Well, do you like it?” “Do you?” he answers smiling,
with “more discrimination than I had ever heard two words contain.” It has al-
most gone too far. Miles softens the advance: “If we’re alone together now it’s
you that are alone most.” Does she mind having his company? No, she is stay-
ing on for his sake. Then, with trembling voice, the confession (her confession):
the night she sat on his bed, in the storm, “there was nothing in the world I
wouldn’t do for you.” He becomes nervous, yet pretends it was a jest: it was “to
get me to do something for you!” She admits, she wants his “confession.”
I have described already the process in which the screw is turned and the con-
fession is extracted; but underneath this process runs the symbolism of the love
scene. The face of Quint appears at the window, visible only to the governess,
the “white face of damnation.” “It represents but grossly what took place within
me at the sight to say that on the second my decision was made; yet I believe
that no woman so overwhelmed in so short a time recovered her grasp of the
act.” The act is italicized by James, as in the first apparition of Quint was itali-
cized the desire of the woman to be known. On the level of salvation “the act
would be, seeing and facing what I saw and faced, to keep the boy himself un-
aware.” “It was like fighting with a demon for a human soul.” And the human
soul, in her arms, “had a perfect dew of sweat on a lovely childish forehead.” In
fact, the face of the human soul “was as white as the face against the glass.” But
now the momentary relief comes; under the confession, Quint withdraws. The
governess goes on turning the screw in spite of the fact that the face has with-
drawn. The mystery of the dismissal from the school is revealed through a new
mystery. Miles had “said things.” To whom? To friends. “I seemed to float not
into clearness, but into a darker obscure, and within a minute there had come to
me out of my very pity the appalling alarm of his being perhaps innocent.” The
thought of Miles’ innocence is “appalling and bottomless.” For “if he were inno-
cent, what then on earth was I? ” Still, there is no salvation either for Miles or
the governess; the screw turns on. The face of Quint reappears at the window. “I
felt a sick swim at the drop of my victory and all the return of my battle.” The
wildness of her leap is a betrayal. The boy guesses a “presence”; but his back is
turned from the window; he cannot see the face; he sees only the governess. And
she, “from the midst of my act,” gives way to the impulse “to convert the climax
of his dismay into the very proof of his liberation.” This climactic conversion,
however, will not be due to an ending of the torture; no, she turns on the screw,
and directs his attention to the apparition that he will be fully conscious of it.
The boy responds, still guessing; he becomes aware and pants: “Is she here?”
“She” does not understand the strange “she”; and with a sudden fury he gives
back: “Miss Jessel, Miss Jessel.” The screw turns on: “It’s not Miss Jessel! But it’s
at the window.” The boy himself does not sense the poisonous presence that is
overwhelming to her. He guesses “in a white rage”: “It’s he? ” Still the screw turns
on: “I was so determined to have all my proof that I flashed into ice to challenge
him.” She wants him to explain the “he.” And at last, she gets the answer: “Peter
Quint—you devil!” The surrender is perfect. “They are in my ears still, his
supreme surrender of the name and his tribute to my devotion.” She has saved
the soul: “I have you, but he has lost you for ever!”
The governess at last is “known.” The abomination of the “act” between Miss
Jessel and Quint is consummated. Miles turns towards the window, and he sees
the quiet day. But the sight does not help him. In the moment in which Quint
lost him “he uttered the cry of a creature hurled over an abyss.” The governess
recovers him with a grasp that might have been that “of catching him in his
fall.” The “fall” is prevented. “I caught him, yes, I held him—it may be imag-
ined with what a passion”—until she discovers that her passion embraces a
corpse.
Quint is exorcized; the corpse is that of Miles, the angelic boy. And what
has become of the “devil” who turned the screw, of Miss Jessel? The reporter
of the story informs us: “She was a most charming person. . . . She was my sis-
ter’s governess. . . . She was the most agreeable woman I’ve ever known in her
position. . . . She struck me as awfully clever and nice. . . . I liked her ex-
tremely and am glad to this day to think she liked me too.”
And with whom had the governess been in love? Did she succumb to the “se-
duction” of the “splendid young man” in Harley Street? “The story won’t tell”
said Douglas; “not in any literal vulgar way.” If it was the man in Harley Street,
we must remember that his face when he “knew” her was the face of Quint. If it
was Miles, we must remember that again she saw the face of Quint when she
embraced Miles. Was the man in Harley Street who can seduce women the
devil? But then we must remember that it was the Miss Jessel in the governess
who made her turn the screw, and who made God look like the devil.
What I have set forth concerns what I consider the central problem of the
Turn of the Screw. But there is plenty more to be said. Above all, there is the sym-
bolism of childhood, innocence and nature, —which you have analysed so
finely. And then, there are a lot of loose ends to be gathered up. For instance, I
have indicated the transformation of the governess into Miss Jessel, beginning
with the scene on the churchyard; but I have not followed up the parallel
process of the transformation of Miles into Quint. The crucial scene seems to be
that of the night when Flora looks out of the window and Miles has disappeared
from his room. The governess believes that Flora is looking at Miss Jessel and is
surprised to find that she looks at Miles down on the lawn; she believes that
Miles is looking at Quint, but, indeed, he is looking back at Flora. Here, Miles
has already become the Quint at which the Miss Jessel in Flora is looking. That
introduces the further problem of the incestuous relationship between the chil-
dren, and the incestuous character of the “act” in the last scene. Quint and Miss
Jessel, in the mythical pre-history of the story[,] have been united by an un-
speakable bond. About the nature of this bond, the incest, seems to me no
doubt in the light of the fact that in the “story” they have become the evil na-
tures of brother and sister. This question leads further on to the relation between
the “pre-history” (of Quint and Miss Jessel) and the “story” itself. I would sug-
gest that the “pre-history” is the mythical, paradigmatic “act”; and that the
“story” is the repetition (in the sense of the psychology of the myth) of the par-
adigmatic fall—culminating in the incest of the last scene. Following this line
further, we arrive at the relation between the uncle who is “bachelor” and the
“children.” Remember that in the world of the grown-ups the uncle, when he
“knows” the governess, has the face of Quint. If I do not misunderstand the re-
lations of these symbols completely, I would say that the ultimate, metaphysical
conception of James goes back to a vision of the cosmic drama of good and evil
as an incestuous affair in the divinity. The problem of the incest is carried
through all levels of the symbolic structure; on every level the partners are iden-
tified as Quint and Miss Jessel; and Quint and Miss Jessel are identified by
brother and sister; these would be the pairs:
Uncle—the governess
Quint—Miss Jessel
The governess—Miles
Miles—Flora
Then there is the problem of the “sacrifice.” The uncle does not want to bring a
“sacrifice”; the governess shields him and brings the sacrifice in his stead, that is
the sacrifice of the saving act. Miles, however, knows that the sacrifice must be
brought by the uncle himself, and he suspects that ultimately the uncle might
not “think” in the same manner on this point as the governess. The uncle must
be compelled to bring the sacrifice. The sacrificial act of the governess, ineffec-
tual, thus, is as much a salvation as a prevention of true salvation. In this point,
I think, James is simply dealing with the problem of “self-salvation” through the
demonically closed human will that has plagued everybody in the nineteenth
century, particularly Nietzsche. If I take up your idea of the “Black Easter”—I
should like to qualify it into the magic operation, through the turning of the
screw, of a Black Salvation.
I hope you do not take it in ill that I pester you with this long letter. It is, of
course, an unmitigated presumption that I should express myself at length on
James, exactly one week after I have read any work at all of his for the first time.
Nevertheless, I think, you will have seen that just now I am lying flat on my
stomach in admiration for James. And such a prostrate position sometimes dis-
torts the perspective.
Most sincerely yours,
<Eric Voegelin>
12. March 19, 1948

Dear Robert:
Through the letter of Ruth to Lissy, and through a letter of yours that
[Thomas] Kirby showed me, I know that you are approximately settled, that
you have a house, and that you even find time for work beyond your deanly [sic]
activities. I should have written you already some time ago. But there is a curi-
ous mixture of obstacles just now: on the one hand, there is not much of im-
portance to tell; on the other hand, there is excitement of such importance that
it keeps me busy in various ways.
First for the gossip. The only item I know about, and about which you know,
too, is our lovely stormy affair. It certainly was a psychologically interesting af-
fair; and, as a matter of course, not appreciated in its full juicyness. The mob
outbreak of the attack on the stripping lady by the very persons who had come
there for the purpose of watching her performing her antics, is something to
ponder about. It seems to me the typical middle-class attitude about which Karl
Kraus has expressed himself at length and with poignancy. The girl herself is
probably a quite gifted parcel. If she had been born into better times, say the
Second Empire or the Edwardian period, she might have had a career as a de-
lightful mistress. Since it was her misfortune to be born into our age and envi-
ronment, she is reduced to taking her clothes off in public because that is about
the only level of eroticism that is accessible to the senile lewdness of the middle-
class youth of our time. The point is that the magnificent males whom I have
just characterized congregate by the thousand to get their genital excitement;
and then, somehow revolted by the mass exhibition of their baseness, take their
revenge on the woman in whom this baseness is symbolic reality. —The best
was the report that a co-ed socked her, yelling: You are our competition!
Slightly more exciting than these goings-on is the fact that Yale begins to
show visible interest in my presence. I was invited to give a lecture, for the purpose
12. Thomas Kirby was professor and head of the English department at Louisiana State Uni-
versity.
13. Voegelin here is recounting an incident in which a New Orleans striptease artist, Stacie
“Stormy” Laurence, appeared on the LSU campus on March 4, 1948. The front-page headline of
the Daily Reveille (LSU student newspaper) for March 2, 1948, read: “‘Stormy’ Vows She’s
Coming Here again Thursday with Band.” The lead headline of the Reveille for March 5, 1948
reads: “Enraged Students Dunk New Orleans Strip-Teaser.”
14. Karl Kraus was writer and publisher of Die Fackel (The torch). In Autobiographical Re-
flections, ed. Ellis Sandoz (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1989), Voegelin talks
about Kraus and his effort in restoring the integrity of the German language after the assault made
on it by purveyors of various second realities in the early twentieth century (18).
of getting “acquainted.” Last week I was up there; and everything seemed to go

well. No word has yet been breathed about an offer; but I was studied with ob-
vious care by the various notables; and the chairman of the department went to
the extreme of saying that I was just what they would need and that he hoped
for further correspondence. Same has not arrived yet. —Through Cleanth, who
takes a lively supporting interest in the affair, I know that they intend to make
an offer; but according to Cleanth the offer will be lousy: an Associate Pro-
fessorship with $6000. In the end I would take that of course, if it should mate-
rialize, but I would feel exploited. The lecture looked to me like a great success;
with discussion it lasted for two hours and could have gone on for another hour.
Perhaps they are impressed and will think better of the salary. We’ll see! For the
rest, the whole incident was great fun. Yale is most desirable; lavishly equipped,
a touch of snobbery, somewhat like an exclusive club. I don’t mind; I like it as
long as I can laugh about it. And Willmoore Kendall and Cleanth would cer-
tainly help in the laughing. I made the acquaintance of Cecil Driver; a most de-
lightful, scholarly figure. Of course, I told him that we had <had> his student
and great admirer [Max F.] Millikan in our department; but all he said was that
George would make a good naval officer. Kendall has a fellow’s suite in one of
the colleges; an enormous hall, bedroom, study, kitchen, bathroom and guest-
room. He takes it with composure and contemplates transforming the many-
roomed establishment into a brothel next year. Cleanth seems to be well settled
and is up for cooptation as fellow in one of the colleges. Tinkum seems to be re-
signed to the fate of spending the rest of her years among people who are lower
than “Nigras.” The only trace of hesitation that I could observe was the fact
that she has not yet put up curtains in her apartment.
Bob Harris is in a state of profound disgruntlement. The combination of
Louisiana politics, the national comedy, the international disorder, and the pos-
sibility of my leaving are simply too much.
The motivations of international politics, by the way, are curious. The suicide
of Jan Masaryk seems to have made more impression than almost anything else
to make the blockheads see that something is not in best order. That this
15. Tinkum [Blanchard] Brooks was the wife of Cleanth Brooks.

16. Robert J. Harris was the head of the government department at Louisiana State University,
1942–1954.
17. This event is reported in the March 11, 1948, edition of the Baton Rouge Morning Advocate.
The front-page headline for that day reads: “Czech Minister Takes Own Life after Two Weeks in
Communist Cabinet.” Jan Masaryk was the son of Thomas G. Masaryk, Czechoslovakia’s first
president, and of a Brooklyn-born mother.
drunken playboy should have committed suicide is almost unbelievable. But

perhaps he has had the most horrible experience of a lucid moment; and when a
frivolous moron of this sort gets a lucid moment, there is not much left but
jumping out of the window. Lucid moments are a bad thing to have. I just recall
that Cromwell once had one—when he chased his parliament home and called
them whoremasters and drunkards.
Well, that’s enough for the moment. If you can spare time from your duties it
would be nice to hear from you.
Most cordially yours,
[Eric]
13. Seattle, April 26, 1948

Dear Eric:
I have finally got fed up on waiting for the arrival of that perfect moment at
which I feel free to enjoy writing a letter; it is not going to come, and in a mo-
ment of resentment at the department I am having myself the pleasure of writ-
ing you on university time. The only weak spot in this process is that your letter
is at the house and so must go unanswered in the narrower sense. Forgive me
please. But the most important thing in it I remember clearly—the Yale visit
and the possible repercussions from it. By now I hope that the repercussion has
developed into a severe rumble and the rumble into something so tangible that
you can read it, study it, and make up your mind easily and happily about it.
On reading your letter I was distressed by only one thing—the unimaginative
dimensions of the possible offer. Maybe a prospect of a serious improvement in
the faculty is almost as difficult to face at Yale as elsewhere. But we will be most
delighted when something does come through if it is at all close to a palatable
form, for we shall be sure that New Haven cannot always be unimaginative but
must eventually come through with something like what it ought to.
Ruth reminds me not to bore Baton Rougeans with comments on life in
Seattle. But alas since I no longer read anything but business letters, I have to
stick to the immediate scene. Don’t say I haven’t warned you. From here on, you
can cease reading the letter—or let Lissie check it first to see whether it is worth
the reading time (1 min. 13 sec. as they say in slick magazines).
Physically we are in the main comfortable enough. The twenty-year-old house
is very solid and well built, relatively inelegant by contemporary standards, but
roomy and comfortable. The sloping lot presents no more difficulties to the
yard-worker than does yours. We have inherited some trees, some bushes, and
some flowers that blossom prettily. When there is any view at all we can see not
only the city dump and a considerable share of city below us but, across the next
hill top, an attractive stretch of snow-covered mountains. But there is rarely any
view, for the Japan current and the cold air from the snow-covered mountains
combine to produce almost constant cloudiness and rain. By the standards we
have become used to in the last twelve years, this is a cold, damp, depressing
spring. In Seattle everybody is always looking forward to that ideal period which
is some other time.
The faculty, who are about all the people we know so far, and we don’t really
know them to speak of, nearly all belong to what I should call a middle class of
university people. There is almost no redneck proletariat (Heard, Lucky, Major,
etc. etc.) and almost no aristocracy (Voegelin and—well, I’m not sure). Every-
body is civil, decent, orderly, liberal: I can describe the place best by saying that
it would be the perfect place for Rudolf [Heberle]. Everybody is full of good
works, concerned about the public weal, demonically devoted to committees,
practicing sweet reason, improving the lot of mankind, and of course following
the trends. No one ever suspects that there could possibly be any imperfection
of any kind in liberalism. I have not yet discovered anybody from whom I could
learn anything important (like you) or anyone with whom I can talk in a famil-
iar language, able to count upon a reasonably similar background of belief (like
Brooks). The closest approach to either is in a couple of Germans, a geologist
named [Peter] Misch and a classicist named [Ludwig] Edelstein (the former’s fa-
ther, I am told, was a distinguished philosopher and literary critic), the latter of
whom, alas, is going to California. But I have not yet had real opportunity to ex-
plore the personal resources.
As far as the department job is concerned: before I came, they really did every-
thing they could to get the routine work into the hands of assistants. But a great
deal of it cannot be delegated, of course, and I spend most of the day on office
stuff which by any standards is very trivial. On policy, which is what I was sup-
posed to be chiefly concerned with, I have so far little influence, and it is proba-
ble that I shall have less: the closer I come to trying to act in terms of my own
convictions, the closer I come, in the eyes of the brethren, to being a creature of
18. Obviously Heilman was referring to a group of people whom Voegelin would immediately
know from LSU. As nearly as I can discern, this group includes Thomas P. Heard, director of ath-
letics; perhaps Lewis B. Lucky, associate professor of social sciences and director of the Bureau of
Veterans’ Education, and perhaps Hoquet A. Major, professor of French and head of the Romance
languages department.
19. Rudolf Heberle, originally from Kiel, Germany, was a member of the sociology department,
Louisiana State University.
“prejudice.” My guess at the moment is that I am a prisoner of the department

and will remain so whenever I try to break out of the more immediate prison of
routine work. But I shall wait until enough time elapses to permit me to see the
situation more clearly.
The air of the place is fairly well defined by the general indignation at Rich-
ard Weaver’s Ideas Have Consequences, most of which I should guess you would
approve of. In fact, I’d be glad for your opinion of it. The central idea is that
most modern evils are traceable to nominalistic habits of mind. The New York
Times and the Sat. Rev. of Lit. have both called the book “fascist” etc. (Weaver
believes in authority and hierarchy and has no faith whatever in progress, hu-
manitarianism, etc.). I suppose Weaver finished up at LSU before you came.
Under Cleanth’s direction he did a thesis on southern culture which made
Wendell Stephenson very indignant. (The antecedent of which is thesis.) I am
liking the book very much.
So the problem is not to find decent people, but to find ones who have
reached at least one’s own slight penetration into what lies beneath the clichés.
Ruth says to remind you that the wind blows like hell here. Tsk, tsk. We look
forward eagerly to hearing from either or both of you again. If we are slow in
writing, it is that the pace here has so far been pretty rough.
Sincerely,
<Bob>
We roared over your ironies on the Brooks ménage—especially the Blanchard
[Tinkum’s] hesitancies on New Haven.
14. Baton Rouge, May 1, 1948

Dear Robert:
Your letter was a pleasure. I had suspected that your long silences had the
causes which you now indicate. The routine of administration must be very un-
pleasant; one can only hope that with time the business can be transacted with
greater speed or that you get some leisure for your own interests. I am a bit wor-
ried by the fact that you do not mention the Lear. I am looking forward to
see[ing] it in print any day now. Also I regret to miss news about such important
personages as Pete and Mike.
This answer of mine comes almost by return mail because the Yale affair has
reached a point where I am aching to tell you all about it. I wrote you that I gave
20. Pete, of course, is Ruth and Robert Heilman’s son, Champlin B. Heilman; Mike was the
Heilmans’ cat.
a lecture there on March 12th; that the lecture was a great success; that [P. E.]
Corbett, the Chairman of the Department, indulged in broad hints that I was
just the man they could use, and that correspondence would ensue, etc. I went
home with the idea that in the course of the next two or three weeks an offer
would come. As a matter of fact: nothing has come, not even a line of thanks for
giving them a lecture which cost me six working-days, inconvenience, etc., and
for which I did not receive an honorarium. Neither have I heard a word from
Brooks since that day. (I should add that I have written, of course, very polite
bread-and-butter letters to everybody concerned on the day I arrived back
home.) The only information to-date is a letter from Kendall which came last
week. He confirms that the lecture was a roaring success and that in particular
the graduate students were overwhelmed. Then he goes on to say that hitches
have developed. In an extremely vague, conspiratorial tone, he speaks of an at-
tempt that has miscarried. That the younger members of the department had
the idea of “Changing the department into a different kind of enterprise . . . if
you like, to carry out a revolution; and this meant either consent or abdication
on the part of the full professors.” Of all such goings-on I had not heard a word
while I was in Yale. This plan was “scotched” by the gentlemen who were sup-
posed to abdicate. Where I come into all this, I do not know; Kendall’s letter is
silent on this point. Anyway, Kendall opines that either [Cecil] Driver or
[Arnold] Wolfers, or both, have vetoed an appointment for me because they
were afraid that my presence might invite comparisons with their performance
about which they did not care. That is Kendall’s letter.
Now what am I supposed to make of all this? I am afraid of even answering
Kendall’s letter because I have no intention of getting involved even faintly into
any idiotic conspiracy which Kendall or Brooks, or both, have cooked up. On
the other hand, since there is no word from Corbett, I am completely in the
dark. I miss you very much in this contingency; do you think you could give me
your advice in writing, in spite of your distressing administrative situation?
Harris of course, more or less, enjoys himself because the affair seems to be
ended; and tells me grandiosely: Who would care to join such a department
anyway? Well, I would join it as the price that has to be paid in order to be near
the Yale library, and near some other quite pleasant characters outside the
Department.
We enjoyed very much your description of Seattle as the perfect place for
Rudolph. You mention Misch. If he is the one whom I mean, his father was
Georg Misch, indeed a philosopher of considerable quality. Besides, old Misch
happened to be the son-in-law of [Wilhelm] Dilthey, so that your Misch would
be Dilthey’s grandson. I should like to see the fellow; just to see what such a
scion of one of the “best families” in German science looks like.
For the rest, just two days ago some possibility opened to go to Vienna (to
teach in a summer-school in the Law Faculty) in July. I doubt that it will mate-
rialize; the time is too short.
With kindest regards to Ruth and Pete,
<Eric Voegelin>
15. May 8, 1948

Dear Eric,
We are very much distressed by the way in which the Yale matter is going. In
one sense I am not surprised, because what I know of Yale does not lead me to
think that it has essentially a great deal more insight and imagination than other
American universities. But it is a shame that such indications should have been
given that action is imminent, and that after that no action should occur. My
guess as to what happened is that Kendall had some interest in having you at
Yale, but not enough to overcome some hesitancies as to what your presence
might mean for him personally. Then Cleanth, who is very successful at setting
other people in action, persuaded him that he would profit by your presence
and after that greatly overestimated Kendall’s immediate political weight in the
department and thus tacitly encouraged Kendall to enlarge his own estimate of
what he could accomplish. (Cleanth is constantly using the figure of the smart
quarterback who usefully directs the lunging fullback. But he rarely thinks
of himself as the fullback.) Like Hitler, they overestimate the initial weakness of
the enemy (the enemy being the people who want to keep things comfortably
just the way they are now). Then when the real strength is shown, they are not
ready for it. It seems to me that when you use the adjective conspiratorial to
apply to the Brooks-Kendall operations, you sense precisely the tone which the
thing has or is likely to have. Brooks has an innate flair for melodrama, and fif-
teen years at LSU did not diminish what his genes gave him. He used always to
be steering Kendall into attacking this and that, and part of his great fondness
for Kendall, although he did not know it himself (and it was only a part), lay in
Kendall’s peculiar susceptibility to being used by Cleanth (perhaps for good
ends: I do not wish the word used to have a sinister connotation). But you are
absolutely right in wanting to avoid the fact or the appearance of getting identi-
fied with a bloc of plotters, even though the plot itself may be an admirable one
whose objectives you can totally approve of. If the old-timers don’t at the mo-
ment want you, it is of course the old question of quality; but that is the truth
no one can ever admit; so they will be hot on the trail of finding a real disquali-
fication; and if you could be tied up with a backstairs operation run by a couple
of young revolutionaries, they would probably feel that the Lord had given
them a wonderful piece of discrediting evidence.
So I think that in writing to Kendall I should try for a discreet neutrality, dif-
ficult as it is to avoid pressing questions when one’s own fortune is so much at
stake. You know—cordiality, and agreeableness, and a noncommittal indication
that you are always interested in knowing about interesting things going on at
Yale. I do not know what Corbett’s correspondence with you is like—whether it
permits you to ask a fairly direct question about the situation. My guess is that
if it does not, you are in the uncomfortable position of having to do without
positive information until history or some authoritative informant chooses to
enlighten you. That is, if you want to play the game cagily in the hope that
something may still come of it. If you simply want to have it settled with final-
ity, if you want to know “irregardless” as some people say, you can write Corbett
very candidly about the whole thing.
That Cleanth doesn’t write is to be expected. He doesn’t write anyway. Two
months ago I wrote him a very specific inquiry about people he knows whom
we are considering for jobs, and he never acknowledged the letter. Besides, he
has some gift of forgetting the unpleasant (that remark is not fair if it is taken in
the worst possible sense; I do not mean it as a severe censure at all): I have rarely
known him to acknowledge making a mistake (come to think of it, I know
damn few people who ever do). At the moment, from a report or two which I
get, I think Cleanth is a little bit in the situation of being overwhelmed by the
kind of happiness that overtakes the country boy when he goes to college and
makes a fraternity that somehow he never expected to make. There is that side
to him. Anyway this particular bliss is liable to blot out a lot of other things.
(Let me say that whenever I identify Cleanth’s clayfoot I am able to do so largely
in terms of knowledge arrived at introspectively.)
This is a random gabble which does nothing I fear but repeat what you have
already thought out for yourself. The better irony would be that since you
wrote, something has happened which changes the whole picture and invali-
dates these acute speculations.
Contrary to my mean emphatic predictions, Mike got completely acclimated
here within a week. At the moment, all he needs is vermifuge, and this is not a
regional problem. Contrary to expectations of both Ruth and me, Pete has re-
adjusted rapidly: he has fallen in with a group of congenial playmates and is so

active that he has no time to think about being homesick. Ruth and I, I think,
have both been much more homesick than we expected to be (which is an idi-
otic thing to mention to someone like you who have had real problems of ad-
justment).
Re Yale: I had a fascinating letter from a Hopkins man who is indignant at
Hopkins for letting go a couple of bright Jews. He says, “Edelstein is a truly re-
markable man. Immense talents are there joined with broad and humane inter-
ests. I was very anxious to keep him here, but the local Yale clique—which
always prefers amateurs and gentiles—refused to back him. The same group got
rid of Harold Cherniss, who went from here to Berkeley and now to the
Institute for Advanced Study, and refused to accept Richard Lattimore—a fine
poet and classicist who has been compared to [Richard] Porson. They can al-
ways think of a Skullandbonzer who doesn’t know too much and holds his
liquor well.” Familiar?
With all our regards,
Yours,
<Bob>
16. May 16, 1948

Dear Robert,
Many thanks for your letter of May 8, with its advice in the Yale affair. On the
whole, my own thoughts have moved on similar tracks but I am grateful for
your confirmation since you know the persons involved and the environment
much better than I do. I shall follow your advice in particular with regard to
Kendall—I shall not enter into his dark hints at all but simply suggest in general
terms that all news will be welcome. Nothing, by the way, has happened in the
matter in the meantime.
There is, however, plenty of excitement from another source. I shall tell you
the story because I presume that you will enjoy to learn something about rack-
ets and intriguing in the academic world in Europe. Towards the end of last year
I had a letter from the Dean of the Law Faculty in Vienna (who is an old friend
and with whom I am in correspondence) that he tried to get a summer-school
organized in July of this year, that the organization proper was in the hands of
[Friedrich A. von] Hayek in London (Road to Serfdom), that they wanted to
21. Richard Porson, 1759–1808, was Regius Professor of Greek in the University of Cambridge.
bring several former professors to Vienna for this summer-school, that the
Rockefeller Foundation was financing the project, that he hoped very much I
would be among those chosen, and that I would hear more about it from Hayek
directly. Well, I heard nothing after that—neither from Vienna, nor from
Hayek. And I thought the thing had been buried. We had prepared for our sum-
mer in Cambridge, to live in the house of [Gottfried] Haberler (the economist),
and were all set. —In the last week of April, Haberler told me in a letter, inci-
dentally, that the project with Vienna had materialized after all, that he was
going, that I had been considered, too, but that the Rockefeller Foundation
wanted to restrict the group to economists—which sounded plausible to me be-
cause of the presence of Russians and other varmint in Vienna. Two days later,
however, I received a letter from the Dean in Vienna, with a formal appoint-
ment (seal and all) as guest-lecturer for this summer, and the information that
the Rockefeller people would pay transportation.
Joyfully I smelled a rat. I wrote the most detached and innocent letter to the
R.F., telling them of the appointment, that they were to pay, but that Haberler
had written me just a few days ago that only real economists were admitted to
the group, whether the invitation was not perhaps a mistake, etc. —Then for
twelve days nothing happened. —On the twelfth day, the R.F. wrote. Not a
word about the background of the affair; simply: that I was included in the
group, that $1500 were at my disposition for the trip, that I would have to hurry
to get passport and Military Permit. Next day came a letter from Haberler: the
director of the Rockefeller Foundation had called him up in Cambridge, read to
him my letter over the telephone, inquired why the restrictions, etc. Haberler
said he knew nothing, and his information came from Hayek. That’s where we
are now.
Surmised result: Hayek tried to restrict the group to solid, conservative, lib-
eral, free-trade, fathead economists (I have heard in the meanwhile of another
political scientist who was included out); and the beautiful idea miscarried.
After all, he probably has succeeded because it is almost impossible to get the
Military Permit in time, even if I get the passport. Anyway, we are in great ex-
citement because we do not know what is going to happen for the summer. I
shall go if I get the documents, but I am not particularly eager—the $1500
sounds [like] a lot of money, but the ticket alone costs over $1000. Lissy cries be-
cause she is sure that when I go up in an airplane, the airplane will go down.
And generally it’s a mess.
You see, the world has its colorful spots everywhere.
Kindest regards from us to all of you.
17. Seattle, May 18, 1948

Dear Eric,
You have all our good wishes for the completion of the technicalities in time
to permit you this summer’s reunion in Vienna. The Hayek story is lovely; we
are delighted. Patterns of academic conduct are apparently the same; but still
there are levels I would say. I am still trying to get us in at the lowest possible
level.
I want to quote a “confidential” paragraph from Cleanth. Only corrobora-
tory, nothing new. “Voegelin did brilliantly, but nothing has happened, and
though I was told by one of the department members the other day that the
dept was still interested, I don’t know. I am also told—quite confidentially of
course—that Voegelin’s lecture was simply too good: that some of the members
of the dept had cooled off because they thought that V’s presence here would
jeopardize their own laurels. Anyway, I hope for the best, but it’s obvious that
nothing is going to be done in the way of an offer for the present.”
The other day I met [Thomas I.] Cook, the English political theorist who is
going from here to Chicago. I should probably say “theory man” rather than
“theorist.” He is a very delightful person whose god is J. S. Mill on Liberty.
Since he’s leaving I took the liberty of tossing in your name as that of a theory
man they ought to look into. But nothing will happen because 1) I see that I
shall carry no weight at all here and 2) everybody says [Charlie] Martin the head
of pol sci is such a goddamned stuffed shirt he doesn’t want anybody good in the
dept. Cook is very good on local characters. He has a handsome, mildly theatrical-
looking blonde wife, and they are frowned on by the properer sort. As one woman
said of Mrs C, “And she’s a grandmother.”
Lear is now due for August.
Our very best to you both,
<Bob>
18. Baton Rouge, November 4, 1948

Dear Robert:
Your Great Stage arrived more than two weeks ago; and I must apologize for
not having written earlier. But I did not want to write an empty acknowledg-
ment; and quite a few chores have prevented my giving proper attention to your
work until yesterday. I must beg you to forgive the delay of my thanks. These
thanks are due for the gift as a whole, as well as specifically for your most kind
autograph dedication, and for the generous mentionings in the Foreword. On
this latter count I am now puffed with pride—except in my lucid moments

when I reduce myself through the memory of your generosity and punctilious-
ness in such matters. Nevertheless, you ought to know that your acknowledge-
ment has given me some stature and reputation on the campus: The other day I
walked into the History Department; and a perfect stranger, some graduate stu-
dent, accosted me and asked me whether I was the one who had been men-
tioned in your outstanding work and then expressed his sentiments respectueux
(he was a Cajun or French Canadian).
Now for the book itself. We have discussed the basic idea amply and you
know that I am enthusiastic about this type of analysis. What I had not realized
in reading the first draft (or perhaps I have forgotten it) was the scope and sys-
tematic order of problems, as it appears now in the organization of the chapters.
The book as a whole is indeed, à propos of Lear, a study in philosophical an-
thropology at large, and specifically of the problems of human nature in a time
of crisis. Under this aspect, I was particularly impressed by Chapter X and XI
which, as far as I remember, were not in the draft that I have seen. If I may tem-
per my admiration and whole-hearted agreement, as it is usual on such occa-
sion, by disagreeing on one point, it would be the meticulous care with which
you have articulated every minor problem to the last. If my memory does not
deceive me, the first draft was not only briefer but fresher in expression because
it left a point here and there to the intelligence of the reader. But you told me
once that you would be merciless in this respect and buttress the analysis itself
with prefaces, summaries, elaborations, qualifications and other aids for the
poor in the mind so that the expression of your intentions would be foolproof
and the marginal moron in the profession could follow the argument, even if he
did not understand what it was all about. I can understand the tactical necessity
of this concession; but nevertheless, I regret it personally.
Another one of your opera came to my attention these days. Your very de-
voted disciple, Catheryn Ditchburn, brought me the volume on Forms of Modern
Fiction, containing, besides 21 other papers, yours on the Turn of the Screw. I
read it again with great pleasure; and I also read most of the other articles. I
must say that I am very much impressed by the generally very high level of the
performance; and to see that there are at least twenty-two men in the profession
who can write like that, is a certain comfort to a person who is inclined to take
22. Heilman, “The Turn of the Screw as Poem,” University of Kansas City Review 14 (1948): 277–
89; reprinted in Forms of Modern Fiction: Essays Collected in Honor of Joseph Warren Beach, ed.
William Van O’Connor (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1948).
a dim view of contemporary achievement in literary analysis. This volume gives

the impression that literary criticism in this country is resting on a broad and
firm social basis. This does not mean that I am over-awed in every single in-
stance by the performance. In particular, the attempt at causerie by the much
praised Allen Tate struck me as sicklish with little substance and an abundance
of bad taste. And the article on Hemingway, with its pathetic search for articu-
lating the reasons why a littérateur is second-rate when he uses the emptiest of
political clichés for characterizing a man’s motive to participate in the Spanish
Civil War, made me think that its author still had to learn a few things in order
to make his judgment more spontaneous and certain. Warren’s article on Faulk-
ner, on the other hand, is very illuminating—but with regard to Faulkner, there
remains the problem which we discussed on occasion, to what extent the value
of an author’s work is affected by the choice of subject (provincial and unrepre-
sentative); I would not dare to have an opinion concerning the question whether
the subject mars Faulkner’s achievement, or whether he has not power enough
to make it lucidly representative on a general human level,—anyway, in reading
Faulkner, I always have the feeling that he got stuck short of full representative
lucidity. Lionel Trilling’s on “Manners” is a very fine sociological study—though I
suspect that one could know much more on this subject, if one goes after it,
than would appear from this article (I remember a chapter on Manners in
[Thomas Hobbes’s] Leviathan that might have helped him).
My letter was delayed because, until a few days ago, I was strenuously occu-
pied in giving the works to Erasmus and More. On closer study, they have as-
sumed considerable historical significance as a first start of modernity, along
with Machiavelli and [Pietro] Pomponazzi, before the crash of the Reformation
occurred. With this chapter, I have now the architecture of Volume III (Mod-
ern) in shape. I am telling you this because I had the impression that Erasmus
and More are also a concern of English Literature (the best study on More is by
[Raymond Wilson] Chambers), and I wondered whether you would be inter-
ested enough to take a look at this chapter (if your time permits). It deviates
from the conventional treatment considerably, as far as political science is
23. Voegelin here refers to volume 3 of The History of Political Ideas. For a complete history of
this work and its metamorphosis into Order and History, see “General Introduction to the Series,”
by Thomas A. Hollweck and Ellis Sandoz, in vol. 19 of the Collected Works of Eric Voegelin,
History of Political Ideas, vol. 1, ed. Athanasios Moulakis (Columbia: University of Missouri Press,
1997).
24. Voegelin is probably referring to R. W. Chambers, Thomas More (New York: Harcourt Brace,
1935).
concerned; and I would be curious what you would think of it from the point of
view of history of literature (which, with the exception of Chambers, is un-
known to me). If you think you have the time and stomach for it (47 pages), I
could send you a copy.
There is much rejoicing over the election. Everybody seems to be delighted
about the discomfiture of the pollsters; and that one can lick Communism and
KuKluxKlan at the same time, is also most comforting. Personally I feel happy
because at least I am not represented by that mug with moustache. And that
dear old [John Foster] Dulles, who just has discovered that Stalin does not be-
lieve in Peaceful Change, will not be Secretary of State also is nothing to weep
about.
With many thanks,
Cordially yours,
<Eric>
19. Baton Rouge, January 1, 1949

Dear Robert:
I have just come back from a meeting of the Political Science Association in
Chicago. I had gone there with little expectation of enlightenment; and, on the
whole, the affair was unspeakably dreary. Nevertheless, to my great surprise, I
heard at least one proposition that carried the conviction of absolute truth; the
proposition: “Ruth is a most charming woman.” And who do you think would
spontaneously gush forth this rock-ribbed, solid axiom? It was Katie! But per-
haps you are not as intimate with Katie as I am. So let me remind you that Katie
is the wife of your colleague-of-leave Thomas I. Cook. I made his acquaintance
in Chicago and I spent an evening at his apartment because Katie, who is ambi-
tious in many a way, threw a reception for distinguished guests. It was a most
pleasant evening because only utterly uninfluential people were present, such as
[Sergius] Yacobson, [Waldemar] Gurian, [F. B.] Schick, [Heinrich Albert] Rommen
and myself. Not a single big-wig or big-shot or fat cat did come. Katie was a
most gracious hostess; she had prepared a huge platter of fine, cold cuts and ap-
propriate drinks; and she assured us that there were “oodles” outside. And Katie
25. Thomas E. Dewey, who ran for president against Harry S. Truman in 1948.
26. Sergius Yacobson published “The Soviet Concept of Satellite States” (Review of Politics 11
[1949]: 184–95); Waldemar Gurian was founder of the Review of Politics at Notre Dame University.
Schick taught political science at the University of Utah; Rommer taught political science at the
College of St. Thomas in St. Paul, Minnesota.
is a most charming woman, too; practically a lady. She makes the most clever
conversation and has seen a lot of the world. She also speaks with an ingratiat-
ing and clear voice that carries far. I noticed with interest that Waldemar Gurian
(who is a sensitive, barbarian chump from Russia) winced every time when a re-
mark of hers from the other end of the room reached his ear. (He finally with-
drew into the adjoining room).
Now, Katie was a godsend because I could extract from her a lot of informa-
tion about the noble institution at Seattle. She is fed up with the place and
wants to stay in Chicago; as a reason she gives that Seattle is a “cultural desert.”
But she was considerate enough to admit that her views may be biased because
she is attached to the Political Science Department. If there were more people
like you and Ruth, etc., it would be different. Anyway, the P.Sc. Department
seems to be a sore spot, as I was also assured by “Tommy.” The matter interested
me quite a bit because shortly before Xmas I had a letter from a man named
Kenneth C. Cole, who seems to be acting head, that he would like to see me in
Chicago. I let him have the opportunity; and at the same time, I took a good
look at him. Well, he told me that Cook was on the point of leaving for good, in
case his Chicago job would be permanent, and that he was looking for a new
man. That was about all; we shall continue the conversation when the situation
will be clarified. Unfortunately, however, he did not only look at me but, as I
said, I looked at him, too. And what I saw aroused in me the suspicion that per-
haps, indeed, Seattle is not the proper place for me. He seems to be one of these
arrogant New England types; as far as I could find out, he has never done any-
thing worth mentioning, and he acts as if he were running the world and were
something like an international statesman. Remarks from “Tommy” confirmed
the suspicion; and the regular chairman, a certain Martin, seems to be a some-
what stuffy figure, too. —Well, the question may never arise; for I had a talk
with one of the Chicago fat-cats, and I take it that it is not so certain at all, that
the Chicago people want to keep Cook. He may have to go back to Seattle, un-
less something develops rapidly at Columbia for him—which seems to be the
place of his ultimate destiny—as I learned from another source. Incidentally, I
learned (not from him) that his History of Political Philosophy is known in pro-
fessional circles as the “cook-book”; and that at Harvard a man loses caste when
he reads it. At present he is engaged in such useful enterprises as writing a re-
port on American Political Science for UNESCO.
27. Thomas I. Cook, History of Political Philosophy from Plato to Burke (New York: Prentice-
Hall, 1936).
But let us now come to a more serious subject, that is, to yourself. I am afraid
I have sad news for you about you. I mean, we don’t miss you here; I would not
go so far as to say that we are glad you are gone; but definitely, we can do with-
out you. The reason why is that you are just a literary critic—and there are oo-
dles of them; but we have now got the real article on the campus. I mean,
literature itself. In brief, we have a genuine poet. His name is [Earl L.] Bradsher.
Recently he brought out a book of poetry which created quite a stir. About the
quality there is no doubt; the man is headed straight for the Oxford Book of
English Verse. There is, however, considerable debate about the genesis of his
masterpieces. To be exact, there are two schools of thought. The one says that it
came over him; the other says it came out of him. The poet himself is vague on
the point, as poets so frequently are. He says he didn’t know he had it in him—
which may either mean that it was in him, only he didn’t know; or that there
was nothing in him, and it came from the outside. On the other hand, he ad-
mits that “something deeply psychological” had been stirring in him for years; it
could no longer be contained; it broke out. It all began when he noticed that
poetry was running through his head—sometimes a whole line at a time—on
the most various occasions, such as when he was dish-washing or when he was
sitting on a log, hunting a squirrel for dinner. Sometimes he woke up in the
middle of the night, with poetry running through him; he would get up and
write it down so he wouldn’t forget it. For months he had kept it secret from his
wife; but when the stage was reached where he got up in the middle of the night,
naturally she found out. And it was she, of course, who overcame his modesty
and pushed him into print. Moreover, he admits that his lady inspired him. You
may know her; and you will be a better judge of this point than I am. His verse
is striking and profound; the subject-matter ranges from an “intriguing descrip-
tion” of his wife, to reflections on after-life. On this latter question he has very
decided opinions: he does not want to go to a heaven where angels make twang-
twang! on their harps; he wants to go to a happy hunting-ground where he can
make bang-bang! at the squirrels. This seems to show a certain maturity of the
spiritual life. Inevitably, he was pressed to give a lecture over the radio; there was
a large audience of local gentry at the studio. One of my students, who is em-
ployed by the station, told me about the impression he made. It must have been
most gripping. People were sitting there, with their heads bowed, and let it sink
in. When the show was over and they filed out, they still could hardly talk be-
cause they could not find words to articulate their emotions. Only now and then,
one was heard muttering “Well, well!” —But I do not want to bore you further
with my entirely inadequate and non-professional account. I am enclosing a
clipping from a local paper that will give you the details by the pen of a compe-
tent literary critic—you see, even in that respect we are not left quite desolate by
your departure.
The Brookses were here over the holiday. We saw them for an evening at the
Blanchards. Cleanth seems a bit constrained after the affair in Yale this spring;
but he does not open his mouth on what happened; and I did not bring up a
topic which he seems to shun. He still is very much impressed by Yale and his
being there; but Tinkum is less so; the curtains (about which I wrote you in
spring) are still not up. He is working on some text-book, together with Warren.
I heard a bit more about Yale from Willmoore Kendall, in Chicago. I do not
know whether what he tells is true; but anyway it is quite amusing after a fash-
ion. He insists that Yale is an intellectual slum and that my lecture finished me.
Not so much the lecture itself but my way of delivery. I was uncautious enough
not to read from a MS. but to talk freely on the subject. Thus I created the very
unfavorable impression that I knew what I was talking about and had my subject-
matter at my finger-tips; the discussion was even worse because it ranged over a
variety of subjects on which I also seemed to be informed in the most improper
manner. Such ungentlemanly erudition frightened at least two members of the
department so thoroughly that their thumbs turned down on me. Yale is a re-
spectable place and such casual pouring forth of knowledge which should be di-
vulged only with all symptoms of sweat on the brow from a carefully prepared
paper cannot be tolerated. Nevertheless, it may not yet be the end. When the
History comes out, perhaps the matter will be taken up again.
That is all the news of the moment. Don’t be so engrossed in your adminis-
tration and drop a line on occasion.
<Eric>
<P.S. And all good wishes to you and Ruth and Pete for the New Year!>
28. An account of this story, “Dr. Earl L. Bradsher Has Book Published: Poetry Volume to be
Released Tomorrow Is First for Well Known University Literature Professor,” by Orene Muse, is
found in the Baton Rouge Morning Advocate Magazine, November 28, 1948, 8–9. A picture of Dr.
Bradsher in hunting gear with rifle is found with this article; part of the caption reads: “Many of
the poems in the new book being published Monday were written while he was seated on a log
waiting for a bird to make its appearance.”
29. The family of Tinkum (Blanchard) Brooks.
20. Seattle, January 6, 1949

Dear Eric,
Now I owe you answers to two excellent letters, and if the answers are not ex-
cellent, it is that the flesh is willing but the spirit weak.
Anything I said about you in the book is obviously an understatement. As for
the rest of it, I hope it does not too much displease you in the form into which
it finally got while I ran along beside tugging at the edges like a dog at an apron
and trying to make it do this or that. You and Warren both said essentially the
same thing originally: make it, if anything[,] shorter. Instead I followed [Leo]
Kirschbaum, who kept saying, every other page, be more explicit. Kirschbaum
is a good critic in many ways, and I thought that with him as a model I would
be playing for the upper middle class, so to speak, and that the nobility such as
you and Warren would accept it on the grounds that the author was once a nice
man, etc. Since at least one reviewer has said that the book is tedious, it is ap-
parent that the aristocracy are a better guide to the people than the u. m. c. are.
Which I should have known before.
I am glad that O’Connor’s anthology, the Forms of Modern Fiction, seems to
you to have some merit. About Faulkner: I find myself groping there, having
certain dissatisfactions which are perhaps relatable to the characteristic which
you note, his unrepresentativeness, and yet on the other hand so strongly moved
by a sense of the reality of what he writes (I hope I do not seem to be praising
him for realism) that I feel as if the apparent shortcoming must be the product
of some critical failure of my own. I suppose my implied and loose syllogism is
something to the effect that something which appears to partake so fully of life
cannot be partaking of only a segment, a provincial corner, of life, but that the
corner must be larger than it appears. The only work of his about which I feel
able to attempt to justify the impression is The Hamlet—which seems to me to
be a very fine symbolic setting forth of a decay of an old order (an aristocracy of
which not much is left perhaps but which is still qualitatively superior to its suc-
cessor) and its replacement by a new order dominated by a spirit of calculation
(you see the Lear student seeing Lears everywhere, perhaps). Perhaps, if I am
correct in finding this to be the pattern of the book, this would still not seem to
you to be meaningful in a general human way; but I should argue that at least it
transcends the provincial by considerable. Another book of his which I believe is
not well thought of and which is not well known is The [Wild] Palms, in reading
30. Leo Kirschbaum taught English at Wayne University (later Wayne State University) in De-
troit, Michigan.
which I find an initial and continuing tendency on my part to regard it as a well-

intended work which came out a potboiler, more strongly opposed, as I con-
tinue with the book by another tendency, to feel that there is a good deal
there—a structure which is a little better than a somewhat perverse surface
would lead one to expect, a kind of Romeo and Juliet theme<*> [left:] <i. e.,
shown in the form> (done in the terms) which would be dictated by a vulgar age.
This is not very well put. Both here and in other books I feel always the need of
detailed analysis to reach a final conviction: you know how it is, I work six
months on the Turn of the Screw, and you get it all straightened out in one night.
If you can send me a carbon or some other by-copy of the More and Erasmus
chapter that would not have to be returned within any set time, I would be most
glad, on purely selfish grounds, to read it. I put it this way because I am nor-
mally, as you know, a slow Pa. Dutchman, and in my present life I seem never to
have time even for moderate reading in my own field. But I don’t yield Voegelin
when I can get it.
I am glad your wide literary sympathy extends also to the recent opus by
Dan’l Boone I-shot-a-bar Bradsher. You remember what he used to tell his
classes about Henry James: “the trouble with James is he didn’t spend enough
time down at the ole swimming hole and never got his eyes blacked enough.”
Dan’l’s greatest American novelist is Fenimore Cooper. Dan’l is, by the way, the
almost perfect symbol of the frontier type in its aesthetic aspect, though that is
perhaps a contradiction in terms. Incidentally, I met a publisher friend in NY
who told me that Bradsher’s publisher is a pay-as-you-go house.
I wonder whether you happened to notice one extraordinary paragraph in the
Bradsher article? Here it is, complete with its subcaption:
Gets Up at Night
“Yes,” laughed his attractive blonde wife. . . .—“yes, and sometimes he gets up
in the middle of the night to put something down.”
That, it seems to me, is a very common experience; and any deficit incurred in
the Bruce Humphries account can be wiped out by selling the paragraph as a
testimonial for a certain kind of patent medicine. In fact two different kinds.
Cleanth is really wonderful, the way he just forgets about little things like his
political science fiasco at New Haven. It works so well that anyone else some-
how gets the idea it’s ill-mannered to bring up that which is being forgotten. I
would like to hear Tinkum on Yale; I gather that she has not reached the blunt-
ness of Willmoore (Oxford) Kendall, but she can sometimes be very perverse
about Cleanth’s secular religions. Have you yet heard her make any cracks about
his fondness for driving their convertible with the top down?<*> [left:] <we ex-
pect you to continue the History of the Curtains. It is a fine symbolic drama.>
Did I ever tell you, by the way, about my disgruntled acquaintance at Hopkins
who commented on the anti-Semitism of the late Bowman administration?
Referring to various vacancies for which good Jewish scholars were available, he
wrote, “But the Yale boys who populate this Nazi village can always find some
good Skullundbonzer who can hold his likker and doesn’t know too much to
embarrass them.” But, as you once pointed out, Yale has its advantages, and I do
hope that all is not dead there for you. But I’m not at all sure that the book is
going to reassure the boys about your amenability.
Now as for the theme of Katie, fat-cats, Cook-books, cookie jars in Seattle,
Cole, et al. All this does not come as a complete shock to me because shortly be-
fore I left for NY I had a note from Cole, whom I don’t know, saying that he was
going to see you and that he had had a note from you saying to say hello to
Heilman. And before this I had written the head, Charlie Martin, a longish let-
ter setting forth your merits (a letter tuned strictly to Charlie’s wave length; an
eclectic letter; a wonderful letter to sell a piece of goods to a guy who knows
what he likes; but I will cease from this); and even before that I had utilized an
indirect means to have it brought to Charlie that any time he needed a theory
man, etc. etc. But I never really expected anything to come of this, and all I can
say at this point is that I hope it does. They have enough dough here so that at
least you might get a good raise out of [Harold] Stoke on the offer if it comes.
Yesterday I was having an interview with the Executive Officer in charge of
Academic Personnel, who despite all that and despite his being a fugitive from
philosophy into psychology, is an amiable, fairly civilized person who is quite re-
alistic about the staff and who would really like to have a good university here.
He is not an intellectual, but intellectuals do not depress him; whenever he finds
a faculty member going to the library, he is full of joy and thinks maybe we will
be a university after all. Anyway, after doing all the English Department busi-
ness and finding, as I pretty well knew, that we agreed almost precisely about
what is wrong here in Parrington Hall, I said I knew of a good man who might
be made an offer here, but from what I had heard of the gov’t department I wasn’t
sure how much encouragement I could honestly hold out. I said, “My man
found Cole very pompous.” [Edwin R.] Guthrie said, “Lord yes, he drives away
anybody he talks to.” I said, “My man has also heard things about Charlie
31. Harold Stoke was president of Louisiana State University from 1947 to 1951.
32. Edwin R. Guthrie was provost and academic vice president, University of Washington,
Seattle.
Martin.” Guthrie: “What he has heard isn’t half as bad as the reality.” Guthrie
then pulled down a Who’s Who to show Charlie’s incredibly extended entry,
and explained, “Just a little man trying to give himself the illusion that he is a
big man.” And we exchanged a few Charlie Martin stories, e.g., “Have you
heard that Charlie Martin has consented to give an interview to MacArthur?” etc.
Well, this is of course a strange way to start trying to lure you to Seattle.
There is of course nothing to do but tell the truth about the gov’t dep’t, and that
may be prohibitive; but what I am hoping is that you will be encouraged by the
understanding of the front office; both Guthrie and the president are fairly
shrewd about people; and that should be a real encouragement for the future. I
went on to say to Guthrie, “Well, how can I counter the awful facts?” Guthrie:
“Tell your man he needn’t have anything to do with these people. He can teach
his classes and spend the rest of the time in the library and associate with whom
he pleases.”
You would of course come in as a professor and therefore would be in no po-
sition to have to please anybody. Martin and Cole, of course, are such obvious
people that you might take a certain ironic pleasure in pleasing them with a
half dozen well chosen words that they would not see the other side of, and
thus having them at your beck and call. However, I wish to make a vulgarer
[sic] appeal. The professorial minimum is now $6000. Next year, if the budget
is not axed as it apparently is not going to be, the minimum will be higher.
Hold out for $7000 or any other figure that pleases your fancy. Then summers
will be reasonably easy financially. Your teaching schedule will be 10 hours—2,
5-hour classes. You can reduce this to 8 by cutting a couple of hours a week, a
standard practice.
If a situation arises in which you would like more detailed discussion of these
environs, we will both write elaborately. I should try not consciously to sell you
the place. I think I have already told the worst—a worst that is manageable. If
they make an offer, and if you hold out for more money, let me know: I’ll get the
facts to Guthrie, just in case that might do any good.
Ah, Katie. Ruth would like to claim Katie’s praise and therefore hopes that
they have met but is not sure. I once saw Katie at a cocktail party. Katie arouses
all the ungentlemanly Charles Boyer side of me; I wouldn’t know what else she
is good for.
All my regards to both of you. And I wish we might look ahead to more than
a passing hour in New York.
Sincerely,
<Bob>
21. Baton Rouge, January 31, 1949

Dear Robert:
You will say that I am a pest because I write you again after so short an inter-
val. Should your splendid, long letter not have kept me quiet for some more
time? But you are permanently pressed to my attention by the lovely things
which I read about the University of Washington in general, and your depart-
ment in particular, even in our local newspaper.
But seriously, you have all my commiseration for being molested—because I
am sure you are—by people who have nothing better to do than fool around
with communism and getting themselves involved in the grand issue of acade-
mic freedom. The trouble is that these people really endanger academic freedom
because they set a precedent by getting themselves fired, and because one cannot
honestly maintain, for instance in the case of a social scientist, that the freedom
of science (which after all is the relevant nucleus in that academic freedom stuff )
is in danger when a communist gets fired.
I enjoyed, however, the low comedy that followed the dismissal, when our
friend Cook handed in his resignation because he does not like such a naughty
place. From his action I take it that his prospects of further employment in
Chicago or Columbia must have picked up. I also would assume that now I shall
hear soon from the government department—if they still have me in mind at
all. As far as this latter question is concerned, let me thank you for the delight-
ful information contained in your letter. That personnel officer seems to be a
quite nice fellow; and you are certainly right that one could find a modus vivendi
with the more dubious members of the department. (One of them, [Hugh A.]
Bone, by the way, is a very agreeable person.) But the best would be an offer that
would result in a raise here—Harris is already looking forward to $6500—for
me. He uses me as a sort of spearhead; every time I get a raise, the others (Harris
and [Alden L.] Powell) must get a raise, too, in order to preserve the propor-
tions. I would not mind coming to Seattle at all; what makes me really hesitate
is that even a considerable increase of income, say $1000, will practically be
washed out for two years by the cost of moving and incidental expenses; and
what will happen after two years when I should get a better offer in the East?
Today, I am sending you a new opus of mine, on “The Origins of Scien-
tism.” The last ten pages might interest you. [George] Jaffé has helped me
33. Alden L. Powell was a member of the Department of Government, Louisiana State Uni-
versity.
34. Voegelin, “The Origins of Scientism,” Social Research 15 (1948): 462–94; reprinted in the
Collected Works of Eric Voegelin, vol. 10, Published Essays, 1940–1952, ed. Ellis Sandoz (Colum-
bia: University of Missouri Press, 2000), chap. 7.
quite a bit on the technicality of physics. I hesitate to send it to Cole because

he might get frightened. —Unfortunately I cannot send the section on More at
the moment because Gurian is reading it along with other parts of the modern
period. I do not expect to get it back [in] under a month; but then I shall for-
ward it immediately to you.
Today my sabbatical semester is beginning. I am working on the final revi-
sion. Just now I am rewriting the Luther—a fascinating but laborious task be-
cause one has to do the whole interpretation from scratch; only in very recent
years a somewhat more critical analysis of Luther has begun, after the caricatur-
istic Catholic and hagiographic Protestant treatment accorded to him previ-
ously. Even such elementary problems as, for instance, what was the object of
Luther’s Reformation, are entirely unsettled; certain is only that he did not want
to reform the Church except incidental to something quite different, and that
he had nothing to say on the “state” for the excellent reason that the word did
not yet exist in Western vocabulary. That washes out most of what has been said
about Luther’s political ideas. Well, but I must not bore you with such shop-
talk.
We have a repetition of last year’s winter. Snow and ice and 18 F in the night.
Lissy thinks it’s wonderful; but I get very cold feet when working late at night.
With all good wishes for you, Ruth, Pete and Mike,
<Eric>
22. Baton Rouge, April 2, 1949

Dear Robert:
I have not come around yet to thank you for your letter of January 27, with
the interesting clipping on the sources of Coleridge’s Kubla Khan. I have not
seen the monograph to which the clipping refers, but I read the poem again as
well as Plato’s Ion and Phaedo. And there is, indeed, something to it. How
much—is difficult to say. The last part of the poem (beginning with “A damsel
with a dulcimer . . .”) takes from Ion the idea of the poet as the inspired of
Dionysos, to be compared to the Bacchae. The first part of the poem takes from
Phaedo elements of topography: the earth that we know as one of many such
hollows in a wider earth that is suspended in heaven, the rivers that break forth
in fountains and disappear in “lifeless oceans” of this vaster unknown earth, the
35. George Jaffé taught physics at Louisiana State University until he retired in 1950.
36. This letter has not been found.
idea of our hollow as something cavernous, submarine with the sky domed over
it, and an inaccessible beyond of the dome, etc. The imagery, thus, is certainly
leaning on Plato. Whether the content carried by these images is Platonic, is a
more intricate question. Certainly Coleridge has combined the two groups of
images into a new whole. Its meaning seems to me fairly clear: the first part (the
building of Kubla Khan) is the structure of the myth that the poet (second part)
if in a Dionysiac state would build. Insofar, I should say, the poem is an intelli-
gible whole; and Coleridge’s pretense that it was a fragment, might be a hoax.
One, furthermore, may say that the combination of the two parts is Platonic;
Plato certainly understood himself as a poet; and the myth (first part) is the
product of mania (second part). The myth itself, however (that is the first part),
does not look so very Platonic to me. For Coleridge, if I understand him rightly,
the creation of the myth, as a symbol of human existence, is the end—Coleridge
would be the “artist”; for Plato, the creation of the myth is a beginning, that is,
the appeal to the sensitiveness of the soul, the attempt to give it the direction be-
yond the pleasure dome—Plato would be the spiritual realist, not the romantic
artist. —This is as much as I can see for the moment, without going into
lengthy studies of the problem; it certainly is quite interesting; and I thank you
very much for drawing my attention to it.
For two months now, I am on sabbatical leave; that means in practice that
now I have to work all the day long and can no longer loaf the morning on the
campus. I am working on the revision of the third volume (modern period); and
work is progressing quite satisfactorily. Unfortunately, there are always disrup-
tions. Two weeks ago, I had to go to Durham, [North Carolina, Duke Univer-
sity,] for a conference of the Brookings Institution on their new “problem
method” in foreign politics. They propagate as a new method the triviality that
political decisions are based on an analysis of the situation and the choice of al-
ternative courses of action in the light of the over-all aims that we want to real-
ize. At first, I thought that was a joke. But at the conference it turned out that
such analysis seems to be news to our services, civil and military. So I changed
my mind and made a little speech to the effect that I was full of admiration for
the incredible progress of the state department and of the military services that
now they think before they make a decision, while formerly apparently that was
not the custom. The assembled officials from the state department and the vari-
ous colonels did not like the speech at all, but they could not say much against
it because they all had come out most politely in praising the Brookings
Institution for propagating the method, promising that they would use it even
more since it had proved already its value and that other government depart-
ments were thinking of introducing it, etc. Various persons present who did not
have the guts to say it themselves were pleased that I did it. One of them offered
to take me as a consultant to Germany next year. Our dear George Millikan, the
fruity talker, was less pleased since he is a notable member of the staff of
Brookings.
And then, there are stirrings again in the East. Next Tuesday (the 5th) I shall
give a talk in Johns Hopkins, again with the understanding (as last year in Yale)
that I am looked over for an opening. I am full of black suspicions and firmly re-
solved to talk point-blank and tough unless an adequate offer is forthcoming.
I just finished reading Thomas Mann’s Doctor Faustus. With mixed feelings. It
will interest you as a further experiment in writing a novel, without a society of
which one could write an epic, using mystical symbols as the instrument for in-
terpreting the German catastrophe. While the thing as a whole is an awe-inspiring
performance, I am not quite happy about this simplification of the German
problem into a daemonic Germany whose story is written <by> the humanistic
German Mann. The weakness of Mann begins to show more than in earlier
works. There is, for instance, a conversation between the hero and the devil; it
invites comparison <with> the similar conversations in the Karamazovs and in
Unamuno’s Nivola—and the comparison is not too good for Mann. The defect
becomes now more clearly visible as Mann’s humanism itself—one cannot fight
the devil with “human understanding”; and while Mann is afraid of the devil, he
is equally reluctant to trust in God. What he wants is a “humanism tinged by re-
ligion”—whatever that means. As a result of such humanistic immanentism, he
gets involved too deeply with the German disaster; it is more of a personal dis-
aster for him than it ought to be for a man who knows that the world after all is
the “world.”
You will have heard that [William O.] Scroggs is retiring; we want a bigger
and better dean; we want Heilman—I am a member of the boosters’ club.
With regards to Ruth, Pete and Mike,
<Eric Voegelin>
23. [Seattle,] April 18, 1949

Dear Eric,
Your earthquake note indeed shames me: it is the third communication of
yours without acknowledgment, until now, from me, and quite aside from my
reflections upon the probability of diminishing returns, I am mortified by my
37. William O. Scroggs was dean of the Graduate School at Louisiana State University.
bad manners. It is the old story of a ragged and ill-managed life in which there
is never the proper unrushed moment at which one may at least attempt to
write like a gentleman instead of like an automaton going through a schedule.
When the choice seems to be only between writing decently and not writing at
all I am running down the middle and writing indecently, which I fear is as bad
as not at all.
The reports of the earthquake spread through the rest of the country are the
best example of sheer journalistic irresponsibility that I have known. The quake
here lasted 45 seconds; there was a mild rolling of the ground—enough to make
some people feel slightly dizzy—and a very considerable creaking of walls, rat-
tling of windows and china, rocking of chairs, cracking of plaster; from a num-
ber of buildings (probably less than 1% of the total) there dropped chimneys, a
few bricks, cornices, and now and then an entire wall; no building whatever was
totally destroyed; and two school-buildings which have been condemned have
been so because of structural damages that are apparently almost invisible. There
was, in other words, very little spectacle; you could drive thru nearly all of
Seattle and be hard put to it to find visible damage; the injuries were negligible,
but the fright was apparently quite considerable—especially in the gentlemen of
the press. Ruth’s mother was in our house alone and was rather upset by the quiv-
ering and noises (no damage that we can find), and Pete was apparently pretty
much scared by the unfirmness of terra firma and the moving of trees in a wind-
less atmosphere. Ruth and I were in Corvallis, Oregon, where Ruth was walking
the street to the 5 & 10¢ and noticed nothing, and where I was lucky enough to
be leaning against a hotel wall making a phone call and thus was able, for some
five seconds, to have some direct awareness of my first earthquake—in the form
of strange, rather obscene movements in the wall.
At Corvallis I was lecturing to the assembled AAUP’s of the state—on the
topic “An Inquiry into Antihighbrowism,” which I hope I can get the AAUP
Bulletin to print. I certainly owe you a glance at it, since a number of my ex-
amples are based on experiences of yours. The general line is that antihighbrow-
ism, while it always virtuously pretends to be against falseness, affectation, etc.,
is really against excellence; and I proceed to various academic phenomena which
are supposed to make the case. I didn’t have time to do this job but I took time
because a) anything to get away from the office for a couple of days, and b) it
was a means of working off an accumulation of gripes, not all of them from the
present year.
38. This letter has not been found.

39. Heilman, “An Inquiry into Anti-Highbrowism,” AAUP Bulletin 6 (1949): 611–27.
Your estimate of what will happen at Hopkins does not surprise me, since
what I learn from my secret operative there convinces me that they are as anti-
highbrow as any state university. In classics they apparently let both [Harold]
Cherniss and [Ludwig] Edelstein go without a gesture of protest; and we are
getting their young classicist whom both Cherniss and Edelstein put number
one on their list of prospects (this man told me that the present Greek man at
Hopkins has for five consecutive years had his seminar do the subjunctive in
Aristophanes). But all this obviously is one side of an incomplete story, and I
hope the political science people there may have a little more insight. I judge
that nothing else has happened in Fatso Martin’s department here, so that my
brief—and I thought highly circumspect—effort to manage something has ap-
parently died aborning. I gather that you wouldn’t have taken an offer from here
if it had come, and I can’t say that I blame you, but it would have been pleasant
to have had the offer come to life. I hear that they are now dickering with some-
one at Reed, unknown to me. I hope that not all your sponsors come to the
same sad end that rumor is declaring for [Willmoore] Kendall. I can only record,
for this mild sponsor, that for a year he has had neither bottles nor alien women
nor historians in hand, but only office typewriters.
The die quotation is fine, and I shall put it into a file for use when and if I get
around to pack a few samples of the word into a learned discourse. Recently
there has appeared an excellent book Shakespeare’s Bawdy which notes several of
these cases but only a few. . . . ”The Origins of Scientism” lies at my right
hand on my desk, atop a lot of junk, still unread: never the peaceful moment.
Thank you very much for it; I know that when I have read it I shall be asking for
other copies with which to perturb this modern, progressive community, which
still feels that to fight the “supernatural” is one of the nobler and more mature
achievements of the mind of man. I trust to get some results at least as fine as
those you secured when belaboring Brookings with bricks at Durham. Your
comment on Dr. Faustus is the only one I have seen which gets down to brass
tacks, and I shall keep it at my elbow when I read that book. From your account
I would say that Mann’s humanism is at least a step above the proud west coast
variety, for if Mann is afraid of the devil he has at least got halfway. Here, we dis-
pose of all evil by having a committee meeting.
Probably any dirty cracks which I make about Washington should be entirely
40. Harold Cherniss taught Classics at the University of California, Berkeley, and Ludwig
Edelstein taught Classics at Johns Hopkins University.
41. I find no reference to this in any of Voegelin’s previous letters. There may be a letter missing.
42. Eric Partridge, Shakespeare’s Bawdy: A Literary and Psychological Essay and a Comprehensive
Glossary, rev. ed. (New York: Dutton, 1969).
reserved for myself for having got into something that is less rewarding than ex-
acting, and that, the further we advance beyond the honeymoon stage, pro-
gresses more and more toward difficult inimicalities. As soon as one stands for
something—like not promoting people just because they are advanced in years,
good citizens, pleasant fellows, and beloved of their colleagues—one becomes a
Public Enemy, and it becomes a nice question how much of this one should en-
dure, causa “duty” and self-respect, in the interests of an institution of which
only a small portion wishes to progress beyond mediocrity. I have about con-
vinced myself that duty and self-respect, insofar as they are applicable to an insti-
tutional rather than to a purely private situation, are snares by which one is kept
at busy work rather than essentially important work. As you once said, once in
something of this sort, it is not easy to find a comfortable way out; and I find
about half my waking moments spent canvassing the catalogue of ways-out.
Did I tell you about a paper which I heard Charlie Martin give about his ser-
vices on a cultural mission to Japan. “We advised,” quoth Charlie, “a wide revision
of their studies in the direction of positivism.” I asked whether this had been done
without qualification, since, I remarked, I had observed that positivistic studies in
literature were generally likely to miss the literary object entirely. Charlie then did
say that of course they had especial reference to the social sciences.
We often speak of you, and we includes Mike, whose argot, alas, only Ruth
can understand. She has also learned Dollar’s patois;  the odd thing is that Dol-
lar and Mike do not surmount the barriers of race and language, but are reduced
to the vulgar communication of hisses, claws, and murmurs. The very best from
all of us.
<Sincerely,
Bob>
24. Baton Rouge, November 14, 1949

Dear Robert:
Today came Ruth’s letter to Lissy with the heartfelt cry for information about
goings-on in the region of the deans. I should have written you about the events
long ago unless I had assumed that you receive ample news on such matters
from more authoritative sources. So let me report what has penetrated to a com-
paratively uninterested observer of the scene like myself.
[Fred C.] Frey is supposed to have frequently stressed that the deanship was a
burden on his creative mind and that he desired at the bottom of his heart to
43. Dollar was the Heilmans’ dog; he received his name from his purchase price at the pound.
return to teaching and research. He expressed such virtuous sentiments once

too often; Stoke took him up on it and requested him to put his sentiments in
writing. The Supervisors agreed to put him back among the sociologists at his
dean’s salary; and Stoke got a general ruling from the Board that any dean who
had served fifteen years could do the same. I do not know under what conditions
[H. V.] Howe was eased out; anyway he looks modest and satisfied; and the other
day, after lunch, I saw [Richard J.] Russell, Howe, Frey and [Homer L.] Hitt play
pool together—from which I conclude that Hitt wants to become a dean, too,
sooner or later. [William O.] Scroggs went because of age-limit. He now has a
room in the department where he assiduously reads the local papers and the
Reader’s Digest; otherwise he is a pitiable figure and confesses that he does not
know what to do with himself now that the deanery does not provide him with
escape from his boredom. The new deans seem to do all right for the time being;
they express virtuous intentions, but they had not yet time to put them into ac-
tion. [Paul M.] Hebert has expressed his opinion that the crazy specialized sched-
ules of certain schools must be broken up (Commerce has a course in Prison
Management) so that the boys have time to learn something—well, we shall
see. [James B.] Trant is much talked about as the next candidate for disappear-
ance. Russell will soon be put to the acid test when I shall tap him for a grant
for next summer. [Leo Joseph] Lassalle has recently informed the world that
Britain can get out of her ditch if the people work hard enough. —As far as the
“also ran” are concerned—I know little about the mood of Kirby except that a
discreet aura of melancholy is hovering around him. —Powell is a pitiful case. He
seems to consider himself a failure in life and “broods.” Bob Harris assures me
that he was always the brooding type: when he received his appointment as full
professor (at the age of thirty-nine) he took it sadly with the remark that it was
about as far as he ever would get in life. I have suggested to Bob that Powell
should be degraded to Instructor so that he again has something to look forward
to. The catastrophe of disappointment occurred in summer—by the time we saw
them in September, Vera had already calmed down. Again there is that atmo-
sphere of sweet melancholy of the battle of life lost and a resignation to declining
44. Fred C. Frey was dean of the university, Louisiana State University.
45. Richard J. Russell, a geographer, was dean of the Graduate School in 1950; H. V. Howe, a
geologist, was dean of the College of Arts and Sciences; and Homer L. Hitt was the head of the so-
ciology department.
46. Paul M. Hebert was dean of the Law School, Louisiana State University. In 1950 he was
dean of the university.
47. James B. Trant was dean of the College of Commerce, Louisiana State University.
48. Leo Joseph Lassalle was dean of the College of Engineering, Louisiana State University.
years. Besides[,] Powell’s health is not the best—though just now on a trip to
Knoxville I observed that for supper he had coffee and a sweet roll, followed by
two candy-bars; he felt just as ill as I would have felt in the same case, but seemed
to consider it a disease to which only a sick man would be exposed. I have rather
the impression that he is a serious case of infantilism.
My own affairs are in the smouldering stage as always before Christmas—the
violent outbreaks come in spring. The John Hopkins affair is dormant for the
time being; Tommy Cook is appointed for a year; we shall see what is going to
happen later. I just saw [Carl Brent] Swisher, the head of the department and
my chief opponent, in Knoxville (at the meeting of the Southern Association);
we were together on a panel and found ourselves in hearty agreement on the
world at large and the American Constitution in particular. I had a long mellow
talk with him later in the day and he was positively sweet. Unfortunately, I do
not know whether he is getting soft on me, or whether he has concocted a dark
scheme by which he is getting rid of me for good. This summer I heard from a
friend that I had made a bad impression on him last spring when I was in
Baltimore because I looked like a go-getter; he was convinced that I would be
head of the department as soon as [I] got there, using the position as a stepping
stone for a deanship and ultimately the presidency of Johns Hopkins. That is
the sort of impression I make on unbiased people! —While waiting for the pres-
idency of Johns Hopkins, I have applied for a Guggenheim Fellowship for a trip
to Europe next summer. I have procured lovely recommendations; the only
hitch is that usually the Guggenheim people prefer giving fellowships for longer
periods of time than three months—we shall see how it will turn out. —There
is also something simmering at the Maxwell School in Syracuse.
The History is strongly progressing. I am revising the first volume for the very
last time. During the summer I finished the new Aristotle; and since September
I have written a new section (following the chapter on Aristotle) on the theory
of characters and skepticism. Just now I am rewriting the Hesiod—it will run
well into fifty pages—with rather interesting discoveries concerning the emer-
gence of metaphysical speculation from the myth.
Enclosed is a sample of the Plato. It may interest you because it contains a few
things about the dialogue as a form of art.
The cat situation and similar problems, I take it, Lissy will report in due
course to Ruth.
Very sincerely yours,
<With all good wishes and feelings to the family,
Eric>
25. Baton Rouge, April 3, 1950

Dear Robert:
This is just a line to let you know about the general pleasure caused by your
article in the periodical of the AAUP. I was green as ever with envy when I took
in your accomplished style, but for the rest it was pure joy to see you informing
the masses that the only excuse for writing is its quality. Lissy and myself also
recognized a few materials which apparently you gathered here at LSU. Bob
Harris also was greatly pleased.
Bob, by the way, is in excitement. He received a request from the Office of
Education whether he would go to Germany for a 3 or 6 months period in order
to represent American culture to the backward areas of the world. His assign-
ment would be Munich; they have an Amerika Institut there; and Bob, I take it,
would have to give lectures on American government and democracy. He wants
to do it in fall of 1951. Dashiell [Harris] declares firmly she would never leave
God’s own country, and he would have to go alone.
I just received preliminary information that I got a Guggenheim Fellowship
for my expedition to Europe this summer; this greatly facilitates the trip, mone-
tarily speaking. In July I hope to be in Munich in order to see [Alois] Dempf; on
this occasion I also can explore the Amerika Institut.
The History is going well. The revision of the first volume is progressing. I
just finished a new section on the Greek tragedy—if you were here I should
pester you with reading it. Aristotle’s Poetics, by the way, at the risk of shocking
you, is far from impressive on the subject of tragedy. The famous definition
(“pity and fear” etc.) is not good at all.
Hope you have a nice summer. With all good wishes for the family in the
widest possible sense,
Cordially yours,
<Eric>

Dear Eric,
Glad if you got a moment’s amusement out of the AAUP thing. From you,
any compliment is a most valuable thing, even though the one on my style, I
fear, is hardly deserved. Incidentally, my knowing that it would be a speech
probably made the whole thing considerably milder in manner than if it had
been meant for a more esoteric audience. I am sure you recognized the LSU ref-
erences. Doubtless, also, it will have occurred to you that if everybody referred
to in the text had received a fitting honorarium, your royalty check would have
been pretty considerable.
I am most happy that you have the Guggenheim, which settled, early enough
to reduce the attendant worries, the financial problems that have beset earlier
proposed excursions. Has Ruth written Lissy since learning about Lissy’s trip?
We’re very glad things are working out so nicely. Since “happy” hardly seems the
right word, I’ll simply wish that the trip be a fruitful one for you. I wish I could
listen in on a full report from you on your return.
You put me to shame with this last letter that increases my indebtedness to
you. My answer to your previous letter was supposed to be written one day
when I could go back over my marginalia on the Plato reprint and mention
specifically those parts that had particularly impressed me. The reprint is float-
ing around among interested colleagues who are now becoming accustomed to
my phrase, “As the best man I know says, etc.” and learning to learn from the
same source. Anyway, the interjected contemporary parallels were beautifully
done, and what in a lesser hand might have been journalism was here a very nice
gloss on the text.
Yesterday I was talking to a Macmillan editor named Cecil Scott, and, when
he became politely but not agonizingly deprecatory about Macmillan wealth, I
suggested that they were doing some admirable penance by publishing your
work, about which I ventured a few untrammeled predictions. He seemed not
too well informed, so I assumed that he was a rather lesser editor. I keep looking
for the book with an impatience which would permit me to accept happily
something less of the perfectionist in you; one of these revisions must be the
last. I would very much like to see your statement of the difficulties inherent in
the pity-fear definition; I think I have never been shrewd enough to question it
formally but have always felt a little uncomfortable with it through my inability
to relate it satisfactorily to the form. In my drama course this year I have been
experimenting with the idea of basic structures of comedy and tragedy as types:
I am proceeding tentatively on the basis that the tragic conflict is the conflict
within the soul, and the comic conflict is the conflict within society, or, in other
terms, the conflict between the individual, whose wholeness is a datum, and
other forces outside himself. The tragic conflict, of course, has outer manifesta-
49. Although the article Heilman is referring to could be Voegelin, “Plato’s Egyptian Myth”
(Journal of Politics 9 [1947]: 307–24), it is more likely Voegelin’s “The Philosophy of Existence:
Plato’s Gorgias” (Review of Politics 11 [1949]: 477–98). These two articles were absorbed into the
Collected Works of Eric Voegelin, vol. 16, Order and History, vol. 3, Plato and Aristotle, ed. Dante
Germino (Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 2000).
tions of such a sort that the inner conflict becomes a kind of cosmic turmoil; in
comedy it is precisely the private individual and the cosmos which don’t get in-
volved at all. Incidentally, in this scheme of things, tragedy includes “happy-
ending” (the conflict in the soul is not unresolvable), and comedy includes a
great variety of types known popularly by other terms—melodrama, farce,
problem play, and even, I think, “romantic tragedy” (the “whole” individual is
destroyed by an “outer” force, not a moral or spiritual one, but by something
like “society,” war, etc.). Well, you know my dreadful limitations in anthropol-
ogy, so you will not be surprised at the expressions of whatever naïvetés appear
in this sketch. I may eventually have to give it all up; but, I must say, so far I
have found it not a schematic descriptive system to be forced upon reluctant
materials, but of positive illumination in discerning an apparent order in the
materials observed.
I have just finished a little essay to be an introduction to an edition of
Gulliver’s Travels. I virtually ignored the first three books, which seemed rela-
tively obvious, and concentrated on the Book IV, the Voyage to the Houyhn-
hnms, which seemed to me to have interesting possibilities, and turned out
something which seemed to me to be the final truth. Subsequently I find myself
reasonably well anticipated by an eccentric scholar or two. Alas.
Well, it is good that Dashiell will take no risks in furrin parts. What would
Senator McCarthy think? I hope Bob goes and profits. Please give him my best.
I am going to teach at California for six weeks this summer. Not at all enthu-
siastic about the teaching, but it will forcibly get us away from here and will also
provide expenses for seeing San Francisco, etc.
I continue to be regarded by my colleagues as an amiable but doctrinaire fel-
low who on philosophic grounds tests all tolerance and who on administrative
grounds may have to be got rid of for not appreciating the many local boys who
admit they teach wonderfully but have no other professional interests; and by
the front office as “one of our best administrators.” Does any department chair-
man automatically take on, without knowing it, a kind of corruption which
makes him view his colleagues with jaundiced eye, and his superiors through
rose-colored glasses?
With our best to both of you,
<Bob>
<By the way: they are all avid AAUP people, but not one has mentioned my ar-
ticle. The poolroom reference was not fortunate.>
27. [Baton Rouge,] April 18, 1950

Dear Robert:
Enclosed you will find my study on “Tragedy.” I am afraid you are in for it,
without any excuses on my part. The reason why is that you were unwise
enough to let me know about your most recent classification of dramatic forms.
What struck me as a splendid insight is your insistence that tragedy has (or at
least can have) a “happy end.” That, I think, really goes to the center of the
problem. And I should like very much to hear what you have to say to my dilet-
tante attempt that seems to move in similar grooves.
And then you dispense another tantalizing morsel—about Gulliver. I wanna
see it; when does it come out? Where, etc.? Can one order already a copy?
We have a lot of things to do just now. Lissy is leaving next week. I am racing
to finish the sophists and Socrates. And just today I received a letter from Cook’s
which suggests difficulties with our passage back from Europe.
Heinie is going around telling people about your article in the AAUP. He is
mighty proud that his pool-room activities are now immortalized.
With all good wishes,
<Most sincerely yours,
Eric>
28. May 21, 1950

Dear Eric,
Reading your MS on tragedy took me back to BR days when I used to get
constant enlightenment from sections of your book—a kind of experience I
have hardly had since. As you will guess, what comes across to me with particu-
lar freshness in the present essay is the account of the political developments
which create the milieu in which tragedy can flourish, the analysis of that mi-
lieu, the notation of the passage of conditions favorable to tragedy, and of course
the over-all definition of Aeschylean tragedy through the fine detailed consider-
ations of the Suppliants and the Prometheus. My impressions of the Frogs were
somewhat similar to yours, although I had not worked them out so well. One
thing that I had especially thought of in connection with the Frogs was the
rather wide range of critical attitudes which Aristophanes assembles there, so
50. This manuscript is no longer extant but was absorbed into the Collected Works of Eric
Voegelin, vol. 15, Order and History, vol. 2, The World of the Polis, ed. Athanasios Moulakis (Co-
lumbia: University of Missouri Press, 2000).
that, even when one finds him in what you nicely call the naturalistic position,
he seems still to have a considerable awareness of approaches to the aesthetic ob-
ject of which one may avail oneself.
Your basic definition of tragedy I shall probably take over as more precise
than my own tentative one and at the same time as probably more flexible.
What delights me is that, unless I am misreading badly, I am not too far away
from you to start with. In that connection, you will understand my pleasure in
deciding, after reading your account of the Prometheus as involving “the theo-
morphic symbolizations of forces of the soul as acting personnel of the drama,”
that this was precisely what I had been trying to say to my class about Eumen-
ides, and in subsequently discovering that you also made this description of the
Eumenides. (Incidentally, the Eumenides bothers me somewhat, perhaps because
my 19th century translation ({Lewis} Campbell’s) gives the wrong note. What
comes thru is a rather complacent sense of victory. I think of your two fine sen-
tences on p. 177: “The movement of a soul toward the truth of being does not
abolish the demonic reality from which it moves away. The order of the soul is
nothing on which one can sit down and be happy ever after.” Am I wrong on
thinking that the demonic reality represented by the Erinyes is too patly dis-
posed of and that Athenians—like the 20th century generally—are a little too
confident of having the spiritual world in hand?)
The discussion of Prometheus reminded me a little of the fulminations against
“romantic titanism” that I used to hear from the late Irving Babbitt. I see now
where he missed, however,—in being inadequately aware of “the forces in the
human soul that will create social order when they are properly balanced,” and
in being inclined simply to regard Prometheus as a villain and a symbol of all the
evils of progress, man-worship, etc.
I like the idea that there may be a tragic situation without a tragic actor. Our
times generally?
I have long labored with the doctrine of catharsis and have constantly found
myself opposing the position which you also oppose—namely, that the effect of
tragedy is to afford a sort of necessary “relief ” from pent-up emotions (compa-
rable to getting drunk, going to a dance, vicariously playing a football game,
etc.). I always found myself embarrassed when I came across such interpreta-
tions; they seemed to imply that tragedy really had a meaning only for people
with emotional constipation, that it is a kind of psychiatry, and that for “nor-
mal” people it could have no meaning. Perhaps the only thing to do, then, is to
throw the doctrine out entirely. As an alternative I had sought for another possi-
ble meaning for the term (doubtless awed by authority and feeling that it must
be “right”). In general I had toyed with the possibility that what was meant was
that the specific kinds of emotional engagement experienced during the play
were resolved by the play, and not permitted to continue indefinitely as if the
play were coterminous with and indistinguishable from experience generally. In
this view, pity and fear as the typical emotions felt by the tragic spectator have
an important function—the means, so to speak, by which the spectator experi-
ences, as you put it, “the shudder of his own fate” as bound up with that of the
tragic hero (p. 173). Pity and fear are the expression of his being bound; if he
were not identified with the hero, he would neither pity nor fear. However,
the experiencing of pity and fear is proper to the time when the drama is in
progress, not to the time afterwards; this view, of course, puts one into the posi-
tion of having to assume the active pity and fear as being replaced by some sort
of residuum of sympathetic contemplation which is the permanent means of
“binding the soul to its own fate through representative suffering.” A victory for
Dike ends pity and fear or at least modifies them; the reaching of a moral equi-
librium which seems to me to be characteristic of tragedy transforms the specific
emotions evoked by the plot; this is the catharsis. But the mark of the emotions
remains—if one can assume this, then it is not necessary to regard catharsis as a
mere ending of an experience, a final, no-traces-remaining sort of emotional
phlebotomy. There may be some relevance to this hypothesizing in Joyce’s doc-
trine of static vs. kinetic art—an interesting idea, as I understand it, although
the concepts, I think, are poorly named. The most mature kind of art is “static”;
i.e., self-contained, self-resolved, un-hung-over, leaving one with an experience
of a completeness, so to speak. Kinetic art merges into life; by it, one is left in an
emotional state which leads to action of a non-artistic kind. This is the realm of
problem play, melodrama, homiletic fiction, exhortatory rhetoric, etc. Its busi-
ness is not to effect a catharsis because it is concerned not with a vision of truth
but with a specific kind of action.
Well, you will probably dismiss this as beside-to-the-point, as Archie says.
But I thought I’d risk tossing my speculations in to see what you think of them.
I hope you will not object to my having had the secretary make a copy of
about 15 pp. of your MS to file with my tragedy notes.
Have you seen the symposium on “religion among the intellectuals” which
Partisan Review has had going on for four issues?  I have found a number of the
contributions rather illuminating, especially those by the poets [James] Agee
and [W. H.] Auden, and that by the historian H. B. Parkes. You will of course
have guessed the PR technique of having a few on one side and then lining up
51. Vol. 17, 1950

the furious naturalists to tear the hell out of the others. I continue to be aston-
ished, altho I suppose I should not be, by the insolent braggadocio tones of the
naturalist contributors. It is almost enough to make one conclude that natural-
ism of itself has a stunting effect upon the growth of the personality and stops it
permanently at the level of the sophomore.
The funny thing about Heinie and his poolroom is that my reference was to
colleagues here; I had completely forgot about the LSU applicability of the sym-
bol.
The Gulliver is an intro to a text edition to be put out by Mod Library. It’s
almost entirely about the 4th voyage—an endeavor to dispose of the rather trite
cries of “misanthrope” which the sentimental raise against Swift. I’ll be glad to
send you a copy when it comes out, supposedly next fall some time. You’re good
to ask about it.
Lissie should by now be safely abroad, and you almost ready to take off. We
hope all travel problems get ironed out. With best wishes from both of us.
<Robert>
29. Baton Rouge, May 26, 1950

Dear Robert:
Thanks for your highly interesting letter. I suspected that we were thinking in
this matter of tragedy along parallel lines, and I am very glad indeed to have on
the whole something like an approval from an authority of your rank.
Your suggestions concerning catharsis are highly valuable. I am inclined to
agree with the idea that catharsis makes sense if the “fear and pity” is understood
as the emotion aroused by the tragedy itself and then assuaged by it. The great
question is: was that Aristotle’s intention? Perhaps—but I do not find the slight-
est little clue to such an interpretation in the Poetics. Why be so modest? It looks
to me as if that were your very own theory! I do not consider it very probable that
Aristotle had this idea in mind because generally—taking his work as a whole
into consideration—the specifically Platonic sense of tragedy (which in turn is
closely related to the Aeschylean paradigma) is signally absent from his work.
Werner Jaeger, for instance, considers this absence the mark of Aristotelian
thinking (he did not “brood” like Plato, Jaeger does not like “brooding”); and I
should also say that the Ionian sense of nature as a great, untragic order is the
deepest stratum of sentiment in Aristotle.
52. Robert B. Heilman contributed an introduction and bibliography to Jonathan Swift,
Gulliver’s Travels, A Tale of a Tub, and The Battle of the Books (New York: Random House, Modern
Library College Edition, 1950), vii–xxx.
The Partisan Review escaped me. Much to my regret. I have simply too much
to do. But the worst—that is, the analysis of Greek texts—is now over.
In two days I am going to leave. From Galveston to Genoa. The preparations
were rather exhausting—I had to make sure that the people whom I want to see
are in the places where they are supposed to be when I come there. Lissy seems
to have an excellent time in Vienna—in particular, with the opera. According to
her latest account she is ogling a silver-fox which seems to cost only one-fourth
of what it would cost here—or so she says.
All good wishes for you and the family,
Cordially yours,
<Eric>
30. December 1, 1950

Dear Robert:
I have to apologize for having remained silent for so long. The cause is not
negligence but a rather overwhelming amount of work—which is still increas-
ing. But about that sad story a bit later. First, what interests you probably most,
that is, the local situation.
Bob Harris is very much occupied and excited because apparently three uni-
versities compete for his services. There seems to be a chance in Columbia
(where he will teach summer-school); there is permanent interest in Illinois; and
the prospects thicken in Connecticut—where, as far as I know, you have a hand.
I am not quite clear yet, whether he seriously is after any of these chances, or
whether he cultivates them rather with an eye to the bargaining pressure that
they will give him here in LSU. Lissy, the perspicacious woman, insists that he
really wants to stay here. Moreover, in February he is invited to give some lec-
ture and seminars at Vanderbildt—but apparently there are no further inten-
tions back of it. Only, he has to do a lot of work to prepare for the occasion.
Besides he is a member of the library-building committee which absorbs a good
deal of his time. On one occasion, I was called in to give my opinion on the de-
sirability of a social science reading room in the new building; and on that occa-
sion I learned from the mouth of [Harlan L.] McCracken that such a room was
unnecessary because our students are not inclined to do research; and research
is “when you read a book.” —Further excitement for Bob is provided by the
drop in enrollment, and the prospects of a further drop, if the war situation
53. Harlan L. McCracken was professor of economics and head of the economics department.
should worsen. The students, in fact, will probably be spread thinly next year,
because the class of high-school students that fell out is reaching now the junior
year. But beyond that critical point it does not look so bad. And if a war comes,
then a lot more will be upset than just the enrollment. —A ticklish point in the
department is Mr. [Andrew] Gyorgy[,] who has aroused Bob’s iron determina-
tion to get him out by the end of the next year when his contract expires. He
has, indeed, committed more sins to embarrass Bob than anybody should com-
mit—and besides he believes in the United Nations and corrupts students with
his convictions—so I won’t cry when he departs. —For the rest, I am on the
Library Committee this year, which gives me an opportunity to see some of my
colleagues in the raw—it is a sorry lot, one cannot even work <up> anger about
the little shitters.
And now about my predicament. The summer in Europe has taken three
months of my time. This time certainly was not wasted but it has delayed the
work on the big History. Moreover, in January I have to give the Walgreen
Lectures in Chicago. They are supposed to be published, and so I write them
now out for print. The topic is “Truth and Representation,” and more than
two thirds is finished. That has occupied [me] since we are back, end of August,
and it will take me through the Christmas vacation. It is hard work because it is
my first systematic study on theoretical politics since my abortive attempts
about 1930; and I want to make it as good as I can. Fortunately, as far as the
problem is concerned, the thing works out much better than I had hoped for. I
think I have been able to find the theoretical instruments for dealing with the
problem of Western Civilization and its decline—that will be a basis for a later
study on cycle theories. —With regard to the History I have got the Macmillan
people at last around to publish the work in two volumes separately. The first
volume, Antiquity and Middle Ages (about 1100 pages), will be finished by sum-
mer and go to print. The second volume, about the same size, will take a year
more to finish.
The trip to Europe, as I said, was not a waste. I undertook it primarily be-
cause I wanted to be sure that in my own work I was up to date before I em-
barked on publications of a systematic nature. Well, I found that I am up to date
and in several respects a bit ahead of it. Nevertheless, the broad confirmation
that so many other scholars are working along the same lines, was most valuable;
54. These lectures would become Voegelin’s The New Science of Politics (Chicago: University of
Chicago Press, 1952). Reprinted in the Collected Works of Eric Voegelin, vol. 5, Modernity with-
out Restraint: The Political Religions; The New Science of Politics; and Science, Politics, and Gnos-
ticism, ed. Manfred Henningsen (Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 2000).
and naturally I acquired information concerning whole ranges of problems

which I myself had not worked through in sufficient detail, especially the
problems of Gnosis and of certain Patres. —I arrived in Geneva and had a day
there for seeing everything. At the end I had a lot of blisters but I had made
even a two hours round of the medieval fortifications on the outskirts in the
hills. The next day I was in Milan. The Cena of Leonardo was an overwhelm-
ing impression; it is by far not as damaged as people usually say—at least I
could see enough to keep me busy for an hour. And then there was the Brera
[Palace]—I was not prepared for it, and I was properly floored by a whole palace
full of paintings of the Lombard schools; here I saw for the first time what a
“province” in Italy really means—it is practically a nation by itself. —In Vienna
I gave four lectures on “State and History.” It is difficult to be fair to the situa-
tion in Vienna. The university is a dump if compared with what it was in the
1920s. But when you come to think that there are [Otto] Brunner and
[Friedrich] Heer (two of the best medieval authorities), [Albin] Lesky (a classical
philologist), three or four eminent lawyers, half a dozen first rate art historians,
and besides an Opera which is well on its way of [sic] becoming again the best in
the world, the “dump” has its attractions after all. Nevertheless, I had not a mo-
ment’s desire to go back there; the more technical difficulties of living are so
tremendous that the price would be too high. —Then we proceeded together to
Salzburg, Innsbruck and Munich. In Innsbruck I saw a former colleague, a soci-
ologist, who had been an ardent Nazi—he is reticent but still a Nazi—you gain
the impression that nothing can be done—one must just wait until that genera-
tion dies out. —In Munich I saw Dempf, one of the finest philosophers at pres-
ent. He confirmed an impression which I had formed already in Vienna—that
all the good men are well in their forties if not fifties. There is nobody in his
middle thirties who would have written an interesting book that justified the
judgment that here a new authority is growing. The inroads of Hitlerism were
apparently deeper than one would have assumed. Dempf himself is very much
alive and pouring out the MS’s that had accumulated during the Hitler period.
—Switzerland was the most fruitful. Two days <(Basel)> in conversations with
Karl Jaspers, Fritz Lieb, Edgar Salin and Karl Barth is probably an event that
could not be duplicated in quality in any other city in the world. And in addi-
tion there were [Hans von Urs] Balthasar in Zurich and [Olof Alfred] Gigon
in Bern. Balthasar should interest you (if only you could read German); his
Apocalypse is really a new standard in historiography of literature. My chief
interest was in his new Theology of History; I hope I can get Gurian to publish it
55. The Last Supper, by Leonardo da Vinci, is in the refectory of Santa Maria delle Grazie, Milan.
in English. —Between Bern and Paris we stopped over in Dijon—again a great

surprise because we were unprepared. There is completely preserved the me-
dieval capital of Burgundy; and we worked hard for two days to absorb at least
the most important monuments, paintings, sculptures etc. —About Paris I shall
say nothing; it is simply too much what all is going on there in philosophy etc.
—I have brought a ton of books; and that will keep me busy for a while with di-
gesting.
<With all good wishes,
Eric>
31. Baton Rouge, July 7, 1951

Dear Robert,
It is a long while I have not heard from you except in roundabout ways and,
of course, through the letters of Ruth to Lissy.
There is just a break in work; and I can drop a line, along with the enclosed
reprint. I thought it might interest you because it has some bearing on Renais-
sance literature.
I am teaching summer-school this year because the revision work that I am
doing now can be done best at home. Still, some new items have to be added.
Just now it is the turn of Homer who hitherto did not have a chapter because I
had not developed the methods for analyzing the very complicated psychology
in which divine inspirations, predictions of fate, dreams, conferences among the
gods, etc., function as the unconscious. But now I can do it—or at least I fondly
believe I can. The wrath of Achilles is already dissected to its last corner; and the
fascination of Helena (a juicy morsel) is practically cleared up. In the course of
this work I have become a firm believer in the existence of Homer; somebody
must have written these intricately constructed works; they cannot have grown
like Topsy as German philologists still maintain.
You have acquired [Harold] Stoke as graduate dean for Washington, so I un-
derstand. And I take it that you had a helping hand in bringing it about.
With all good wishes to you and the family,
<Cordially yours,
Eric>
56. There is no further indication in this letter as to what article this refers.
57. This reference to “Topsy” alludes to chapter 20 of Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s
Cabin; or, Life among the Lowly. In this chapter the young slave Topsy is being interrogated by her
new mistress. Asked how old she is, Topsy answers: “Dun no, missus”; asked who her mother was,
32. Seattle, July 11, 1951

Dear Eric,
Your last letter plus the Machiavelli offprint are strong reminders that I have
owed you a letter for a long time. I will not give excuses; I think the ultimate
one is that in writing to you I should prefer to have the illusion, at least, of hav-
ing something intelligent to say, and that my present life makes the possession
of any such illusion increasingly difficult; and gossip alone seems hardly to jus-
tify writing. But now I write, if only to show that I would rather engage in gos-
sip than engage in nothing, as a means of not wholly losing contact with you.
I have not read the Machiavelli, but I have read the Marx: with all that
usual sense of enlightenment that comes from reading you—a virtually unique
experience. One thing that kept coming to my mind in the course of reading
was the apparent similarities between certain Marxian ideas and certain demo-
cratic habits of mind, or at least certain aspects of the American temper which
appear inseparable from democratic thought (or from “crude democracy,” per-
haps, if one can make the analogy). “. . . all life is social throughout, it has no di-
mension of solitude” (280). The description of the “total individual” or of
“socialistic man” (293) sounds singularly like a description, at the theoretical
level, of what is in practice the American “self-made man” (except that freedom
from property is hardly a part of the philosophic deal). And the “desire for level-
ing” (295) describes what seems to be one of the most dangerous of our actual
working principles. And I am really making a rather irrational association when
I perceive an intellectual attachment between the Americanism suggested by
she replies: “Never had none”; and asked where she was born, Topsy says: “Never was born!”
Topsy sums up all her answers with the statement that “I spect I grow’d. Don’t think nobody ever
made me.”
By choosing to address the Homer question of philologists with this reference, Voegelin alludes
to an important component in his developing literary theory, viz., that if one interrogates the
Homeric texts like her mistress interrogated Topsy, one learns from the texts themselves that the
Iliad and the Odyssey indeed do have a progenitor; that a concrete, historical human consciousness
created them. This component of an inchoate literary theory prefigures and assumes the specifi-
cally articulated principles of literary criticism found in Letters 63 and 65 as well as pointing back
to Voegelin’s theory of consciousness (articulated in 1943 but not published until the German edi-
tion of Anamnesis in 1966).
58. Voegelin, “Machiavelli’s Prince: Background and Formation,” Review of Politics 13 (1951):
142–68. For an enlarged treatment of Machiavelli from which this essay was drawn, see the Col-
lected Works of Eric Voegelin, vol. 22, History of Political Ideas: Renaissance and Reformation, vol.
4, ed. David L. Morse and William M. Thompson (Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 1998).
59. Voegelin, “The Formation of the Marxian Revolutionary Idea,” Review of Politics 12 (1950):
275–302.
such passages and the implications of this passage on p. 287: “Since contempo-
rary evil has its origin in the relation between man and nature, it can be over-
come only through bringing nature under control of man so that freedom
beyond nature can unfold.” No, I guess it is not irrational to see “freedom by
control of nature” as an essential American doctrine. When I said “irrational” I
had rather in mind the fact that this sentence of yours seems really to define the
basis of naturalistic tragedy, and that naturalistic tragedy seems to be the only
conception of tragedy available to American liberal democrats. I am not sure
whether this is theoretically necessary. As far as I can see, great complacency is
inseparable from the professional liberal habit of mind; it lives in a melodrama
in which evil is always elsewhere, and we good people are agin’ it; it is an easy
jump, when one localizes evil elsewhere, to find it not only in bad people (reac-
tionaries, priests, etc.) but in nature; man is then “good enough,” as [Albert J.]
Guérard said in his book on Hardy; and evil is only a kind of bad luck—and
maybe he can even beat the bad luck by controlling nature enough to eliminate
chance. I suppose something like this must be implied in democracy: you can’t
believe in demos unless you do believe it is “good enough”; and then your only
way of dealing with evil is to put it in things—or else in a few naughty individ-
uals (who I suppose for technical consistency must be regarded as non- or sub-
human). . . . If this is nonsense, the fault is mine; but it is you who set it off.
And I am grateful for the setting.
We’re sorry that you’ve undertaken summer school, since we had thought you
might repeat the Vienna trip of last year. That was a wonderful account of it that
you wrote us last December. I have never had another letter which contained so
compact an account of so much seen—persons, places, and things; and I hope
the next time to have another such diary. Aside from the remarks about people,
60. Albert J. Guérard, Thomas Hardy (New York: New Directions Books, 1964). This was orig-
inally published by Harvard University Press in 1949. Heilman is surely referring to the following
passage: “The portrait of Jude nevertheless remains impressive as a fully evoked life. And it is a
portrait preeminently suited to illustrate Hardy’s last meaning, as a novelist, which in retrospect
appears to have been this central one: that no human being, in his doomed pursuit of happiness,
deserves less than is given; that things not men are to blame; that everybody is good enough. This
sympathetic message and final consoling optimism, diffused as it is through a dozen novels and
through the lives of unpretentious, kindly, and rebuffed people, no doubt provides one clue to
Hardy’s lasting popularity. For the most popular novelists are also the most charitable ones, except
in the very long run; they are those who see man more sinned against than sinning. The message
is, as I am compelled to see it, a false one. One must take his stand with the darker moral pes-
simism of Conrad. But it is difficult to do so; the message, though false, is very nearly irresistible”
(156–57).
etc., two general comments interested me especially: that all the really good peo-
ple are 40 or over (a propos of the inroads of Hitlerism) and that the Hitler con-
verts (a propos of the Nazi sociologist) are a generation that one must wait to die
out because nothing can be done about it. One wonders what its influence will
be before it dies out.<*> [left:] <As you said in 1945 “I think we have not seen
the last of Nazism.”>
(At this point: one hour lost discussing problems with a department member
who tells me confidentially he is about to make off for Europe with a colleague’s
wife, and what influence do I think it will have on his career here.)
I am glad you have got Macmillan to go ahead on a two-volume basis, and I
hope the first volume is now, as predicted in December, about ready to go. But
since the first volume is to deal with antiquity, perhaps the chapter on Homer is
an addition? If you publish that separately (in one of the classical journals? I
laugh to think of their astonishment when they see the MS), may I have an off-
print for my collection? Your method of analysis is very exciting.
Though I have no reports on the Walgreen lectures, I know how well they
must have gone off—excellently. Any nibbles from that direction? One reason I
am content to have Bob Harris stay at LSU, as long as one of the other univer-
sities does not see what it can get in you, is to act curator of your interests
(which I assume, and hope, he continues to do well). The first news of the new
administration—and almost the only news of it—that came to us was that it
had cast a very benevolent eye on the Department of Government. Well, that’s
very much to the good. . . . To get back to Bob: I am sure Lissy is right that Bob
does want to stay at LSU, I should imagine indefinitely.
I had only a very slight hand in Stoke’s coming here. In the past the deanship
of the graduate school has generally meant a role tantamount to what is in some
places called “academic vice presidency”; for that role he looked considerably
better than the line-up of good chemists, psychologists, economists, etc., that
one interest or another was putting forward.
If I ever get out of the summer hiring mess, and whether I do or not, Ruth
and I are heading off over the mountains into the desert by a lake for a few
weeks away from the scene of action. Ruth has taken steps to guarantee this: she
sublet the house for the second half of summer school. Pete is now in his first
week of a summer camp where he has a job for six weeks—a pleasant kind of oc-
cupation to which we hope he will take, since it offers a very nice arrangement
for summer times. But there is no way of knowing whether he will; the smart
young teen-agers from junior high become unexpectedly complicated creatures,
and one is astonished to find how little one knows of the human being that one
has been living with all its life. Pete is big (just about two inches less tall than I
now), strong as a horse, having a good time at school without doing very much
there, very much disinclined to any kind of work (before going to camp he did
have a paper route for a month, and also a number of yard jobs), often witty in
a kid way, often inclined to go off into a murky mood which is quite impene-
trable. One only hopes.
Did Ruth ever write Lissy that we had met a man name Schmied (a psychi-
atric social worker) who either knew you or knew of you in Vienna? Last week
in Los Angeles, also (where I was briefly helping Mr. Ford distribute largesse—a
rather entertaining parenthetical employment), I met a Fred Brier who left
Vienna in 1938 and now teaches economics at San Francisco U (SJ), and who
knew considerable of you. He was also full of tales of poor Weixelgaertner, who
I judge was the center of a European saga of which the details all intimate his
subsequent maladjustment here.
Some time before the summer is over I hope to get some serious work on
Othello. I have a lot of notes on the language, which is very interesting, and
which I think does some things with the idea of love that have not yet been
pointed out. Beyond that I hope to work at some essays on structure of 19th-
century fiction: an interest[ing] recurrent problem there is the aspiration to, and
constant failure of, tragedy.
This time I will spare you paranoiac outbursts against my colleagues. I am at
the moment in the happy mood of one to whom the existence of God has just
been demonstrated by the elevation of our head-man in creative writing to a
more splendid Hollywoodish opportunity at UCLA, a local boy yet that one
wouldn’t have thought would ever leave. But this bliss is qualified by my first
conferences with the remainder of the staff, who, as I might well have predicted,
I find totally disposed to replace him by somebody safe and simple and of no
threat to their own obscure destinies. In the second paragraph of this letter I was
talking about leveling.
For a long time almost no news of LSU. Were it not for Lissy, we would not
yet know of Vera’s I-take-it-very-happy marriage.
All our good wishes to both of you. I hope summer school doesn’t kill you,
and that you manage a pleasant change afterwards. We will be back in our house
August 18, and if we could tempt you to the madness of a quick plane flight (by
“coach”; almost cheap), we would love to have a visit from you. Any chances?
Sincerely,
<Bob>
33. Baton Rouge, August 1, 1951

Dear Robert:
I am in a lull between storms, and I hasten to drop you a line in answer to
your charming letter. The interruption in the middle, with the gentleman who
wants to run off with a colleague’s wife, was delightful. That is real life! Don’t tell
me your job is tedious.
Your description of the growing Pete and his impenetrable moods I take to be
a reference to what commonly is called puberty. It is an awkward age; and there
is not much parents can do about it except preventing the running off on unde-
sirable tangents; it’s one of the first things a boy has to go through alone. And if
I remember rightly the impenetrable moods are the pockets in which the gold
collects that later may be revealed surprisingly.
Thanks for your remarks about the “Marx.” You have seen the parallels with
certain American phenomena quite correctly. They exist indeed, and they have a
common cause. The Walgreen Lectures will bring an ample exposition of the
common origin of various modern attitudes in late medieval sectarianism.
Concerning these Lectures, by the way, I have just received news. A pompous
manager of the Chicago University Press wrote me a letter informing me that
the MS had been elected to be published “under the imprint” of the press; and
he expressed himself in a manner as if I were supposed to pat myself on the back
for having achieved such honor among mortals. Funny people! I wonder
whether I shall send some letters from friends who assure me that this will be the
first item in the Walgreen series they are going to read. At the same time, they
sent huge blanks to fill in. One of the delightful questions is: “When did the
idea for the book occur to you?” Well, it occurred to me, like all my better ideas,
while sitting in the bath-tub and smoking a cigar. I contemplate telling them the
nauseating truth.
The previously mentioned lull is due to two causes. First, the Homer is fin-
ished (about 60 pages). It will be a chapter in the History; that was one of the re-
maining two or three gaps that I still have to fill. It was delayed for so long,
though it is one of the earlier chapters, because the technical difficulties of deal-
ing with Homeric gods were considerable; but now all problems are “solved.”
On that occasion, I hit on a detail that will interest you, that is, Homer’s very
elaborate theory about “blindness” and “seeing.” This is probably the fountain-
head for all later developments of the problem. And since there is no literature
before Homer it is guaranteed to be the real beginning. Especially interesting is
his absorption of actions committed in “blindness” into the responsibility of the
personality through later “seeing” (the beginnings of something like a “con-
science”); and very astute observations that blindness is rarely quite blind, but
that a little seeing is going on on the side, etc. You will be duly quoted in a foot-
note as the great authority on the subject with regard to Shakespeare.
The second cause of the lull is the regrettable fact that I have developed a
dysentery with temperature. For at least a week I have to slow down. Fortu-
nately it is a harmless variety; nothing like poor Bob Harris’ amoebic specimen.
As far as news is concerned, my journalistic education is so low that I am not
quite sure what is news. Yet there is a regrettable item of possible interest to you.
A gentleman of the English department, by the name of [Aldolphus] Bryan,
died a few days ago (I did not know him; I only noticed the announcement in
the Reveille). Caroline Durieux is on a sabbatical spree in Europe; we just had
an ecstatic postcard from her, from Venice. Bob, as you assume, is really taking
care of my interests in the most considerate manner. He lets me work without
molesting me with committee work. And he just got a salary raise for me that
will boost me by September to $7300. That is not the world, but not so very
much worse than what other places have to offer. He did himself also quite well
thanks to the offer from Connecticut which he declined. I believe we are now
the highest paid professors in A&S, short of Deans. We have this summer in the
department Frank Grace from Michigan; what he has to tell about that Harvard
of the Middle West creates the impression that our modest swamp establish-
ment might be preferable after all. Heberle who is in Michigan this summer also
writes that he is glad he is not permanently nailed to that narrow-minded
provincialism.
What we shall do after summer school we do not know yet. A plane flight is
hardly possible because, for various reasons, we are completely bankrupt until
October. Tempting as your offer is, I am afraid we cannot follow the suggestion
to come out to the west coast.
I haven’t seen any of your work for a long while. When you are approximately
through with your Othello, do you think you could let me have a carbon copy
for a few days, just to delect myself?
Just fortunately I remember a piece of news that happened today. I was mem-
ber of a commission for a master’s exam in Journalism. Present were [Marcus
M.] Wilkerson (as chairman), [Marvin G.] Osborn, [Vernon J.] Parenton and
myself. Wilkerson let the candidate tell the contents of his thesis. Parenton
61. Caroline Durieux was a member of the fine arts department, Louisiana State University.
62. Marcus M. Wilkerson was professor of journalism and director of the LSU Press; Marvin
G. Osborn was professor of journalism, Louisiana State University; Vernon J. Parenton was asso-
ciate professor of sociology, Louisiana State University.
asked him quite solidly about propaganda questions with so-so results. Then it
was Osborn’s turn. That fine old gentleman declared that he would not ask
questions of the candidate, but he wanted to make a few observations. And then
he embarked on a speech concerning his idea of how an editorial should be writ-
ten. Then I did some quizzing, and the boy surprisingly knew a lot. Then he was
passed. Result: he was passed in Journalism as a Master, with questions only
asked by the two minor professors; whether he knows anything about his major
field is a dark question. Well, I enjoyed the performance.
<We hope you and Ruth have a good time in the desert. So long!
Eric>

Dear Robert:
Enclosed, there is another one of my misdeeds. Since it touches an important
piece of English Renaissance literature, perhaps you will find some points of in-
terest in it.
The late summer was rather unpleasant for us. I have been ill for the last three
months—a diverticulitis, with infections in neighboring regions. The thing is
under control now, and I am back to work; but the healing process will take at
least a year; and I am not permitted any physical exertions, like taking an ex-
tended walk, in the meantime.
Work inevitably has suffered. Still, I just finished an article on Gnostic
Politics, in German, that will be published in the Merkur. And I have done a
lot of reading—seven comedies of Shakespeare (some of them unbearably poor),
Dostoevsky’s Idiot (a careful re-reading in order to understand the intricacies of
D’s Christianity), and a lot of literature on ancient Gnosis.
There is not much news in LSU—except that we hope the new President will
get the appropriations that were denied to his predecessor. In the department,
however, we had quite a divertissement. One of our younger members, Ned
Taylor, got married in late August, and appeared duly with his bride. Ten days
63. “More’s Utopia,” Österreichische Zeitschrift für Öffentliches Recht, n.s., 3 (1951); reprinted in
the Collected Works of Eric Voegelin, vol. 10, Published Essays, 1940–1952, ed. Ellis Sandoz
(Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 2000), chap. 8.
64. “Gnostische Politik,” Merkur 6, no. 4 (1952); translated and reprinted in the Collected
Works of Eric Voegelin, vol. 10, Published Essays, 1940–1952, ed. Ellis Sandoz (Columbia: Uni-
versity of Missouri Press, 2000), chap. 10.
65. Troy H. Middleton was appointed president of Louisiana State University in February 1951
when Harold Stoke was appointed graduate dean at the University of Washington.
later said bride had left him in the direction of mother, for good. Legal proceed-
ings have begun. The bride was one of our former graduate students, a sulky,
hefty girl, who never opened her mouth when I had her in class. I got ac-
quainted with her more closely on an evening when the graduate students had
invited the department for a party, which consisted in the consumption of
liquor in a low-class dive. The lady in question loaded up heavily on the free
beverage, and was unsteady when we left; later, we learned she collapsed and had
to be brought home unconsciously. It’s interesting, in a way, as a study of mores.
In February, it seems, I shall deliver a couple of lectures in Johns Hopkins and
St. John’s College. And possibilities arise on the horizon for a free trip to Europe
next summer.
We hope that all is well with you, and that you had a pleasant vacation.
Cordially yours,
<Eric>
35. Seattle, February 6, 1952

Dear Eric,
The More offprint which came from you in November I read on the train
going to Detroit in late December, and now in February I write to acknowledge
the letter and the offprint. I hope you will keep me on your mailing list, how-
ever slow I am in making apparent that I am still at the other end of the line,
and happy to receive. Reading you on the Utopia I not only am made to see the
work in context, as always, but to see clearly that [sic] implications that, if I
know the work, I feel that [sic] I have been fumbling for but not pinned down.
It comes as a shock—the kind that makes one say, “Why didn’t I see that be-
fore?” (except that, alas, one knows the answer to that one)—and yet with great
inevitability that More is a predecessor of the modern habit of substituting the
social ideal for the realm of the spirit. And then aside from the main point all
those shrewd hard observations which help work up the whole—such as some
of the epigrams on superbia (does it, by the way, literally translate hubris?), the
wonderful little passage on those of the “Pelagian persuasion” (p. 464) which so
well describes the liberals, and the insight of the second paragraph on 456.
Always these connections are made.
As a slight return I include an Othello essay, one of several which I hope
may add up to a study.
66. Probably Heilman, “More Fair Than Black: Light and Dark in Othello,” Essays in Criticism,
1 (1951): 315–35.
I keep toying with ways of getting around the positivist boys that the world
seems largely made up of. I wonder what one could do with a concept which
one might label, somewhat grandiosely, the “higher pragmatism” or “transcen-
dental pragmatism,” in which one identifies truth not by what is clinically
demonstrable but by what seems to be required by the nature of the human
animal, by what “works” for him, so to speak. What appears to work—and
what he seems absolutely to need in order to work at any other than a mecha-
nistic level—is what is comprised in the whole realm of belief, of the un-
demonstrable; ironically, he seems bent on insisting on demonstration, and
yet seems quite unable to live on it. The trouble with this, I acknowledge, is
that it is so susceptible of vulgarization, so that any idiotic credo (e.g., “I be-
lieve that Kansas City is the finest city in the world”) can be comprehended.
But I should argue that the problem is not, as it seems today, to distinguish
the demonstrable from the un-demonstrable and then kick out the latter, but
to distinguish qualities of beliefs, i.e., between those which are constricting
and even destructive, and those which are enlarging, civilizing, and spiritual-
izing (the last word makes one feel a little apologetic, but I hope my use won’t
be taken in the wrong sense). In this connection I keep recalling your quota-
tion—with approval, if I remember aright—of someone to the effect that,
“There are no gods, but it is essential to believe in them.” That is, that that
kind of belief is the kind that is most likely to evoke the capacity for acting as
spirit. I toy with an amplification: that man can invent sciences, logics, and
other modes of knowledge or being—such as gods, and that the test of him is
the quality of the inventing [left:] <invented or produced> process, and not
the laboratory-testability of the invented. Does this sort of approach make
sense? Or is it trite or untenable?
In our field there is presently a frightful uproar against the new critics. (I
object to the name but use it as a convenience.) All the entrenched scholars,
most of whom have never had a serious literary idea in their lives, are de-
fending the probity and essentiality of their works, denouncing the arid in-
tellectuality of formalist criticism, etc. All this is depressing. But then the
profession is depressing generally. I am more and more convinced that Amer-
ican faculties generally are more concerned with protecting themselves than
with anything else in the world, and since they operate largely by “democra-
tic” procedures, the definitions employed naturally tend as far as possible to
make life comfortable for mediocrities. If they had half the passion for pro-
fessional excellence as they have for righting wrongs or pseudo-wrongs or
imagined wrongs, there would be—well, maybe there’d be more excellence.
<However,> the passion for being good takes more genes than the passion for
doing good.
You are now, I guess, lecturing at Hopkins and St. John’s. The subjects you
did not state. Parts of the book? I rather hope the Idiot section will be published
separately so that I can hope for a private copy.
(Speaking of mediocrity: I found half my colleagues greeting with enthusiasm
a recent article, a pretty vulgar one I thought, in College English in which some-
body at Illinois was attacking the James vogue, really James that is, because
James isn’t vigorous enough and doesn’t deal with real problems and people
don’t talk like that, etc. It was the literary view of someone brought up on
Cooper and comics. One man who is often rather sharp in his judgments at-
tacked Turn of the Screw as a “dull,” “put-up” job. Godamighty.)
Next week I go to San Francisco to take part in a “panel” on how the human-
ities may utilize television. Everyone has this incredibly naïve expectation that
the technical completion of a new medium of “communication” is in some way
going to be a great intellectual horizon extender or bender, and all we gotta do is
show ’em how. My own contribution is on what might be said about literature;
nearly all of my paper is what should not be said about literature.
Ruth’s mother is now with us for a while. Pete is taking to Latin pretty well,
though idleness is his favorite field. Some weeks ago I pushed over our old Pisa-
tower garage with an impressive whummppff, and a graduate student who is
pretty good with a hammer and saw has replaced it with a carport at the subur-
ban beauty of which we wonder daily. We have lapsed into a life almost without
a social dimension. Have occasionally seen something of the Stokes and have
found them very interesting. Have been reading Conrad pretty completely with
an honors student; he has a great range, from a kind of almost one-dimensional
adventure—though nearly always with a detached method of narration that al-
ters one from participant to spectator—to a thoroughly good sense of the com-
plexities of motivation. Have you ever looked at Under Western Eyes, one of his
rare comments on the political personality? (It goes rather interestingly with
James’s Princess Cassamassima, a very interesting book on which I also hope to
hear you hold forth.)
I hope the trip to Europe materializes. And from both of you we hope to hear
67. Voegelin lectured on “Political Gnosis” and “The Discovery of the Soul—in Ancient and
Modern Philosophy” February 13–14, 1952, at Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore, Maryland,
and on “The Wrath of Achilles” and “The Nature of Modernity,” February 15 and 17, 1952, at St.
John’s College, Annapolis, Maryland.
68. Arthur L. Scott, “A Protest against the James Vogue,” College English 13 (1952): 194–201.
some account, primarily of yourselves, and after that of the world of gossip on
which you always comment with such careless incisiveness.
Sincerely,
<Bob>
<My regards to Bob Harris. Walter [H. C.] Laves was here some days ago,
being looked over for the job Charlie Martin was bounced out of.>
36. Baton Rouge, February 25, 1952

Dear Robert:
That was a pleasure to have your long letter as well as the fine study on
Othello. I very much hope that others will follow soon and that you will let me
have them.
If I understand your essay correctly, you use the same method as in the Lear
study and with the same effectiveness for elucidating the connection between
content and poetical form, especially the pattern of metaphors. It was a sheer
pleasure to read it and, of course, I checked a bit in Othello; and everything
clicked as it might be expected in a study coming from you. There is no criti-
cism I have to offer with regard to the substantive core of the study—here I can
only learn ‘-’- [sic]; if I may suggest a point, it concerns the fringes rather of your
presentation. I am a little disturbed by a detail which, if I remember rightly, I
also mentioned on occasion of the Lear: You are very apologetic about doing the
right thing, and you defend yourself for treating a poem as a poem, apparently
against people who never hit on that bright idea. This defensive attitude, in my
opinion, detracts from the quality of the analysis itself; its brilliance inevitably
will be sprayed a bit by the dirt to which you give so much space. To be sure,
you have to justify every word you say but: before the throne of Shakespeare,
not before the bank on which are mounted the more obtuse of your colleagues.
I am taking the liberty of pointing out this detail, because I have suffered from
the same desire of polemical justification for years, and I think I can understand
the genuine humility (and not perhaps only political caution) behind this atti-
tude. But, with the years, one must get accustomed to one’s own qualities and
assume the authority one actually has; remember Goethe’s dictum: “only the
rascals are modest.”
Your idea of a “transcendental pragmatism” is most intriguing. If I have un-
derstood what you are after, it is neither trite nor untenable, but a somewhat
69. Walter H. C. Laves was a member of the Mutual Security Agency.
Americanized version of the classic tradition. When you speak of “the nature of
the human animal” you probably mean simply the Aristotelian “nature of man.”
And when you consider what is “required” by this nature, or what will “work”
for it, you probably mean the “actualization of the potentialities” contained in
this nature. And when you speak of “beliefs which are enlarging, civilizing and
spiritualizing” you probably mean the symbols in which is expressed the actual
life of the spirit, the bios theoretikos. And by “undemonstrable” you probably
mean the transcendental term in the experiences of transcendence; what suc-
cinctly is formulated in Hebrews 11:1 as: Faith is the substance of things hoped
for, and the proof of things unseen. The “things unseen” is already the Solonic
and Heraclitean word for what just now I called the transcendental term of the
experience (of faith, hope, love, etc.). And the “indemonstrability” of the propo-
sitions with regard to that term is probably the Thomistic analogia entis. In the
“capacity for acting as spirit,” finally, I believe to recognize nothing less than the
Aristotelian dianoetic virtues (among them: science). All these are strictly prob-
lems of ontology, and more especially of philosophical anthropology; to call
them a “higher pragmatism” certainly is not inapposite; but I should hate to
make even a terminological concession to the enemy.
Locally we are making an experiment that you would enjoy. The Dean [Cecil
G. Taylor] has organized, with the assistance of two younger men, a Colloquium
on Humanities. Every two weeks a group of fifteen students meets with two
faculty members and the organizers of the show to discuss some great books, as
for instance Machiavelli, Locke, Mill, Plato, Aristotle, Confucius, St. Augustine,
etc. It is a small scale imitation of greater experiments that you know well. On
our smaller scale, however, there comes more clearly into view the essence of the
situation: The A&S College does not give the liberal education which it is sup-
posed to give, for the good reason that the faculty is not too liberally educated
itself. Hence, [the] next step, a special enterprise is made to supply this educa-
tion at least in homeopathic form. And this diluted dose is to be administered
by the same faculty which cannot administer it in the ordinary course of their
activity. This situation became painfully obvious when the choice of personnel
had to be made. The Dean agrees now, in private, that the best result of the en-
terprise will be that at least some of the faculty members will be compelled to
read the books which they are supposed to discuss with the students. Under this
aspect, perhaps, the effort is not entirely wasted.
The difficulty became rather clear to me recently when I delivered two lectures
70. Cecil G. Taylor was dean of the College of Arts and Sciences, Louisiana State University.
at St. John’s College. They selected from various titles offered the one on “The
Wrath of Achilles.” That impressed me deeply, considering that you probably
could not find many colleges in the country who would make that selection. I
was somewhat less impressed when I found that Dean Jacob Klein, who made
the selection, is a Russian Jew who received his philosophical education at
Marburg. Still, the College is a miracle; and the students participated in masses
in a long discussion showing that they had their Homer at the fingertips. Never-
theless, the earthy touch was not quite missing. I had explained the parallel in
the construction between the wrath of Achilles and the eros of Helen. And when
we walked out, I heard a bass voice in the background: Why didn’t we talk about
love and Helen all the time?
Incidentally, the wife of the aforementioned Dean Klein is the former wife of
a professor in Kiel and knows the Heberles quite well. We established that soon
at dinner; and she said, full of sweet remembrance: “he is so very charming, and
so very boring.”
I have received an offer of a professorship in Munich, in the Philosophical
Faculty. It would be a dream of a position—unless the Russians were [not] so
near. That is quite an excitement at the moment. But I doubt that I can accept
it, even if [I] were more inclined than I am, considering that Lissy is in open re-
bellion and insists that an American woman would never demean herself by
leaving the wonderful home country and go[ing] among the barbarians.
<With love to the whole family from both of us.
Cordially yours,
Eric>

W I T H A H U M B L E R E QU E S T
Letters 37–57, 1952–1955

37. [Baton Rouge,] May 3, 1952

Dear Robert:
I am coming with a humble request today. Enclosed you will find the MS of
the first chapter of the History of Political Ideas, which [is] supposed to develop
the principles of interpretation for the whole subsequent study. The chapter,
thus, has a certain importance, both as the first one and as the statement of princi-
ples. Hence, I should like to have it written as well as my inevitable shortcomings
will allow. I wonder whether you would read it (it has only thirteen pages), and
while reading it mark on the margin any awkwardness that still will need iron-
ing out. Of course, I know that you are busy and that my request smacks of im-
pertinence; and I shall not be surprised if you tell me flatly that you just don’t have
the time for it. Nevertheless, you will see that this is not the sort of thing that I
could give to just anybody for correction; and you are simply my last resort.
There is still some unrest with us because the Munich affair is not yet settled.
It is a very interesting position they offer me. And in addition I have now re-
ceived a similar offer from Freiburg. I want to drag these offers out for two
years, if I can, in order to see whether the book on the New Science of Politics
that comes out in September will have any effect in this country. If not, I shall
perhaps better go where people go to the extreme of promising to build a house
for me, just to get me there.
Meanwhile, I have received at this great university a somewhat quaint honor:
I was elected to membership in the famous order of O.D.K. I was flabbergasted
when the students came to tell me, because I had assumed that was only for
“leaders” like Dean Frey or [Arden O.] French; and since I am neither french
nor fried, how did I come by it? The puzzle was solved when I learned that in
1. See note 11 of the introduction to this book.

2. Omicron Delta Kappa. The LSU yearbook, Gumbo, for 1948 identifies Omicron Delta Kappa
as a national honorary leadership fraternity that “recognizes men who attain a high degree of effi-
ciency in collegiate activities on both the faculty and student level” (330).
3. Arden O. French was Dean of Men, Louisiana State University.
107
the noble fraternity a revolt had occurred, the students of Sigma Chi insisting
on my election, while the faculty did not like at all the idea of an outsider like
myself joining the charmed circle. Well, now I am an accredited Führer.
I just have read T. S. Eliot’s Sacred Wood. Though these brief essays at many
points rather touch the problems than penetrate them, I was greatly impressed
by the astute observation and characterization in such instances as Blake or
Swinburne. Dante seems to have been a bit too much for him. But there are a
few remarks about Aristotle which prove that Eliot has a better understanding of
his method of philosophizing than almost all professional philosophers who
have expatiated on the question.
With all good wishes for you and your family,
Cordially yours,
<Eric>

Dear Eric,
That you ask me to read the MS is of course only an honor. I am a little slow
because we have a little rush of business of ejecting our own PhD’s and injecting
others to keep the shop going, and because I put in a couple of days in bed with
flu (the first of the winter; lucky).
You know how much I relish getting each piece of the opus that comes along.
Once again this time the usual experience, within my own limits, of feeling let
in on a complete new world, of having it organized, of seeing some of the time
how it can be used, and of having here and there the excitement of finding a cor-
respondence—so it seems—to some little idea of my own. The last page, on the
“compromise with the conditions of existence,” as it develops from early Plato
to late Plato, seemed to describe exactly the development, which I have been
fumbling about for an account of, in Eliot from Family Reunion to Cocktail
Party. In the former, if I read him correctly, he appears to allow validity only to
spirit (being?) and gives world (existence?) a hearty kick in the pants. In the lat-
ter he suddenly feels remorseful about what he has done to the world, drama-
tized as family, in the Reunion; so he goes back to the family again, rehabilitates
it even with all its imperfections, and says in effect it has its own kind of claim
and justification. Or in the literary terms which I find useful, he is putting the
comic and tragic side by side with equal claims to tolerance. Well, sometime you
will tell me whether this is an unseemliness of symbolization.
As for reading the MS, that I have done with tireless literalness, putting
down—and often at what length!—every measly little question or uncertainty
With a Humble Request, 1952–1955 109
or ignorance or stupidity that came to me, on the theory that the business here
was to try to be helpful, and that it was better to risk being a bonehead and raise
the issues than to look brighter, perhaps, and let them go unraised. You will have
to labor through my notes, of course, but it won’t take you very long to decide
whether they are idiotic or really have [a] point. I am selfish enough to hope that
a few of them do have a point, but realistic enough not to have too many illu-
sions about it. I decided that you know me well enough so that in asking me to
read the MS you knew precisely how much risk you took of getting a well-
meaning incomprehension that would have to be taken as the bale of chaff amid
the few grains of positive assistance.
One thing I realized was that a sense of style is not only a function of person-
ality but a symbol of an intellectual <modus operandi.> So when one says “Do it
this way instead of that way” one is, except in the most minor matters, actually
trying to impose a different set of intellectual habits upon a verbal system, and
that if this is carried far enough it is in effect trying to sneak a conversion in the
back door. This is very bad manners. The only possible justification for it is the
expedient one—and the correctee would have to accept the expediency—that
the intellectual-verbal habits of the corrector are nearer than those of the cor-
rectee to the general audience at which the correctee aims, and that by some
concessions the correctee might gain auditors and even converts more readily.
But even though he may formally think that, the corrector feels that most of his
proposals can fail of presumption only thru the good nature of the correctee.
It is fine to have the magnets tuned up at both Munich and Freiburg, but I do
hope you can stretch it for two years to see what comes up here, if anything. I
don’t feel any too hopeful about it, but I’ll at least hope to be wrong. You know
the climate better than I. I’m afraid that climate is best represented in the PhD
thesis of the man who is by everybody’s consent our best graduate student in
years: he proves that James’s novels are in the main modeled on his brother’s
pragmatism, that James was a true “liberal,” that his attitude was “scientific,”
and that fortunately for him he was always against all those naughty words ab-
solute, idea, ideal, concept, authority (to this kind of mind all these words mean
about the same thing), and he realized that truth was in passion and flux, etc.,
etc. Reading all of this worked me up into a futile lather which led me to write
the writer a reasonably long letter, which led him to give me a brief and obvi-
ously ironic thank-you in the corridor; for by his directors, who regard this work
as one of our most brilliant dissertations, he had been told that I was a harmless
“reactionary” who needn’t be taken seriously as long as I would show no dispo-
sition not to help him get a job. I will not open my mouth again. It is no use
making naughty faces at the climate.
I would like to have a movie of you attending an ODK meeting, with the
french fries as you so beautifully describe them. Do not put too much salt on
them.
I repeat, stay here as long as you can. But I’m not sure that I can think up any
better argument for it than the wonderful anticlimax that while you’re here we
hear from you now and then, and then we see a little light.
From both of us, best wishes to Lissy and you.
Sincerely,
<Robert>
<And very best wishes for the book which now, I take it, is about to “go into
production.”>
39. May 22, 1952

Dear Robert:
Your kindness has caused me considerable pangs of conscience. Such atten-
tion to detail must have cost you much more time than I had anticipated it
would. I feel deeply in debt to you, and especially because the explanations at-
tached to your corrections are a course in style that will be of value far beyond
the crimes I committed in this section of the MS. For an appreciable part of my
mistakes are “typical,” that is to say, I make them repeatedly; and your bringing
them to my attention will help me to correct other sections. Unless I were al-
ready hardened, and resigned to the fate that I never shall write decent English,
the survey of the battlefield would be an excellent reason to commit hara kiri.
As to the detail, most of your corrections were so thoroughly justified that I
could do nothing but transferring [sic] them to my clean copy of the MS while
biting my nails that I still do not know which prepositions to use after certain
verbs. There were, however, a few emendations which I hesitated to accept, and
I should like to explain one [or] two of the hesitations—partly in order to justify
my rebellious conduct, partly because the illumination which I received from
your correction might also be of interest to you. For, even though I did not ac-
cept the emendation, it stirred up extremely interesting problems in a philoso-
phy of language. Let me give you an example:
“This horror induced Plato . . . to make the true order of society dependent
on the rule of men whose proper attunement to divine being manifests itself in
their true theology.”
You suggest to change the end of the sentence to: “. . . in their possessing (or
mastering) the true theology.” I did not follow your suggestion, though I am fully
aware that it would bring a substantial improvement in style, for the following
reason: In the history of philosophy, from Plato to Schelling, there rages the
great debate on the question: who possesses whom? Does man possess a theol-
ogy or does a theology possess man? The issue was most strikingly brought into
focus when Descartes’ Cogito ergo sum provoked [Franz Xavier von] Baader’s
counter-formula Cogitor ergo sum. The immanentist “I think” as the source of
self-assertive being is countered by the transcendentalist “I am thought” (by
God) as the source of dependent being. If I insert the verb possess into the pas-
sage in question I prejudge a theoretical issue that is a major topic in the work—
and besides I would prejudge it in the wrong direction. The only permissible
solution would be [a] cumbersome dialectical formula (“possess, while being
possessed by” or something of the sort) that would divert attention from the
main purpose of the sentence. So I left it, though with regrets.
One more example, of somewhat different complexion:
“In existence we act our role in the greater play of the divine being that en-
ters passing existence in order to redeem precarious being for eternity.”
You remark: [“]accidentally misleading, since ‘divine being’ so often[=]God![”]

Again, I left the sentence as it is. In this case, the suggestion of “God” by means
of “divine being” is deliberate. The sentence is supposed to express in metaphys-
ical language the mystery of Incarnation. Later, in the sections on Christianity,
this sentence will serve in the unraveling of the symbolism of the God who be-
comes man. One of the philosophical purposes of the whole study is the
demonstration of the metaphysical rationality of classic and Christian symbols;
and the dependence of the maximum of rationality on mysticism (in the most
strict, religious sense) is a thesis that will serve in explaining the social victory of
Christianity over rival pagan mysteries in the Roman Empire, as well as in ex-
plaining the irrationality of modern, secularist thinking.
There are altogether three or four instances of this kind. They cause me con-
siderable sorrow because obviously they originate in a conflict between literary
conventions and philosophical language. And in this conflict quite frequently I
do not know which side to take. In German, naturally, I know what I can do
and what not; but what the traffic will bear in English by way of adapting the
linguistic instrument (which is basically created to express relations of the exter-
nal world) to the intricacies of the dialectics of being, still escapes me. I am
afraid I shall never find a way out of this mess.
The Munich pot is boiling higher. They want me to come this fall for a visiting-
professorship and to make up my mind on the spot (that is in Munich) whether
I want to go on with the job or not. After the visiting year, I could come back
here for a year in order to wind up my affairs, and then I should take the posi-
tion for good. Fortunately the good people do not have the money to pay for
the expenses for traveling, my obligations for maintaining the house here, etc.,
which amount to about $4000. The next move will be to get a foundation to
pay this amount. We’ll see. Lissy would like the year in Europe—with the un-
derstanding that, of course, we won’t take the job permanently. These women.
Let me thank you again for this conscientious piece of helping work. I wish I
could do something in return—if ever, I hope you will let me know.
<With our best wishes to you and your family,
Eric>
40. Seattle, October 14, 1952

Dear Eric,
Today’s mail brought from Chicago a copy of The New Science of Politics
“With the Compliments of the Author.” The author is both very complimen-
tary and very generous, and I am pleased to have a copy of the book. I have read
the foreword and the last page, wondering, as soon as my eye caught the words
“American and English democracies,” what sort of envoi you had hit upon.
Obviously it depends on what has gone before, in terms of which, I take it, the
immediate tact is joined to a warning clear enough to all who will read. The
complimented-and-subscribed will read what goes in between with his usual
care, and as usual with profit to the limit of his abilities. Thank you very much
for including him on the list of honorees.
And if I may say so, I hope that some of the other honorees are properly
moved, so that the politics of the world of political scientists may take a turn for
the better.
Which reminds me that at a meeting at Mills College, California—a sympo-
sium on “Reason and Values” (which sounded to me in many of its details like
the annual meeting of the Village Society for the Propagation of Atheism)—I
met a Viennese woman who knew something of you and perhaps knew you per-
sonally. She is now Else or Ilse Brunswick; she told me her maiden name, but at
the moment it has completely slipped my memory. She took her doctorate aged
21, I would judge about 20 years ago; she was in philosophy and was strongly
under [the] influence of the then leader of logical positivism at Vienna. As she
put it, “I was in his circle.” She is of medium height, plump, not pretty, round-
faced, genial, obviously a person of cultivation, has a very heavy accent but ex-
cellent vocabulary and on the whole great competence of expression. She re-
garded you as one of the three Viennese intellectuals of her day who would
“achieve great recognition” in America. But it is clear that her respect for your
erudition and intellectual quality are tempered with [a] certain suspicion, not
very explicitly put, that in the realm of ideas you have unfortunate and dubious
predilections. I suppose the American term “fellow traveler of the Catholic church”
would somewhat express the sort of thing implied by her shoulder-and-eyebrow
hesitancies. To philosophy she eventually added psychology as a field, went into
psychoanalysis, and is now engaged in either analysis or a sort of advisory psychia-
try among students at the U of California at Berkeley. Her husband is in the
Department of Psychology there—Egon Brunswick, I believe. From a luncheon
conversation I gathered that she is a somewhat mixed relativist, that although she is
inclined to regard value judgments as having only a preferential status, there are cer-
tain permanent human truths and choices that have universal validity.
A week or two later came to town one Bobek, also from Vienna, and of Vienna
now. He is professionally a geographer and personally—in Ruth’s and my un-
supported and I fear unevidenced impression—a phony. You may know of him,
and if you do, you will know whether this evaluation is unjust.
And I think we mentioned earlier meeting the Schmiedls. So much for newsy
notes on ex-Viennese.
In the interstices between earning a living I work on Othello; I printed an-
other section in the Virginia Quarterly, out this fall. No reprints, I regret.
Whether anything good will come of the Othello work I don’t know, but I keep
moving ahead on the conviction that I’ve seen some things not yet pointed out.
I shudder at venturing again into the fire of the professional Shakespearians
(The Committee on Un-Elizabethan Activities, as one of my colleagues has put
it). Incidentally, the Lear book has just evoked eight pages of abuse from one
Wolfgang Clemen in the Shakespeare Jahrbuch.
The presidential campaign seems to us to be even lower than usual, and I feel
as though some of your predictions are on the verge of coming true much too
soon. I am probably incorrect in this, or in my recollection, but it seems now to
be politically adequate simply to scream “Communist” at the opposition, as it
was in Germany 20 years ago. I would not be surprised if one of these days we
had a fire in the White House, traceable, though never traced, to McCarthy.
4. Heilman, “Dr. Iago and His Potions,” Virginia Quarterly Review 38 (1952): 568–84.
5. Senator Joseph McCarthy (R), Wisconsin. The 1952 presidential election was being contested by
Dwight D. Eisenhower for the Republican Party and Adlai E. Stevenson for the Democratic Party.
Will you say hello to Bob Harris for me? Ruth and I send all best wishes to
Lissie and you.
Sincerely,
<Bob>
<Further notes on state of the union:
I have spent a good part of the summer contending with our new administra-
tion (the new president is about as stupid as Geverse Hodges[?]) over the critic
Kenneth Burke, whom we wanted here for one quarter, and whom they rejected
on the ground of “the welfare of the university.” Maybe he is an agent of the
Kremlin, they think. I was hauled up before the Regents again, to testify. These
people are out of their minds.>

Dear Bob:
That was the first profit I had from the book: the rare joy of a letter from you.
But with regret I notice that your administrative chores seem to be rather
burdensome, and sometimes even distressing. It must be exasperating indeed to
haggle with assorted hicks about who is a communist and who not. About
[Kenneth] Burke I know nothing—I have only a dim memory of having once
run into his name in connection with the Southern Review?
Speaking of communists: the last New York Times Book Magazine [sic] brings
a letter from Paris with details about the existentialist fight that has broken out
6. President Henry Schmitz, University of Washington, withdrew the appointment of Kenneth

Burke as Walker-Ames Professor of English prior to the August 16, 1952, Board of Regents meet-
ing. This action was provoked by communications to the president that Burke had belonged to
certain groups alleged to be fronts for the Communist Party and/or had published in certain left-
ist periodicals. The documents relevant to this case may be found in the Heilman Papers, acces-
sion 1000–7–71–16, box 11, folder 7 in the Manuscripts, Special Collections, University Archives
of the University of Washington Libraries. The minutes of the University of Washington Board of
Regents include no record of Heilman ever appearing before it, even though in this postscript
Heilman seems to say that he appeared twice before the Board. Newspaper accounts may be
found in the Seattle Post-Intelligencer, November 10, 1952, pp. 1 and 6 (“U. Withdraws Lecture Bid
to Noted Critic: Fear of Burke’s ‘Fringe’ Association Is Told” and “Burke Tells of Events Leading
to Ban as U.W. Lecturer”), and November 14, 1952, p. 6 (“Burke Letter to Be Private: Schmitz
Won’t Disclose Content to Faculty”). See also Heilman, “Burke as Political Threat: A Chronicle of
the 1950s” (Horns of Plenty: Malcolm Cowley and His Generation, 2, no. 1 [spring 1989]: 19–26); and
Heilman, “Cowley as University Professor: Episodes in a Societal Neurosis” (Horns of Plenty: Mal-
colm Cowley and His Generation, 1, no. 3 [fall 1988]: 12–25).
since Sartre confessed himself a communist. First he made his confession, in

the course of which he characterized himself as a “slimy rat”; then he answered
some disrespectful remarks of Camus concerning his conversion with a vituper-
ative article on the latter; and the Figaro did not hesitate to pick up the affair
and had with joy on its front page an article under the giant headline “The slimy
rat.” Thus a quip of Camus, several years ago, proved to be an astute diagnosis;
Camus said at the time: “When the Communists come to power, Sartre will be
one of them, and I shall go to jail.” I myself wondered all the time where that
sort of atheistic existentialism would end; for the attitude of “engagement” with-
out being concretely engaged could not be maintained forever. To my pleasure it
ended where according to my analysis of Gnosis it should end. The Sartre case is
one more illuminating item in the breakdown of intellectualism.
Your information about Else Fraenkel-Brunswick was delightful. I cannot say
that I knew her well in Vienna; but we were once on a panel together, each de-
livering a speech—I have forgotten on what. The “circle” to which she refers is
the Schlick-Kreis, a group of theorists who admired the [Moritz] Schlick type of
positivism and forgathered at Seminars with him. [Rudolf ] Carnap also was a
member of the group. When she describes me as a sort of “Catholic fellow trav-
eler” that is about as close to the truth as her, in such matters, somewhat limited
intellectual capacities might be expected to come. Schlick, by the way, was mur-
dered by a mentally deranged individual (a real Catholic, not a fellow traveler)
because in the opinion of said individual Schlick was a nefarious influence and
besides had detracted the affections of his girl to himself (that is, to Schlick).
How much of the story was true nobody knows; certain is only that a man must
be deranged, if he thinks that the problems presented by the existence of a
Schlick can be solved by murder. —The name of Bobek I have never heard.
We are still in a state of mild unrest because the Munich affair is not yet quite
over. I have declined the directorship at the America Institute in Munich because
it is in such a mess that the Rockefeller Foundation has not yet made up its mind
whether it will continue support beginning with the next summer. For the pres-
ent academic year they stopped the subvention. But the mess is indeed so great
that the State Department thinks of sending me over there next spring for a few
months in order to straighten things out if possible, for they seem to be interested
in getting the thing going. Hence, we are now in some insecurity concerning
7. Patricia Blake, “A Literary Letter from Paris,” New York Times Book Review, October 19, 1952, 40.
8. Moritz Schlick and Rudolf Carnap were members of a group of positivists known as the
Vienna Circle.
what will happen by February. At present a man of the Rockefeller Foundation

is over there in order to see whether they will resume their support if other con-
ditions are fulfilled. If that report is positive, then I shall perhaps go into action.
Don’t take the adverse responses to your Lear too seriously. Consider yourself
a martyr for the truth. Just think of what the positivists will do to me in the near
future, unless they consider me beneath contempt.
With all good wishes,
Yours sincerely,
<Eric>
42. Seattle, March 12, 1953

Dear Eric,
I not only owe you more of a letter than this will be, I want to write it. I will
not go into explanations about why I am not writing it now; I will leave that
dull tale to powers of inference which need not themselves be very acute.
This is an interim greeting, then, and there’s a specific occasion for it, as al-
ways. Two–three weeks ago my colleague in comparative literature told me he
had just learned one Herbert Steiner was coming to the coast (from Pennsyl-
vania State College, where he teaches regularly) to spend a quarter at Berkeley
and would be available for a lecture here. Would I go into action? So I go into
action, and after all the usual redtape, mucking around, and administrative ob-
stinacy, we get Steiner, and today he arrives in town, and eventually comes into
the office here, and we chat, four of us. Somehow the name of Voegelin comes
up, and Steiner promptly bounces in with, “Do you know him?” I claim him
with customary avidity. Steiner wants to know where he is. I divulge the address.
Steiner says, “I have a MS of his I want to return.” And on he goes into this tale
of receiving from you, in Zurich in 1939, a MS of a German translation of a bal-
let by Valéry, meant for Corona, and that after that you promptly disappear in
the wilds of America. [Left:] <The moral is, of course, “the small world, etc.”>
Only today—as he has it—and in this office are you returned, by my willing
hand, into a civilization which Steiner inhabits, and in which he proposes to re-
turn a MS held 14 years. He says he never loses a MS, that he has a suitcaseful of
same, that he knows just where yours is, and that when he returns to Penn State
in June he will mail it to you.
The real reason why Jackson Mathews wanted Steiner here is that Steiner ap-
parently knew Valéry well: Mathews seems to have corralled the editorship of
the Valéry papers, letters, etc., and is making a life work of it.
How did the name of Voegelin come into the conversation? Thru a remark
by Mathews, who had often heard me mention you, to the effect that your
Chicago book has been treated at great length in the last Time. I haven’t seen
it yet but will get a copy. The Nation review was virtually friendly, compared
with what I had been led, by your anticipatory comment on the liberals, to ex-
pect.
I do hope that Lissy is not having too much trouble disciplining you into tak-
ing care of yourself. The account of your last reconstructive experience in New
Orleans is fantastic. May the fantasy, and the follow-up which I suppose will be
equally fantastic, be reduced, eventually, to the pleasant fact of good health.
Now I go shopping for Ruth, who has a birthday today. She’s been a little
“puny” this year, but some minor surgery may have had a pretty good effect on
what the imperishable ads call “female troubles.”
Our best to both of you,
<Robert>
Over for another “small world” note.
[Typed on back of page:] At dinner at a physicist’s several weeks ago we met
the guest of honor, one [Victor Friedrich] Weisskopf, concerning whom it soon
gets around that he is Viennese. So I dash up with my lead, and it pays off. Yes
he does know Voegelin and recalls that Voegelin had visited at their home in
Vienna. He himself does not claim a personal acquaintance but says that a
brother, once a lawyer, now a teacher at Roosevelt College in Chicago, knows
you well and admires you. (If he didn’t, I would challenge the brother, of course.)
43. March 30, 1953

Dear Robert,
Thanks for the pleasure of your letter. I am just out of the hospital and prac-
tically of one piece again. In the last four weeks the obnoxious piece of colon
was removed, the hole in the bladder was sewn up, and the colostomy was
closed and sewn up. The doctors swear that I am as good as new. Let’s hope that
at least the technical line of our civilization is working. But it will take at least a
month until the various wounds have healed completely and the corresponding
discomforts have disappeared. At present I have the feeling that the skin over the
abdomen is too short for my length.
9. “Journalism and Joachim’s Children,” Time Magazine 61 (1953): 57–61; Hans Kohn, review of
The New Science of Politics, by Eric Voegelin, The Nation 176 (January 17, 1953): 57.
That is a lot of coincidence that a whole batch of former Viennese show up in

Seattle. I know Steiner quite well; and I knew that he was in America, but not
exactly where. The translation of Valéry’s Semiramis I did in the spring of 1938,
after I was fired by the Nazis, and had to twiddle my thumbs until the emigra-
tion was prepared. It was an unforgettable period. I saw Steiner in Zurich in
June 1938; but he did not care about the Semiramis because, after all, it is one of
Valéry’s minor works. But Steiner need not worry about the MS; I have saved a
copy. —Weisskopf, the physicist[,] I do not remember ever having met; but his
brother, the lawyer, was a good friend, and still is. Unfortunately his position
in Roosevelt College is precarious and unsatisfactory. He is principally a psy-
chologist and economist now.
The article in Time was quite a surprise. The general malaise must be pro-
founder than I thought it is, or nobody would pay attention to the book. I ap-
preciate the splurge because of its nuisance value; all the fakes in the profession
who never would read a work of theory get it crammed down their throats by
such an article; and if they don’t read the book, at least they have to be aware of
its existence.
But there is a special reason why I write today. I just received an offer for a
short summer-school period, in the first half of July, at the University of South-
ern California; I think the confirmation will come through in a few days. And I
wondered whether at that time you will be somewhere in the vicinity, Los
Angeles or San Francisco, as sometimes in the past you were in summer. It would
be nice if we could meet again. But I doubt that we could come all the way up
to Seattle.
We are sorry to hear about Ruth’s troubles and hope they will be relieved
soon. Lissy by the way is in a similar predicament; and probably will have an op-
eration in August.
All good wishes to you and the family from both of us,
Cordially yours,
<Eric>
44. [Postcard] [OH]

Cortland, New York, June 30, 1953
Dear Lissie and Eric—We had been on Canal Street just one week and four
hours when we took off at 5:30 a.m. last Friday, after a most pleasant week. The
Gulf man had come & killed the Deerfield [?], & we tried to cut off everything
10. Walter A. Weisskopf.

else. Bob Harris was to get keys & also to nursemaid a batch of laundry chastely
reposing in front room. In the kitchen you will find remnants of undrunk beer
& coca cola which you may wish only to contribute to garbage. In lower part of
kitchen corner cabinet should be found a more presentable potable. —Heat
waves follow us around the country, even when we are now out of the nostalgia
belt. —We’ll add later to this note from en route (at my mother’s in Easton,
Pa.), but let me charge you now to report any damages, etc., in your house. We
used the various cooling machines—how good they are!—very freely. We can
think of no more perilous and forbearing business than turning your fine house
[over] to three west coasters for a week. We are much in your debt.
Robert
[Down the left:] We hope to hear about your own transcontinental travels, and
we would love to have EV’s Travels in Southern California.
45. Baton Rouge, July 17, 1953

Dear Robert:
Thanks for your two post-cards, duly received. It was a pity we could not get
together. And it is all the more a pity, because I could not elicit much either
from Bob Harris or Rudolph Heberle. According to their accounts you seem to
be well satisfied, on the whole, with Seattle, though there are the inevitable trou-
bles that beset an administrator wherever he is situated. Unfortunately, nobody
could tell me, what interests me quite a bit, how your Othello studies are pro-
gressing—apparently you did not divulge the secret. We also could learn very
little about Pete, except that he is tall—which certainly is pleasant to be but not
all-important.
The trip to California was pleasant in every respect. Above all I got some
money that permitted me to reduce my mortgage substantially. The lectures,
furthermore, were quite a success; and I received an urgent inquiry whether I
could not come there for a year, or at least a semester. The sojourn itself was
most agreeable, in one of those very elegant, new girls’ dormitories; and a fur-
ther pleasantness was the fact that I was refused a bill even for Lissy—so we had
free room and board for two weeks. Los Angeles itself is a ghastly place, but the
surroundings are beautiful. We saw several of the Missions—Santa Barbara, San
Juan Capistrano, San Luis Rey—which I take it, you know quite well from your
11. Voegelin taught a course with Frank H. Knight and Ludwig von Mises, “Theory of the
Capitalist Economy,” at the University of Southern California, June–July 1953; see Eric Voegelin
Papers, Hoover Institution Archives, box 90, folder 11.
own summer-schools in the region. Overwhelming was the botanical garden of

the Huntington Library. Beverly Hills, on the other hand, was rather an apoca-
lyptic spectacle. There you can really see the end of our world—miles and miles
of expensive pig-sties for the swine who destroy our civilization; one can com-
pare the horror only to such places as Buchenwald. On the way back we saw Las
Vegas, because everybody admonished us that one must see it. Well, in a sense
that was true—it is a shabby place, full of shabby people, engaged in shabby ac-
tivities—truly on a mass-scale. No shred of elegance or glamour. It is the perfect
illustration of the British Laborite’s quip that ours is a civilization where the in-
come of entirely too many people is higher than their moral stature. But at least
nature is not yet completely destroyed—the desert was hot but most impressive.
And in Arizona, in Williams, at the height of 6700 ft., we found a delightfully
cool place to stay for several days.
In recent weeks I had two letters from [Marshall] McLuhan. Rather touch-
ing—because apparently he too has found out about the all-pervasive Gnosis in
literature, and runs into the difficulty that the vast majority of his colleagues
does not care in the least about his discovery. He seems to be rather isolated; and
has not yet adjusted himself to the consequences of being more intelligent than
other people. He wails about the twenty years of his life that he has wasted in
the pursuit of wrong ideas. I must write him a comforting letter that he is not
the only one to whom it happens; and that a life is not wasted if one sees the
light in the end.
Thanks for the generous stocking of our “cellar.” Especially the array of cans
in the refrigerator was overwhelming. When I find a deplorable end as a beer-
tippler, you know whom to blame. Today we tasted the excellent claret, remem-
bering you and Ruth.
With all good wishes for a pleasant summer,
Yours cordially,
<Eric>
46. Baton Rouge, December 29, 1953

Dear Bob:
Thanks for your wonderful X-mas gift. These candies are really excellent. I
am not so sure that I should eat them considering my girth, but I eat them any-
way.
12. These letters may be found in the Eric Voegelin Papers, Hoover Institution Archives, box 25,
folder 3.
A somewhat handicapped year is drawing to its end. Just before Christmas I

had my fourth, and it seems last, operation this year. And I am still in the
process of recovering. But in a month or so, this also will, we hope, belong to
the past.
Meanwhile new disturbances have occurred, as you may know already from a
letter of Lissy to Ruth, insofar as Bob Harris is leaving us for Vanderbilt with the
end of this academic year. It is a rather unfortunate affair in every respect. The
crisis has been broiling for more than a year, when Bob expected a salary raise of
$200 as promised (or as he believed it to be promised) and did not get it.
Considering the agreement, I have the impression that the administration acted
foolishly on the occasion, though they had arguments on their side. But now, I
think, Bob is acting foolishly when, in the spirit of a hillbilly vendetta, he is
coming back at them, by accepting the first offer that he can obtain. The de-
partment in Vanderbilt, as of now, is a sorry establishment. There is a chairman
by the name of [Avery] Leiserson, so fanatical a positivist that he will not even
discuss a theoretical issue; then there is a man in international relations by the
name of [D. F.] Fleming, who reminds me of nothing so much as a wooden
Indian; and then they have there a genial creature, by the name of [H. C.]
Nixon, who writes folksy political studies about “Old Possum,” a sort of back-
woods Tennessee village of his imaginative creation. Bob has great hopes that
the Department will greatly improve in the future, when Fleming and Nixon
will disappear through retirement in the course of the next four to eight years.
But if I estimate Leiserson rightly, Bob will be in for a big surprise; there will be
rather a new paradise for rigorous method and similar claptrap. The salary also
seems to be unattractive—and from Bob’s reticence on the point I gather that he
will get less than he gets here, and has it made up by a research grant of $700 for
studies in the summer, which means that he cannot teach summer-school and
thereby occasionally increase his income. —And then there is of course a per-
sonal point. At the moment Bob pretends he would have [a] wonderful oppor-
tunity in Vanderbilt at last to come around to his own work, being free of the
chairmanship and having only six hours to teach in the field of constitutional
law. Well, I doubt that much will come of it. He could have had the same op-
portunity here. When he started talking in that vein last year, I offered to take
over the headship for two years, so that he would be free for his own work,
though that would have been quite a sacrifice to me; and now, when the
Vanderbilt affair broke, I offered it again, and the Dean supported it, but he
does not want that solution. I rather think that the move now will supply him
with an excuse for the next two years that he could not finish the case-book in
constitutional law on which he is working. Then, perhaps, he will finish it after
all in another two years. And then he will be stuck—for these administrative af-
fairs, which now he pretends to detest, are just what he can do best and likes to
do; and I shall believe in the grandiose work that he will do in the future as soon
as I see it done. In brief: he worked himself up emotionally and got himself into
a mess.
It is a mess for me, too. For most probably, whatever the final solution will be,
I shall have to take over the headship at least for a year. And you know how I like
such things.
Otherwise, things are perking up a bit. The terrible history shows signs of
coming to an end. It will now be entitled Order and Symbols. The first volume[,]
Myth, History, and Philosophy[,] is supposed to be finished by March, and will
come out about next October. The second and third volumes will be finished at
distances of about a year-and-a-half. The first volume goes down to c. 300 B.C.
At present I am still working on the section on Israel, that will run into about
300 pages MS.
The New Science of Politics sold well. The Chicago Press is preparing a reprint.
The oddest things happen. I should never have thought that a strictly theoreti-
cal work of this kind would sell at all beyond library copies. I wonder what sort
of people buy the book. But unfortunately there is no way of finding out.
<With all good wishes for a Happy New Year to you and the family.
Sincerely yours,
<Eric>
<PS. Bob has told Pete Taylor to use the new Boyd Professorships to get some
good people back here, first of all you. Would you consider that a possibility?
$9600.>
<E.>
47. [Seattle,] January 20, 1954

Dear Eric,
Ever since Christmas I’ve been intending to write and report to you on my
first day’s train-reading on the trip to our annual guild meeting at Chicago,
reading which consisted largely of your essay on the origins of scientism, which
I realized I had never digested, and your essay on Homer, which had come just
recently, with another kind inscription. I wish I were capable of following de-
cently the solid center of the scientism essay—Newton on space, Berkeley’s crit-
icism, and Leibniz’s analyses—but at least I felt at home in and happy with what
surrounded the center, namely, the introduction with its tripartite definition of
the scientistic creed, and the follow-up of the center, the “appraisal of the results
of our analysis.” What a compact and rich summary of results that is, and with
the sharp remarks constantly pointing out what the results mean. That is a fine
stroke to reduce the world of science-and-power to magic; by now you must
have received many a complaint, and I anticipate disturbing some people with
the discreet circulation of this. “Spiritual eunuch” is a lovely term, and I hope it
has caught on and will catch on more—if only the right people, what few of
them there are in USA, will get hold of this. I like the neat balance of your “the-
oretical dilettantism” sentence at the top of 493.
The Homer essay was sheer excitement all through—as literary criticism the
work of a master, yet deftly managing the literary criticism as subordinate to
other matters (I would be wrong not to mention the pleasure of being men-
tioned in this essay; one does not often get mentioned in such good circles). I
was tickled by your identifying of major structural parallels—especially that of
the wrath of Achilles to the Trojan War as a whole. Then there is the elaborate
analysis of the Achillean character, in reading which I thought constantly of that
essay of Edmund Wilson (I suggest no parallels but a rough resemblance in
sense of character) on Philoctetes in which he works from the wound of Phil-
octetes to the general idea of the apparent indissolubility of the great ability and
the special disability, a concept which he is however applying mainly to artists.
Also I kept getting ideas for use on Othello: for instance, the first four lines on
p. 494 very exactly describe the activity of Iago and its impact on the Othello
world; it is just what I have been trying to fumble my way toward. I keep think-
ing, also, of cholos as having some utility as a generic term for major disorders of
character that one finds in major English writers, even in such a refined form,
for instance, as in George Eliot’s Adam Bede. But most of all, what can be
learned from the Homeric picture of civilizational decline? Throughout the var-
ious passages in which you speak of the business of making the gods responsible
for evil I kept being reminded of the American (so far as I know) invention of
“naturalistic tragedy” (well, not so American either; Hardy in part practiced this
sort of thing), in which the basic theory is that whatever disasters overcome
man, they are all to be blamed on forces beyond his control. As Albert Guérard
remarked, approximately, this is not pessimism, this is sentimental optimism,
13. Voegelin, “The World of Homer,” Review of Politics 15 (1953): 491–523.
14. Edmund Wilson, “The Wound and the Bow,” New Republic 104 (1941): 548–51, 554–55. It is
reprinted in revised form in Edmund Wilson, The Wound and the Bow: Seven Studies in Literature,
(Cambridge: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1941).
for it says that man is “good enough.” I think, as far as the literary evidence
goes, we run into two such extreme views of man which are either disruptive of
order or symbolic of an existent disruption—namely this view of naturalistic
tragedy that man is good enough, or the counter-view which has some popu-
larity nowadays that man is exclusively a son of a bitch. Either view is conve-
niently easy.
Could you possibly let me have three or four additional copies of each of
these? Our Homer man is already interested in the Homer essay, and I want also
to drop one on the desk of [Frederick M.] Combellack at Oregon, who has
somehow got the name of being a leading American Homerist. The scientism
essay I wish to use on people who will profit by it and on those who will suffer
from it, notably our philosophy department, who are as scientistic as can be.
Here I must tell you a wonderful joke. Each year the philosophy dept has a vis-
iting professor; this year, sight unseen and without too much of a look, they en-
gaged as visitor a historian of science who had once been an MD, and who on
both grounds they assumed (I know) would be safe company for secular gentle-
men. Well, when he got here he turned out to be a Papist, and from the start he
has been belaboring them for their philosophical provincialism and juvenility,
and they are so displeased they don’t even invite him to cocktail parties. The
gentleman happens to be Alistair Crombie, who has just transferred from Cam-
bridge to Oxford. Do you know of his work? For some reason we seem to find
something in common and have been lunching together occasionally; in fact,
Ruth and I manage to get on with both of them, if only because we seem to be
less bothered than most by their British addiction to running down everything
American with some zest, completeness, and continuity. Anyway, Alistair has
been belaboring me to write you for a reprint of the scientism essay—a task in
which I am delighted to be middleman. The other day we were talking about his
necessary public lectures here, which he is going to do on the theme of science
and the anti-theological tradition and by which I gather he intends to annoy the
northwest liberals as deeply as he can.
I’ll be most grateful if you can let me have additional offprints.
That is fine news that The New Science is going like hotcakes. (Incidentally, I
hope you eventually got the letter in which I recorded my novice’s enthusiasm
for that work). I have been plugging it to people whom I have occasion to write
to and who I thought might profit by it, and I will continue to do so. This is just
a little subversive activity of mine.
Your year of operations has been unbearable, I should think, but you bear it,
work without diminuendo, turn out articles of unperturbed brilliance, and all
the time work at the big book. I am delighted that October is the scheduled
publication date. And in addition to everything else, you are willing to try ad-
ministration! Yet (as we Pa. Dutch say).
I am glad to have the Harris story but sad that it is what it is. The channels of
gossip had indicated that he really had a hot offer, the sort of thing he had been
looking for, and all that. It is too bad that he is only in a bad temper, hasn’t even
got a very good offer, and is going to a dept in which—after he has known
you—he cannot be intellectually happy. And as far as I have known, he is a
rather good administrator, or at least he gets by at it; and anyway, he enjoys it, so
that he will miss it badly. Insofar as I still identify myself with the segment of
LSU that will be sorry to see Bob go, I feel as sorry as if I too were being de-
prived of a good colleague.
At the risk of seeming pompous, I will take a paragraph to answer your p.s.
inquiry about a Boyd professorship. It is flattering to have the inquiry made,
and in ways I wish I could say yes. But I am not ready to say yes, though I should
not be surprised if later I did decide I was ready (doubtless too late). This is sim-
ply a matter of incomplete self-knowledge, with which I fear you will have no
patience. I apparently can do administration all right at this level; there are some
satisfactions in it; and at least at present I am not sure that leaving it would also
leave a gap which I might find myself not very apt at filling. This doubt reflects
some reduction of the confidence which I once had in both my teaching and my
writing; I have had some unhappy moments about both. I suppose what I am
trying to do is a little of everything so that if any one thing doesn’t go very well,
there is always something else to fall back on. Maybe a kind of security neurosis.
I hope I will some time get a little more clarity about these matters, for I do not
enjoy feeling somewhat blind. Once the purely personal issue was cleared up,
there would be some external problems—but relatively easy ones. Though one
is not so easy: when will Voegelin leave LSU?
If you are not patient with the content of the explanation, I hope you will be
patient with the fact of the explanation, in which I felt I owe you as much can-
dor and completeness as I am capable of. But I would rather have this personal
comment remain between us.
I am enclosing a couple of mild reprints, if only to show I am “keeping a
hand in.” Don’t bother to say anything about them.
Ruth wrote Lissie a week or so ago, so I will not go further on the gossip side,
much fun as it is. I hope that your post-operative life is a comfortable one, and
more than that, that it is really post-operative. With my best wishes to both of you,
<Bob>
<We’ve had a foot of snow during the last week. Very unusual & very delightful,
really. We’ve even broken down my resistance and bought chains.>

Dear Bob:
Many thanks for your long letter, as well as for the two reprints. It is certainly
a matter of great regret to us that you roundly refuse even to consider the possi-
bility of coming back here—though this possibility up to now is no more than
an idea thrown in a conversation with the Dean. Your reasons are clear to me, in
the sense of clarity of expression, but the professed “confidence” crisis is not
clear to me at all with regard to its basis in reality. Look at your “Alcestis and The
Cocktail Party”—what else, for heaven’s sake, do you want by way of achieve-
ment as a literary critic? Or look at the incidental remark in your letter: “This
view of naturalistic tragedy that man is good enough, or the counter-view . . .
that man is exclusively a son of a bitch.” There you have formulated the two
halves of Calvinism and Pelagianism into which in America the wholeness of
man has fallen apart. Don’t mope—sit down and dash off a two-hundred page
essay on contemporary American literature under this aspect (without any addi-
tional reading, just on the basis of the broad knowledge you already have) and
become famous!
The “Alcestis” touched me very much—for it seems that we are moving in our
respective spheres of interest toward the same problems of tragedy and death.
Needless to say that I had never thought of a connection between The Cocktail
Party and Alcestis. Your careful analysis of the parallels, and of the subtle trans-
formation of the pagan tragedy into a Christian problem, as you certainly must
know, is exactly the same problem on which I have been working for a long
while—only in the aesthetically less satisfactory medium of the political myth.
And I am glad that, in return, you find assonances to Othello in the cholos of
Achilles, as certainly there are.
And now I have a sorrow of my own. It is connected with the “Homer” arti-
cle. I sent it to a friend in England, a woman, for whose literary taste I have
greatest respect. In a recent letter she writes among other things:
“The only quarrel I have with you is about the tone in which you write.
Why are you so contemptuous and derisive about Homer’s heroes? In all their
15. Heilman, “Alcestis and The Cocktail Party,” Comparative Literature 5 (1953): 105–16.
16. Elizabeth de Waal was a friend of Voegelin from the days in Vienna.
human frailty, shortcomings, and even moral turpitude, they and their sur-
roundings are surely clad in the dignity of great poetry, and do not deserve to
be spoken of like a gang of bandits or the inmates of a thieves’ kitchen. You call
Achilles ‘a healthy specimen,’ as if he were a dog or a head of cattle; Priam ‘the
royal gentleman,’ as if he figured in a musical comedy farce; Penelope’s suitors
are constantly referred to as ‘rotters,’ as if they were members of a gang of
thugs. By this contemptuous and, if I may say so, inappropriate language,—of
which I have given only a few instances that have stuck in my mind but which
prevails throughout the essay—, I feel that you do less justice to your theme,
and you debase Homer to the level of one of the less reputable popular news-
papers. . . . I would wish many readers for your most significant ideas, and I
wish these readers to enjoy them, without that feeling of distaste and slight
sickness caused by the slangy expressions in which they are presented. But
then, perhaps Americans like that sort of language; I’m afraid we don’t over
here.”
In order to savor the last sentence of the criticism, you must know that the lady
is from Vienna, too. We went to school together—and now we are the original
Britishers and Americans. Well, you can imagine that I am somewhat dismayed
by this judgment, especially since I recognize its justice in many points. In the
revision, in which I am engaged at present, all such expressions will disappear, if
I catch them. But the matter of the “tone” in general is more delicate—changes
on this count would imply major re-writings in a more refined style to which at
the moment I am not inclined, because I am not convinced that a shot of “real-
ism” in handling political topics is out of style. With all respect for the golden
veil of his verse which Homer throws around his characters, the suitors are a
gang of thugs recruited from the island nobility, and Priam has indeed a touch
of a musical comedy king who ruins his city because he does not want to miss
the probably hip-swinging Helen as a daughter-in-law. I am afraid there is
something contemptible about quite a few of the Homeric characters—that
contemptibility which causes the destruction of Mycenaean civilization. And I
must take into account that a man like Herodotus assumed that Helen never
was in Troy (but got stranded in Egypt) because, if she had been, the govern-
ment would certainly have returned her and not let the city go to ruin. The
Trojan war, in his opinion, was a mistake because the Achaeans did not believe
that Helen just was not there. The idea that she was there and not returned
would imply a contemptibility of conduct, which must be considered flatly im-
possible by the standards of Herodotean rationality.
As you see, I am in a quandary. If there is a serious objection to the manner of
my presentation, I must of course repair it—for the section on Homer is too im-
portant to be neglected. Hence I should like to have your opinion in the matter,
too. When you read the article, did you experience “that feeling of distaste and
slight sickness” as did the lady? In your generous praise in your letter, did you
perhaps suppress it out of misguided politeness? Or are you too American to feel
it? You would oblige me greatly, if you would let me know what you think of the
matter; and what you would advise in the question how far I should go in elim-
inating the slangy tone.
You want more copies of the article, for strategic placement. I am afraid, two
is all I can spare—the reprints are running out, and I need the few remaining
still for a number of classical philologists in Europe. The reprints on “Scientism”
are all gone; not a single one is left. Your association with Alistair Crombie must
be delightful—unfortunately I do not know him, though from your account he
looks very much worth knowing. Could he not be palmed off on [Peter A.]
Carmichael in view of his antecedents? On his way back to England he might
well deliver a lecture here.
The Harris affair is running its inevitable course. We have been canvassing
the possibilities of replacement and found three desirable characters. The first is
seriously considering to come, if he can expand the research in administration;
the second wants to come right away with his wife in order to look things over
because he is so eager; and the third does not want even to look [us] over—we
just have to ask him and he will come tearing down for the job (incidentally he
is the most desirable of the three). Such readiness to take a job which he is quit-
ting in disgust, does not quite please our friend Bob. Besides, the enrollment is
picking up this semester, as we expected it to do sooner or later considering the
population increase, and such budding prosperity also somewhat dampens the
joy of being the center of attention.
Postscript on Alcestis before it is too post: The article is lying beside me, and I
was just thumbing it through again. Some of your observations are really excit-
ing, especially the pages on mediocrity as the source of excessive love for life.
This does not quite fit the case of Achilles—there are perhaps still other states of
emotion which may have the same result, but it definitely is applicable as a
“mass” motive in the explanation of certain contemporary phenomena. I just
was considering that perhaps not only a new love is a new life, but also a new re-
frigerator, or car, or dress, nothing to say of mink coats, which are so important
17. Peter A. Carmichael was professor and head of the philosophy department, Louisiana State
University.
in politics to have. That passage from The Cocktail Party which you quote on
p. 113, I am sure, will some day appear in one of my sections on modern ideo-
logues in politics.
Yours Cordially,
Eric>
49. [Seattle,] February 19, 1954

Dear Eric,
I have re-read the Homer entirely, with the primary attention of “listening”
for the style, and with the actual result of again getting so engrossed in the se-
quence of interpretation and of thoughts relied upon for the interpretation, that
I had constantly to make a conscious effort to pull myself back into the quest for
vulgarities. Surely the preceding unplanned statement of my experience as a
reader should in part answer your inquiry, if, that is, my judgment of the style is
at all dependable. I must dissent strongly from the lady’s judgment—in the first
place on grounds of her own principle. Whatever these Homeric characters are,
the fact that they are “clad in the dignity of great poetry,” however it may com-
plicate the experience of them which we have while we are face to face with the
verbal presentation of them, does not alter their essential being, which it is the
business of the critic to define in the terms most adequate to his conception of
them. Secondly, I find her argument undermined by her concluding phrase,
which irritates me considerably—“perhaps Americans, etc . . . we don’t over
here.” I must consider that as not an adequate differentiation of lower and high
genres of expressive modes (and let me insist that I am very much less sensitive
than most Americans—in fact, almost insensitive—to European condescension
to America, for I find that I can often learn from it, learn both about the subject
matter and about the speaker), but a pure piece of inadvertent snobbery, and, I
suspect, an inadequate reading of good British taste. But more is at stake than
the two formal arguments she makes; worse than her error there, is a basic criti-
cal error which she makes without knowing it—namely the error of failing to
sense the tone of the whole and therefore of giving undue weight to the tonal
impact of isolated passages. Now your general tone is a product of your basic
critical positions and of the general vocabulary in which those positions are
18. T. S. Eliot, “The Cocktail Party,” in The Complete Poems and Plays, 1909–1950 (New York:
Harcourt, Brace and World, 1952). In act 2, on page 348, Reilly attributes much of the hurt com-
mitted in the world to self-absorbed people struggling to feel important about themselves.
embodied: and that tone is the tone of a very learned man, a man of wisdom
and of subtlety of insight; and the basic vocabulary is a learned and technical
one somewhat modified by the intention to become accessible to a public of
mature powers of comprehension. There is another modifying influence: that of
the particular zest of what I may loosely call the devot [sic], here intent not only
upon a thorough examination of the literary mound but upon the judgment of
it in conformity with standards which are not the prevalent ones of his day. If he
were a modernist debunker, the problem would be different
(at home, after interruptions)

for a systematic and principled belittling might reasonably evoke some protest.
But there is no belittling of Homer, and the belittling of Homeric characters is
not a belittling of them as such, or vis-à-vis other mythic characters, but an en-
deavor to get into proper perspective some archetypal human beings whose
essence he has been great enough to capture. You cannot “debase” Homer by
using the appropriate terms for the characters; you can debase him only by hav-
ing a fundamental lack of respect for his insight, whereas the final point of the
essay is that his insight has been so magnificent in spite of his lack of adequate
conceptual apparatus. She has put her finger on the wrong thing; she seems to
want an essay on Homer to sound like those 19th century English translations of
Homer which in their pseudo–King James Version aloofness did their best to
kill Homer off entirely. Her conception of dignity is false. In fact, I should think
that a literal following of her advice would have the effect of eliminating a cer-
tain kind of stylistic vitality (I do not mean stylistic vitality generally, but only
one source of it) which seems to me to enrich the thing as a whole: it seems to
me that the effect of the stylistic matters in question is to add the imagination of
the metaphorist to the imagination of the philosophic historian, and thus to add
to a theoretical account a dimension of concreteness; the analogies universalize;
the characters are contemporanized (ugh!) without being unhomericized.
As you may guess (with an effort), I had no “distaste and slight sickness”; my
only indisposition is a pain in the neck caused by reading the lady’s paragraph.
You know, in a way there’s something singularly American about her “reaction”:
it is that there are in the world certain things which let us say belong to “culture”
or are “sacred” and therefore must always be spoken of solemnly (as distinguished
from seriously, for seriousness can accommodate various comic modes), with ut-
most formality (usually a false formality), high church, Fourth of July oration.
In her paragraph she never once defines affirmatively the Homeric reality to
which she thinks you do an injustice; she doesn’t know what it is; she only
knows what it isn’t, which is what to you it is. Anyway, as I re-read the essay I
tried to keep my mind on kinds of words that I thought her kind of sensibility
might object to; in some 30 pp I could find only 7 words or phrases; each one I
looked at doubly, and each one I formally decided was unexceptionable. I will
not even tell you what these are, for I don’t want you worrying about them; and
I will have nothing to do with fixing these passages up in terms of stylistic pre-
conceptions which, at least as they are set before me, appear untenable. But just
to show I am trying to be an honest man I will suggest three minor repairs:
p. 510, line 3 from bottom — for should be read are to be

513, line 7 " " — for should be read is to be or may be
492, " 7 " " — “lady of the house” perhaps ambiguous
because house, from numerous phrases like
“house of ill fame,” etc. can just possibly be
misread. How about “hostess” or “host’s
wife”? But at best this point is negligible.
Now for one matter of concern of my own. I am most distressed that my let-
ter was so couched that it is possible for you to say that I “so roundly refuse even
to consider the possibility of coming back here.” Since this was the last thing I
wanted to say, I may perhaps be the most untrustworthy judge of style. What I
intended to say was this: 1. I have thought very seriously about the possibility.
2. Though it is entirely possible that I may at some time positively desire to re-
turn, I have not yet reached that point; I still remain genuinely uncertain. 3. As
long as there is any uncertainty at all in my own feelings, I cannot encourage the
making of an offer; conversely, one can sanction an effort to evoke an offer only
when one knows without doubt that he will accept it if it is made. 4. This is a
matter of technical propriety; as an “administrator” (forgive me) who knows the
rules of the game, I would be regarded as dishonest if I permitted a private un-
certainty to project itself into a negotiatory uncertainty, since if the uncertainty
were eventually to result in a negative decision, the only possible interpretation
to an outside observer would be that I had simply encouraged the offer to “use”
to my own advantage here. Does this restatement mitigate in any way an origi-
nal statement which I fear must have sounded ungrateful or even rude? (Inci-
dentally, I will not contend that uncertainty is a virtue; it may be a symptom of
serious immaturity; but it is a fact.) I cannot bear the thought that when you, of
all people, seemed to hold a door open, I seemed to slam it in your face.
Yes, I fear I was “moping.” That sort of thing should not be done in public. It
is a kind of neo-pharisaism—bringing out handkerchiefs on street corners.
The two copies of Homer went respectively to John [B.] McDiarmid, the
classics man here, and Frederick Combellack, the Grecianist at Oregon. If they
do not respond with delight, the classics situation is worse than I should have
supposed.
I kept wishing for your presence the other night at a meeting of a discussion
club at which a young zoologist took off against religion (the inadequate geol-
ogy of Genesis, etc.) and thereby called forth a happy argument in which the
brethren all slipped back into undergraduate bull session days. As you will
gather, the liberators from tyranny had a field day, with only a skeptical psy-
chologist, a refugee geologist, and I attempting to argue that “religion” means
something serious which is not dependent for its validity upon the historicity of
the Old Testament. I found myself trying to define religion as a symbolic system
of ultimate truths which are undemonstrable but which command total loyalty;
suggesting that different systems have greater or less depth and inclusiveness,
that secular systems seemed to me to exclude too much, that such systems were
pretty likely to evaporate outside of institutional organizations but that such or-
ganizations might decay. You will detect my customary conceptual poverty. Since
the group are predominantly violent liberals, I had a rather good time raising
my eyebrows at the dogmatism of the scientific anti-religionists and asserting
that as a “true liberal” I felt bound to entertain the possibility that God may
exist. But I wished I had a handful of “The Origins of Scientism” to circulate.
The other day I was visited by one [Elling] Aannestad doing legwork for
Dean Rusk of Rockefeller, who has the interesting idea that perhaps the Foun-
dation has not been doing enough for “spiritual matters.” I expressed doubt as
to whether there was very much the Foundation could buy in this respect. But I
suggested your name to him, thinking that if you got him in the office, you
might be able to nick him for something which would be of more service than
anything else they are likely to buy.
Ruth’s mother is with us for a while. In March she is going to fly herself and
Ruth to Hawaii for a week. I am very glad that Ruth will get the trip.
With all best wishes <to both of you,
Robert>
<Crombie’d probably like to speak at LSU. He’s booked for Yale and elsewhere.
Can’t you just tell Peter there’s a Cambridge-Oxford historian of science in the
land, and a philosopher to boot, currently residing in a good liberal dept?>
<For your kind words about Alcestis, etc., many thanks.>
19. Elling Aannestad worked as a consultant for the Rockefeller Foundation in 1951–1954.

Dear Bob:
I hasten to thank you for your letter—with a pang of conscience in view of
the pains which you have taken to go to the bottom of the matter. Not only
have you assuaged my worries (and I must confess, I was really worried), but
you have also given a brilliant exposition of standards of criticism to be applied
to a case of this kind. And for this I am really grateful.
Lissy wants me to tell you that, in her less articulate fashion, she has agreed
with you all the time. As a matter of fact, she was quite indignant about the lady’s
opinion, and not worried at all. And she attributed the criticism to the critic’s
“stuffiness” and “pompousness” caused by her being “society” and indeed high-
church as you have guessed (one of her sons has become an Anglican minister).
And let me especially thank you for the criticisms with regard to the use of
the subjunctive. I make this mistake still quite frequently. And I hope I can
eliminate such phrases, as well as the abundance of semicolons.
Your debate on the geology of the Bible, as an argument against religion,
must have been quite something. I certainly would have enjoyed it, especially
since I am now occupied with the Bible for a long time and have to disentangle
the structure of the narrative. (I am afraid somebody will take exception to my
“vulgar” treatment of such characters as David.)
Your mentioning of Aannestad interested me for several reasons. The Rock-
efeller Foundation is indeed trying to do something for the long neglected
“historical and intellectual” studies. They are now giving fellowships and they
have asked me to recommend persons whom I considered fit. But as you
guessed, there is little competition. I could not find more than one good young
man to recommend. I suspect, furthermore, that the sudden zeal has some-
thing to do with the Reece Committee and its investigation of tax-exempt
foundations. For at the same time (in December) when I received the letter of
the Rockefeller Foundation, I also received a letter from the Reece Commit-
tee, asking my opinion about the policy of the foundations in granting fellow-
ships predominantly for quantitative studies. A lovely correspondence developed,
of which I had made copies. I am sending you a set for your enjoyment.
Certainly, when Aannestad should show up here, I shall have to say a few
words to him.
20. The Reece Committee was the “Special Committee to Investigate and Study Educational
and Philanthropic Foundations and Other Comparable Organizations Which Are Exempt from
Federal Taxation.” In the Eighty-third Congress it was chaired by B. Carroll Reece (Rep.) from
Tennessee. See Appendix C for this correspondence.
I’ll see what I can do with Carmichael. Perhaps I can approach the other mem-
ber of the Department. For C. is not on speaking-terms with me—and I do not
want to exasperate him by grinning at his embarrassment when I talk to him.
All good luck and wishes to Ruth for the trip to Hawaii.
And fervent thanks for your help.
Yours cordially,
<Eric>
[Up left margin:] <PS. There is no “misunderstanding” about the uncertainty in
which you are with regard to your present position. More next time.>
<E. V.>
51. Baton Rouge, March 1, 1954

Dear Robert:
Thanks for your note of February 23, and the letter by Combellack, which I
return herewith.
There is nothing surprising about C.’s response. That is how most classical
philologists would feel. From [Carl Joachim] Friedrich in Harvard I had a note,
suggesting that I was at variance with “established scholarship” in the interpreta-
tion of Homer. I had suspected that much, but he seems to consider it an argu-
ment. But isn’t it nice anyway to have written a “welcome addition”?
<Sincerely yours,
Eric>
52. [Seattle,] March 10, 1954

Dear Eric,
I’m very glad if my comments helped dissipate any anxiety of yours about the
effect of your style, and I feel the more sure about what I said now that I know
that Lissy and I had the same idea.
21. Frederick M. Combellack, the Grecianist at Oregon, had written to Heilman responding to
Voegelin’s article on Homer: “I have read it with much interest and pleasure. Some of his views
seem to me, I am afraid, more than a little unlikely. His suggestion, for instance, that ‘the author
of the epic is engaged in a subtle polemic against the morality of several of his figures; and this
polemic quite probably is also directed against his social environment that would sympathize with
the figures of the epic,’ really makes Homer a kind of pre-Classical Euripides, and I feel quite sure
he was not. Also, I doubt very much that Homer felt that he was dealing with the problem of the
breakdown of Mycenaean civilization. But for all that, Voegelin’s paper is a welcome addition to
contemporary Homerica.” This letter was enclosed to Voegelin in Letter 49.
The correspondence with Ettinger, and especially that part of it which never
got to him, the “Draft,” are very interesting, and I am pleased to be able to read
them. I am not sending them back now because I would like permission to show
them—or only the “Draft,” if that is desirable—to one or two colleagues. Not
that I have any great hope of converting anybody, but I’m always for trying, if
only by doing a little needling wherever possible. If you feel that everything that
you sent me is too much confidential to be shown at all, please don’t hesitate to
say so. I will of course not do anything until I hear from you.
The only thing in this that puzzles me is Ettinger’s original letter to you.
Maybe I’m unjust, but I sense something fishy there. As a presumably “objec-
tive” investigator, he has his mind all made up before he starts, and he is none
too subtle or delicate about setting forth a point of view (this seems to me to be
true regardless of how much one agrees with the point of view). The fact that he
is so un-reserved makes me wonder at the least about his tact, a little about his
own convictions, and still more about his strategy: is it a letter meant for a par-
ticular recipient, and designed to elicit a certain point of view? Maybe this is
reading too much into it; I’m not sure; it is possible that the only explanation is
that he is really very bright but very young and therefore unaware of how his
candor will look. Although it is too bad that he and the committee cannot be
subjected to your fine analysis, I find myself thinking that you were very wise in
answering him only as, and to the extent that, you did.
Two mentions of you here lately. Talking to a book man who was setting
forth his interest in getting solid studies of all kinds for his company (Random
House), I said that when he got around to LSU again he should see you. He of
course knew of you but professed to think you a very difficult writer. It turned
out he had got this from Tommy Cook. In fact, Tommy had shown this book
man his copy of the New Science, and as the book man put it to me, “The mar-
gins are all full of exclamations and question marks.” I think you will enjoy this
evidence of the Cook mind. The second mention came at an evening party at
Crombie’s, where the guest of honor was Erich Heller of the University of Wales
(a Sudeten who was I believe at Cambridge before going to Wales). In some ap-
propriate context I mentioned your name, and it turned out that Heller is re-
viewing the New Science (for an English journal, I believe; the name escapes
me). Heller says, “A very brilliant and learned man, but entirely wrong. Never-
theless you would rather be wrong with him than right with lesser people.”
Heller is a professor of literature and was here to lecture on modern poetry (I
missed it on account of being loaded with sulfa for an infected throat; the philis-
tine account was that it was a hard lecture; and the press account of it was in-
comprehensible); but apparently he also doubles in political theory. He seems
fantastically well acquainted in the literary world, and can also retail stories of
his conversations with Greta Garbo. Ruth says he is a very beautiful man. Do
you know him or of him?
Enough for now. With best wishes to both of you,
<Sincerely,
Bob>
53. [Baton Rouge,] March 14, 1954

Dear Robert:
Thanks for your letter of March 10. I certainly have no objections to anybody
reading the “Draft” letter, though it would perhaps be better not to show the
rest of the correspondence. Even if people are decent and rational, they some-
times blab; and I do not care to receive an angry letter from Mr. Ettinger that I
have suppressed, as he has learned, important evidence that I had been able to
furnish. Hence, choose with discretion. —The case of Mr. Ettinger himself cer-
tainly is interesting. I know him personally, insofar as one can say that of a man
whom one has met twice at a meeting of a professional association (I doubt I
would recognize him unless he were brought to my attention). Perhaps he
formed the opinion that he could get some fireworks from me; and that would
explain the somewhat subjective tone of the letter that takes a good deal for
granted. But otherwise, I am afraid, I have not puzzled why I came by the honor
at all to be addressed by him. In the meantime he has answered, somewhat miffed
by my skepticism with regard to the value of his activities; and that seems to be
the end of the correspondence. The Director of the Rockefeller Foundation, on
the other hand, thanked me warmly and urged me to let him know the next
time I come to New York so that we can have a session on the problem. It was
too complicated, he said, to be discussed by correspondence. That also is the
end for the moment.
I am not sure I know Erich Heller—the reason being that Heller is somewhat
of a generic name in Central Europe, and I know entirely too many Hellers. It is
quite possible that I know this one, too. But the reactions to my poor book cer-
tainly are becoming a nightmare. Tommy Cook wrote a review in the Johns
Hopkins Review, which promptly folded up (sometime last summer). He pro-
ceeded by giving a definition of political philosophy in the first paragraph, then
gave a somewhat dubious account of the contents of the book, and concluded
22. I could not locate a citation for this review. The Johns Hopkins Review does not appear to
have been indexed.
that my New Science of Politics far from being new or old, was none at all. He had
no difficulty in showing it, because the definition in his opening paragraph was
an instrumentalist definition, plucked from nowhere, and to be sure I did not
deliver the instrumentalist goods. If you consider that by the same token neither
Plato nor Aristotle, St. Augustine or St. Thomas, and so forth, have ever pro-
duced a science of politics, you sometimes wonder just whether these boys have
any brains at all,—for Cook was not the only one who used this device in a re-
view. —And now a new evil has befallen me. [Hans] Kelsen wrote me recently
and told me he had spent months to study my book and had come up with a
long, formidable, and annihilating criticism. Before publishing it, probably in
book form, but he is not sure yet, he wants to send it to me for my comments.
It will arrive soon. He has once before performed a gala massacre, more than
twenty years ago, on Carl Schmitt—who happens to be probably the best polit-
ical scientist alive today. Hence, I am in best company. Still, I would appreciate
it, if people criticized me behind my back and sent me the thing after publica-
tion as a surprise. —From such formidable reactions I begin to conclude that I
must have hit the positivists at the right spot. —But, on the other hand, there
have been some very valuable comments on the book, especially from Dempf in
Munich and [Gotthard] Montesi in Vienna.
Our departmental crisis is nearing its end, at least I hope. An offer has been
made to [Rene de Visme] Williamson in Tennessee, and there is reason to expect
that he will accept within a week. But I had to become very energetic and quite
angry that the offer was made, because the Department dragged on and on in
looking for other people, though nobody else was available—just a feeling of self-
importance in drawing out procedure when the matter was settled by stark ne-
cessity that W. was the only one at the same time available and acceptable. Bob
Harris, I regret to say, enjoyed the game of crisis and conferences and committees
to the last sweet drop, until I put my foot down. Because of the coincidental pres-
sure of other work I have actually lost six weeks working time on my History.
Sincerely yours,
Eric>
<P.S. You can keep the Ettinger correspondence if you want to. I had a few
copies made, precisely for the purpose of sending them to people who might be
interested.>
23. Hans Kelsen originated the Theory of Pure Law and taught Voegelin at the University of
Vienna Law School. Voegelin earned his Ph.D. under the joint tutelage of Hans Kelsen and
Othmar Spann.
54. [Lissy Voegelin to Robert B. Heilman] [OH]

Baton Rouge, May 30, 1955
Dear Robert:
I am completely taken aback and very much touched by your note. You are
asking me to speak for Eric, and in this case, I feel, I can speak with authority
and say a big yes and O.K.
That you should want to dedicate your Othello to him, is certainly a great
honour for Eric. He will be very proud of the dedication and it will please him
no end. And, quite besides and on the margin, it would make me very happy; or
did you know that?
Greetings and love to all of you.
Yours,
Lissy
55. Buck Hill Falls, Pennsylvania, June 28, 1955 [OH]

Dear Bob:
I must write you a line: For a week I am now in the company of Stoke. And,
of course, the conversation frequently turned to you, and Ruth, and Pete.
Stoke is delightful. Among all these political scientists, in a rather depart-
mental sense, he is the only one who has a grip on reality and talks common
sense. Without his presence, I should feel just a bit lost.
For the rest, Stoke will tell you all about what is going on here. And I am sure
you will enjoy it.
Day after tomorrow I am back in New York. And on Saturday we fly to
London.
All good wishes to you and Ruth for the summer.
Yours cordially,
Eric
56. [Seattle,] December 11, 1955

Dear Eric,
I will spare you a rehearsal of all the dull facts of life which keep one from a
more regular personal correspondence. You’ll have to believe that we think of
you constantly. I was delighted to receive from you the short note which you
wrote just after the Poconos Conference in Pennsylvania in the spring; I did not
try to answer it then because you were on your way abroad, and I had no way of
knowing where to reach you. It was gratifying to know that you found Stoke
shrewd and clear-sighted about what was going on at the conference; I would
guess that his sharpness about such things would be much more apparent when
he was a private citizen, freed from the pressures of the presidency. At any rate,
here at Washington I have found him of all people the most alert to nonsense of-
ficial and unofficial, and of all the people I know the one with whom I could be
most consistently candid on all matters—that is, with enough imagination and
personal largeness to get over the barriers usually created by inevitable differ-
ences, the sense of personal safety, and so on. His departure to NYU was a great
loss to the University; he was the best of all the Deans, and the Intelligent
Faculty’s favorite candidate for any higher office that might become vacant
here. In a state university this appeal to the intelligentsia is not without its dis-
advantages; the rest of the Deans, on the whole a mediocre and self-willed
bunch, came to hate Harold, and he had become very unhappy here. I will not
say that the situation was entirely the fault of others. Harold is not always tact-
ful, and he did not trouble to cover up his personal superiority, and his own
firm convictions about how things ought to be done, with that indirection and
air of good fellowship essential to leading the blind and the jealous. Well, aside
from the loss to the University, Ruth and I miss them very much personally. I
think that Persis [Stoke] was the first woman here with whom Ruth developed
that sort of humorous understanding about things that she had so delightfully
with Lissy.
I think I wrote you fully, year before last, about the fine to-do in the Phil-
osophy Department when that gang of aggressive naturalists hired a historian of
science from Cambridge and were horrified to find out that they had brought
down upon themselves an aggressive papist. He is gone, now, and they have
purged the youngsters in the department who stood by him. But another irony
develops: somehow the department feels that it is now fashionable at least to en-
tertain formally other possibilities than those which they know to be true, and
this quarter we have had as guest [Walter Terence] Stace of Princeton, of whom
doubtless you know. He recently gave three public lectures on mysticism (mem-
ories of those long-gone days when poor old Peter Carmichael was going to put
mysticism out of business) and must have stretched the hospitality of his hosts
to the utmost by declaring that not only did mysticism have epistemological va-
lidity but that it alone provided a valid base for ethical systems, which failed ut-
terly if they were grounded naturalistically. (In part, I suppose, he got away with
it by avoiding a contentious vehemence and contenting himself with an air of
good humored sorrow of one who knows he will be thought mad; and besides,
[as] an amiable and gauche 7-footer who was once governor general of Ceylon
or something like that, he has a kind of theatrical value which distracts attention
from the repellency of his doctrines.) Well, this was a new experience at the
University of Washington, which is historically above such ancient a-rationalities.
He was very well received and did quite a business lecturing at the circle of large
churches which by a lovely irony almost surround the University campus.
Which leads me to the other matter on which I want to solicit your opinion:
the thriving new ecclesiasticism and the cognate flourishing of the “new conser-
vatism” which has led to the founding of two new journals recently—all of this
constituting a notable enough phenomenon for one to want to place it. How-
ever pleasant it may be in one sense to see the doctrinaire liberals running into
some quantitative opposition (and after watching what I call the “Northwest
Liberals” for quite a while I enjoy such discomfiture as may accrue to them), I
find myself not altogether comfortable about these new developments. Insofar
as I can get any sense of it at all, the ecclesiasticism seems like a kind of fashion
in joining, not very deeply grounded, and therefore likely to move into a moral-
istic restrictiveness in one direction, or in another into disillusion and reaction
perhaps worse than the scientistic complacency which the ecclesiasticism chal-
lenges. To restate, I’m not convinced that there is any move at all toward a more
profound symbolic apprehension of reality, but that we go on much the same
except for taking on some protective coloring of spiritual pretentiousness. Am I
way off base here? And as for the New Conservatism, what a set of bedfellows.
Some local Republican realtor who is always trying to reform the Red faculty
here sent us a subscription to the American Freeman, which I confess I have
never read since the first few issues, which made it clear that it was simply an
organ of the propertied, representing the NAM as St. George, the New Deal as
the Dragon, and that sort of thing. Maybe by now they have retreated from that
kind of melodrama (Pegler was one of their saints) to a more sophisticated posi-
tion. Then there is Russell Kirk’s Conservative Review, which I haven’t seen yet.
Although I have a copy of Kirk’s first book or manifesto, I haven’t been able to
read it and so don’t know how respectable he is; judging by the violent reactions
of the Liberal journals against him, he may have a little weight. But the other
day I got a copy of the National Review (it went to all “subscribers” to the Free-
man) and was astonished to find Kirk in it, consorting with the infamous
24. NAM is the National Association of Manufacturers; James Westbrook Pegler (1894–1969)
was a controversial syndicated columnist with Scripps-Howard Syndicate and King Features
Syndicate (Hearst).
Buckley and his brother-in-law; they all carry on in a sort of red-baiting

Peglerese which seems at best trivial and at worst Bricker-Republican dema-
goguery. And I suppose that on second thought I was not really surprised to
find Willmoore Kendall enshrined in it, apparently as a regular columnist; you
know my impression of Willmoore, in terms of which it is natural to find him
in company that, on a basis of such information as I have (and it may be inade-
quate) looks very unsavory.
Well, there are interesting little things in the world. At our last national
meeting (Modern Language Association) I was talking to an ex-LSU student of
mine who did a brilliant Ph.D. at Yale and is now assistant professor there.
Under the guidance of [William K.] Wimsatt, the brilliant critic at Yale, my
friend turned Catholic, in, as another acquaintance put it, “the quest for cer-
tainty.” Now this neo-Catholic, in talking to me, was clearly and unaffectedly
thinking of himself as in many senses “liberal”; and he actually complained
that his godfather Wimsatt, under the influence of Cleanth Brooks (a new-
Episcopalian), “got reactionary.” Well, maybe in all this there is nothing but de-
lightful contrasts flowing out of terminological vagueness: but I’d love to have
you comment on such matters. Not that you should take much time to
straighten out the characteristically fuzzy Heilman mind, but that mind would
be grateful for any treatment it got.
My Othello book is about to go from editors to printers, and will be out in May
if I can get thru proof stages in time, otherwise in the fall. Is the first volume of
your History coming out in 1956? I have a reference to it in the Othello and want to
correct it in proof if need be. I’ll take this letter to the office to mail and hope to
remember to put in a copy of the review in which I try to blast the Chicago new-
Aristotelians, who have blasted me and all my friends at various times.
Ruth is in her second year of teaching, still by no means recovered from her
operation (or is it just that we are older than we know?). Pete is a freshman in the
University, beginning to make the first gestures toward serious study. This fall I
saw an MD for the first time in 5 years (lucky man) and found I had high blood
pressure (remedy: snakeroot) and an arthritic back (remedy: heating pads).
Our very best to both of you.
<Robert>
25. John W. Bricker (R) was a U.S. senator from Ohio. He proposed in 1953 an amendment to
the U.S. Constitution that would have limited the executive authority of the president in foreign
affairs. The amendment fell short of the necessary two-thirds vote by one vote.
26. Heilman, review of Critics and Criticism, by R. S. Crane et al., Modern Language Notes 69
(1954): 533–37.
Suddenly I realize that I am so out of touch with LSU that I do not even
know whether you are there. You were perhaps going to return to Europe and
go to Munich. What comes of this? I can’t say I’d blame you for going, but I’d
hate to see you go; and your going would be a disgrace to the academic pro-
fession in this country. If you really want to go (or have gone), I can only wish
you luck.
<Minnesota appears to be on the verge of making eyes at me but I can’t feel
very excited about it.>
57. [Baton Rouge,] December 19, 1955

Dear Bob:
Your letter of Dec. 11th came just in time this morning, for I wanted to write
you today anyway to thank you for the delightful review of Critics and Criticism.
It had thrown me into a mood of indecision, because your refined politeness left
me in doubt whether I should not read the volume, because literary criticism is
after all one of my permanent occupations. But your letter determined me to
shelve the ordeal, unless I receive orders from you to the contrary. Especially I
was impressed by your quotation from one of the gentlemen—I had thought
that sort of circumlocutory heaviness was a German privilege, and now I find to
my horror that the Americans (or at least the Chicagonistai [sic]) are even better
at it. What are we coming to!
And that brings me to the Conservatives who have my loving attention. As
far as I can understand the odd animal that goes under the name of the Amer-
ican political intellectual at all, nothing exciting or serious is happening. There
is no philosophical understanding of political problems, for the good reason
that the persons engaged in the game have never received any technical training
in such matters, or acquired their knowledge auto-didactically. Probably not a
single one of them has ever worried about the problem of unanalyzed concepts,
or about the methods which must be used in the critical construction of a con-
cept. I am even fairly sure that you would meet a blank stare, if you would chal-
lenge them with a question of this kind. No, I think this is just another pas in
the elephantine ballet of semi-conscious rhetoric that accompanies the move-
ment of the great republic through the vicissitudes of history. This kind of intel-
lectualism differs from the European insofar as it is solid American evangelism
and revivalism transposed into the secular key. It is related to European soph-
istry, from the enlightenment and conservatism of the eighteenth century to the
Marxism and theologism of our time, through the use of the same ideological
symbols, but it does not seriously overstep the conditions on which the American
Republic was founded—so that the Marxists become New Dealers and the Karl
Barths become Reinhold Niebuhrs. How long this somnolent concern with se-
rious matters can <survive> under the pressures of the age is another question,
but for the time being I see the American style characteristics continu[ing], as
for instance in the decadic emergence of intellectual pontiffs: [H. L.] Mencken
of the 20’s; Max Lerner of the 30’s; Reinhold Niebuhr of the 40’s; and now prob-
ably a Russell Kirk of the 50’s. The conservative 50’s are still of the same genus as
the gay 90’s. —The personnel of the Conservatives is indeed dubious, as you
say; but I wonder whether it is really more dubious than the [Max] Lerners and
[Frederick Lewis] Schumans—the extra ounce of disgust is perhaps caused by
the inevitable disadvantage under which a conservative ideology labors: that it
appears to stifle growth by principle, while the liberals at least in appearance
want to go ahead. At bottom, of course, both have broken with the reality of ex-
istence in the present; neither of them can face the facts of life. —But don’t take
too seriously what I say, for I have no well-founded knowledge of these things. I
don’t read this type of literature, because the authors are no partners in a discus-
sion; these things are only an object of investigation, and at the moment I have
not much time for them.
And now for the matters of real interest—and first of all your Othello. I have
not heard of it since the time you sent me the reprint, a long time ago. I am
most happy to learn that not only is it finished, but actually in the state of
proof-reading. Please, let me know when it comes out—and I hope it will be
spring rather than fall. Certainly you must feel more relaxed just now,—unless
you have already the next piece of work in progress?
My own affairs are going well, but that involves a word about last summer. I
pressed into the two-and-a-half months in Europe what I could. First a week in
London, then one in Munich. After Munich came the circuit of the southwestern
corner of Germany: Heidelberg, Stuttgart, Freiburg, Marburg, Frankfurt. In
Frankfurt Lissy joined me again (she had been in Vienna after Munich); and we
proceeded to Cologne, and from there to Scandinavia. There was a stopover in
Helsingør and Helsingborg (with appropriate visits to Hamlet’s castle), a day in
Stockholm (no hotel-rooms available), and then the main purpose of the trip:
two weeks in Uppsala. Before retracing our steps south-west-ward, we spent a few
days in Gotland, in Visby. And then we went, with short stops in Stockholm
and Copenhagen, to Holland. There we took our domicile for a few days in
Utrecht, with digressions to Amsterdam and the Hague. And in the end we were
a few days in Paris. —For my part, the trip was rather hard work, because I had
to collect the materials, which I could not get here, for Israelite and Jewish history,
for early Christianity and Gnosis, and generally to bring myself up-to-date
in the literature. Hence the stops in Munich (Egyptology and Catholicism),
Heidelberg (Old Testament), Marburg (Gnosis), Uppsala (the new methods of
comparative religion), Utrecht (Gnosis). —Since we are back, I am working en-
ergetically at digesting the materials, insofar as they have to be incorporated into
the first volume that is now going to print.
The plan of publication is now the following: There will be six volumes. The
first one, Exodus, containing the Near Eastern Empires and Israel, will go to the
printer in January, for publication in September 1956. The other volumes will
then follow at intervals of about six months.
The trip was of the greatest importance for me. I have done the work on my
“History” now substantially and I know what I want. Hence, the trip could be
planned carefully. And now I know personally most of the first-rate scholars in
my field—the partners of the discussion, as distinguished from the previously
mentioned objects of investigation. As a consequence of the extended conversa-
tions I feel sure that what I am doing is not only solid, but indeed a considerable
advance beyond the present state of science.
A good deal of my work since October had to do with the methods of “liter-
ary criticism.” That is why your reprint reminded me painfully of my ignorance
with regard to the professional literature on such questions. I am enclosing two
of the pieces recently done for your reading, whenever you can find the time, for
several reasons. In the first place, I thought, you might be interested in seeing
what is done with regard to literary criticism in other fields than the English and
Classical tradition. Second, I wondered, about the connection between the class
of problems I have to deal with and the problems that are your special concern.
Is there any relation between the two branches, or are they isolated against each
other? And third, it is perhaps the best way to maintain a contact between us
that is regrettably getting thinner through distances of space. If I did not send it
now, it would be another year before you could see it in print.
About a month ago I was in Chicago. They had a Toynbee Symposium, and I
gave a lecture on the net result of the ten volumes as a philosophy of history.
That also will come out in due course.
Your photograph caused great joy. We are happy to see you both so well, pos-
itively striding, not ambling; and obviously on a junket in Vancouver. In partic-
ular, I admired the coats and gloves—we have not worn such items in a long
while. But then we are sorry to hear about blood-pressures and arthritis—noth-
ing serious I hope?
<Lissy tells me she is writing a note to Ruth today, probably containing more
variegated or colorful details about the daily life.>
<With all good wishes for you, Ruth and Pete,
Yours most sincerely,
Eric>

PHILIA POLITIKE
Letters 58–87, 1956–1959


Dear Eric,
Though I owe you [a] letter of greater proportions than this, and mean to
write it, I hope you will forgive me for a one-paragraph missive which is really
an act of sponging: may I use your name as a reference on a Guggenheim appli-
cation which I mean to put in for 1956–1957? Please do not hesitate to say no if
you think I am a dubious customer for such treatment. My project would be an
examination of the structure of tragedy from Shakespeare to the 18th century. As
you see, I hope I have learned enough from Lear and Othello to see what is miss-
ing thereafter: the shrinkage to modernity, etc.
I think we will try to take the year off anyway, though it would be harder
without the Guggenheim. Ruth means to take me to Europe and see if I can be
deprovincialized. A dubious venture? I must admit that after 30 years of teach-
ing I feel a little lost in the prospect of an unacademic year.
Congratulations on your own Guggenheim for next year. Though this obvi-
ously means a year in Europe, I have some hopes that it implies a year rather
than a final move. Last letter I had from you, you were being strongly tempted.
Now a lesser thing: do you get away from Baton Rouge about June 1? My
Othello book should be out near the end of the month, and I want to send you
a copy, but I don’t want to have one either come when you aren’t there, or be-
come a burden in some foreign port.
Our very best to both of you,
<Bob>
59. [Baton Rouge,] May 19, 1956

Dear Bob:
I was glad to hear from you again, and most delighted to learn of your various
plans.
Of course, please, give my name to the Guggenheim Foundation. I shall be
146
Philia Politike, 1956–1959 147
happy to write them a glowing letter, if they should request one from me. And
generally that is an excellent idea that you want to apply and use the year for a
trip to Europe. Not that you need “deprovincialization” (I never would have ex-
pected Ruth to be so ruthless). The only thing “provincial” I ever discovered
about you was your dislike for good cheese (that, of course, hurt me deeply)—
but a habit for Gorgonzola and Camembert can be acquired quite well within
the boundaries of the continental United States. But taking off and traveling
and seeing a lot of new people is a lot of fun. I always enjoy it greatly; and I am
sure you will too. —I was not quite sure about the date of your planned trip:
1956/57—shouldn’t it read 1957/58?
My own Guggenheim was last year—when we went to Germany and Sweden.
This year regrettably I am tied down with that enormous publication pro-
gram—it all balls up. Next week come the galleys for Israel and Revelation (about
650 pp. in print). Then, about the 7th of June I go to some conference in Penn-
sylvania. From June 25th to late September I have to work on my Jurisprudence
in Widener and hope to finish the MS in the rough. October and early No-
vember I have to be back here to get the volumes on the Greeks to the printer.
And beginning November I must start the revision of Volume IV on Empire and
Christianity. —For all that I got a most pleasant amount of money from foun-
dations (but not from Guggenheim). And perhaps it is enough to go in Novem-
ber–January to Europe to attend to some interests—I am still looking for a
professorship in a European University.
And now for the “lesser thing,” you understater—your Othello. I am looking
very much forward to it; I am delighted to hear that you want to send me [a] copy
fresh from the oven; and it would be splendid if it were here about the 5th or 6th,
because I then can take it along to the country of your origins, to Pennsylvania,
and read it there during the 10 days in a luxury hotel. It would be best, to avoid
delay, to send it to 741 Canal Street. If I should be gone, Lissy can bring it along,
when she joins me in New York on the 21st. Many thanks in advance.
With all good wishes to both of you,
<Yours cordially,
Eric>
60. Baton Rouge, June 8, 1956

Dear Bob:
Just a line to confirm that a few hours ago Magic in the Web has arrived.
1. The “Widener” is the Harry Elkins Widener Memorial Library of Harvard College Library.
That certainly was a surprise to find this book dedicated to me—a complete
outsider to the “profession.” Do I have to elaborate how touched I am by this
sign of friendship and common understanding? Spare me to say more at the mo-
ment. —Lissy, by the way, has confessed that she had been informed about your
intention quite some time ago—and she has kept the secret beautifully.
I am brief, because it is late in the evening—and tomorrow morning I am fly-
ing to New York. The book will accompany me to Buck Hill Falls. And you will
hear more from me in the near future.
Yours cordially,
<Eric>
<PS. In Buck Hill Falls I shall see Harold Stoke again. —Beginning June 25th
our address is: 10 Agassiz Street. Cambridge, Mass.>
61. Cortland, New York, July 20, 1956

Dear Eric,
I have waited overlong to tell you that we are in the East for part of the summer
and hope that we can make at least an overnight stop in Cambridge to see you
both. The summer is so carved out between deadlines and visits to relatives that I
feel almost caught in a series of compartments. After the first three weeks in the
Cornell library we are now off for ten days or two weeks of visits (my relatives in
Pennsylvania and New Jersey, and [the] Stokes for a day or two in New York), and
I have hope that if we still have any life left after that, we may make a turn through
New England before getting back to the library. If we don’t, we shall very much re-
gret it, but I wanted you to know at least that we are thinking of it.
Your own summer, I suspect, is also under the pressure of time; yet you use it
so well that I need not wish that the summer is profitable for you. Will you do
some driving around? I hope so, for, as I remember it, Lissy always liked to cut
loose in a car. We had really a wonderful time on the way east—doing a rather
roundabout trip to the canyons and then Santa Fe and Taos. Now we travel vi-
cariously through the really fine letters that Pete has been writing from Alaska:
he is north of the Arctic Circle working among Eskimos under a Presbyterian
missionary.
I was so rushed in the last weeks in Seattle that I sent you a copy of the book
without even a decent message, which should have perhaps been apologetic. It
was a very great pleasure to dedicate the book to you, and my only hope is that
once you get a chance to look at it, you at least don’t feel like revoking the ded-
ication. Since I thought that, if you could stand the dedication, you might get a
little incidental pleasure out of the surprise (as I once did), I didn’t tell you in
advance. But I did check with Lissy, who generously said I might go ahead. So
you see, you will really have to charge the betrayal to her.
I am rushing for the last mail. I do hope we can get together, at least briefly.
Ruth wants me to send her warm greetings to both of you.
My own best wishes,
<Sincerely,
Bob>
62. Cambridge, Massachusetts, July 23, 1956

Dear Bob:
I just received your letter of July 20th, and hasten to get our schedules
straightened out so that we may get together if possible.
In the first place, I have received your Magic in the Web on the evening before
I left Baton Rouge, and I have thanked you immediately by a short note. From
your letter it is not quite clear, whether it reached you still.
In the meanwhile I have been living in a continuous turmoil—meaning daily
work until three o’clock in the morning. The cause is Israel and Revelation which
is now going to print, and needed page proof reading, construction of inter-
minable and complicated indexes, writing of a preface etc. All under the threat
that the book cannot come out in October as planned, if things are not deliv-
ered on the printer’s deadlines. Most of it is over—but I still am nailed down
here for two weeks, because the proofs of the indexes are not yet in.
All this as preface to the following two points:
(1) Only two days ago I could really start working your book through, and
only when I have finished today or tomorrow, can I write you my impressions—
enthusiastic. But I should like this letter to reach you, and that brings me to
point 2.
(2) I don’t know anything about your schedule. And I can only hope that the
present letter will be forwarded to you. And I want to see you at all cost. Hence,
when will you be in New York? We could come down for a day or two, provided
your date in New York is not earlier than the 10th of August (I cannot get away
here for the reasons just stated). I talked with Stoke about the possibility of us all
getting together in N.Y.; as a matter of fact he suggested the idea with fervor. If
that however does not pan out because of the schedule, please, come here for
some time.
So, let me know as soon as possible your whereabouts and schedule. I hope
we can manage the rendezvous—and in any case I want my letters to reach you.
With all good wishes for your trip from both of us,
<Sincerely,
Eric>
63. Cambridge, Massachusetts, July 24, 1956

Dear Bob:
Last night I finished reading your Magic in the Web—and at last I can thank
you for the dedication in the only way I can thank, by response to the contents.
(William Rappard once said, much to the chagrin of those present: Cooperation
in science means that one man writes a book and another man reads it).
The first assurance of the quality of your book came through the procedure of
reading it imposes. Naturally, during recent weeks I had looked at it on and off,
nibbling here and there. And I saw that one could not get it by this method, as
usually one can in most instances of contemporary literary production. The
book is constructed from the first to the last page; and one has to read it from
the beginning in order to get its full import. You have indeed written a book,
and not just a series of chapters bound between two covers.
This formal quality, of course, is intimately bound up with your method and
your philosophical position. And now let me take up some of the principles I
have discerned, or believe to have discerned, and which I admire both for clarity
of conception and force of execution.
First of all, the principle of exhaustion of the source. The interpretation of a
literary work by a first-rate artist or philosopher must proceed on the assump-
tion that the man “knew” what he was doing—leaving in suspense the question
of the level of consciousness at which the “knowing” in the concrete instance oc-
curs. Under that assumption the interpretation will be adequate only, if every
“part” of the work makes sense in the comprehensive context. Moreover, the
sense must emerge from the texture of the linguistic corpus, and it must not be
prejudged by “ideas” of the interpreter. No adequate interpretation of a major
work is possible, unless the interpreter assumes the role of the disciple who has
everything to learn from the master. —Under all of these aspects your book is a
2. William E. Rappard, 1883–1958, was professor of economics at the University of Geneva,
director of the Graduate Institute of International Studies at Geneva, and a member of the Per-
manent Mandates Commission of the League of Nations. He wrote several books, including The
Government of Switzerland (1936) and The Crisis of Democracy (1938).
model of the art of interpretation. No premature generalization from the partial

sense that can be secured by pulling out this or that strand of motifs; no pre-
conceived “psychology” of characters, that easily could be bolstered from so rich
a work by looking away from what does not fit; but the discipline of proceeding
with the analysis, until every piece of text has revealed the part of “magic” which
it contributes to the web.
That is an achievement of the first order in a time when corruption of
method is the order of the day. I do not know how bad the situation is in your
field; but in political science and philosophy, we are buried under the flood of
literature which interprets, for instance, Plato as the Fascist or socialist, or con-
stitutionalist, without so much as attempting a conscientious analysis of the
structure of a dialogue. From your notes I have the impression that the general
level in the study of Shakespeare is somewhat higher—but the impression may
be erroneous, because you may have followed the same method as I do on such
occasions, of simply ignoring the worst kind of rabble.
The first principle (the exhaustion of the source, in order to make sure that
the meaning ascertained is indeed the meaning intended by the source), has
then to be accompanied by the second hermeneutic principle: that the termi-
nology of the interpretation, if not identical with the language symbols of the
source (a condition that can frequently be fulfilled in the case of first-rate
philosophers, but rarely in the case of a poem or a myth), must not be intro-
duced from the “outside,” but be developed in closest contact with the source it-
self for the purpose of differentiating the meanings which are apparent in the
work, but too compactly symbolized as that the symbols could be used in the
discursive form of rational analysis. If that contact is not preserved with the ut-
most care, the interpretation will rapidly derail into the sort of interpretation
that is so easily “put upon” a work of art. —In this respect again you have lived
up to principles—and the discipline has paid off well in as much as it forced
upon you a richness of vocabulary for expressing nuances of emotions and ethi-
cal attitudes that can only arouse admiration. For considerable areas of moral
life you have delivered something like a “phenomenology,” especially for such
“in-between” phenomena as “insecurity,” “romanticism,” “aspiration,” “intention,”
etc., nothing to say of such really complicated phenomena as “toughness.”
In the case of a tragedy by Shakespeare, the discipline just mentioned will
carry, however, only from a strand of compact motifs to the more immediate
differentiations and distinctions in terms of a phenomenology of morals. Be-
yond this immediacy of analysis lie the meanings, which the poet develops in
the action and language of his poem, and which the critic must translate into
the rational order of his work. This conception of the whole of human nature,
that in the poem is carried by the magic in the web, must now be carried by the
magic of the system. And here I am now full of admiration for your qualities as
a philosopher. For you have arranged the problem of human nature in the tech-
nically perfect order of progress from the peripheral to the center of personal-
ity—if I may use [Max] Scheler’s terminology. You begin with modes of
deception, the problem of appearance and reality; and you end with the cate-
gories of existence and spiritual order—with life and death, love and hate, eros
and caritas, transfiguration and demonic silence. The form of your book has
convincing authority because it is determined by the substance presented.
It is difficult, in the form of a letter, to expand on the numerous details that
have caused me to put pencil marks on the margin and clips in the page. (I still
hope, we shall see you here—Lissy has already selected a tourist home in the
neighborhood.) Let me only mention the general class of asides, which link the
observations of Shakespeare with your observations of the contemporary scene,
so that the reader becomes convinced in the end that Shakespeare really is deal-
ing with the phenomenon of “modern man,” and even with the very unpleasant
Everyman who dominates our contemporary scene.
A problem of special interest is raised by your first Chapter. And here I would
appreciate it greatly, if you could let me know, whether the conception of “parts”
of a tragedy, developed in the first pages, is yours personally, or whether it is
commonly accepted among literary critics. For what you have done there, in
using the category of “part” in this wide sense, is of the greatest general impor-
tance in the historical and social sciences, too. You have used, or created, an on-
tological category that brings to philosophical consciousness that action and
language, body and soul, emotion and expression, experience and symbol, etc.,
though they must be distinguished, are all “parts” of a whole, in this case of
“tragedy” as a literary genus. The ultimate consubstantiality of all being is recog-
nized, when everything—from a storm, or a sword, or a part of the body, through
actions and speeches, to essences of character and spiritual transfigurations of a
soul—is part of the web that mysteriously carries the meaning of being and ex-
istence.
After so much harmonious agreement I am happy to announce in conclusion
that I have found a point, if not of disagreement, at least of hesitation in accep-
tance. I am speaking of your remark on p. 217, when you refer to the “modern
variant of tragedy in which the character intended as tragic (or even a whole
community) never knows what has happened to him.” While I can agree with
your description of this modern variant of tragedy, I wonder, as matter of prin-
ciple whether this type of drama is really a variant of tragedy or not rather some-
thing differing in essence. I would not admit the term tragedy, when the sup-
posedly tragic character never finds out what hit him. Here we are in the region
of the mass man; and the existence of the mass man, may cause pity, but it cer-
tainly has nothing tragic (as you say yourself ). The question arises, therefore,
whether tragedy, as a literary genus, is not dependent on tragic contents of the
culture in which it flowers; and will become unsuitable as a literary form, when
the culture has ceased to be tragic. We have to face that problem in the Athens
of the fourth century B.C. After the vulgarity of imperial expansion under
Pericles and the mass atrocity of the Peloponnesian War, the tragic culture was
gone. The spiritual hero could no longer be a member of society, but only the
man in opposition to it—Socrates. And the appropriate literary forms become
the Platonic dialogue, the philosophical treatise, the character comedy, etc.,—
though of course “tragedies” continue to be written as a matter of routine.
And that reflection brings me back to your book. We have no tragedies today.
The phenomenon of the mass man cannot be brought on the stage authenti-
cally. The appropriate methods for describing it are again philosophy, the reflec-
tions of the moralist—or the work of the literary critic—all of them addressed
not to the general public (which has ceased to exist) but to the enclaves of spiri-
tual and intellectual culture that survive precariously the periods of disorder.
[Eric]
64. Cortland, New York, August 19, 1956

Dear Eric,
A person could hardly have read the Othello book more thoroughly or inter-
preted it more generously than you have done. If it manages in any halfway de-
cent fashion to be consistent with and to carry out the principles which you
discern in its execution, then at least its existence has some sort of justification.
Some of the principles I can consciously claim, others I fear I have just blun-
dered into.
Exhaustion of the source—conscious. Not a unique aspiration, of course;
there are several other full-length studies of Othello, one (Elliott’s) almost as long
as mine. Vis-à-vis others, what one hopes is that one is a little more aware of all
3. This letter may not have been mailed; instead, it might have been handed to Heilman when
the Heilmans visited the Voegelins in Cambridge.
4. George Roy Elliott, Flaming Minister: A Study of Othello as Tragedy of Love and Hate (Dur-
ham: Duke University Press, 1953).
the elements that constitute the source, and of their modes of interrelationship.
The risk is tediousness, and of that I shall be accused as before, and perhaps
justly.
Eliciting of an appropriate terminology from the text—a matter of hope that
one’s own resources of language and thought are adequate to provide suitable
vehicles for all the overwhelming richness of what one feels to be expressed by
the play. In a sense one can get out of it only what one brings to it; except per-
haps that if one, so to speak, lies open to it fully enough and long enough, it
may enable him actually to effect some transcendence of his own limitations (an
interesting possibility, that, which just came into my consciousness, as I was
writing this, and which needs further thought). But always in writing I wished I
had a Voegelin vocabulary for the phenomena of mind and spirit present in the
play.
Having an adequate order of ideas (“the conception of the whole of human
nature”) by means of which to make the critical statement—again, a matter of
hope. It’s at that level that, however well one may feel that at any given moment
he is rationally tying down what the play is doing, he knows that he ought to be
living in the same university as a Voegelin so that, though he may because of his
own defects not learn much from the master, however little he learns will always
be so great an increment on what he possesses that he will automatically move a
little closer to rational competence to deal with the literary work. If I was, as you
so kindly say, lucky enough to move from the peripheral to the center of per-
sonality, it shows that my sense of things gained something from what I ab-
sorbed from you.
I doubt whether the conception of parts which I set forth in the beginning
would have very much formal standing in contemporary criticism, though it is
certainly the implicit assumption of a considerable body of critical practice. The
historians who dominate the profession do not think about such things at all.
But such things are much thought about by the Chicago neo-Aristotelians, and
it was with them in mind that I elaborated the doctrine of parts which I felt I
had to do to try to find a theoretical basis for my procedure. The Chicago boys
will, I suppose, jump all over me. They want to limit parts to the Aristotelian
parts (it seems to me that as the contemporary administrators of the Aristotelian
estate they are rigidly doctrinaire), that is, to the parts of the action—peripeteia,
anagnorisis, etc. —and in turn to establish a compulsory relation between these
and the presumed cathartic results. In my endeavor to get around that position
I feared I had got too far out on a limb, and so your judgment of this matter is
very reassuring.
Your next point—that in which you questioned the acceptability of my term

“modern variant of tragedy” and argued that tragedy is impossible today—is one
that we talked about in Cambridge, as much at least as I am now capable of. You
will recall my effort to meet this point by propounding a new term—“the liter-
ature of disaster”—to describe what passes for tragedy today. This needs more
thinking about; sometime I want to try to write about [it]; but meanwhile I
must ponder some more your statements (for permanent keeping your letter
goes into my file on tragedy).
Two theoretical points of mine you did not mention, probably because they
seemed either obvious one[s] on the one hand, or on the other too perverse to
talk about. I mention these only because I do not feel completely sure of myself
and wondered how the propositions looked to you. The first was the effort to
distinguish two aspects of a work—the “was” and the “is.” To this formulation I
was driven by the dominance of historical studies, in which it is assumed that
the work has a single reality which is derivable only from the historical context.
This seems dangerous nonsense to me (and I need not explain to you that I do
not contemn historical studies), for it appears to deny the existence of a non-
historical permanence which I find inseparable from myth, fable, the artistic
formulations of the imagination, etc. Maybe “is” is too tricky a metaphor for
this; I’m not sure. The second point followed from this: my assumption of the
power of the critic to view the work, at least in part, non-historically, i.e., to
transcend the intellectual and cultural climate of his own time and thus to be
able to identify in the work those elements that conform to the eternal truth of
things. The historical relativists argue, of course, not only that the work is rela-
tive only to its times, but that the mind of the critic is relative only to his own
times, in which he is hopelessly enclosed. Therefore the practice of literary his-
tory is the only true humility in the literary student; the critic who pretends to
be doing anything but historicizing is an egomaniac. So I postulate his share in
the divine power to see all times [in] simultaneity. Frivolous? Reckless?
I contemplate a searing piece entitled “The Necessity of Anachronism.”
Well, excuse me please for talking so long about my book. I wanted you at least
to know that I had read your letter seriously and had profited somewhat from it—
and expect to profit more as I think more about, and hopefully understand more
thoroughly, the issues on which it discourses. I am most grateful for it.
5. In Tragedy and Melodrama: Versions of Experience (see note 17 in the introduction), Heilman
writes about tragedy, the drama of disaster, and melodrama, and how these versions of experience
are symbolized in various literary works—both plays and novels.
And we are most grateful for our Cambridge visit with you—your generous
hospitality with time and in arrangements and in material things (what a chump
I was to let you carry off that oversized dinner check: just unconscious, that’s
all). I’m very happy we drove up there, and Ruth and I both hope it isn’t another
eight years until we see Lissie and you again. May you have a fine offer from
Munich—yet not too fine, if such distinctions may be made. Tomorrow morn-
ing we take off for the coast, via Madison and a visit there with Ruth’s sister.
Our very best to both of you,
<Bob>
65. Cambridge, Massachusetts, August 22, 1956

Dear Bob:
Your letter of August 19th fascinated me, because it clears up several questions
which bothered me while reading your book, though I could not quite lay my
finger on what they were.
The difficulty was caused by my ignorance of the ambiance of science in
which you move. A scholar’s work is necessarily done with an eye to what other
men in his field do. His formulations, the points he stresses and omits, are con-
ditioned by potential readers of the “professional” type. And since the non-
professional reader is not familiar with the environment, into which the author
places himself without being explicit on it, the author’s formulations carry over-
tones and undertones which the reader feels to be present but cannot diagnose.
Your letter supplies at least some of the items that were beyond my diagnostic
abilities—and I can summarize them now as the historism apparently rampant
in literary criticism.
That phenomenon is not strange to me, though I am not familiar with its
manifestations in your field. We all are plagued by this hangover of the Vic-
torian Age and have somehow to get rid of it. The various questions which you
indicate in your letter seem to me to be all connected with the effort to find the
critical basis beyond historical relativism, and by that token they are connected
with each other. The question of the “was” and the “is” that you raise is, for in-
stance, in my opinion only another facet of the question raised earlier in your
letter that, on the one hand, one can only get out of the play what one brings to
it while, on the other hand, if one lays oneself open to the play, one can get con-
siderably more out of it than one thought one had brought to it. Let me dwell a
bit on this issue, because it is after all the central issue of my life as a scholar and
apparently yours, too.
The occupation with works of art, poetry, philosophy, mythical imagination,

and so forth, makes sense only if it is conducted as an inquiry into the nature of
man. That sentence, while it excludes historicism, does not exclude history, for
it is peculiar to the nature of man that it unfolds its potentialities historically.
Not that historically anything “new” comes up—human nature is always wholly
present—but there are modes of clarity and degrees of comprehensiveness in
man’s understanding of his self and his position in the world. Obviously Plato
and Shakespeare are clearer and more comprehensive in the understanding of
man than is Dr. Jones of Cow College. Hence, the study of the classics is the
principal instrument of self-education; and if one studies them with loving care,
as you most truly observe, one all of a sudden discovers that one’s understanding
of a great work increases (and also one’s ability to communicate such under-
standing) for the good reason that the student has increased through the process
of study—and that after all is the purpose of the enterprise. (At least it is my
purpose in spending the time of my life in the study of prophets, philosophers,
and saints.) What I just have adumbrated (most inadequately, to be sure) is the
basis of historical interpretation since [Johann Gottfried von] Herder and
Baader and Schelling. History is the unfolding of the human Psyche; historiog-
raphy is the reconstruction of the unfolding through the psyche of the historian.
The basis of historical interpretation is the identity of substance (the psyche) in
the object and the subject of interpretation; and its purpose is participation in
the great dialogue that goes through the centuries among men about their na-
ture and destiny. And participation is impossible without growth in stature
(within the personal limitations) toward the rank of the best; and that growth is
impossible unless one recognizes authority and surrenders to it.
I have formulated the last sentence in such a manner that it will connect with
the paragraph in your letter about the justification of historicism. The historical
relativist argues, as you describe correctly, that literary history is the only true
humility; and that the critic who wants to penetrate to “the eternal truth of
things” (as you put it) is an egomaniac.
As a matter of fact, it is the other way round. And the motives of historical
relativism are distinctly shady and shabby; in my field of political science I speak
of these arguments as the humility racket. In the first place, the argument is
methodologically ludicrous. For one cannot discern historical determinants in a
mind or its work, unless one can distinguish between the mind and the deter-
minants. If one really could not distinguish, there would be no historical works
but only oddities, not recognisable as human in our own terms, beyond com-
prehension. But we all can distinguish quite well. We can follow Aristotle’s
argument against Plato’s ideas; and we can support our respective positions in
the question with rational argument; and in doing so we are not worried for a
moment by the thought that Greek philosophy is “historically determined” and
only accessible to factual description, but not to an examination of the truth or
falseness of propositions. The argument is so ludicrous indeed that it would not
be worth any attention, unless historical relativism were a social force for quite
different reasons.
In determining these other reasons, one may well follow the Roman question:
cui bono? Who profits by the assumption that works of the mind are so thor-
oughly determined by historical circumstance that the pursuit of truth about
the nature of man is not recognizable in them? The answer is obvious: the spite-
ful mediocrity which hates excellence. The argument of historical relativism is
the defense of the little man against recognition of greatness. If Plato is encased
in the circumstances of the 4th c. B.C. and Mr. Jones in the circumstances of
the 20th c. A.D. the community of the psyche is interrupted; no confrontation
from man to man is possible; the discomfort of discovering and admitting one’s
own smallness before the great is averted; and above all, the obligations arising
through confrontation with greatness have disappeared. All men are on the
same level of circumstanced equality. Behind the personal viciousness that puts
social strength into historical relativism, there lies the much larger issue of the
revolt against God and the escape into gnosticism. For “the measure of man is
God,” and the life of the psyche is the life in truth. By interrupting communi-
cation with those who live in truth, the life in truth itself is avoided. Historical
relativism is the radical attack on the communication of truth through the dia-
logue in history.
Let me just mention, in conclusion, once more your theory of the “parts.”
That also has now become clearer to me. I had not known that the Poetics of
Aristotle was still the mainstay of an important group in our academic life. With
all due respect to Aristotle, his theory of tragedy leaves much to be desired. Here
we have indeed to note “historical circumstances,” that is, the decline of Athenian
culture from the time of Aeschylus to the end of the Peloponnesian War. This
transposition of the cult of Jovian Dike into a sort of peace of mind psychology
in Aristotle is highly dubious. But this [is] a little-explored, though very impor-
tant, aspect of Hellenic cultural history. I find this deadly flattening even in
Herodotus’ conception of the Homeric epics. And when I read the clichés about
Homer as the educator of Hellas, I wonder at what time he ever exerted this
function. I can find the understanding of Homer still in Aeschylus, but by the
time of Pericles it seems to have disappeared. The position of Plato is unclear,
because one can always plead that what he had to say about Homer for public
consumption was not his innermost thought. But in Aristotle certainly the com-
prehension of cultic art is gone. —If there is a “Chicago school” which has not
heard of these things yet, they better bone up on the literature of the last thirty
or forty years.
I hope you will let me have the MS on “The Necessity of Anachronism” when
you come around to writing about this juicy topic.
The summer advances. Your visit was a high-point. To see you and Ruth and
after so many years, and in so excellent shape, was truly refreshing. I am getting
now in the years, where one has known people for a sufficient period of time to
see what has become of them. And the cases are rare where the “promising
young men” of their thirties have not become the disappointing blighters of
their fifties. But when the psyche is healthy, aging is not a blight but a growth.
Liss left this morning for Baton Rouge. I am still in chains writing the Juris-
prudence—but it [is] progressing at least satisfactorily.
With all good wishes to you and your family,
Yours sincerely grateful,
<Eric>

Dear Eric,
Yesterday afternoon I received, “With the Compliments of the Author,” a
copy of Volume I of Order and History. My pleasure in having the gift was a lit-
tle modified by my feeling you are too generous, that such costly books should
not be given away. You see, of course, that the pressure of this feeling did not
reach the point at which the only safety-valve would have been to return the
book. No, conscience yields to the delight in having a copy from the author—
rather, a copy of this book from this author. I shall place with the LSU Press an
order for the other volumes of the series as they appear. And my very great
thanks for Volume I.
I had owned the book for an hour or two before, in that preliminary leafing
through the “back matter” and the “front matter” by which one explores the pe-
riphery, I came across the “Acknowledgments” and the last paragraph on the
page. I am very much touched, as I am overwhelmed by your excessive generos-
ity. Never has so little been so unstintingly rewarded (it is clear there is a kind of
secular grace, and one may be saved in the world). I should be in danger of a bad
case of pride did not Ruth come to my spiritual rescue by remarking firmly,
“What a paradox! You as master and Eric as disciple!” (I will omit her punctua-
tion of this by exclamatory breathing.) But I am disposed to go beyond a literal
reading of the paragraph and to take it rather as evidence of a kindly personal
feeling—a very fine thing to have. There is nothing more gratifying than “my
friend and colleague.”
No stylistic adjutant could do more than the most minor adjustments at the
edge of the outworks. All these I would give up for what is essential in your
style—at the most obvious level, the incredibly easy mastery of a technical vo-
cabulary; at the next level, that combination of knowledge and feeling which is
always present but which at times is more intense and infuses a passage with es-
pecial power, as of the scholar and prophet in one—as in the last paragraph on
p. xiv, and in a good deal of the Introduction, perhaps more markedly on pp. 1
and 2; and then on occasion a kind of poetic effect, when the more technical vo-
cabulary is less conspicuous and the language of evocation is aided by a grace of
rhythm which I believe would be remarkable even in a native user of the lan-
guage (e.g., the sentence beginning “We move in a charmed community . . .”
p. 3). All these gifts make an instrument of expression strong enough so that
petty irregularities, if there are any left, are easily tolerated.
It’s hardly becoming of me to go beyond the verbal medium, but I have to say
that in reading just a few pages I experience again that very rare feeling of being
in the presence not only of great learning, which is clear to all, and not only of
great learning conjoined with the seer’s passion, which is much less frequent
than scholarship alone, but of this combination held with a sort of serenity in
which are both power and wisdom. And here, lest I become embarrassing, I
stop. I will read, as you know, with limited competence, but with a lot of appli-
cation and enthusiasm, and with enough gifts to learn I hope, and with the kind
of perspicacity that will enable me to steal for the embellishment of anything I
may do hereafter.
Lest the unlimited admiration of even a grammarian become corrupting, I
will for your welfare include the modifying influence of Ruth’s comment on the
book, “But it has no illustrations!”
Your last letter to me was a fine essay on historical relativism—an expansion
in some detail of an epigram of yours which I have now for at least ten years if
not more been quoting whenever opportunity offered (altho the Far West seems
to offer fewer favorable opportunities than some other places), namely,
“Historical relativism is the defense mechanism of inferior civilizations.” The
sentence of yours that goes farthest in the interpretation of this and that seems
to provide the strongest instrument for argument is this: “. . . the community of
the psyche is interrupted; no confrontation from man to man is possible; the

discomfort of discovering and admitting one’s own smallness before the great is
averted; and above all, the obligations arising through confrontation with great-
ness have disappeared.” For there you have set down what our education ought
to be concerned with. In literary study, it seems to me, the historical method
even tends to eliminate the concept of greatness, or rather to deprive it of valid
supports. If Shakespeare is simply a product of Elizabethan habits of mind and
stagecraft, how can we say that he is great? Of course the historical professor al-
ways asserts to the class that Shakespeare is great, and he may read aloud the lines
with great effect or even play recordings (our dept is strongly addicted to this) in
order that the students may be hypnotized by the auditory greatness; but since
he cannot believe in a permanent human truth which it is Shakespeare’s great-
ness to record with incredible depth and variety, well . . . How welcome to me
are your words that the study of art, etc., “makes sense only if it is conducted as
an inquiry into the nature of man.” This statement from your letter ties in with
a sentence on p. ix of Israel and Revelation: “Amnesia with regard to past achieve-
ment is one of the most important social phenomena.” This is the best answer
to the basic ideas of the progress people. In teaching the literature of the past I
keep feeling that the best thing one can do with it is to try to combat the char-
acteristic amnesia of the 20th century—not basically an amnesia of events and
phenomena (though that is always conspicuous) but an amnesia with regard to
the full human potential. Even in the Victorian novel (which is likely to be
revered now on what seem to me to be very insubstantial grounds, that is, that
it was “really revolutionary” and saw through the foibles of its age) I find a spir-
itual breadth that one hardly gets today, for instance, a presentation of the
human capacity to move toward a discipline of the ego, toward caritas. In that
sense, at least, it has a view of human nature, of human possibility, that is
needed in the interest of truth. Our own discoveries about ourselves are almost
exclusively in the direction of our Iagoism.
“Human nature”: one of these days I want to write you a new idea I have
about “humanism.” You are always very tolerant when I come along with these
theories, and from the reply I always learn much. But I will postpone that, for
this letter is already dragging on too long.
In fact, I have waited until much too late in the letter to mention the big state se-
cret that “a highly placed source” was good enough to leak to us—the news of the
new chair at Munich. We have, to coin a phrase, mixed emotions: pleasure in the
pleasure we are sure you must be taking in this offer (and in view of the strength of
the evidence I am not sure that Munich is to be credited with supernatural
insight), continuing mortification that none of the U.S. universities has had the
common sense to install you in an unbeatable chair long before this, and then
that last irrelevant but unsubduable feeling—the personal sense of loss that pre-
cedes the actual loss. At a distance of 2500 miles in space and 8 years in time we
would hardly seem to have ground for this, but it is nevertheless true; as long as
you are within the borders of the country, there is something here that is per-
sonally very valuable. So we will hope for the decision that I don’t see how you
can make; the miracle, that is. And this, I know, is no way to be talking when
there is that real excitement of EV’s getting the kind of institutional recognition
that he should have.
A day or two ago, just before the deadline, I got in my Guggenheim applica-
tion. I dislike to announce “plans” for work publicly in advance, so that the doc-
ument, I fear, sounds vaporous and pompous. I hope reading it doesn’t give you
a bellyache. Since I am not sure how long you will be in the country or how
soon the Gugg. office will get the statements out to the referees, perhaps I should
ask you for a forwarding address after a certain date, so that they will be sure to
reach you. I am most pleased that you are willing to go bail for me.
Just before we left the East for Seattle, we had a letter from George Jaffé say-
ing that he was going to make a trip to the Canadian Northwest, would pass
through Seattle, and would make us a visit. Unfortunately our time of arrival in
Seattle was after his date of passage. We were delighted that he wanted to stop
and see us, and hope he may make it another time.
We are all in school again. We had a fine time seeing Pete again and getting
The Alaska Story, of which an aftermath is that he seems, if anything, a little
more strongly inclined toward the ministry. He is taking his sophomore year
about as casually as his freshman year. Ruth is back at school, pretty tired most
of the time (this weekend we are doing nothing but sort of pulling ourselves to-
gether), but I think having pleasure enough in what is very successful teaching
to justify the wear and tear. Persis Stoke is scheduled to fly in next Friday night
on a 3-or-4 day visit. She has written that Marcia’s recurrence of mononucleosis,
the saddening event of our little visit with them in New York, diagnosed by
Marcia’s medical husband and his classmates, has turned out to be “acute preg-
nancy.”
Ruth owes Lissy a letter and will write. Our affectionate greetings to both of
you,
<Bob>

Dear Bob:
Thanks for your long and generous letter of October 13th. I am really relieved
that you find the general complexion not too terrible—though I know, of
course, that a good number of grammatical detail[s] must make you squirm.
Ruth is most refreshing with her complaint about the lack of illustrations—in-
cidentally, I agree with her. One could do really quite something through the
addition of two dozen photographs to a work of this nature. The changing styles
of the royal portraits in Mesopotamia and Egypt are an eye-opener for the spir-
itual development; they reveal subtleties that cannot be caught by the literary
texts and their interpretation. But that would be quite a chore—to dig up the
photographs—nothing to say of the cost.
I am very much touched by your collection of my obiter dicta. Some of them
I like, when they come back to me from you; for instance the one about histori-
cism as the defense mechanism of inferior civilizations. I must use that one
some time.
There will be no difficulty with the Guggenheim Foundation. Our mail ser-
vice, thanks to a conscientious secretary, works reliably. As soon as I am in
Frankfurt, November 15th, mail will be forwarded with a delay of not more than
a week.
Pardon the briefness of these lines. I am over my head in work on the Greek
volumes, which supposedly will be finished before we leave.
With all good wishes to you, and Ruth and Pete, from us both,
Yours always,
<Eric>
68. Frankfurt/Main, December 29, 1956

Dear Bob:
The pressure of affairs has prevented me from writing you earlier. So, with
some delay, I am enclosing a copy of the “appraisal” I wrote for the Guggenheim
people. And I hope fervently you will get it—in fact I have no doubt. A year
away from your administrative duties, and a year in Europe at that, would be
splendid for you—especially with your flair for the relevant.
About two weeks ago I was in Munich. They have made an excellent offer:
Salary $9000 (in fact, with the marginal benefits, about $10,000); an Institute
with two assistants (Ph.D.s), one secretary, and one librarian; an emeritus salary,
to which I am entitled at age 65, of $7000 (LSU only $4000); a widow’s pension
of 60% (LSU nothing). If the thing goes through the bottleneck of the Ministry
of Finance, and if the Faculties concerned will make the necessary arrangements
to integrate the new field in the curriculum, I am very much inclined to take it.
What do you think of these conditions? Considering the differences in purchas-
ing power, my real income would probably be quite a bit higher than in
Louisiana.
Just today, we came back from Vienna where we spent the Christmas days
with Lissy’s family—and I took the occasion to talk with a lot of people. Quite
interesting at the moment, because the impact of the Hungarian affairs makes
itself strongly felt (even in the streets and hotels: Vienna is full of Hungarian
emigrants). What strikes one in talking with these people (historians, journal-
ists, etc.) is the long-range view which they take: the manifold of the Byzantine
and Asiatic cultures, as living in the manifold of Eastern peoples, is a living real-
ity. Marxism is one, but not a very important, representative expression for these
people—now on the wane. What interests is what will come afterwards. And
there they regret that so little is really known in the West about the undercur-
rents of experiences and ideas in the East. They consider it the most important
task for science, to find out a good deal more about Eastern living culture than
is known in the West today. The Western literature, including the American,
about Communism—based as it is on the reading of a few books and articles
of persons who hold the limelight—they consider ludicrous. The American,
Indian, and Chinese pressure on Russia is considered the most hopeful course,
because it will push the Communist rulers of the moment toward giving freer
reign to the indigenous evolution of Russia—whatever that will bring in the fu-
ture.
In January, I shall go for a second installment of “negotiations” to Munich—
then I shall know more about this all-absorbing business. On the 19th we shall
leave for Paris; and by February 1st, we shall be back in Baton Rouge.
All good wishes for the New Year to you and Ruth from both of us,
Yours sincerely,
<Eric>
69. January [8,] 1957

Dear Eric,
That is very remarkable praise that you have written to the Guggenheim peo-
ple. I am grateful for what you say, and I cherish the personal remark that you
regard me as a friend. This alone would make the Guggenheim application
worthwhile, and this would certainly assure me of a fellowship if it were in the

cards. I doubt that it is. Historical positivists (personally symbolized by Louis B.
Wright, who strongly dislikes “critics”) control the awards in the field of litera-
ture, and they go usually to pretty safe people. As if this were not enough, I had
to run afoul of [Henry Allen] Moe himself three or four years ago by taxing the
Foundation with turning down a strong candidate because of some pinkish ele-
ments in his background. He was not pleased. I may have been in error, but I
thought I had a good case and that it was my duty to speak. We shall see. Maybe
you will be strong enough to remove from Moe’s mouth the bad taste that I left
there.
The Munich offer looks unbeatably good to me, and one half of me hates to
acknowledge this (the pro-American side, which would keep all good things,
i.e., good people, for us if it could). At first it looked to me as though you were
taking a pretty good cut in the main salary, but a sentence or two later you si-
lence this potential objection by observing that in view of the differences in pur-
chasing power, your real income would be quite a bit higher than in Louisiana.
The immediate side-benefits (assistants, secretary, librarian) appear excellent—
the sort of thing that only a sociologist could get in America. And the emeritus
salary, plus the widow’s benefits, take care of the insurance problem excellently.
These are better than any American counterpart that I know of: here we are on
TIAA (the University contributes an additional 71⁄ 2% of salary each year to this),
which if we have been paying for enough years is supposed to pay a retirement
income of one-half of the average salary during the last ten years of active ser-
vice. I mention this fact for comparative purposes. And last year a Yale man who
was here lecturing said that Yale retirement arrangements are much poorer than
this. (Leo Spitzer was here a year or two ago and said that his German University
retirement income, plus what he got from Hopkins after retirement, gave him
more money than he had ever had.)
So I can, alas, see nothing to warn you against. In fact, when one gets into less
tangible matters, I suppose that the two assistants would be highly trained peo-
ple who would become disciples—and I mean that in the good sense of the
word of course—and [in] that way make it possible to see one’s own views of
history carried on. So I gloomily entertain a picture of your moving a little
closer to the East. Well, Ruth and I will be full of interest to know what arrange-
ments and plans you finally make. But behind these irrelevancies of personal
feelings—and even “country” feelings of a sort—lies the great fundamental fact:
6. Henry Allen Moe was an official with the Simon Guggenheim Foundation.
that an ancient university has seen what it should do about Voegelin and has set
about doing it. That is very fine.
As always, I am delighted by the journalistic elements in your letters—in this
case, the reports on the attitudes of Eastern peoples, the relevance of Marxism as
a partial mode of symbolic expression for them, and the feelings in Vienna
about the superficiality of Western writings about Communism. If I say no
more than this it is simply that I have nothing to contribute; but all such com-
muniqués I read with utmost interest.
One personal matter. Minnesota now demands that I make up my mind
about going there; what it would mean would be taking a slight cut in income—
and in retirement benefits—to get out of administration and into a different
kind of department, perhaps intellectually more congenial (not sure of this).
But I think we like the coast and its climate better than that of the Midwest, and
prefer Seattle to Minneapolis. But I suppose the big block is the psychic strain of
the change; teaching becomes increasingly harder for me, and I do it less well—
all this the product, obviously, of some neurosis which I haven’t learnt to handle,
and fear I may not. So short of some unforeseen events I am likely to go grind-
ing on in administration. A propos of that, the Univ of New Mexico just offered
me the chairmanship—an odd sort of thing, since one doesn’t usually get in-
vited downhill. And yet I have felt tempted, by a probably false picture of a less
complicated institutional situation and a slower tempo, where the daily sense of
strain might be less and the opportunity for study greater.
The Baton Rouge picture of Lissy and you is hung in my study, and I think I
shall add to it the Vienna snapshot, which is very nice. Our best wishes to you
both,
<Bob>
<You will be amused by the fact that I have been asked to do a series of public
lectures at U. of Notre Dame. But I have to confess that I have a “contact” there.
A year or so ago I did a lecture at Gonzaga U. in Spokane.>

Dear Eric,
Fearing lest you may not have received a letter which I wrote some time ago
and sent to your address in Germany, I write this note only to say that I did
write, that I commented on the terms of the Munich offer and also on your
most generous Guggenheim letter about me, and that if you did not receive this
letter, I will reconstruct it. Not that its contents are of weighty importance, but
that I want to be sure that you did not think I was failing to acknowledge a fine
letter from you.
We are all agog with curiosity in l’affaire Munich.
I read steadily in I & R, and with profit. I go slowly, because I haven’t got
enough pegs to hang things on, and hence, so to speak, I rest on the inner sup-
ports of the work itself. What a masterful work. By “with profit” I mean, on the
surface, all the history and interpretation one is exposed to; but more impor-
tant, for me, the sense of new horizons, newer and deeper ways of looking at
things, which, as they become firmer, I hope to use. I hope to get much deeper
into a sense of how symbolic systems themselves are expanding or constricting
to their users. Some important consequences for literary understanding should
follow.
<Bob>
71. February 23, 1957

Dear Bob:
Your note of February 16th arrived today. And I hasten to confirm your letter
of January 8th which reached me still in Frankfurt. Instead of all apologies for
delaying an answer for so long, let me give a sketch of happenings since mid-
January when your letter came into my hands in Frankfurt:
From January 10th to 12th I was in Munich, for a second batch of negotia-
tions. In addition to the previous understanding, I got a promise of DM 40,000
(ca. $10,000) for purchasing a first stock of books; plus a few minor improve-
ments. All we are waiting for now, is the consent of the Minister of Finance to
the stipulations. That may come any day, but may take six weeks more, since
there is some cabinet crisis in the great state of Bavaria, and the officials are
holding their breath.
On Monday, the 14th, I had to give a lecture in Frankfurt on “The Results of
the Classic Theory of Politics,” which I prepared on the 13th.
On Wednesday, the 16th, I had to give my last two hours on the Prophets—
with a lot of passages to be translated into German on the 15th. Thursday, the
17th, went with preparations for travel, and social obligations. On Friday, the
18th, I traveled to Bonn, there to deliver another public lecture at the University
in the evening. On Saturday, the 19th, I returned. On the 20th, we were on the
train to Paris, and the following two days were rather full with calls to friends
and bookstores. On the 23rd, we were on the train to Cherbourg. And then we
had a miserable crossing (heavy seas, Lissy was two days sick), and arrived a day
late in New York, on the 29th.
The following two days were full again with calls etc. And one of them, a visit
with Moe, will interest you. I managed to direct the conversation to your prob-
lem. And when I expanded enthusiastically on the subject of your merits, Moe
asked: “So you are a 1000% for it?” I solemnly confirmed, and if I gauged the
melody of his remark correctly, it was one of mild resignation as if he conceded
that nothing could prevent you from getting the Fellowship. He then embarked
on the case of Edmund Wilson, who many years ago also got it against resis-
tance of various positivists—I leave it to your gifts of interpretation to judge
what the bringing in of this parallel meant.
On the 31st, we started our trip southward on the Southerner, and arrived
here on Friday by midnight. On Saturday, the 2nd, I gave my first class at 9 am.
Since our return, I am struggling with a mountain of mail and unfinished
business. And on top I got a serious flu, some virus infection which proved stub-
born. At the beginning of this week I thought I had recovered. But yesterday
temperature was up to 101 again. And now I am adamantly at home for five
days, in the hope that will kill the germs with the aid of penicillin tablets. That
is how I have gained today a little breathing space, and immediately use it to re-
spond to your last note.
The flu, with its temperature, was quite debilitating. I found myself without
energy for really concentrated work—which is bad, because the LSU Press is
breathing down my neck to deliver the MS of the two volumes which are sup-
posed [to] come out in fall. And there is a good deal of work to be done by way
of minor revisions. Hence, besides writing letters, I did a good deal of reading
these days. Above all two new novels by Austrians: Doderer’s The Daemons, and
Musil’s The Man without Qualities. You remember Broch’s Death of Vergil ? Now
there are two more men of a similar stature. That is: Musil died in 1942, and the
present edition of the novel is the earlier volume of the 1930’s, doubled in size by
the posthumous MS. Doderer’s volume came out last year. Both authors deal
with the problem of the “second reality,” as they call it, which in its variegated
forms of sexual perversions, dream worlds, political ideologies, etc. superim-
poses itself on the “first reality” which furnishes the frame of human existence.
7. Almost certainly this is the Southern Railroad’s route referred to by Heilman in The Professor
and the Profession (Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 1999). There he writes: “The South-
ern’s new train from New Orleans to New York became so prestigious that people who got their
names in the social columns were reported to have traveled via the ‘Southern Belle’” (70).
The conflicts and catastrophes, arising from the clash between the two realities,
are studied, by Musil, in the Austrian society immediately preceding the first
World War, and, by Doderer, in the events of 1926/27 which led to the minor
revolution in Vienna in July 1927. Both men are incredibly careful observers of
reality, as well as masters of the intellectual problems involved. To give you an
idea: Lissy said of Doderer, that he is what Faulkner would like to be: The spir-
itual Chronicler of a dying society.
And then I re-read [Romano] Guardini’s Der Herr, with a purpose, in order
to clarify for myself how to treat the problems of Christianity in the Volume IV.
(If you are interested in Christianity, you should read the book. It is translated
into English, under the title The Lord. It is the most comprehensive presentation
of the figure of Christ on the basis of the New Testament sources.) I think I have
found now the lines which I must draw from the Israel volume into the sections
on Christianity: The decision in the conflict between the older idea of the
Messiah as the King of an historical regeneration of Israel, and the Suffering
Servant of Deutero-Isaiah; and the second decision in the conflict between the
metastasis of Isaiah and the true role of the Spirit in the world.
(I just recall a splendid formula of Doderer’s: A Weltanschauung is a lack of
perception elevated to the rank of a system.)
We are very much interested in the Minnesota affair. Has anything further
happened? After all, Minnesota is a bit closer to the East than Seattle. And what
are you doing in Notre Dame? Don’t be so reticent!
With all good wishes from both of us to you and the family,
Cordially yours,
<Eric>
72. June 5, 1957

Dear Bob:
I have not heard from you directly for a long time. But through Ruth we have
learned that something went wrong with the Guggenheim Foundation. I hope
you take that no more seriously than it deserves to be taken—though, of course,
the money would have come in handy. These Foundations make the most in-
credible bloomers. Think of all the second- and third-raters who got the Nobel
Prize, while men like Proust, Valéry, or Joyce never came near it. The only thing
I regret is that we never shall find out what went on behind the scenes.
You will soon be on your way to Europe; and if I have understood the general
program correctly, you will be in England during the winter and take a trip to
the Continent in spring or summer. And that brings on the agreeable vision of a
meeting somewhere. Our plans are at present the following:
The job in Munich is fixed. We shall move in early February 1958. By the
middle of February at least I shall be in Munich. And by March we should be
settled. How does this dovetail with your calendar? Shall we see you and Ruth in
Munich in spring?
There is a lull of activity at the moment. The semester is over, and above all the
Jurisprudence course in the Law School with its eight 4-hour papers. Volumes II
and III of Order and History (the Greeks) are delivered for printing; they are sup-
posed to come out before the end of the year. As soon as I have cleaned up my cor-
respondence and sundries, I shall start on Volume IV (Empire and Christianity).
Sometime in July I shall go to Cambridge; and Lissy will join me in August.
The second Volume, from the Greek beginnings to Socrates, gave me a lot of
trouble. The newly deciphered tablets in Mycenaean Greek had to be integrated
(the treatise by [Michael] Ventris and [John] Chadwick came out only last De-
cember); the meaning of poetry as a source of truth, superseding the myth, had
to be clarified on the basis of scattered sources difficult to assemble (I hope I got
them all); and the great problem of how to delimit “Greek” history had to be
worked out. Altogether about 150 pages had to be newly written. But now it’s all
over.
Let me know what you are doing. With all good wishes,
Yours cordially,
<Eric>
73. [Seattle,] June 26, 1957

Dear Eric,
You pass so quickly over the big news in your recent letter that your reader
would scarcely know that this is a choice-of-a-lifetime moment: to Munich, and
away from America, I suppose, for good. That the Munich job finally went
through all official channels and became fact we must rejoice, on your account;
and on our own, and even a little on purely nationalistic grounds I guess, we are
sad. The post must be of the kind that will be most conducive in every way to
the going-forward of your work, and that is the big thing. I hope you are most
happy about it, and I congratulate Munich. And you know how I feel about a
lot of institutions in this country.
8. Michael Ventris and John Chadwick, Documents in Mycenaean Greek, with a foreword by
Alan J. B. Wace (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1956).
As always I read with relish your notes on how you are progressing with the
next volumes. It is hard for me to think that that first volume, with its immense
mastery of fields, its to-me-incredible learning, is only a relatively small part of
the whole job. I keep soaking it up to the extent that I am able, trying to keep
with me not the vast technical body of material which is alien to me, but that
central flow of concepts to which everything returns: the refinement in the def-
inition or symbolization of transcendental reality. If I absorb it properly, I feel
that I shall have always an invaluable instrument of thought for my own field.
Incidentally, I have just placed with the LSU Press an order for all other volumes
as they come out.
For a while I rankled quite a bit on the Guggenheim business: and I was a lit-
tle bothered to see how strongly my emotional reaction was in a matter where I
had had pretty much intellectual clarity from the start. I think that what hap-
pened was that such magnificently generous support as that of yours interfered
seriously with my rational sense of the probabilities, and I began to entertain se-
rious hopes despite my better judgment. So I was a bit sour for a while, espe-
cially as an asst prof in our dept, an only moderately talented person, got one.
Two days from now we take off by train for the East (the car stays with Pete,
whose year is dedicated to the breaking of apron strings), and we sail on the
Ryndam on July 18. At this point I am overwhelmed by the sheer physical prob-
lems of travel, and by the jitters of a 50-year-old virgin in the field of foreign
travel; I feel like a well brought up country girl who is in danger of being snatched
by a sinister operative of the white slave trade. Whether such a character is capa-
ble of being improved by contact with alien worlds remains to be seen.
We dread being a nuisance, but maybe we could sponge on you for a day and
see Munich and the university through your eyes and Lissie’s if you could stand
that much of us some time in the spring. We will always be able to reach you by
mail at LSU or Munich, and my office here at UW will always forward mail.
After we get to England (presumably in October; we are virtually unscheduled),
I would think that I could be reached at the Authors’ Club, 2, Whitehall Court,
London, 8. W. 1. This outfit is so hard up for money they encourage cheap
American memberships, and a friend of mine has nominated me; I am probably
thought to be a detective story writer, but still the horrid reality may remain un-
detected and I may get in. Ha. Our very best to you, for the last months in
America, and then the new job.
Sincerely,
<Bob>
<(Over)>
Recently I heard from Bob Harris for the first time in years. He says things
are wonderful at Vanderbilt and reports that LSU is meeting the rush of stu-
dents by increasing the teaching load by 3 hours per man. Is this correct? Bob
wrote to tell me of the death, from intestinal cancer, of Bob Clark, whom per-
haps you knew—was chairman of German at LSU, then at Texas, and in the last
several years at Berkeley. He was 51.
74. Munich, March 7, 1958

Dear Bob:
I am not sure I have got your address straight, but I shall try to reach you and
tell you a few things about our present situation. We hope, of course, that you
and Ruth will make your appearance here in a not too distant future.
We are here now for almost four weeks. And this first period was a bit dif-
ficult, because we were engaged in establishing our legal existence with all
sorts of officials. Then I had to get my appointment and, last not least, start
the salary moving. And now I have to organize the Institute from scratch.
There is nothing but three empty rooms, in a very elegant office building.
They have to be furnished, by the University architect; and that is a finicky
personality who wants only the best for me. He refuses to put in a mass pro-
duction desk, and chair, and other furniture, because that is not suitable to
such a worthy as a professor is. He has designed a lovely desk with a teak-
wood top, and grey oak lower parts; a chair with a Chinese red upholstery;
and curtains in a sun yellow to complete the color scheme. All that is hand-
made and takes time. My protests and prayers for less elegant appointments
were refused with the remark: Look what they spend for the military; we are
not going to start saving with you. So all I can do is to hope that by the end
of March these beauteous things are ready; and that at the same time my li-
brary will have arrived, so that I can place the most necessary parts in the
new surroundings. —Furthermore I have to find a secretary, an assistant, and
an undergraduate assistant. That has developed to be quite a bit of trouble,
too, as I am completely on my own. To be sure, there are interested persons,
as the pay scale by German standards is quite satisfactory; but nobody as yet
has proved acceptable.
At present we are in the Easter vacation, thank God. The semester starts after
Easter, and the course work only in May. That gives me time to attend to all this
administrative business. But then I lose much time, because we are not perma-
nently housed. At present, we are in that Pension mentioned at the head of this
letter. And beginning March 17th, we shall have a two-room furnished apart-
ment. Our address will then be:
c.o. Erna Schneidt
Maximilianstrasse 18
Munich
Please, take note of this change of address. Our permanent abode will not be
available before May. It is a large apartment, 41⁄ 2 rooms, in a house that belongs
to the government and is supposed to accommodate professors. The Ministry
does what it can to secure this place for us; and the matter looks quite hopeful.
Our furniture should arrive in the second half of March. It will have to be stored
until we can move to the apartment—with the exception of the books which I
can put in my office.
The moving operation started, of course, already in America. Since the mid-
dle of December we are on the move in furnished rooms. And with all that the
work on Order and History has suffered, too. The two Greek volumes, it is true,
have come out. I only hope you have received them; after your urgent admoni-
tion I did not send you the copies; but if you have not got them otherwise, per-
mit me to do so after all. Seeing the two volumes through the press, with indexes
and all that, was quite an ordeal, especially as the editor this time was an almost
illiteral [sic] girl who did a lot of damage. Now I am working on the fourth one,
but it is difficult to concentrate with all the disturbances—and concentration
on the problems is what this volume needs—the materials I have more or less at
hand.
Still, some of the advantages of Munich make themselves felt already. I have
seen Dempf several times; and he has given me his new book on the Critique of
Historical Reason—which is just what I need for my work. And inevitably I have
run into all sorts of other literature by men who are in Munich or the general
vicinity of five-hundred miles; and that is a great help and saves the time I
would have to spend to dig up all these things at so remote a point as Baton
Rouge. So, in the end I may come out even, and get the volume ready for the
press early next year.
Setting aside these various pressures of transition, we are quite happy. Es-
pecially Lissy, ever since she got her Volkswagen. Now that we are motorized, a
lot of things have become easier.
In the week of the 23rd of March we shall have to go to Zurich. Partly because
we have to satisfy some immigration requirements (Visa from a consulate, just
as in the good USA); partly because I have to talk with the Benziger people in
Einsiedeln. Benziger has signed the contract to make a German edition of Order
and History.
Now, let us know what your plans are, and your time-schedule. We are look-
ing forward very much to have you here.
Yours cordially,
<Eric>
<P.S. Lissy wrote a letter to Ruth, shortly after Xmas, to the same address as this
one, Has it arrived? We were not sure we could decipher the address.>
<E.>
75. London, Aerogramme mailed March 1958

[The date is obscured.]
[Heilman’s address]
To April: 23 Thurlos Square
London, SW 7
April 17–21: Millards Hotel
150 Sussex Gardens
London, W. 2.
Dear Eric,
Your letter of March 7 and its reference to the earlier letter from Lissy to Ruth
were a double reminder that we have been very poor correspondents, though
not from not thinking of you, or from not hoping to see you before we return to
our own private order and history. Both your letters we have been very happy
to have, and we enjoyed a good deal, first Lissy’s advance account of all the
complicated movements ahead of you, and now your post-mortem or post-
motionem, especially the description of your official digs (the British in us) and
of the architect’s temperate pace that results from his determination to equip
you no less handsomely than he would a general. This I take it is a good omen:
even the architect knows what the university has snatched from America, that
dreadfully heedless foster-parent. But I hope the initial distractions are of short
duration, and that there will be no further encroachments on the profits that the
new environment in the old world is offering . . . I do not see how, amidst all
the labors of moving, you managed to finish up everything required by the two
Greek volumes; these I learned about when I was informed that they are now in
my office at UW. I placed an order for the entire series with the LSU Press. I am
grateful for your thinking so generously—recklessly, I must say—of sending the

last two volumes on to me. . . . We plan to come to the continent about April
21, stop a day or two at Brussels, and then drive directly to Munich, en route to
Italy for our final sampling of the new before sailing from Havre May 31. In my
ignorance of relative claims on time, I do not know what would be an ideal dis-
tribution of the dwindling days left to us; but I suppose that two or at most
three days is what we should plan for Munich. But above all things it is impor-
tant that we do not be a pest to you. We hope to see a little of you, to be fortu-
nate enough to get Lissy as cicerone for a little more than that, and, taxing you
for counsel; to be otherwise as little dependent as possible. And we have to start
right out by depending: someone tells us that in Munich is a new hotel, the
Wien, with rooms at 2 dollars a day. This hardly seems credible. Could Lissy
check on this rumor, and advise us to stay there, or perhaps at such a place as the
Pension Biederstein? I do not know whether in Germany the word pension im-
plies all meals, but we would of course prefer to be free to do some “eating
around.” In Coblenz and Wiesbaden we stayed in 4-dollar rooms (16 marks as I
remember it), and that range would be about our aim if we could manage it
without being too compressed and unwatered. . . . We are glad Lissy has her
new VW. And we just got ours two days ago! But with the new gear shift, the
horrors of London traffic, and the left-side-of-the-road system, we are virtually
afraid to do anything with it but look at it admiringly. But April 1 we give up the
apartment and head out for Wales, the Lake Country, and southern Scotland;
we will then be back in a hotel here for several days before going to “Europe.”
By then we should know what kind of time we can make on the road, and pre-
dict a timetable for Munich. . . . One bit of personal news: Magic in the Web
won the Explicator Prize for 1956 as the best analysis of a literary text. . . .
When, in speaking of the projected visit to Italy, I used the phrase “sampling the
new,” I was not speaking loosely: the whole year has been one of sampling, i.e.,
picking up the little pieces of the surface here and there, and of the new: all the
time a dominant sense of novelty. I should have realized that in first visiting
Europe at age 51 I would be pretty much overwhelmed by the unfamiliar,
enough so that aside from a 50-page essay on the picaresque (the product of
reading Felix Krull) I have no work to show for the year. I feel guilty about it,
but the fact is that I have not been able to work much: too much to do in the
fear that I might never get here again. And the irony of it, at that, is that one
seems to have looked only at [a] few fragments here and there, to have followed
in tourist ruts, and to have had banal thoughts. I now have a hope that when I
get back I shall sense some things differently enough to feel that in traipsing
around Europe I have acquired something by way of modifications, but while in

the midst of novelty one doesn’t know whether anything stays that transcends
the sense of novelty. One may find that all that stays with him of Paris is a sense
of arranged spaces (Hollywood, as a Francophobe colleague insists, or classic
glory, as the Francophile colleague has it?), of that characteristic odd coppery
make-up of French girls, or of picking out picnic morsels for lunch at the nu-
merous little stores in the St. Sulpice area where we spent a couple of months. It
has all been wonderful fun in a sensational way, notably in all the first contacts
with all the signs and tokens that take one into a long range of pasts. We are just
back from almost 4 weeks on a jaunt to the Hague, Amsterdam, Copenhagen,
Stockholm, and Helsinki (I missed Leningrad because of visa failure). You posi-
tively cut ice for 18 hours crossing the Baltic from Stockholm to Turku; all this is
as polar as can be and then you come up in Helsinki and find the Lutheran
“cathedral” modeled, apparently, on the Pantheon, and half the city having a
French classical look. Maybe sometime one gets a few pieces put together. Our
very best to both of you,
<Bob>
76. München, March 18, 1958

Dear Bob:
We were delighted with your letter, as we had already serious sorrows that we
might miss you because of difficulties of the address. Yesterday we moved; and
now we are settled in the new, still temporary quarters—they look tolerable; and
I think we can stick it out until May.
First of all your question. I just called up the Hotel Wien. Your informant
must have reveled too much in Munich Bier. Nothing doing at $2. A double
room with bath costs DM 22, plus the regular 15% service charge; and that
means altogether DM 25.30 a day—about $6. As far as I know, that is about the
cheapest you can get in a regular Hotel in Munich. —The Pension Biederstein
is not much less expensive. A double room, without bath, costs DM 16, plus
15%, that is DM 18.40. Bath can be had extra at the rate of DM 1 per bath. The
hitch is that you must take breakfast in the house—DM 2.50 per person, plus
10% service charge; that is DM 5.50 a day for two. Breakfast consists of tea or
coffee with a lot of rolls, butter, marmalade, jam—what British visitors to the
continent call “A roll in bed with honey” (I hope you know that by now). I
think you get away with a dollar less at the Biederstein. —If you want us to do
anything by way of reservations, please let us know. No trouble at all, as we have
a telephone now.
As for your stay in Munich—I can understand well that you want to see as lit-
tle of me as possible, and instead gallivant around with Lissy, but I want to see
as much of you as possible—and somehow this seeing business is correlative—
so I am afraid you will have to put up with me at least some of the time. As for
the length of your stay, counsel is difficult; it all depends on what you and Ruth
want to see. The great item in Munich is the Alte Pinakothek, just reopened,
one of the most magnificent Museums in the world: especially the German 16th
century—[Albrecht] Dürer, [Albrecht] Altdorfer, [Michael or Friedrich] Pacher,
etc.—is more representative here than anywhere else; and the [Peter Paul]
Rubens and Rembrandt [van Rijn] collections are nothing to sneeze at either.
But I think I can pilot you through the high-points in half a day. Then there is
the city itself: the Gothic cathedral and churches; the Barock [sic] churches; and
above all Nymphenburg, one of the best Barock castles north of the Alps; and fi-
nally one should see Chiemsee. But I think you can make it in three days. This
I say in consideration of your Italian program. I take it you want to see Florence
and Rome—and there you will find that any amount of time is too little.
And now let me congratulate you to [sic] the Explicator Prize. I do not know
exactly what it is, but I hope sincerely that the honor was accompanied by a
modicum of cash. And anyway: do you begin to believe now that you are quite
good? I hope Ruth is hammering it into you.
Things are shaping up with us. There is reasonable hope that I get that
Institute moving by the beginning of April. But I have to solve the most ex-
traordinary problems such as sealing the parquetry floors of the rooms so that
they will stay clean and undamaged with a hard polish. Next week we shall
spend in Zurich for a number of reasons. In the first place, we have to get the
Visa from the German consul there in order to immigrate to Germany in legal
style. Then I have to see the Benziger people, that is, the benighted Swiss pub-
lisher who thinks he can make money out of a German edition of Order and
History; and third to see some people who want to introduce political science to
Switzerland and who for that reason want to see me.
I am glad to learn from your letter that you have not wasted your time in
writing a book or collecting materials in libraries. That is wonderful that you
travel so much—especially I envy your trip to Helsinki—we never got farther
than Gotland. It all will sink in—and it will surge up again on the most uncal-
culated occasions. But we’ll talk about that when you are here.
Have a good time in Wales and the Lake District. And let us know when you
come. With all good wishes, from both of us, to you and Ruth,
Ever yours,
<Eric>
77. London, March 26, 1958

Dear Eric,
Thank you very much for taking the trouble to write an extra letter to us via
the Seattle address; for a long time I have been trying to make Ruth feel regretful
about her undecipherable handwriting—regretful enough, that is, to undertake a
minimal reform—but I have had no luck. In fact, she feels a little complacent
because her sister’s is still more undecipherable: you can see the sort of spiritual
damage done by that situation.
Your picture-postcard of Munich (I recall all those umlauts I so painfully
typed into the English form of the name last time) makes the city and sur-
roundings seem wonderfully beautiful; I simply did not know that nature and
history combine so effectively there. What an especial impact the mountains
must have after the flat Louisiana country; I recall what the Northwest moun-
tains did to us when we first went to Washington. But there comparisons end,
for Seattle has no history.
The general itinerary which you propose is admirable—the Pinakothek, the
Cathedral, the Baroque churches, Nymphenburg, Chiemsee. To me it seems
awful that you should waste productive hours on being a guide, but if you are
resolved on folly, I will be the wiser. We’ll be happy for any of your time that we
can have, and will try not to feel too guilty until we get out of town. But I must
also confess that our hearts will be broken if your assumption of responsibilities
means that Lissie is going to have nothing to do with us. We will relentlessly
seek her out in her den, or on the high peaks to which she may have sped off in
the solitary Volkswagen, the fan belt roaring insolently behind her.
Aside from guaranteeing the future, you have done a noble job in the present,
namely, at the mean task of casing the joints for the night. Our impulse is to
save the $1 per day and settle for Pension Biederstein; we are used to the roll in
bed with honey, now (although we didn’t know that fine phrase for it before),
and we assume that the bath-less room (of which we have had many) is not also
eau-courant-less (as we French say), so that in a pinch the heron-bath (one leg
up) becomes a possible rite of purification. You are kind to offer to make reser-
vations, and we may want to call upon you for assistance. At the moment our
schedule is not quite shaped up enough, but we are getting very close to final
form. We now have reservations for Brussels for the nights of April 21 and 22,
and from there we shall proceed southward. Munich looks like at least a 2-day
drive, and since everything will be new, we may take it at a still slower pace. The
German consul in Seattle, a very agreeable former judge named Oppel, will be
in Stuttgart then, and something has been said about a hello-and-goodbye in
passing; I do not know whether anything will come of it. At any rate, I would
guess that we’d use about 3 or 4 days from Brussels to Munich and would there-
fore reach Munich April 25 or 26.
In speaking of sight-seeing in Munich you did not mention either the
University or the Institute: it is there that we must have a point of departure. I
want especially to see how you have done the parquetry floors. Such matters
must be painfully burdensome, but I hope you also get a little amusement out of
them. I also hope that the foundation work may all be done by April 1, so that
you can move into the superstructure, though actually I think of that as magi-
cally pre-existing even though the material foundations may be incomplete. In a
lesser way I am curious about the details of immigration to which you have re-
ferred; and of course we wonder whether you will retain your American citizen-
ship. It occurs to me that perhaps your ministry would want that revoked as a
part of the deal.
Good for Benziger. I suspect he is a shrewd fellow who looked up the U. of
Chicago sales sheets on recent Walgreen lectures. And though I have no idea
how fast the big book moves at LSU Press, I know that it will move steadily for
a very long time. And I will add that since I suspect you will write in German
from now on, I hope that some American printeries are already thinking of lin-
ing up good translators.
Among other things[,] I must as[k] you about the present strenuous debates
at Bonn, which are reported with great fullness in the Times.
We are very grateful for all your help. With warm good wishes to both of you,
<Bob>
April 17–19:
Millards Hotel
150 Sussex Gardens
London W 2
78. The Homeric, June 4, [1958]—nearing Newfoundland [OH]

Dear Eric,
I have wanted to write something a little more substantial than a postcard to
tell you what a good time Ruth and I had with you and Lissie in Munich. You
were excellent guides and generous hosts—and most generous with what is most
valuable, namely, time. But above all, you were wonderful companions; we al-
ways knew that it was pleasurable to be with you, but since we had never spent
so much time with you in consecutive days and hours, we had never perhaps
had so much fun with you. Well, this gets into comparisons and measurements,
which are irrelevant. Once again, and more strongly than ever, we felt how lucky
it had been for us to be at the American university that you came to. And I will
no longer mourn your departure, for I find that I have got into the habit of
thinking that it will be a temporary one.
We were delighted by Lissy’s letter & happy to know that the new apartment
is being whipped into shape, and sorry that you had to deal with the colleague
who felt that hammering was interfering with the nap guaranteed in the Bill of
Rights. I know that Lissy’s reply helped alert him to the other realities in the sit-
uation, and I suspect that there have been no more communiqués from the
Lower Depths.
The Vienna hotel was very good, the rates were properly reduced, and we
were both grateful to Walter [Weisskopf ] for his offices and glad to make his
acquaintance. By now you have had the visit in Munich, during which Walter
perhaps told you that he had somewhat reconciled me to not driving thru Yugo-
slavia, which he reported to be very drab and dull, and perhaps really trouble-
some in the Trieste area. I had wanted to go to Italy via Yugoslavia, but thought
of it too late and didn’t get a visa. The Yugoslavs apparently run a very sloppy
operation in Vienna.
If so, that is surely the only sloppy thing in Vienna. Only after being in that
city for several days—and after having been to two different opera houses—was
I able to appreciate the loss you must have felt in coming to America and to the
rural South. What a wonderful job you did of adjusting to America, and of
keeping your homesickness and dismay to yourselves. As you see, we thought
Vienna wonderful—from the fine spacious boulevards to the real amiability of
the people, from the light opera (Orpheus wonderfully done) to Schönbrun,
from the Prater to the Vienna Woods to an air of ease and unconstraint. In a
way it did not make the best start for Italy; or maybe by the time we got to Italy
we were tired enough from travel to be unable to tune in properly. Much of the
countryside was lovely, especially that of Tuscany; it was fascinating to find that
all these little hilltop communities that in Renaissance painting, I had taken for
allegorical New Jerusalems were actualities faithfully reproduced; the Pitti and
the Uffizi had incredible collections of art, and we should have spent more time
in Florence; in Venice the big square at St. Mark’s and the Palace were extraordi-
narily exciting things; and the Old Rome in the midst of New Rome—my first
large-scale tasting of antiquity was very moving. The Renaissance churches I still
don’t have much feeling for, but I was charmed by the polychrome effects at
Orvieto and Siena & Pisa. And the interior at Pisa I thought the finest in Italy.
Wrong? After all of this, and much more, I suppose it is positively small-minded
& wrongheaded to be bothered by the Italians, especially since I know that I saw
only those in the tourist-professions, which always bring out the worst of hu-
manity, but the constant guarding against burglary (the car was gone thru in
Florence), fending off beggars, fighting savagely aggressive drivers, enduring the
“lira amiability” and the underlying cold insolence of waiters—all this got me
down. Nearly all the Italians I saw seemed to me to be American gangsters or
confidence men manqués, a fusion of the crafty and the primitive, conducting a
life of competitive enterprise in its purest form. The worst of it is that I fear that
all that happened to me is that an otherwise controlled provincialism of mind
burst free at last.
Getting back to France seemed almost like returning home. Provence was
very lovely physically, and Aix, Nîmes, Arles, & Avignon all exciting in their own
ways (though in Nîmes we could not get into the Circus because they were hav-
ing a bullfight there). But I must stop this: there is no need to burden you with
a travelogue of experiences as yet undigested that I hope will separate themselves
properly and will, as you predicted, start coming up in meaningful ways. Later
we were in Paris for 3 days of what I suppose is a kind of revolution, but all was
quiet on the surface, cafés flourishing, etc. At Le Havre we finally got ourselves
and all our junk and the V-W aboard a crowded Homeric, despite the absence of
some papers I had sent to Seattle in the long struggle to get an American license
for this car (not until we land in Montreal will [I] know whether this tedious
and complex long-distance operation has succeeded).
Just before we left I got a letter from an editor accepting the Mann-picaresque
article & suggesting that it justified the year abroad. Kind fellow! He helps mit-
igate the tourist Guilt neurosis.
Did I send you a postcard saying that Harold Stoke had got the presidency of
Queens on Long Island? I’m not sure that it’s a job to be desired, but I’m glad
that Harold is getting one final shot at a presidency. After the crushing defeat at
LSU he had thought he never wanted to try again, but he soon began to be im-
patient with lesser roles. So it became necessary for him to try again. I await the
outcome, all of which hinges on whether Harold has at last learned what he has
to take to make a presidency go. He really sees his colleagues too clearly to make
a good practical politician, and I do pray that his impatience will not betray him
again.
Quite aside from the pleasure of seeing you, and of seeing Munich through
your eyes, we are glad to have a concrete picture of the physical world in which
you live. It has so much to recommend it, that world, that it is probably not
generous of us to hope that it is only temporary. But one does not always disci-
pline his own selfishness.
Our affectionate best wishes to you both,
Bob
In Florence we saw 3 operas, two of them (Lady of the Lake & Marriage of
Figaro) by a wonderful Vienna company. And an usher sold me a phony pro-
gram.
In Florence we met a Socialist editor—a sweet fellow who had indirectly been
a Resistance hero. But his ideas sounded exactly like Pacific Northwest liberal
anti-ecclesiasticism & humanitarianism.
79. München, August 31, 1958

Dear Bob:
I am rather ashamed that I have not answered yet your long letter of June 4th,
written from the Homeric—or rather, I suspect, this is just a cliché opening, and
I am not ashamed at all, but only full of regret that so long a time had to lapse
with all sorts of diversionary activities before I come around to do what I really
want to do, and to tell you how happy we were to have you here, and how de-
lighted I was by your letter with its tone of relaxation. You really seemed to have
liked not only Munich, but also Vienna, and even Italy—in spite of your en-
counters with the exploiting class in the tourist trade—I share your feelings, and
always make a point of being the hard-working, honest proletarian in revolt
against the expropriators on such occasions. Still, there are a few quite nice peo-
ple in Italy, as everywhere. A propos, I like the great axiom of Bavarian anthro-
pology: “Man is good, but the people are just rabble.”
When re-reading your letter just now, I was shocked by the things that have
happened since you were here. The apartment has been occupied and furnished
(at a horrendous cost), and we have progressed so far that only our bed-rooms
still need some attention. It was hard work, especially for Lissy, but now we
hope that in fall we shall have some quiet from these tasks. And the Institute,
which you saw still at a rather inchoate stage, has progressed too: book-shelves
have arrived, and now they are filling up with books—so rapidly that I foresee a
crisis by Christmas. The bursting-point will be reached; and in October I intend
to start the campaign for getting the neighboring rooms, at present occupied by
the ethnologists whose come-on pictures you admired. That means, we have to
find lodgings for them which to them will appear preferable to the present ones;
and that means a good deal of dickering with the Administration.
The sinological assistant has started to work on July 1st. And under my direc-
tion he is now making translations of certain Confucian and Neo-Confucian
texts, in order to furnish a basis for analysis. I was hampered in my dealings with
Chinese problems by the fact that the translations in existence are good for
nothing—lack of philological exactness, and lack of knowledge with regard to
subject matter on the part of otherwise good philologists are the reasons. The
boy is doing quite well; and I foresee that a critical edition of these texts will be
the first publication of the Institute. I need this work as a basis, in order to show
that there is no such thing as Chinese philosophy; and beyond that negative
demonstration lies then, of course, the problem to show what that thing is
which conventionally is called “philosophy.” It is a part of my classification of
symbolic forms.
At present, I am working on getting a Fulbright professor for International
Relations and Far Eastern Politics, for the academic year 1959/1960; and it looks
as if I could get one—at least I have found a suitable candidate who is willing to
come. That would help a great deal for the purpose of expansion.
There were quite a few visitors here since you left. One of them you know:
Conrad Albrizio—he was here for a week, taking a vacation from his work in
Venice. He is supervising a mosaic there that will adorn some building in Mo-
bile when it is finished. Or rather, I should say, he was supervising it; for in the
meanwhile he has left for home as Gene seems to have acquired some jaundice
with prospects of surgery. We have not heard from him since he flew home two
weeks ago. —And then there were several people from New York here, coming
through on occasion of summer trips. And as a surprise, there appeared the Wo-
gans from New Orleans—he did some work here, not clearly to be defined, in
Spanish.
My own work, which should be my main concern, inevitably has suffered in
these months. Only since the end of July, when the semester ended, has it again
really come under way. At present I am struggling with the literary form of the
Gospels which, as always, is inseparable from its content—but at least some no-
table results are in sight now. When I have finished that section, I shall be
greatly relieved, for the Gospels are, after all, a cornerstone in the spiritual his-
tory of the West.
I remember that on occasion, in conversation, you told me about a new proj-
ect of some sort that is boiling in Washington. But either I have forgotten the
details, or we never came around to them. It had something to do with a new
9. Conrad Albrizio was a member of the fine arts department, Louisiana State University until
1955. His portrait of Eric Voegelin may be found on the book cover of Eric Voegelin, Autobio-
graphical Reflections, ed. Ellis Sandoz (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1989).
research institute for social sciences or the humanities in general. And I remem-
ber that the matter interested me at the time. Could you tell me more about it?
On Friday of this week, I still have a session that will last the whole day, in
which the new Academy of Political Science will be finally founded. But on
Saturday we go away—to Italy. First station will be Innsbruck, just overnight.
The next day we want to penetrate to Ravenna. And then we shall stay for five
or six days at a beach near Ravenna, before we go to Rome where I have to par-
ticipate in the meeting of the International Political Science Association—a
vastly superfluous enterprise. And then we shall wind our way back home, pass-
ing through Florence. By October 1st I have to be back.
If you can spare the time, let us know how you and Ruth got home, what
happened to the Volkswagen in the end, and last not least how Pete is. And
when do you come again to Munich?
With all good wishes to Ruth and you, from both of us,
Yours always,
<Eric>
80. Seattle, December 21, 1958

Dear Eric,
Ruth has already sent off Christmas greetings to Munich, but I also want to
add my own: my very best to both of you. As you probably know by now, my
not writing does not mean that you are not often in my mind, and not only
that, but often referred to and often quoted (at least when I am fortunate
enough to be with someone that I think is imaginative enough to appreciate the
point of view, not to mention be impressed by the fact that I can boast of know-
ing you personally. You see what vulgar use you are put to!). Your letter came in
September: in that month I was working desperately trying to get a good start
on the Notre Dame lectures before school started, and then school started, and
since then I’ve been mired in the usual muddle of day-to-day activities. In addi-
tion to everything else I was chairman of a college committee to find a new head
for the Department of Philosophy—a task somewhat less than delightful be-
cause the philosophic members of the committee threw all the written evidence
out of the window to insist on their own private insights into excellence. In
some cases this would be all right, but since of the two phils, one is a smart-aleck
and a rascal, and the other wants to be chairman, I was something less than en-
thusiastic about a well-nigh universal denigration of the profession that in other
circumstances might have seemed pretty charming. Incidentally, the rascal is a
specialist in ethics.
I also want to acknowledge the invitation to your recent institutional lecture,

which we wish we could have attended if only for the show; if the language re-
mained a little opaque, some things would have come through. We have been
very much interested in your and Lissie’s accounts of the developments at the
Institute and at the apartment. We have the feeling that everything is shaping
up very nicely and that the whole situation is becoming a very satisfying one.
Good! I cannot bear to wish it less than perfect in order that you might remain
open-minded to any possibilities from the more western part of the western
world. In that connection: the prospective humanities studies center which I
spoke to you about was being talked about last year in the Bollingen Foundation
(Mellon money, I believe)—which you may have come across through one or
another of their large publications projects, including a complete Jung and a
complete Paul Valéry. It is my friend Jackson Mathews who is at the head of the
Valéry project, and it is he who, having heard me talk about you, once asked me
spontaneously if I thought you would be a good prospect for a permanent seat
in the Institute. You will know that I leaped in with an enthusiastic affirmative.
I will be sorry if I talked too soon to you about something that may not materi-
alize; I haven’t heard anything about it for a long time, and I don’t know
whether it is still on their agenda. In New York next week (where I go for our
annual meeting) I expect to see Jack Mathews, and I will try to find out whether
their institute is still on the drawing boards.
I now have the first three volumes of Order and History. Originally I was
going to do only some selective reading, picking parts that seemed on the face of
it to have some special relevance to my own work; this seemed especially sensi-
ble after I found how inadequately equipped I was to take in the early parts of
Vol. I. But now I have changed that. I have gone back to the first volume and
am reading straight thru, and this I plan to do for the whole work, however long
I am at it (sometimes two weeks go by without my getting a page done). I am in
the Israel part now, and I find that, within and yet despite the limitations im-
posed by my own defective competence, I find a genuine excitement carrying
me along from section to section. I think I have the hang of the basic ideas and
terms, and, whether it is an illusion or not, I have the sense of being “with you,”
as the kids say. Aside from the immediate pleasure in the reading, I feel that
what accrues for me is the constant discipline in the modes of thought and
analysis, and from this I feel always that I am carrying something valuable over
into trying to think about literary problems. You might never recognize this,
and you might well wish to disown anything that claimed even distant kinship
with you; so it may be better to leave this at the subjective level. Your writing
is always articulate and fluent, but every now and then it breaks out into
something extraordinarily good, as on pp. 182 and 183. Along with the enor-
mous technicality of the style there are the fine epigrams, like the next to the
last sentence in the first paragraph on p. 114; and I am always delighted by the
occasional colloquial touches that have a sort of American cast about them—
“unemployed intellectuals,” people capable of religious experience “do not grow
on trees,” “request the opinion of some prophet,” etc. And how much humor
interlards the learning, and how delightfully so.
I have long wanted to ask you about an idea of mine that hangs on something
you once said—in about these words, I’d guess, “There are no gods, but we
must believe in them.” If these were your approximate words, you may have
been speaking them in a special tone that I missed: as you see, I’m trying to leave
this as tentative as possible. Anyway, I have long toyed with the idea of a strategy
for taking the term humanism away from the professional humanists. What strikes
me is that the creation of gods (which I take to be another term for Voegelin’s
awareness of or openness to transcendent being) might be defined as the ulti-
mate achievement of humanity, and that humanity is incomplete unless it has
taken this step. Hence for the humanists to take their stand on the opposition to
and the denial of a superhuman order of existence is a contradiction in terms:
that is, no superhuman, no human. Is there anything in this approach?
Do you get Sewanee Review? The summer 1958 issue had a review of your last
two volumes by Russell Kirk, and it sounded to me like a very intelligent sum-
mary. The same issue had an article on ideological thought by a man named
[Edward Albert] Shils, a “professor on the Committee of Social Thought in the
Department of Sociology at the University of Chicago,” which I found an inter-
esting historical sketch of a mode of thought, but which I would have liked to
have your opinion on.
I mailed you recently a copy of the fall Sewanee which has my article on pi-
caresque that grew out of my reading of Felix Krull. It’s the one thing I have to
show for what time I spent on study in the year abroad. Now, whenever I get a
moment, I’m trying to develop an idea for the Notre Dame series, but it hasn’t
got much bounce in it yet. I will probably call it “Tragedy and Melodrama” or
something like that, and the idea is to canvass two antithetical attitudes to expe-
rience that occur both in daily life and in literature; roughly, the sense of guilt
and the posture of blame. We’ll see. Right now the damned university is getting
so much of my energy that what is left for MS work is mostly low spirits.
We like the Volks[wagen] so much that we are going to keep it. We’ve had [a]
10. Heilman, “Variations on Picaresque: Mann’s Felix Krull,” Sewanee Review 66 (1958): 547–77.
hectic time since we’ve been home—the whole place re-done, and an endless se-
ries of guests. Heberles came and stayed for a month, which was a little more
than we expected when we said “Stay with us during the sociology meetings in
Seattle (3 days).” My mother was here for 5 weeks, and now Ruth’s for an indef-
inite period. All the usual entertaining. Pete lives at school, but is often at home;
majoring in history, doing some English on the side, future uncertain, except for
the army, which will take care of the next year or two.
How idyllic last year seems. Fond greetings to you both.
<Bob>
[left margin]: <In New York I hope to spend a night with [the] Stokes & find
out how Harold likes his new presidency. Incidentally, his book on the Amer-
ican College presidency is due in February (Harpers). —The Xmas greeting
from [the Alex] Daspits tells us that they are still at the embassy in Athens.
Elder son in Yale—Vera wrote us that her Bidley is in the hands of a psychiatrist:
bad case, I guess.>
81. Seattle, Christmas noon [1958]

Dear Eric,
Christmas is as good a time as any, and perhaps better than most, to note an
astonishing coincidence.
Exactly 48 hours after writing you a question about an approach to human-
ism, I came across this sentence: “The leap in being, the experience of divine
being as world-transcendent, is inseparable from the understanding of man as
human.” (Is. & Rev., p. 235).
If this and the following sentences are not altogether an answer to my ques-
tion, they come mighty close to it, and they make me feel at least that my idea
was not entirely foolish.
Notes on Pete, about whom you asked: (1) He just achieved a certain notoriety
in a history course by writing a paper on Decline and Fall and referring through-
out to the author as “George Gibben”; (2) his favorite Christmas present was a
curved meerschaum pipe which he has been smoking steadily since morning.
Ruth says that very soon she will answer Lissie’s excellent [letter]. She alone
11. Harold W. Stoke, The American College President (New York: Harper, 1959).
12. Alex Daspit was a member of the Government faculty at LSU, an LSU alumnus, a Rhodes
Scholar, and later with the U.S. Department of State (see Heilman, The Southern Connection:
Essays by Robert Bechtold Heilman [Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1991]).
will be able to pay tribute to the sweet Gruss aus Nürnberg (and aus Munich)
which we opened with pleasure. When the cookies are gone, the pretty box will
still be here.
All seasonal greetings to both of you,
<Bob>
82. München, December 30, 1958

Dear Bob:
Your letter of December 21 just arrived during my year-end bout of clearing
out correspondence. I would have written you anyway; so don’t get frightened
by my early answer and stick to your own rhythm in reply. Still, I am delighted
to have your account of your activities and sorrows. I can about imagine what
goes on, when a philosopher has to be chosen—you should sit in on some of the
sessions of the Munich faculty. I hear about them through Dempf, who is a real
philosopher and at the same time the descendant of Bavarian village notables—
sometimes his Bajuvarian background breaks through and the philosophical
colleagues become a rare collection of “arse-holes.”
The Sewanee Review has not yet arrived—I am looking forward to your study
of the picaresque, especially since Krull is one of my favorites. And I very much
hope that your lectures on Tragedy and Melodrama also will soon be available in
print. When, by the way, will you deliver these lectures?
The great event of this season, so far, was the notorious Antrittsvorlesung.
The reception was exactly as it would have been in America. One of its topics
was the modern “prohibition to ask questions” (Frageverbot) which characterizes
the ideologists. And I had to say a few words about the “intellectual swindle”
perpetrated by the refusal to admit questions concerning the premises of an
opinion. The Leftists were up in arms; and the Rightists were delighted. Fortu-
nately, there were also a few intelligent persons present, one of them the owner
of the Kösel Verlag (a big publishing house here in Munich). The next morning
he called me up and was ecstatic—best lecture he ever had heard at this Uni-
versity, etc.—and wanted to print it. That was not bad, and I accepted the offer.
But as a lecture has only about 25 pages, I had to write a supplementary article
on a related subject, on the “murder of God.” And in addition he wanted a
Preface on the meaning of Gnosis, as the general public here knows just as much
about it as in America, that is, nothing. So I did all that; and it kept me busy
13. Inaugural lecture.

until the day before Christmas. Now the MS is delivered; and the brochure
(about 80 pages) will come out in March.
What you say about “humanism” is most suggestive. You are quite right, when
you say that the creations [sic] of gods has something to do with true humanity.
As a matter of fact, the meaning of humanity was fixed in the process of sepa-
rating the human from the divine; and as soon as the meaning of the divine be-
comes unclear again, the meaning of humanity becomes correspondingly
confused. (In my second Volume you will find quite a bit on this subject, in
Homer and Xenophanes.) For modern humanism this question has been worked
through by Henri de Lubac in his Drame de l’Humanisme Athée (it is translated,
under some title, into English). Whether one should recapture the term from
the humanists, is a question of intellectual politics. One would have to coin a
new formula like “true humanism,” in order to distinguish it from the “atheistic
humanism.” I have tried to get along with the terms “philosophy” and
“Christianity,” in order to avoid this dilemma. But I could well imagine, that in
the context of literary criticism, the term “humanism” is so useful that one should
make an effort to keep it. —I admit the dictum “There are no gods, but we
must believe in them.” You are right, the gods are the symbols by which tran-
scendence is articulated. A good deal of the fundamentalism of enlightenment is
due to the fact that the symbolic meaning, the analogia entis, of the gods (which
was quite clear to the Greeks, and the medieval Scholastics) was lost. When the
faithful become fundamentalist, one cannot blame the intellectuals if they take
them by their word and make nonsense of God or the gods. One of the great
tasks ahead of us is a renewal of the analogical meaning of symbols, a new phi-
losophy of myth and revelation.
Thanks for telling me about the review by Russell Kirk. I had not known
about it, and shall try to get a copy. There is another review in the last issue of
the Journal of the History of Ideas, by Moses Hadas. I have not seen it either,
but I have been told that it is a particularly nasty attack. —There is a balance
kept in matters of this world.
The Bollingen plan interests me tremendously—if it should ever materialize.
After all, I did not “go to Europe” for the fun of it, but because I wanted to work
under more favorable conditions; and the American east coast would be even
more favorable. The Bollingen Foundation I know quite well. It is indeed the
money of Paul Mellon, who happens to be a great friend and admirer of
14. Moses Hadas, review of Order and History, by Eric Voegelin, Journal of the History of Ideas 19
(1958): 442–44.
Jung’s—that’s why they bring [out] the collected works of Jung in English. I
happen to know about these things, because at one stage of looking for a pub-
lisher for Order and History, I also approached the Bollingen Foundation. But
they did not want to go into another six-volume work, precisely because they
were at the time in the beginning of the Valéry, Jung and Coleridge enterprises.
Well, let me know, if you hear anything further about their project.
And give my regards to Harold Stoke, when you see him. I certainly shall
order his book on the college presidency, as soon as it comes out.
I am glad you find time for Order and History, and discover some usefulness
in it. I really believe that some of the literary criticism contained in it, such as
the sections on Deutero-Isaiah, on tragedy, or on the Platonic dialogue should
be of interest to you. —Just now I am working on the Gospels—they are fasci-
nating, if you forget all the drivel the theologians write about them.
With all good wishes for the New Year, to you and the family, from both of
us,
Sincerely yours,
<Eric>
83. Pasadena, California, August 16, 1959

Dear Eric,
Pete wrote the other day that he had visited the Voegelins in Munich, had
been graciously received, and had signed you on as booking agents for a later pe-
riod of his projected touring. We were very glad to have him call on you, hoping
that some of your virtues and charms may run over onto him; and I am glad
that in the future he will be able to remember that he saw and talked with you
after he was beyond childhood; but I ought to warn you not to let him adopt
you both as foster-parents and then rely on you for so much that he becomes a
nuisance. He is so aware of his own inexperience in traveling that he might fall
into a hanger-on-ship that was not a part of his formal plans and that at his best
he would not be inclined to.
Our thoughts of you, which are never very distant, were stirred in another
way the other day when a fellow-Huntingtonian, a man named [Winton Udell]
Solberg, a Harvard Ph.D. in Pol Sci who taught at Yale for a number of years,
mentioned you as an object of admiration of his erstwhile colleague Kendall.
Solberg, I gather, is a patient man who was one of Willmoore’s few friends at
Yale, and he gave a not unfriendly, but detached, picture of Willmoore suffering
15. Winton Udell Solberg taught in the history department at Yale.

because his present padre will not let him marry again, loudly proclaiming him-
self as an anti-Commie martyr who will be the first to be led to the stake when
the Commies take over here (as WK says they will), arguing violently with who-
ever will argue, drinking heavily, keeping such friends as Solberg up until 3 or 4
a.m. only to ask at last, “Why am I not liked? Why am I not promoted?” Odd
case. As you know, I never loved him, but I will always hold it in his favor that
he tried to promote you at Yale.
As you will know, I wish I had the German to do justice to your inaugural ad-
dress of which the publisher, at your request obviously, was kind enough to send
me a copy. That was fine news that when he heard it delivered the publisher
wanted to have it and, more than that, that he recognized its quality (as distinct
from its publishability). It looks as though a Munich printer has the sort of in-
tellectual equipment that one hardly associates with any aspect of the publishing
business. Well, this is another of those things that, alas, will continue to justify
your move. You see, our national selfishness is such that we have to begrudge a
little the mounting accumulation of rewards for your move!
When I finished the first volume of the big work I was in such a rush that I
do [sic] not sit down and make a list of all the things that had particularly de-
lighted me, or on the other hand—just to be impudent—a few cases of idiom
that the schoolteacher in me always wants to rush into type with, and that you
were always so gracious about receiving. Considering the immensity of the
work, these are magnificently few, and since I’m afraid we have to anticipate
your not continuing to write in English, not worth transmitting. I also marked
a very few typos: the sensible thing to do, I guess, when I get back to Seattle,
would be to send these to the LSU Press for use when they get to reprinting . . .
I will not bore you with a detailed repetition of my conviction that in reading
you I am constantly being helped, often in a rather intangible way, by the im-
provement of my own ideas in the thinking thru of yours as well as the state of
my learning makes possible.
Here at the Huntington, as you might guess, I am rather a maverick. Some-
body tipped me off that they were short of applicants, and I cashed in on that
for a $900 summer grant that pays the expenses of getting here and living here.
But this is strictly a research factory where their idea is that one spend his time
copying out rare Anglicana and Americana, whereas I am using it for studying
and writing time (really, just getting away from Seattle and UW pressures;
though I have to do a lot of long-distance department administering [two or
three long letters a week], it is much better than being available in town). For a
lot of what I do, paperbacks will do just as well for texts; I might add that this
would also be true for various Shakespearians operating around here, but the
“spirit of scholarship” demands that they spend their time in old folios, though
these have been perfectly adequately reproduced in modern form. You can see
that I suffer from being an outsider as much as if I were an Angry Young Man in
London or a beatnik on the USA west coast. What I am working on is some-
thing that will have to do in the first instance for the Notre Dame lectures and
that I hope will eventually be publishable as a book. My general line is that we
have to distinguish tragedy and disaster, both in life and in literature; tragedy is
what we do to ourselves, and disaster is what happens to us or what others do to
us (there are nice problems of perspective and I believe epistemology here, but I
will have to take care of the depths, if at all, only with some hasty and I fear rash
skin-diving). Disaster is one end of the spectrum of experience at the other end
of which are ideas of victory and conquest; these two extremes have more in
common than either has with tragedy, and for that joint realm I shall use the
popular term “melodrama”—not the best in the world, but better than any
other I can think of or invent. The heart of that realm is that man is “whole”: no
inner problems, conflicting motives, divided loyalties, etc.; it is of course a spu-
rious wholeness—the monarchizing of some part by which one prepares for ac-
tion in the world, to be conquistador or conquistades. I want to get it all down
before I go back and re-read Voegelin on tragedy. I expect to be very close to
you, for I recall that you define the function of tragedy as reconciling man to his
destiny, not giving him a catharsis of tears and fears.
Southern Cal we think of as for the birds—with its heat and smog and
crowds and vast inhabited spaces that make getting anywhere a journey and
make even a short trip a nightmare. You know it of course. Yet we saw some
good local ballet (as well as New York ballet) at the Greek Theatre and some
good theatre. A pretty good production of [Bertolt] Brecht’s Mother Courage at
UCLA yesterday left me beginning to feel that that hero of our times is rather
longwinded and boring, a general platitudinousness somewhat obscured by in-
genious detail . . . [the] Stokes were here for an overnight stay: reasonably happy
at Queens, I think. A little upset that their little girl is about to make them
grandparents for the third time. . . . Our very best to both of you.
Sincerely,
<Bob>
84. München, August 20, 1959

Dear Robert:
Last night we returned from a trip to Spain, where I had to give a lecture at
Santander; and this morning arrived your letter of August 16th; and at the same
time a letter from Pete, detailing his traveling schedule and announcing his re-
turn to Munich for September 23rd. I feel terrible for not having written earlier.
The reason was the crowded schedule. The term ended with the month of July;
and just at that time we had an endless succession of visitors; George Jaffé,
Walter Berns from Yale (who confirmed the picture of Willmoore Kendall drawn
by Solberg), [Emanuel] Winternitz from the Metropolitan Museum, [Walter
A.] Weisskopf from Chicago—and last not least Pete. On August 5th we set out
for the trip to Spain, and now at last I can take a breath and <indulge in> more
pleasant occupations, such as writing this letter.
First of all: Pete. He is perfectly charming, and a goodlooking fellow. I hap-
pened to stand on the balcony (fourth flow [sic]) when he came down the street,
and recognized him immediately by his gait and general appearance, so closely it
resembled yours. And that resemblance was even more striking at closer inspec-
tion—not only his features, but his gestures, his way of throwing back his head,
of being deliberate and thoughtful, his careful speech, his choice vocabulary, his
wellbred gentleness, and above all his way of being articulate. It was a curious
experience to talk with the younger edition of an old friend. He seemed to be
happy and in excellent condition in spite of his exacting schedule; he told us
about you and Ruth and your trip to California; and he approved greatly of
your recent paper in defense of the younger generation. I hope that his stay in
Munich in September will be long enough so that I can see more of him. Unfor-
tunately I have to be in the week of the 21st of September at some Seminar in
Basel with Raymond Aron, [Karl] Jaspers, Bertrand de Jouvenel, and some others;
but I shall be back by the 27th, and hope to find him still here. You and Ruth
should be very happy about Pete and the way you brought him up.
Your “Fashions in Melodrama,” as well as the additional hints concerning
the subject in your letter, have interested me greatly—both the idea in itself and
the fact that it meets with some problems I am dabbling with just now—it is
most gratifying to see that we are both on the same track. Whether the term
“melodrama” will do in the end, I am not sure; a psychologist here in Munich,
whose acquaintance I made recently, speaks of this problem as the “Dramaturgie
des Lebens,” which may [be] rendered as a tendency to dramatize life or exis-
tence. That term is not so good either, because the problem is precisely the
erection of the non-dramatic into a pseudo-drama; and that insight requires
an elucidation of the non-dramatic element that is elaborated into a drama. A
key seems to me your sentence: “War is all melodrama; so is politics.” To that
16. Heilman, “Fashions in Melodrama,” Western Humanities Review 13 (1959): 3–15.

17. The psychologist was probably Fritz Leist.
sentence, especially as far as it concerns politics, I would say: Yes and no. Politics
is indeed melodrama, if politics is understood as a relation between friend and
foe; as a compulsion to take sides in a struggle for power. This conception of
politics has been developed by Carl Schmitt; he defines the essence of politics as
the “Freund-Feind-Relation,” the relation between friend and foe. Insofar as pol-
itics actually assumes this form, and unfortunately it does all too often, the de-
scription is empirically adequate, and your thesis is correct. This conception of
politics, however, is in radical opposition to the classic conception of Aristotle:
that the essence of politics is the philia politike, the friendship which institutes a
cooperative community among men, and that this friendship is possible among
men insofar as they participate in the common nous, in the spirit or mind. The
genuine drama of the polis arises from the participation in the nous and the pos-
sibilities of defection from it; the melodrama, in your language would take the
place of the drama, if the nous is regarded as irrelevant or non-existent and the
question of politics is reduced to the living-out of aggressiveness and the desire
to dominate. This second conception of politics has been elaborated for the first
time consistently by Hobbes, from [which] all the later ones, including Carl
Schmitt, derive. The psychology of melodrama, then, would be the Hobbesian
psychology of life as a “race,” and of the aim of life as being foremost in the
“race.” As you say in your letter, there is a spectrum from disaster (what happens
to us) to victory and conquest (what we do to others). This apparently simple
psychology, however, is complicated by the further factor, which you mention,
that man does not cease to be concerned with problems of the spirit, even if he
experiences life as the melodrama of struggle; the problem of the spirit intrudes
itself in the form that man has to <see> himself as “whole” (as you put it in your
letter): that he has to be wholly good and the enemy to be wholly evil. (That is
the point where the ideologies, etc., come in and have their function as the apol-
ogy of the melodramatic view of life.) I should say, therefore, one must distin-
guish in the analysis of the problem at least the following strata:
(1) The psychology of passion, which is a solid piece of science, based on the
empirical observation of anxiety, fear, aggressiveness, lust of power, and so forth.
It touches an important part of the “drama” of politics, of the “stuff ” of which
history is made. I am inclined to consider this part of human life a relatively au-
tonomous factor, which forces even the life of the spirit under its law. Even
Christianity is a “living,” “historical” force, insofar as it becomes “dramatized”
into a passionate issue for which people are willing to live and die.
(2) The Hobbesian fallacy that the life of passion is the essence of man. This
fallacy, when consistently carried out as it is by Hobbes, has a certain grandeur,
because it implacably debunks the “melodrama” and reduces it brutally to the

power-drive at its core. This consequence inevitably makes it unpopular; and
Hobbes has remained, in his consistency, an isolated figure.
(3) In order to correct the fallacy, one has to take into account the life of the
spirit, which goes on even if existence has degenerated to the level of “melo-
drama.”
(4) If this further factor is taken into account, one arrives at the theory of the
“melodrama” which seems to be what you have in mind.
The difficulty of making tenable distinctions, as far as I can discern the mat-
ter at the moment, seems to lie in the subtle interplay of passion and spirit. One
cannot make passion the criterion of “melodrama,” because “drama” is not pos-
sible without passion either. One cannot make “spirit” the criterion, because there
is no “melodrama” that is not vested with a spiritual issue. The question seems
to boil down to “excellence,” as you say, and that means the investment of pas-
sion in true spirit. Moreover, neither the life of passion nor of spirit is individ-
ual, but inevitably involved in social action. Hence, I wonder whether one can
restrict the problem of tragedy to “what we do to ourselves,” as you seem to be
inclined. Is it really no more than a disaster, when the excellent is blotted out or
suppressed by the vulgar in society? And is it “melodrama,” when rarely enough
it remains victorious? These questions seem to indicate the necessity of an elab-
orate casuistry. If an inefficient man cannot cope with a situation and comes to
grief, that may be personal disaster but it is no tragedy—but it is no melodrama
either—it becomes a melodrama, when e.g. a poor novelist blows the miserable
affair up and believes mistakenly that it is a tragedy. If a vulgarly ambitious per-
son achieves social success, a poor novelist would have the material for a melo-
dramatic success story; a better one, might find the material for a social satire;
and a really good one might even discern the tragic fall of a society in which
such success has become possible. You see, the farther one goes, the richer the
implications unfold. I am looking forward with the greatest interest to your
treatment of the problem.
The trip to Spain, from which we have just returned, was a bit exhausting but
quite fascinating. We went by car, because railroads in Spain are practically un-
usable when you have to be at a certain place at a definite time; one has to wait
for reservations for an indeterminate number of days. Hence, we went by way of
Switzerland and France and saw Provence for the first time. There were several
unexpected highpoints. In Cette we visited the Cimétière Marin of Paul Valéry;
in Toulouse we discovered that Thomas Aquinas is buried there; in Albi we saw
the incredibly beautiful cathedral and visited the Toulouse-Lautrec museum,
and even saw the Chateau de Bosc where he was born. Besides we made stops in
Avignon, Orange, Nîmes, Montpellier, Narbonne, Carcassone, and Lourdes.
The Atlantic coast from Biarritz to Santander was a nightmare of tourists and
we had great difficulties in finding a place for the night. In Santander at last we
had a few wonderful days, lodged in the royal castle on a peninsula surrounded
by the ocean. A revelation was the Spanish landscape and the peculiar problem
of Castille. We drove over to Santillana del Mar, a town which consists of the
town palaces of the Castilian nobility. My inquiries from colleagues in San-
tander as to the economic background of the incredible town (today practically
a ghost-town, the palaces inhabited by peasants) brought the information that
the builders had been the noblemen who had enriched themselves by the con-
quest of southern Spain; they built their houses in their native country, living on
revenue from the south. We then drove southward till Burgos, that is practically
through the whole of old Castille, and found nothing but a desert highland
spotted by miserable villages. Under the climatic conditions, there never could
have been a substantially larger population. There it dawned on me, by what
comparatively insignificant means the historical drama (or is it “melodrama”?)
of Spain had been enacted, and why Spain had to slide back into insignificance
when other regions of Europe (and America) increased in population and devel-
oped the industrial society. Spain could be a great-power apparently only as long
as the conditions of an agricultural society kept the power potential of the other
nations to a comparatively small scale.
This letter has become inordinately long. I better stop here. There will be
more, when Pete has been here again.
With all good wishes for the rest of your stay in Pasadena, to you and Ruth
from both of us,
Cordially yours,
<Eric>
85. Pasadena, August 30, 1959 [Aerogram]

[Heilman’s address]
after September 1: 4554 45th Ave NE
Seattle 5, Wash.
Dear Eric,
Your fine letter got here several days ago, and today I postpone the packing
into which Ruth is trying to goad me in order to make at least a brief answer.
For I know that as soon as I get back into the nightmare of university routine (to
paraphrase Joyce) I will again never have the moments in which I feel free
enough to write comfortably about the issues you raise.
You are of course entirely right in catching me up on that “Politics is all melo-
drama” in the “Fashions” essay. Actually, I knew when I wrote it that it was too
easy; at the time I was rushed for a new introduction (the one for speaking had
been different) for printing, and so I went into no qualifications. What I should
have said is “Politics as popularly understood in this country, as a competition
for power, is a rough example of the melodramatic sentiment.” All I wanted
there was a quick defining example, to make clear that I was giving a larger
meaning to “melodrama,” which normally means little more than a popular
villain-victim theatricalism. In the longer work I shall have to take steps to pro-
tect myself against the kind of objection that you raise. I say “protect” as the
only step which I may be capable of taking—as a substitute, I mean, for an at-
tempt to think through, for the purposes of my own essay, a metapolitic (to use
[Peter Robert Edwin] Viereck’s term) on say Aristotelian grounds. But at least
implicitly I think [I] got into this, in the sense that the more I try to think
through my general thesis, the more I realize the existential interwovenness of
the tragic and melodramatic in the actualities of literature and in those of “real
life” (the two keep seeming to me to have many analogies—and heavens, the
theoretical issues there!). At times this makes the discrimination seem almost
hopeless; yet at others I feel convinced that there is something to be gained from
the attempt. What I know is that I shall never be capable of a complete system-
atic job, so I shall aspire to nothing more than the “essay”—the basically incom-
plete definition of attitudes which, to the extent that they can be discriminated,
become useful tools for the consideration of certain problems of literary struc-
ture, and I believe, of non-literary experience.
I think the other major problem that arises for you is one that will arise very
generally: that tragedy is inevitably a term of dignity, and melodrama is not, so
that to call the public defeat of “excellence” a melodrama seems like triviality, or
priggishness, or even stupidity. This is a great problem. I have toyed with using
some other term in place of melodrama, but unless one is very great, one does
not get by with inventing terms; I thought there was less risk involved in trying
to rehabilitate a well known term—by the general method of contending that
the popular meaning of the term is really a debased and simplified version of a
fundamental attitude to reality that is inevitable, that may be self-deceptive and
dangerous in other ways, but that yet has its own kind of place and validity.
What I have to do, then, is to make sure (or try to) that “melodrama” and “dis-
aster” are terms that can be used to describe terrible things, but terrible things
that have one kind of structure rather than another. If I can do this—perhaps
not, alas—then I would not make it necessary for you to inquire protestingly,
“Is it really no more than a disaster, when the excellent is blotted out or sup-
pressed by the vulgar in society,” for “disaster” would seem an adequate term. I
find myself thinking of ultimate disaster as “post-tragic,” thinking of the tragic
as implying, really, spiritual continuity: the double possibility of victory-and-
defeat, salvation-and-damnation. As long as you have tragedy, excellence is alive;
a norm of excellence is what makes tragedy comprehensible; but with disaster,
all goes. If artists are no longer able to think in tragic terms, we are in a hell of
[a] fix: we are either living in a silly melodrama of victory (the day is ours, nature
is conquered, etc.) or without knowing it in a melodrama of disaster in which
we can no longer think and feel in terms of spiritual survival.
Well, you see that if I do not see very clearly into my problem, I at least see
what it is. Your letter I will place, in the fashion of an affectionate dependent, in
my active file of notes—as I did with some comparable criticisms of the first
Lear MS years ago—and rely on your voice as much as my talents make possi-
ble. Not enough, alas.
The “Fashions” essay you will recognize as an after-dinner address which I
used largely to work off certain annoyances, and rather with the sense of some
polemic twitting than with the sense of much constructive thought. I hoped only
that you might get a laugh or two out of it. I was aiming at a more inclusive
kind of literary criticism in the Felix Krull essay. Did you ever get the copy I sent
you? Perhaps you did not like it and thought it better to say nothing. One or
two people here whose criticism I value thought it my best piece of work, and I
would be interested to know if you disagree.
How we would have liked to have the Spain trip under your tutelage.
[Bob]
86. October 4, 1959

Dear Robert:
Just an interim report today about Pete.
When I came back home from my adventure in Basel, I found him still here
and enjoyed his company for about four days. He had been here already for a
few days and I had the impression that he needed that week in Munich for re-
pairs in every respect. Somewhere along his trip he had acquired an intestinal af-
fair and it had been running in the most literal sense for about ten days before
he arrived. We took him to our doctor, and he was put on a dreary diet of por-
ridge and similar stuff for a week, and properly medicated. Last Monday he was
declared in good order and began stuffing himself again in a satisfactory man-
ner. Thursday morning he left in perfect health for Vienna, and we expect him
back by Wednesday.
Apparently he also needed a little rest from sight-seeing, and some home life—
at least he was not chasing about town in Museums too much. He did a lot of
typewriting, accumulated correspondence, and had some mixed fare of read-
ing—Boswell, Joyce, Henry Miller, Santayana, Shaw, etc. The only cloud on the
horizon was the failure of a suitcase, which he had left in Soest, to arrive, con-
taining his warmer clothes which he needs for England—it still hasn’t arrived.
For the rest he was cheerful in spite of his condition; and it was a real pleasure to
have him around. Lissy especially wants me to tell you that he is still her favorite
example of a well-bred young American. She told me also that he looked like
Marlon Brando, only much nicer—which I take to be a compliment, but un-
fortunately I cannot appreciate it, because I don’t know what Marlon Brando
looks like. All I can say is that I like him too (that is: Pete).
During the weeks I was absent, the Wogans were here. They, and Lissy, and
Pete went out together. And it seems that the Wogan girl—who is a delightfully
mischievous and impish creature—will be in London when Pete will be there.
We are very proud that we can provide him even with dates in distant places.
I regret very much that I cannot see as much of Pete as I would like to, be-
cause this month of October I have a lot of traveling to do. Three weeks ago I
was in Vienna, delivering some lecture in the International University Week.
The Wogans happened to be there at the time, and found out about the lec-
ture—she even came there and I could see her for a few minutes before we were
taken away for some formal dinner. Then came the week in Basel—a somewhat
puzzling affair. It was a “Seminar” of the Congress for Freedom of Culture, a
mighty organization about whose organizers and financial background I know
very little. The subject was “Industrial Society and the Life of Reason” or some-
thing of the sort. There were about twenty-five people from various countries.
America contributed such public monuments as [J. Robert] Oppenheimer and
[George] Kennan. Not much came of it, as most of those present were intellec-
tuals whose relation to the life of reason was more than doubtful. Still, one
could meet a few interesting people. And next week, I have to go to West-Berlin
for a Seminar of the Cusanuswerk, which is a Catholic enterprise for the educa-
tion of bright young Catholics. I have accepted this chore mostly, because I still
have to get acquainted with this strange environment in which I find myself
thrown. There is some hope that the time will not be quite lost, because the
supervisor is a man who is supposed to be a first-rate authority on the theory of

the Church—a subject on which I know entirely too little.
That’s all for today. Further installments will follow.
All good wishes to you and Ruth from both of us.
Yours cordially,
<Eric>
87. Notre Dame, Indiana, October 29, 1959

Dear Eric,
Ruth and I have been pretty much concerned about the amount of time that
Pete spent being a roomer, boarder, and general pensioner of you and Lissy
when he was in Munich. We were content to have him stay with you, after your
generous invitation, when the understanding was, as he originally put it, that
Munich was to be a base of operations. But as far as we can make out, from your
quite uncomplaining accounts (from him, we learn only what his schedule is
and where to send the next check), he simply moved in and stayed, and for
much more time, we fear, than you contemplated. We are most grateful for
Lissy’s being doctor: without that special care, he might have dragged on indefi-
nitely with the ailment. But I am afraid she also got stuck with being cook, tour-
guide, entertainer, and everything else for an indefinite time. It was terribly kind
of you both, and we only hope you weren’t both exhausted and nerve-frazzled
from a visit that at times you must have thought would be endless. One simply
does not know what one’s own child does when he is away from home. We
would expect him to practice the ordinary courtesies, but we don’t know
whether he would be unknowingly inconsiderate by imposing on hosts too gra-
cious to make it apparent that the guest has overstayed. It may be that, despite
energy and some social competence, he may lack confidence for dealing with
the touristic situations and hence unknowingly clung firmly to familiar skirts
instead of getting moving on his own. Well: you were both most sweet and gen-
erous; we are most grateful; and we only hope that your tolerance of all Heil-
mans has not been permanently exhausted.
Lissy said in her last letter to Ruth that you had been going [at] it too hard
and were beginning to show signs of wear and tear. I won’t say, Take it easy; but
I will say, Don’t take it quite as hard as possible. Even that, I suppose, sounds a
little silly, when there is so much you want to do; but I hope you’ll stretch your
energy over quite a few more years. Quite aside from the book work and the ad-
ministrative work, you must, I suppose, really take pleasure in the visits to the
various meetings and in the direct relations with the whole family of European
intellectuals that I think of you as at the center of (quel syntax!). This, I am
slowly recognizing, is one thing America can’t offer. But I still hope.
By now, I suppose, you’ve seen the Ed Hardys and got their views of Notre
Dame. I’m sorry they aren’t here this year, for I would have liked to see the place
with their eyes, quite aside from seeing them personally. The campus is very at-
tractive physically, especially now when the maples are turning; I was brought
up on these flashing yellows and reds, and this is the first time I’ve seen fall
maples in 25 years, so I’m enjoying just gawking at the trees. One is put up in a
fine hotel on the campus, the NDU is very generous about picking up expense
checks, even for drinks; Catholic Puritanism has not reared its ugly head here.
The U. even picked up the tab for the drinks for a dept. party they had for me
the other night. The dept. people are very agreeable; how much talent there is,
I’m not sure. The students are amazingly well disciplined and make most cour-
teous audiences. How well the lectures are going—i.e., in the sense of seeming
intellectually respectable—I have no idea. I’ve never done a series before, and I
have some sense of dragging my feet too much, but at any rate three of them
have gone without open snoring or other untoward incident, and the audiences
have held up pretty close to the first day’s 200. Some students come up to talk
and seem really to be trying to work with my ideas of tragedy and melodrama,
which pleases me. The faculty are polite, but I have no idea whether to them my
ideas seem sharp or pointless. Well, No. 4 this afternoon, and then to Blooming-
ton for my one-shot performance there. I just heard from Wisconsin (via Ruth)
that if they had known about the trip in time, they would have booked me there
too. One gets spoiled. My back feels better, and I have slept better this week
than for a month: doubtless living thru the complete reorganization of a univer-
sity under a new president (he has just fired the A & S Dean, the guy who
caused all the trouble for Harold Stoke when Harold was at UW) is always trou-
bling.
Forgive me if I again urge you to husband a little bit of your strength. We’ll
promise, in return, not to make additional demands on it by sending other am-
bassadors to Munich.
My best to both of you,
<Bob>

H U R R I E D O V E R T H E FA C E
O F T H E E A RT H
Letters 88–113, 1960–1968

88. [Notre Dame, Indiana,] November 2, 1960
Dear Bob:
I owe you a letter for a long time. The reason that I write you now at least a
short one is that Bone of your Political Science Department has invited me to
give a lecture in Seattle, and referred to you, I presume that you have exerted
quite a little pressure on the poor guy. I wonder: Is he the Bone whom I know as
having been at one time at the University of Maryland? As the invitation was
coupled with the information that they could not pay the traveling expenses and
that I had to find them elsewhere, regrettably I had to decline. I should have en-
joyed it greatly, as you can imagine, to spend a couple of days with you and
Ruth.
Notre Dame is a peculiar place. I have never before lived in a concentrated
Catholic environment like this. An advantage is the very high degree of philo-
sophical education that one finds with practically everybody. A disadvantage is
the peculiar provincialism of seeing nothing but the Catholic party line. That
expresses itself especially in the composition of the library; magnificent stocks in
Thomism, scholastic sources, and medieval history. Next to nothing on such in-
fidel subjects as China, India, or archaeology; also the Protestant literature is
completely neglected. Still, there is considerable life in the place. They have
emerged about ten years ago from the status of a hick college and are struggling
valiantly to become a university. The place is humming with projects and actual
expansion. Political Science is in fairly good shape. The chairman is a Father
who in spite of his clerical garb is a merry soul and has his Ph.D. from Yale. And
there is [Gerhart] Niemeyer, who is the head of a research institute for Commu-
nism, a first-rate specialist in his field. They are very kind to me and do not ask
more than a three-hour course and a seminar.
Nevertheless, I am very much pressed for time, as I have various invitations to
lecture. Tonight in Chicago; next week at the University of Illinois. In Decem-
ber in Duke. That disrupts badly my work on Volume IV, setting aside the major
interruption through an article on [Rudolf Karl] Bultmann’s theology that was
202
Hurried over the Face of the Earth, 1960–1968 203
due yesterday and will take at least a week more work. At least that affair is not
labor lost, because I had to work through on that occasion the problems of exis-
tentialism and their application to Protestant theology; I need that knowledge
anyway for my chapter on Christianity.
Lissy is leaving next week—first to visit some friends in Newton, Mississippi,
of all places, then to see Conrad Albrizio for an evening in New Orleans, and
then to stay a week in Baton Rouge. By November 21st she hopes to be back in
Munich.
A permanent disturbance is the Institute in Munich which I have to direct by
long distance. Inevitably all sorts of things go awry, because these young assis-
tants just do not have the experience to deal with business as it comes up. I hope
it will not be too much of a mess by the time I come back.
With all good wishes to you and Ruth, and Pete,
Yours cordially,
<Eric>
89. [Seattle,] November 5, 1960

Dear Eric,
[Hugh] Bone is short for bonehead. I confess with mortification, both per-
sonal and institutional, that I have failed to get either decent manners or decent
action out of him. I presumed on my local seniority and went over his head to
the university lectures and concerts committee to recommend a visiting lecturer
in political science; thus I pressured him into feeble acquiescence. Not that he is
malicious or opposed or anything; he’s a nice guy who just isn’t very bright. His
idea of serious work in political science is to go over to some junior high school
in Tacoma and take a poll on who the kids think will be elected president, and
then write a piece on “The Dynamics of Democracy” or something like that.
You know the type. Yes, I think he was at Maryland once. It even has to be said
for him that he is, if anything, superior to various of his colleagues, for the de-
partment is a sad one. (He never even acknowledged another letter I wrote him
informing him of the availability of Alex Daspit for a job in Pol Sci. After many
years in the State Dept, Alex can now retire with a part-salary pension, and he
wants to try to pick up teaching again.)
Well, we had very much hoped to entertain you here, to talk with you, and to
have you see the Northwest sights, which we like very much and thought you
might. If we do not get those personal pleasures, I feel nevertheless personally
pleased that you are in the country again for a visit, even if a long way from here.
Am I right in thinking that this will take care of the citizenship rules, so that you
will now have a still longer time to reach a decision? I am hoping that this is
true. We are delighted, also, that Lissie is having the fun of a visit to the South
and to people there. I gather that Conrad is married again, and I hope she’ll give
us a report on him, and her, and on others.
I enjoyed your comments on Notre Dame. Are you staying in that rather
posh hotel where I spent a pleasant week in October of ’59? I had a good time
there. The students delighted me in that they were well bred and rather well
read; in English they had a thorough and conservative training that is a real im-
provement on the hit-or-miss program of the state university, where the empha-
sis is all too much on the contemporary; in discussion they had a courteous style
quite in contrast with the often rude assertiveness of the semi-beatnik characters
that we often have to put up with.
Between lecturing and long-distance administrating you sound both hurried
over the face of the earth and driven into the ground: in all of this I hope there is
some modicum of compensating pleasure. In administration, at least, one gets
some amusing views of humankind, and I find myself hoping that here and there
you may steal a little something from purely administrative knowledge to add to
what you say from history and logic and intuition. Oddly, I keep feeling as though
watching the varied rascalities and multifold self-interests of my colleagues (even
the good ones) has really added something to my literary insights, such as they are.
Maybe it’s only that I grow older, so I shan’t push the other theory.
One of these days I shall send you a copy of the last Sewanee in which I have
a long review of a book on D. H. Lawrence by Eliseo Vivas; for something that
seems not to be directly contributing to any longer thing I hope to do, I spent
too much time on it, but I was teased into it by the desire to get something said
on Lawrence. It gets into aesthetic matters, a little too heavy for my equipment,
but I enjoyed thinking these matters thru to the extent that I was able. Recently
I have been discovering [Friedrich] Dürrenmatt, and his novelette The Pledge
struck me so sharply with certain resemblances to The Turn of the Screw that I
dashed off a little essay on this. It’s at Kenyon, which probably won’t take it, so
that I’ll have to peddle it to some lesser (and non-paying) mag. Meanwhile Yale
Review has taken a semi-popular essay on Bardolatry, and I am pleased to get
into those august pages for the first (and doubtless the last) time. The big back-
1. Heilman, review of D. H. Lawrence: The Failure and the Triumph of Art, by Eliseo Vivas,
Sewanee Review 68 (1960): 635–59.
2. Heilman, “Bardolatry,” Yale Review 50 (1961): 257–70.
ground job continues to be the tragedy-melodrama monograph, which moves

too slowly because I lack consecutive working time.
In odd moments I toy with an idea that has kept popping up in my mind for
some time—literature, not as an imitation or interpretation of reality, but as a
constituter of reality. I suppose this idealist epistemology is full of pitfalls, and
it’s the fear of the unseen ones that makes me chary of commitments. But if one
uses the idea simply as a hypothesis, it becomes a very useful instrument for pry-
ing into other matters—e.g., the moral status of literature. I will never try to
deal with such matters formally, but some time this sort of concept may break
out incidentally as an aid in the discussion of something else.
I talk on too long, and trespass on your time, but you are always patient with
me.
Did we tell you that Pete is now stationed in Baltimore for the duration, a
matter about which we are all as happy as one can be about anything connected
with the army? He was ticketed originally for Bragg, which is in some Carolina
swamp. But he is fond of Baltimore, has symphony tickets, does the Baltimore
and Washington museums, and is taking a single graduate course at Hopkins,
thank heavens. Thru friends he met [the] Singletons ([Charles S.] Singleton is
the Italianist who left Harvard in a huff and went back to Hopkins, a great, and
maybe even salutary, blow to Harvard’s pride), very fine people, and I am in
hopes that some other civilizing influences may emerge.
Good teaching, lecturing, and writing. We hope that one of these days some
bright soul in the Bay Area will wire you a fat fee for visiting them, and that you
will remember that you can fly to California via Seattle without extra cost.
<Bob>
Parody of safe-driving rules presently circulating here, with much delight:
If you have been drinking, don’t park!
Accidents cause babies!
90. [Seattle,] January 9, 1961

Dear Eric:
I was shocked to learn from one of the Notre Dame men whom I ran into at
our meeting in Philadelphia that you had been, as he put it, “mugged,” which
seemed to mean beaten and robbed. Somehow this is the sort of thing that one
does not expect to happen either in a university town or to someone not “in the
rackets”; then when it does happen, not only to someone whom one knows, but
also to someone whom one admires and is fond of, it seems both more incredi-
ble and more criminal. All I can do is hope that you didn’t lose much and the
physical injury was minimal. The Notre Dame man did not give concrete de-
tails; he said you had been in a hospital for some days, and Ruth and I have been
hoping that this was less because you were in bad shape than because Lissie had
gone home and therefore the hospital was the easiest place to get taken care of.
But even at the best that could be hoped for, this is a dreadful thing, and terri-
bly disturbing. I can imagine you suffering, among other things, from the loss of
working time, though I can also imagine you, if you were at all able to, demand-
ing books and papers on the hospital bed. But I hope you didn’t deprive yourself
of whatever rest was need[ed] for recovery.
If I understood my informant correctly, he implied that this experience had
cut you off from any lingering fondness you might have for America. Though I
can well understand that this is exactly how one might feel, I am still hoping it
isn’t altogether accurate. For I have always nourished the hope that a remarriage
would some time be worked out, and even the visit to Notre Dame seemed like
a hopeful sign. But for a long time I seem to have been apologizing for a coun-
try that has never done well enough by you, and now this is a bitter enough cli-
max.
Our meeting was the usual flesh-market. I spent three days in my room and
interviewed 40 people, and somehow they all seemed much alike. There were
more PhD’s around marketing themselves than ever before, and they were
watching the market conditions like characters at the Stock Exchange. Boys who
won’t even have finished their PhD’s are getting assistant professorships at $6500;
they were writing rival offers down in notebooks and going home to ponder the
closing quotations. This was a good way to finish off a fall quarter that has been
depressing. The department voted me down on one major appointment I was
trying to make, and seems about to do it again. If I give up and leave, I have a
metaphor for it: the sinking ship deserting the rat race.
After the meeting I went to Baltimore and spent two days with Pete, who is
assigned—probably for the duration—to Fort Holabird; he has a clerical job in
the Intelligence. He is managing to take a course at Hopkins at night, has a sea-
son symphony ticket, and seems to like to pick up carloads of soldiers and take
them to Baltimore and Washington museums, for which he has some affection.
All this is a big improvement on the North Carolina rural countryside, which
threatened him in his earlier orders for Fort Bragg. We spent New Year’s Eve
with the Singletons: Charles Singleton is the Italianist who made academic his-
tory here by leaving Harvard for Hopkins, a decision doubtless aided by his hav-
ing, some 40 or 50 miles from Baltimore, a farm which he leaves only twice a
week for Eisenhower U. and where he raises enough grapes to make 1000 gal-
lons of wine per annum (which he is just about to begin marketing). They are
civilized people and I am very glad that Pete has got to know them.
Ruth sends her best wishes and affectionate greetings; we both are still sad
that Bone & Co. did not do a better job of getting you out here. That was a lovely
tray that Lissy sent Ruth for a present: how very thoughtful.
I do hope that you are well again, and are feeling in decent shape for work
and travel and the return to directing the Institute.
With all our very best wishes,
<Bob>
91. Notre Dame, Indiana, January 14, 1961

Dear Bob:
On my return from Chicago I find your letter of January 9th; that makes me
feel like a pig, because I have not answered yet your earlier one of November.
Part of the reasons for the delay you have learned from the Notre Dame man. So
let me set your mind at rest about the incident by reducing it to its proportions:
The affair took place at the end of November. In the evening I returned home
from town and was mugged by two negroes, just half a block before home. As I
am not a good natured creature I fought back and that probably was the reason
why they had to throw me around to get the wallet. Of course, they got it, $82;
the glasses were broken and I was bleeding dramatically from an insignificant
cut on the forehead. I called the police; and I was patched up in the hospital.
But then began the real ordeal: from the hands of the robbers I fell into the
hands of the doctors. I had to be checked; and they were conscientious and tried
everything. No ribs were broken; but the X-ray showed a spot in the lung which
might have been a calcinated tubercle housing there for the last forty years, but
it might have been the beginning of a tumor. Tests were made etc. and just last
week I was informed, that it was some old tubercle (or how you spell it) after all.
Then they found a wartlike development on the left forefinger: it might be just
a wart, but it might be cancerous. After several weeks it was a wart after all.
Then they came to a more intimate fluid and found bacteria that should not be
there. New X-rays etc. It is no kidney trouble; but there seems to be a prostate
development that will need operation, but not right away. I can do that some
time in Munich. In sum: Nothing much happened except unpleasant pain from
contusions for four weeks. And a considerable loss of time through the frequent
visits to the clinic. —I am only glad that Lissy had left already. She would have
been very excited. So I just wrote to her some time later, when I was sure that
nothing was seriously damaged.
Nevertheless, I was furious because—as it then turned out with information
coming in from all sides—that South Bend is one of the worst crime districts in
the United States, with the highest number of alcoholics, etc., and that rob-
beries and burglaries occur by the dozen every day. And nobody had told me. In
New York I know that I shouldn’t go through Central Park by night; here the
situation is the same for practically the whole town. There is no apartment for
rent anywhere in a neighborhood that is not equally dangerous. So I raised hell
with the administrators for not telling me. And then they became contrite and
put me up in the Morris Inn—in the posh hotel you mentioned. I pay what I
paid for the apartment ($125.) and what’s beyond is paid by the university. I also
told them a few things about the necessity of having a compound on campus for
visitors, as it is usually done in underdeveloped countries.
My feelings about America have not been affected by the affair. That such
things happen I know; and the situation is not different when they happen to
me. But one should take reasonable precautions. —My feelings are, however, af-
fected by other things. For instance, that I am wasting here a lot of time, because
the library is useless for scientific work (nobody told me that either beforehand).
Then I got to know a bit more about “conservatives,” with the resulting insight
that if anything is more of a drip than a liberal it’s a conservative. The matter
was clinched in the last days when I got a good look at the crowd in Modern Age,
the conservative periodical. One thing they have in common with liberals: a
profound respect for the sacred right not to know too much and not to work too
much. I have a feeling, perhaps wrongly induced by environmental accidents, of
an intellectual flabbiness that cannot end well. The feeling is especially strong
here, because people are strongly anti-Communist without being able to meet
the intellectual challenge of Communism with anything better.
But I did something about that feeling. At the beginning of this month they
had a Symposium on “Scientific Alternatives to Communism.” There were lec-
tures by [Gerhart B.] Ladner, [Joseph M.] Bochenski, [Karl August] Wittfogel
and [Friedrich A. von] Hayek; I was number five. So I did a lovely lecture on de-
bate and existence showing why Aristotelian and Thomist metaphysics are anti-
quated and useless as far as the doctrinal formulations are concerned, and that
one has to recover their truth by going back to the underlying philosophy of ex-
istence. That created some consternation among the Thomists present; besides I
needed the analysis anyway for my Volume IV. (The thing will be mimeo-
graphed, and I shall send you a copy when I get them.)
Now about more pleasant things. When your copy of the Sewanee Review ar-
rived, we were just reading Lady Chatterley—submitting to the social necessity
of having [to] read a book everybody talks about. Previously I had read only
Sons and Lovers; all other novels by Lawrence which I tried bored me so much
that [I] did not finish them (I remember distinctly the Plumed Serpent among
the unfinished because of boredom). And then, last night, when I gave that talk
with the Regnery people, there was Eliseo Vivas—but unfortunately I could ex-
change with him only a few words—there were too many millionaire conserva-
tives around whom I could not ignore without incurring the wrath of the people
who had invited me. —Well, your article on Vivas is practically an additional
study on Lawrence, from which I learned a good deal about aesthetics. With the
recent reading of Lady Chatterley still in memory, I fervently agree with your re-
marks on L’s style, especially his femininity of expression, the tedious use of
repetitive adjectives and nouns, and so forth. Especially I remember with disgust
the conversation among the four gentlemen in Chapter 4—either the conversa-
tion is realistic in the sense that people with whom Lawrence was acquainted
slung words like that, then certainly the raw material has not been informed by
the artist and should be scrapped as not worth being preserved; or [if ] it is not
realist[ic] (at least, I have never heard people talk as insipidly as that), then it
would be Lawrence’s “creation”—and if that is his creative insight into the work-
ings of an intellectual’s mind, then L. is just no good. You see, I am still not
quite convinced of L’s stature either as an artist or as a diagnostician of the times.
In this vein I also should like to take exception to the remark (I do not recollect
at the moment whether it was yours or Vivas’) that Lawrence was one of the first
to have sensed the destructive character of mechanization on human and social
life. There are [Friedrich] Hölderlin’s Odes on the subject (in the 1790’s I be-
lieve), as yet unsurpassed in powerful expression of this problem. And Hölderlin
is among the most important inspirations in Marx’s romantic hatred of capital-
ism. Lawrence seems in this respect to belong to the second wave of outcries
against mechanization which has produced, among other things, the literature
on the masses and on technology, as well as [Oswald] Spengler’s Decline of the
West (conceived before the First World War). Nor does his erotology and sacra-
mentalization of sex seem to be very profound—he certainly has never reached
in these matters the clarity of understanding or strength of drama as [Frank]
Wedekind in Frühlingserwachen, Lulu, or Minnehaha. (For the rest, I am hold-
ing no brief for Wedekind.) Sociologically interesting, however, is the public
reaction to L’s so-called obscenities. It seems to me a similar case as [Alfred

Charles] Kinsey and the reaction to his report: a Victorian environment discov-
ers sex. I have always felt tempted to give two lectures on the subject: (1) What
Kinsey didn’t know about sex and (2) What Kinsey still doesn’t know about sex.
—But let’s get away from Lawrence and rather consider your highly important
worries about creativeness in art. You mention the subject in your letter from
November; and you say a few words about it in the review of Vivas. Unfortu-
nately you say so little that I cannot be quite sure to have understood the direc-
tion in which your thought is moving; and I apologize in advance for gross
misapprehension of your intentions. I quite agree with you that literature con-
stitutes reality, if it is any good, and does not merely imitate or interpret it. The
starting point for theoretical consideration would be for me the Aristotelian ob-
servation (in the Poetics) that the poets give better insights into human nature
than the historians, because they do not report reality but imaginatively create
the “nature” of things. “Reality” as observed is always nature in the state of po-
tentiality; the “true” reality of actualized nature is rarely a given, but must be
constructed from the resources of the artist. In this Aristotelian conception the
artist is forced to create, because the difference between the potentiality empiri-
cally given and actualization is absent from empirical reality. Unless the artist
supplies the fullness of human nature as the background, the empirical reality
will be as flat as it usually is. As an example, take our pet grievance, the ideolo-
gist. If you simply describe him, he will be an unintelligible caricature; if you in-
terpret him by a psychology of motivations, you will at best get the rationale of
his actions. In order to bring him to life you will have to reflect on the problem
of a man who wants to transform the world in his image. If you try that, you
may find that there are men who cannot grow with themselves and cannot make
their own life transparent for death. When they stop to grow, an event that fre-
quently occurs around twenty, the tension between the status at which they have
arrived spiritually and intellectually and the relentless process of time in them-
selves and the world surrounding them will cause anxiety, and from anxiety is
born hatred. From such hatred then may arise an infinite variety of attempts at
stopping the flux of time—childish things like the professor for whom science
must stop at the point that he has reached with so much labor at the time of his
Ph.D.; terrible things like the political leader who wants to freeze history at
some ridiculous point of order that he has picked up somewhere in his youth
3. See Alfred C. Kinsey et al., Sexual Behavior in the Human Male (Philadelphia: Saunders,
1948) and Alfred C. Kinsey et al., Sexual Behavior in the Human Female, by the staff of the
Institute for Sex Research, Indiana University (Philadelphia: Saunders, 1953).
(Hitler for instance in the Ostara phantasies, as has come out now). A recon-
struction of complete reality in this sense, adding to empirical reality its tension
with true reality, requires a considerable creative effort, because the imperfec-
tions are infinitely various; it requires a genius of perceptiveness to see in a re-
calcitrant raw material its relation to the “nature” of things. Above all, it requires
genuine love of true reality—and that brings me to a theme upon which you
touch on and off in your essay: the lack of love in Lawrence. There is a deep-
rooted impotence in his work (I hope you will pardon my impertinence of a
straight judgment of this kind; it is for brevity’s sake) that lets the description of
reality disliked degenerate into caricature and cliché and the opposed, preferred
reality into romantic nonsense. There is lacking the strength of love that would
unite the dilemmatic extremes in a convincing creation. —I apologize for my
crude and sketchy remarks on so vast a topic (unless the “so” is a symptom of ef-
feminacy), but you have a knack of hitting the problems on which I am worry-
ing too; though in philosophy rather than in literature.
<Here I simply stop, because I think that three pages is enough of a horror to
inflict at one time.>
<Regards to Ruth and Pete,>
<Always yours,
Eric>
92. München, April 11, 1964

Dear Bob:
There is much talk about your and Ruth’s coming to Europe this summer.
May I venture a question both humble and impertinent? Could you come to
Munich, not only to visit with us, but also to give a talk to our students? They
have heard about you, as you can imagine, and would appreciate it greatly to see
you in the flesh and to have you for a discussion.
Fortunately, the Institute is affluent at the moment, so that we can offer you
4. “Ostara” seems to mean several things: “Ostara” is a publisher in Vienna, a pagan name for
Easter, the vernal equinox in pagan rituals and myths, and the title of an anti-Semitic magazine
edited and published by Adolf Josef Lanz beginning in 1905. Several sources argue that Hitler was
influenced by Lanz’s Ostara and its occult, erotic, racist content, and that Hitler even once met
Lanz. The last assertion has not been validated. Robert Payne writes that “Hitler’s penchant for
the occult led him to the strange works of Adolf Josef Lanz . . . [who] published a magazine called
Ostara . . . a typical Viennese product of the period, being erotic, mystical, and sentimental with-
out any clear-cut social or political program” (Robert Payne, The Life and Death of Adolf Hitler
[New York: Praeger Publishers, 1973], 90). See also Werner Maser, Hitler: Myth and Reality, trans.
Peter and Betty Moss (New York: Harper and Row, 1973), 167–68.
an honorarium, say $100, and make up a bit more under the title of traveling ex-
penses, to the extent of an airplane return ticket London–Munich–London.
The term is running to the end of July, though after July 20th things would be-
come difficult.
Lissy and I would love to have you both here for a few days, if your time per-
mits at all.
At the moment I am hard pressed. There is the famous Volume IV of Order
and History that is supposed to be the final one—it presents infinite problems of
organization. And then, I have to give an Introduction to Politics in the summer
term; and I have chosen “Hitler and the Germans” as the materials to work on.
You can imagine what that means by way both of historical materials and theo-
retical analysis. But that fortunately is done for the greater part, and I am look-
ing forward to the beginning of the term in May with some equanimity.
Let me hear, as soon as you can, about your plans.
Eric>

Dear Eric,
Please do not think that your flattering letter of April 11 has been lying around
here unattended to while I have just been answering the usual round of business
letters. For five days I was in St. Louis at the national AAUP meeting—a lesson
in academic politics which I will never forget—and all last week I was away spiel-
ing in behalf of what is generally known here as “Shakespeare 400,” four lectures
(Ruth calls them letchers) in five days. Now I am picking up, and Munich is first.
I am flattered and as much scared as flattered; I hate to think what orderly
and logical German minds will do to the non-rational hunches that constitute
most of what I have to say, if they are allowed to discuss; but then maybe we can
spirit me away as being rather deaf and unable to hear questions. But if you will
gamble on being disgraced by my performance, you who have to stay there, I
guess I should be able to stand it for a brief visit. You can see that the foolish
gambler in me, the thoughtless hoper that by some good luck all will be well, is
overcoming the hardheaded and sensibly fearful Pa. Dutchman.
Would you care to set a date as late as possible in July, possibly the 20th,
which you name as a sort of cut-off date? We reach London late in June, and
had planned to spend the summer touring in England, where I have never been
in decent weather, but we will do some re-scheduling. Could I apply the price of
the proposed London–Munich return air ticket (generous terms) to the expenses
of driving the distance in the V-W we plan to get in London? Then we could
both come, and I fear Ruth might not let me come alone. Possible subjects:
(1) Hamlet. I have been doing, for “Shakespeare 400” lectures and “contribu-
tions,” a series of essays on the treatment of self-knowledge in the Shak. trag-
edies. The best one, I think, is the one on Hamlet, the chief argument of which
is that H. so dreads having to know anything bad about himself that he spends
his career in a remarkably successful pursuit of innocence while also getting his
man. The trouble is that this is just now appearing in the Review of Literature,
an English journal; if it could be proved that it does not circulate in Munich, we
would be in the clear.
(2) “The Role We Give Shakespeare”—a semi-popular piece on attitudes to
Shak.; the conclusion is that the Shak. myth becomes religious, with sacred texts,
priesthoods, protestants, cathedral towns, tithes, and what not; and then, more
seriously, that what is offered is not truth or law or comfort, but “totality,” “mys-
tery,” and “community.” This is the kind of thing that to be done soundly ought
to be done by a very learned man, who doubtless wouldn’t do it; but I am not
learned, and so it has to get by as a sort of prose poem.
(3) Likewise for the other possibility: “Historian and Critic: Notes on Atti-
tudes,” which starts as a retrospective summary of the war in America between
the “new criticism” and the “old historicism” in literary studies, and then theo-
rizes about the nature of the intellectual activities involved, which I summarily
assert are the “differentiating” (historical) and the “integrative” (the critical) and
these I magisterially declare to be in the basic constitution of the mind. Not a
shred of evidence. This thing was originally done for an invitational seminar at
UCLA where A. L. Rowse and I were supposed to pull each other by the hair;
but all he did was plug his books, while I plugged my theory. I think Sewanee
will print this, but the editor is sick and can’t make up his mind; maybe I made
him sick. Anyway, it won’t be in print for a year. Number (2) above will be the
lead-off piece in a volume of lectures by high-class gents from Yale, Harvard,
Brandeis, etc. celebrating jointly “Shakespeare 400” and “U of Denver 100,”
and so it won’t come out for a year.
I feel safest with the Hamlet, which sticks to a text; the other two are what the
5. Heilman, “To Know Himself: An Aspect of Tragic Structure,” A Review of Literature 5 (1964):
36–57.
6. Heilman, “The Role We Give Shakespeare,” in Essays on Shakespeare, ed. Gerald W. Chap-
man (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1965).
7. “Historian and Critic: Notes on Attitudes,” Sewanee Review 73 (1965): 426–44.
journalists call “think pieces” and don’t stick to anything. If being in print is
fatal, it is of course out. Anyway, which of these do you think will most nearly
allow me to get away undamaged, and leave your reputation least damaged, and
the auditors most confused, for when they are confused (at least if they are
Americans, which may not hold in Bavaria) they are likely to think they have
been improved but that it is their fault for not quite catching on? On the other
hand, if this bill of fare is as depressing to you as I think it is likely to be, you
should suddenly discover that your budget is kaput, and I would understand.
The same goes if the sermon cannot be delivered in English. And I suddenly
have [a] horrid memory of Fritz Machlup’s saying that in Vienna (and likewise I
suppose to the west and north) it is considered very vulgar to read from a man-
uscript rather than lecture from the head (as I have heard you do brilliantly);
with me it is aut vulgaris aut nihil.
I was going to write you anyway to report that Fritz Machlup said he had
been several times a guest in your Munich apartment, and so we talked about
you at length. At the AAUP meeting Fritz did an extraordinary job of presiding
for several days under very trying circumstances.
Three cheers for Volume IV. To me the problems sound insuperable, but you
are the one man whom I always find making the insuperable look easy.
Ruth is desolate, having just had to take Lena Horne to the Katzdachau to
have her put out of mortal misery. But I send on her affectionate greetings,
along with my own, to both of you.
Sincerely,
<Bob>
94. [Munich,] May 5, 1964

Dear Bob:
We are most happy with your letter. It really would have been too sad if we
could not have enticed you to come to Munich.
Since you are a great man in Shakespeareology, I called up Clemen, so that his
and our Institute will sponsor you together. We have agreed, providing your
agreement, that you will give a public lecture on The Role We Give Shakespeare, in
the University on July 22, at 6 p.m. If you could be here a day or two earlier—I
personally would appreciate it greatly—you could favor us with your appearance
in my seminar on Tuesday 21, at 7:30. You might give there an introductory talk
on the subject Historian and Critic, as this would splendidly fit in, for the semi-
8. “Either vulgarity or nothing.”

nar is on Philosophy of History. You see, I want the students to have as much of
you as possible. Of course, your lectures will be in English, as most of the stu-
dents know English well enough to understand it.
As far as the honorarium and the travel expenses are concerned, you are en-
tirely free to choose, whichever way of traveling you desire. To fix the expense at
an airplane ticket London–Munich and return is merely a bookkeeping device.
It is the most expensive way of traveling I can justify.
I hope that these arrangements will meet with your approval. Lissy also is
most happy that in this way she can have Ruth here, too.
With all good wishes to you and the family, from both of us,
Yours cordially,
<Eric>
Eric Voegelin

Dear Eric:
You are kind and trusting, and I will only hope that you escape without ex-
cessive mortification. As long as I am being so reckless as to come, I may as well
do two lectures instead of one. July 21 and 22 will do very well for me. We will
probably plan to reach Munich some time on the 20, or perhaps, since the lec-
ture is in the evening, some time on the 21. If you will be kind enough to do
what you did seven years ago—heavens, can it really be that? —and reserve us a
room, in some hotel or pension that is, we will be grateful to you. We will head
south for some sight-seeing on July 23. The lectures have the advantage of let-
ting us see you both without our seeming simply to come in and plump our-
selves on you, one additional heavy link in the long chain of tourists. But I guess
you and Lissy always do so splendid a job of making people feel welcome that
the chain will never come to an end.
Clemen wrote a very pleasant letter. I felt a little embarrassed in that I had re-
viewed his Shakespeare book (ten years ago) and made some negative comments.
Not that the review was unfavorable or disagreeable, really, but an author’s sen-
sitivity might have made it seem so. But if he even remembered this, he quite
rose above it, and I am grateful. He said the lecture in his department should be
45 minutes, in view of the fact that all lecture rooms are used every hour. Should
the “Historian and Critic” affair also be of that length? I ask because both papers
are about 60 minutes now, and I need to work at it a bit to get the cutting down
without messing up the form too much. Incidentally, I am not objecting, be-
lieve me; I can do the cutting without trouble.
All arrangements are fine, and I appreciate your generosity in basing expenses
on air travel.
Now I go back to trying to cope with a half dozen different kinds of revolt. I
used to think of the 50’s<*> as a time of stability and security. Alas, it is only the
time when one is an entrenched interest that everyone up to 45 is happy to dis-
comfit as much as possible. Europe will be a pleasant escape, to put it negatively.
And Munich will be one of the truly pleasant spots in it.
Sincerely,
<Bob>
Robert Heilman
<*one’s own 50’s; not the 1950’s>
96. London, June 23, 1964 [OH]

Dear Eric,
After weeks of furious getting ready to leave, and then the 10-hour flight from
Seattle, and the 8-hour change in time, which our minds easily accept but our
bodies reject, we are slowly adjusting to a new life (through the medium of a
tiny room in an inelegant hotel). Today I got my card for the Reading Room in
the British Museum. I want to spend some time there going over my critic-and-
historian paper. Can you tell me whether this paper, like the one for Clemen,
should be limited to 45 minutes? You may have written to Seattle about this, but
I did not receive a letter before we left; I hope it is not necessary for you to write
twice about it? At any rate, I will be grateful for any instructions that may con-
tribute to my doing what I should do and not doing what I should not do. I
would like to sound no more foolish than nature and history compel me to.
Since my handwriting is not good, and since we shall be seeing you, I will
spare you pains by not writing at any more length. We very much look forward
to our visit. With best wishes to both of you,
Sincerely,
Bob
97. [Munich,] June 25, 1964

Dear Bob:
Thanks for your letter of June 23. We are delighted to learn that you and
Ruth are so much nearer to us.
As far as lectures are concerned, neither of them should be longer than 45

minutes. However, in the seminar it would not matter if it is a bit longer, as we
have altogether 11⁄ 2 hours at our disposition and whatever overtime you will use,
will simply go at the expense of discussion. The public lecture, on the other
hand, should definitely not exceed one hour, as experience has shown that peo-
ple hardly can stand more than that.
We are just now in the middle of our celebration of Max Weber’s hundredth
anniversary and that puts a severe strain on Lissy’s and my time, as we have to
participate and entertain foreign lecturers.
We are looking forward very much to your coming. Rooms in the Hotel Ross
are already reserved. We should be very grateful, if you would let us know, when
approximately you will arrive.
With all good wishes for your work in the British Museum, and more amus-
ing activities for us, I am,
Sincerely yours,
Eric Voegelin
98. London, June 29, 1964 [OH]

Dear Eric,
Thank you very much for your letter of the 23rd, which came this morning
before breakfast and made a fine garnish for that otherwise very routine occa-
sion. Thank you both for the additional information and for making reserva-
tions at the Hotel Ross. We plan to arrive in Munich some time on July 20 and
to leave the morning of the 23rd. We know how frightfully busy you and Lissy
are, and we know that you cannot afford the time and energy that would be re-
quired if you felt responsible for us. So we hope that we will not seem to be lean-
ing on you and waiting for attention. But we would be pleased if you would go
to dinner with us on one of the days.
Here is my picture of the official schedule:
Evening of July 22: EV’s seminar. RBH’s “Historian and Critic: Some Ob-
servations.” Time of paper, 45 minutes (or a little more). Time of discussion: rest
of 90-minute period.
Evening of July 23: Public lecture. “The Role We Give Shakespeare.” 45 min-
utes. No discussion. [From Clemen’s letter I got the impression that this affair
was to be in his seminar, but I judge that your statement of it is more accurate.]
How right you are that audiences can take 45–60 minutes and no more. Once
the late Morton Zabel of Chicago went on at LSU for almost 2 hours, and once
[Bertrand Harris] Bronson of Berkeley did a solid 85 minutes at UW—both im-

pervious to the distress and resignation of the audience.
Ruth and I both hope that recent court decisions about citizenship are going
to make such matters easier for you.
With fond greetings to you both,
Bob
[Left:] When we reach Munich we will go right to the hotel and will phone you
to let you know we are on hand with the goods.
99. [Munich,] July 2, 1964

Dear Bob:
Thank you for your letter of June 29.
Just to get the dates straight, which, I am afraid, got somehow confused in
your letter. We expect you and Ruth on July 20, and the room in the Hotel
Ross, Georgenstrasse 104, is reserved. The hotel is around the corner from our
apartment.
The evening in the seminar is projected for Tuesday, July 21, the public lec-
ture for Wednesday, July 22. We are having the invitations printed.
With all good wishes to you and Ruth, from both of us,
Sincerely yours,
Eric Voegelin
100. London, July 7, 1964

Dear Eric,
I am sorry that you had to write again because I seemed to have the dates con-
fused: the schedule which you have kindly reaffirmed is precisely the one I had
in mind, but I must have written something quite different. Well, I guess we
will have to attribute it to the natural confusion of the Innocent Abroad, but I
regret having burdened you with an additional explanation.
Thank you for the address of the hotel: we hope to get ourselves there with-
out unnecessary confusion.
Thursday a.m. we start off on the road to do some exploring of the northeast,
where we have never been—especially Norwich, which is reputed to be very at-
tractive. Our Dover-Calais ferry reservation is for the 16th. Ruth wants to do
Bruges and Ghent, which we did not get to before. I would especially like to go
to Berlin, where I have never been, but the Embassy mimeographed handout on
the problems of Berlin travel will probably scare us off.
Our best wishes to both Lissy and you,
Sincerely,
<Bob>
Robert Heilman
I have re-done the Clemen-Shakespeare affair, and think I have it down to

about 44 minutes. Now for some paring of the historian-and-critic apocalyptic
writing.
101. Paris, July 30, 1964

Dear Eric,
Please forgive the handsome stationery provided by the expensive place in which
we had to spend two nights while waiting for the Daspits to evacuate and embark
for Mallorca. In a day or two it will get replaced by something more fitting.
You were so generous with your time, and so generous in your many activities
as hosts, that you made our stay in Munich a wonderfully pleasant one; we feel
as though we were pretty much of a burden, and only hope we weren’t unbear-
able. The dinner on Monday night was a fine one, the institute party was a very
happy occasion, and the Wednesday affair, when you had a late supper and we
drank Scotch and then found ourselves unable to resist sampling your sand-
wiches—that was delightful in a different way. The lunches were very pleasant
occasions, and for me in a double sense, since I was not only getting ideas from
you but sharpening up thoughts by observing your own much more full and
precise formulations. If anything from my typewriter ever sounds good, it will
be because it sounds like at least a dim echo of Voegelin. Incidentally, the hotel
was a very pleasant one, and we are indebted to you for having got us a reserva-
tion there.
The one thing about Wednesday night that bothers me is that you probably
wouldn’t have had to go through it if it were not that Ruth and I were so anxious
to have you there. Lissie, I know, was really suffering; you were at least looking
as though you were amused. Without any responsibility, I was able to think of
it as amusing even at the time being, and now in retrospect it seems as delight-
ful as though one had been in a farce without sadistic overtones. And then there
is always the interesting intellectual problem of what makes Wolfgang run, to
paraphrase that well-known American phrase. Odd man.
With regard to my own participation in the two evenings, I will only say that
all I hoped for was to seem to you to be making some sort of sense, and if I did
that in part, I am content. Now that we are settled down, I will—after catching
up on correspondence for a day or two—get to work on sending you a decent
MS of the historian-and-critic thing.
The day on which we left Munich was pretty consistently cool, but at the ex-
pense of a fogginess which pursued us all the way to Innsbruck and kept us from
seeing anything at all of the mountains that I very much wanted to see. Then it
got hot again, and remained partly misty, but we got a good look at the Tyrol
and then some of the Swiss Alps and lakes. Aside from Innsbruck (whence I
could not resist driving down to the Brenner Pass, simply to have one glimpse of
that historic spot, even at the price of the additional tiring mileage for Ruth), we
stayed in small places; at Thun, Switzerland, we landed in a very old hotel in the
old town, just under a castle and old church, and amid ancient and attractive
shopping arcades. Well, with one thing and another, we landed here feeling
pretty worn, and it will be a day or two before we start renewing Paris sights that
we know and knowing, we hope, some new ones.
We owe you a great deal for encouraging a visit to Munich, and we hope we
can encourage one to London. Our very best to you both,
<Bob>
102. Paris, August 4, 1964

Dear Eric,
On looking at the new and enclosed copy of my seminar talk I am abashed to
see what a lousy job of typing it is. The only thing that can be said for it is that
it is at least a little more readable than the original from which I made it. But I
do not know whether I have caught all the typographical errors; I have tried,
and I can only hope that there is not something there that will be a major em-
barrassment to the translator. I think I have improved the English a little at sev-
eral places. In the title I changed the final word from “Attitudes” to “Postures,”
which, though not ideal, is still, I believe, a little less superficial. If at any time
the translator wants to write to me about any problems, I will indeed be glad to
answer questions. We will be here until August 20, and for the six weeks after
that, I can provide such firm addresses as we presently have.
It took us about a week to recover from heat and travel (which, as I am sure
you know, comes from travail); I have been catching up on a lot of correspon-
dence with the office, where there have been problems; we are trying to recover
some of our small knowledge about how to live in Paris, especially during the
fermeture. But we have now achieved the first of the banlieue-et-environ

[suburbs-and-surroundings] sightseeing tours which the car makes possible: to
the old church and court at Senlis, and the remarkable chateau at Chatillon,
which seemed to us almost to outshine Versailles; and that incredible Beauvais
church, without spire or nave, and yet incredible height. Last night after dark
we went and walked up and down Champs Elysées: doing that kind of thing, I
feel as though I am not in a real place but am in a popular novel (in a mob
scene, of course). The way they keep all the trees in this city: truly wonderful.
I’ve been reading [Denis] Diderot’s Rameau’s Nephew, and am not yet sure
why it is a “world classic”; I do not find the sense of reality as extraordinary as it
is said to be. What is technically interesting is the way in which Diderot gives all
his shrewdest perceptions to a rascal whom, throughout, he is formally repro-
bating. I don’t know whether he is being heavily ironic or is using a persona
which would permit disavowals if the points of view expressed aroused too
much excitement.
Just came across, in a London paper, an article on American Conservatives:
after describing the Buckleys as numerous, rich, and Catholic, it goes on to say
of them “a kind of sick Kennedys.” Amusing. But the piece is not glib; it is look-
ing with detachment at the success of a conservative movement which it says
would be impossible in England.
Seeing you and being with you both was a delightful experience. We are sorry
to learn from Lissy that you have had more guests that interfered with your
weekend plans. We hope that the Salzburg trip is a good one.
Sincerely,
<Bob>
[Top:] <Eric: Identifying notes are included. If these seem superfluous, or are
contrary to the style selected for the volume, they can be omitted, or reduced—
say by omission of place (and/or date) of publication—and included parenthet-
ically in the text.>
103. Munich, August 13, 1964

Dear Bob:
You must think me quite a chump by now because I have not yet written to
thank you for your lectures, nor to answer your letters of July 30 and August
4th. The week after you left was the last of the term and quite demanding, and
9. “Closing” refers to the closures of many establishments that result from the custom of
Parisians of abandoning their city to tourists in July and August.
then we were in Salzburg for the Gespräche about philosophy of history—but

about that event later.
First of all, both Lissy and I are greatly relieved because apparently the drench-
ing in the Englische Garten left no after-effects. We were especially worried
about Ruth—and that explains in part Lissy’s furiousness about the events. Other-
wise, as you may have guessed, we consider the memorable evening, just like you,
the raw material for an excellent story. Our identification with German affairs is
woefully imperfect and, setting aside the physical discomforts it caused to you
both, we enjoyed to offer you an example of social efficiency at this great univer-
sity—I have [had] to suffer from this organizational ineptness now for six years.
And now, most important, your lectures. They were greatly appreciated by
the students and the staff of the Institute. Not only because of their content, but
above all because of their linguistic quality and delivery. With regard to the pub-
lic lecture I heard from students that they were not able to follow you in every
detail, but that it did not matter as they were entranced by the music of your
language—what higher compliment could be paid to a Shakespearean scholar?
As to the content—the role given to Shakespeare—your analysis moves along
the same line as our studies do in the Institute; and as far as art is concerned,
they run parallel to [Hans] Sedlmayr’s studies on modern art as a cult. The
books you have suggested in your Seminar lecture are already ordered. May I
add, together with my admiration for these splendid lectures, my thanks for the
impression you have made on the students. What these German boys need
most, is to be confronted with solid examples of humanistic culture—and you
certainly have confronted them.
The week in Salzburg was one of mixed impressions. The famous Ernst Bloch
(formerly East Germany, now Tübingen) turned out to be a gentleman who
stopped thinking about forty years ago, that is aetatis suae 35. Karl Löwith,
from Heidelberg, about as old as I am, is disenchanted by Hegel, Nietzsche, and
Marx, but displays no intention whatever to do a little thinking of his own. The
best man was [Gilles] Quispel, from Utrecht, who talked on the historical
symbolism of ancient gnosis—he is the editor of the Nag Hammadi finds. The
four days of six hours a day lecture and discussion, with social events in the eve-
ning, finished me for good. Both Lissy and I have done nothing but sleeping
[sic] for three days afterwards. Today I have received [your letter?] and thought I
10. His age.

11. The Nag Hammadi Papyri were discovered near Chenoboskion, Egypt, in 1945. These doc-
uments have been an important source for understanding gnosticism.
better write this letter, as tomorrow we want to go to Weilheim, to our little

house for ten days.
On Monday I negotiated contracts with a Munich publisher for two books.
One is to be a collection of my studies on [the] philosophy of history, to be pub-
lished under the title Anamnesis. I hope to get most of it in shape during the ten
days of “rest.” The other one is the lectures on Hitler and the Germans, that I
gave this summer. But they are supposed to come out only next fall (1965); so
there is a little respite.
There was a point in my Salzburg lecture that might interest you as an histo-
rian of literature: The basic form of myth, the “tale” in the widest sense, includ-
ing the epic as well as the dramatic account of happenings, has a specific time,
immanent to the tale, whose specific character consists in the ability to combine
human, cosmic and divine elements into one story. I have called it, already in
Order and History, the Time of the Tale. It expresses the experience of being
(that embraces all sorts of reality, the cosmos) in flux. This Tale with its Time
seems to me the primary literary form, peculiar to cosmological civilizations.
Primary in the sense that it precedes all literary form developed under condi-
tions of differentiating experiences: If man becomes differentiated with any de-
gree of autonomy from the cosmic context, then, and only then, will develop
specifically human forms of literature: The story of human events, lyric, empir-
ical history, the drama and tragedy of human action, the meditative dialogue in
the Platonic sense, etc. Underlying all later, differentiated forms, however, there
remains the basic Tale which expresses Being in flux. Time, then, would not be
an empty container into which you can fill any content, but there would be as
many times as there are types of differentiated content. Think for instance of
Proust’s temps perdu and temps retrouvé as times which correspond to the loss
and rediscovery of self, the action of rediscovery through a monumental literary
work of remembrance being the atonement for the loss of time through per-
sonal guilt—very similar to cosmological rituals of restoring order that has been
lost through lapse of time. I believe the regrets of Richard II (I wasted time and
now does time waste me) touch the same problem. This reflexion would lead
into a philosophy of language, in which the basic Tale would appear as the in-
strument of man’s dealing with reality through language—and adequately at
that. Form and content, thus, would be inseparable: The Tale, if it is any good,
has to deal with Being in flux, however much differentiated the insights into the
complex structures of reality may be.
We hope you and Ruth will have a good time in Paris and let us know your
more permanent address in England.
With many thanks again for giving us the pleasure, and the University of
Munich the honor, of your coming,
Always yours,
<Eric>
<PS. Thanks for the MS. It will be dealt with, for translations, as soon as I am
back from Weilheim. E. V.>
104. Paris, August 19, 1964

Dear Eric,
We are already packing up so as to be able to make an early start for Calais to-
morrow morning. One ought, I suppose, to be in low spirits at leaving Paris, but
truth to tell, I have had enough of it. Though we did manage to do a consider-
able number of new things, the routine tended too much to be that of renewals,
and I will be glad to head off for the novelties of Wales and the Hebrides.
Besides, I have spent too much time doing nothing; I am beginning to come to
again, and think I may be ready for work. I dare not think of the embarrassing
comparison with you, who never stop working.
I was much interested in the section (from your Salzburg lecture) on “the
tale” in the widest sense; I would like to think that in a small way I have been
working in a fashion parallel to yours, i.e., thinking of the tale (whether novel,
drama, etc.) as having two aspects—those which are characteristic of the differ-
entiated age or culture (when “man becomes differentiated with any degree of
autonomy from the cosmic context”) and those which I have called the “con-
stants” (“Underlying all later, differentiated forms, however, there remains the
basic Tale which expresses Being in flux” and “The Tale, if it is any good, has to
deal with Being in flux . . .”). But I have some fear that instead of gaining fresh
enlightenment from you, I am twisting you to my own ends. The possibility of
fresh enlightenment, I see, lies in your placing of time at the center of, or mak-
ing it the essence of, the tale; I am wrestling with this for-me-new translation of
the “constant” into temporal terms; I suppose it is that, in narrative terms, being
has to be conceived of as movement or succession (unless “being in flux” has
some other connotation that I am failing to get). Yet I don’t think I am quite ac-
curate here, for Time seems to become a different thing in your admirable treat-
ment of Proust: what you say there is to me more enlightening than anything
else I have read about Proust (“atonement for the loss of time through personal
guilt”—i.e., the loss of time is the loss of contact with or knowledge of the es-
sential movements of Being?). Well, I should spare you these notes on my re-
flections, which may be even less competent than I think they are; but they
show you I am wrestling with the new concept.
I hope the two books—Anamnesis and Hitler and the Germans—will be trans-
lated into English, not only because I would like to be able to read them, but be-
cause they ought to be available to a good many other people. Think of being
able to organize one of these in your ten days at Weilheim! Well, I hope you do
get a little rest in the country, though you seem able to do with less of it than
anybody I have ever known.
From Diderot I got to Pascal’s Provincial Letters and Pensées. What seized my
eye in the PL was the extraordinary modernity of the intellectual positions
which P. attributes to the Jesuits—their relativism, for instance. I wish I knew
whether he is actually quoting SJ writers or inventing them as the bearers of po-
sitions implicitly present in actual writings (The Columbia Encyclopedia, the
only reference work I have here in the apartment, says, in its article on Port
Royal, that BP did a lot of misquoting, but the article sounds like an SJ apolo-
gia). From the psychological realism of the Pensées (BP knows as much as any
modern psychologist, but with a moral realism not much practiced in modern
psychology) I got into Dostoevsky’s novelettes (The Gambler and Notes from
[the] Underground) and was astonished—my naiveté again—at the resemblances
between the thought of a 17th c. French RC and a 19th c. Russian: either sepa-
rately or jointly they have put down everything that the 20th c. believes itself to
be discovering. And a minor point: Dostoevsky, at least, has anticipated “the
angry young men,” but instead of picturing him [sic] as a wounded man with a
legitimate criticism of the establishment, he sees him for what he is—a destruc-
tively spiteful person (or as the “vindictive man,” to use the term Karen Horney
applied in the description of the type) (I know this only second hand, though).
Your comments on the lectures are very kind. I am relieved if, in whatever
way, my public appearances seem to you personally ones that could get by, or
make do.
Should you want to reach me in connection with the MS (as seems unlikely),
we have so far two English addresses: week of August 31—Ravenhurst Hotel,
2 Broad Walk, Stratford on Avon; week of September 12—c/o Mrs. E. G. R.
Hooper, 16 Trevu Road, Cambourne, Cornwall. We’ll let you know when we
12. Both of these have now been translated and published. See the Collected Works of Eric
Voegelin, vol. 6, Anamnesis, ed. David Walsh, trans. M. J. Hanak, Gerhart Niemeyer et al. (Co-
lumbia: University of Missouri Press, 2002); and vol. 31, Hitler and the Germans, ed. and trans
Detlev Clemens and Brendan Purcell (Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 1999).
get—as we hope—a permanent address in October, and we hope we may be see-

ing Lissy, or possibly both of you, there. We hope the trip to America is a good
one. Our best to you both,
<Bob>
105. Cambridge, Massachusetts, January 19, 1965

Dear Bob:
Lissy has sent me a long report about her adventures in London—how won-
derfully you and Ruth, and the Brookses, have taken care of her; that you are
working every day in the BM from 9 to 6, and how she would enjoy, if she did
not see me for such a time every day; etc. Hence, let me first of all thank you
and Ruth for all your kindness and hospitality.
The term here at Harvard is drawing toward its end. This is a funny place. I
knew that before, but not so well in detail as one does, if one is part of the crew.
The Dep. of Government is loaded with second- and third-rate people; and
there is not a single one whom one could say to be really first-rate. They are not
behaviorists or anything else seriously reprehensible, but they are all caught in
the changing winds of the time and do not know what to do. They are basically
conservative in the sense that they want to conduct political science on the level
of tradition—Federalist Papers, constitution, supreme court—quite laudable in
itself, but no longer feasible, as the field of problems has enlarged into world-
politics, foreign civilizations, ideologies, etc. which all cannot be mastered by
the categories of the Founding Fathers. The way out would be to start seriously
philosophizing, and to rebuild political science with proper regard to the new
materials and the new theories necessary for handling them. But that is quite be-
yond their range. The oddest people are the political theorists. There is a man
named Louis Hartz who considers political theory a sort of literary criticism, ap-
plied to the works of Hobbes, Locke, and Rousseau. And there is a woman
named [Judith N.] Shklar who considers political theory an antiquarian inter-
est, to be indulged in by queer people like herself—she pleads for excluding po-
litical theory from the exam requirements.
A quite different climate prevails at the Divinity School. There is a collection
of first-rate scholars: [Krister] Stendahl in New Testament, [Thorkild] Jacobsen
for the Ancient Orient, [Frank Moore] Cross for the Old Testament, [Gilles]
Quispel for early Church History, and [Preston N.] Williams for the Reforma-
tion. I call them the alibi professors—Harvard has a lot of money, it can afford
to hire these scholars (three of them from Europe); they give prestige, but have
no influence whatsoever on the student body. They are appointed by the Pres-
ident against the will of the Faculty and are studiously ignored by the other
Departments. Quispel, who is an old friend of mine (I know him from Utrecht;
he is the editor of the Nag Hammadi finds), says frankly he feels like [he is] liv-
ing in a ghetto. They have him here this year on trial and want to offer him the
professorship formerly held by [Paul] Tillich. He is very doubtful whether he
should take it, especially since Tillich never had more than ten students, thanks
to the boycott methods of the “Yard” faculty.
If you set aside the Divinity ghetto, the place is depressing. Especially since
the philosophy department is a joke—all filled up with British analysts, seman-
ticists, and similar fauna. I always say that this department is proof that the pa-
perbacks have no culture [sic] influence whatsoever. There is Plato and Aristotle
available in paperback for the last ten or twenty years, and the Harvard Depart-
ment of Philosophy still does not know what philosophy is all about.
The students are more refreshing. There is, of course, the contingent of hard-
boiled ideologues who dropped my course before the date of final changes. But
the rest, about one half, are enthusiastic and most touching. They have given me
a dinner, what seems to be unheard of in the Annals of Harvard; and they assure
everybody that at last there was an interesting course in government. From what
I hear myself from fugitives from other courses, the chief sentiment among the
students seems to be one of utter boredom and frustration, a feeling that their
time is being wasted.
In sum: This place is coasting on the momentum of the past. There is noth-
ing going on here; even more, there is hostility against anything new. As they
have just built a William James Hall for the behavioral sciences, I make myself
popular by assuring people that William James could not get a job at Harvard
today. In the Government Department this situation is sensed, if not clearly un-
derstood; the mood is, therefore, defeatist. They feel doomed to be overrun by
the behaviorists.
The last weeks were a bit crowded. Lissy may have told you about it. I had to
give a lecture at Duke (on The Quest of the Ground). Then I was four days in
New York, as some investment banker conceived the idea that the men of his
planning division would profit for their long-range view of investments in for-
eign countries by what I can tell them about politics. That was more interesting,
since bankers are tough and have common sense; one can discuss with them ra-
tionally; it is not like the academic world where opinions, if wrong, do not cost
you money, so that one can have any opinions that look pleasing. And on the
day after my return I had the Ingersoll Lecture. That is an Institution since 1893,
when some lady gave $5000. for establishing such a lecture, to be held every
year, in honor of her dear daddy (neither Robert Ingersoll, the Village Atheist;
nor the gentleman, who produced the dollar-watches). At first, this seemed
somewhat out of my line, but then it turned out that immortality is a central
problem in politics. One can even say that modern ideologies can be interpreted
as gaining control over other people’s immortality in history—this would be
their principal motivation. I gave examples from the Encyclopédie Française,
from [Auguste] Comte, and the Soviet Encyclopedia. From the latter, people
who have changed from immortality to mortality with the change of the party
line must be removed; the leaf is to be replaced by a new one. The instructions
coming with the new folio advise the recipient to remove the page with a razor
blade, not just to tear it out as that would make the book ungainly. My reflec-
tions on the advances in the technology of immortality were well received. There
was also a more serious part to the lecture—but that would go too far for a let-
ter. Everybody seemed happy, in particular the Dean of the Divinity School
[Samuel H. Miller], who told me that these lectures had become somewhat
“wooden” in recent years, as lecturers had taken to deliver themselves on im-
mortality with the Eskimos or Navajos. Then we had a dinner; and when I left,
the Dean and Stendahl were engaged in a lively contest who would get the lec-
ture for his pet journal—the Dean wants it for the Bulletin in order to impress
the Alumni, Stendahl wants it for the Harvard Theological Review in order to
impress the profession. I don’t know yet who won. The lecture, incidentally, was
well attended—the large lecture hall in Divinity was crammed full and people
were standing.
You see, the place is not without its modest amusements.
I have told you a bit about Harvard—perhaps at too great length—because I
thought such impressions of a great university might interest you. I remember
well your observations of the phenomena at LSU.
Beginning February 1st, I shall be at Notre Dame. My address will be: Morris
Inn, Notre Dame, Indiana.
With all good wishes for you and Ruth,
Yours sincerely,
<Eric>
106. [London,] February 17, 1965

Dear Eric,
January was a lucky month for us: first a visit from Lissy, then a letter from
you. We had very fine times with Lissy, and the only thing that could have
improved the occasion would have been your being here also, but since that was
impossible, your long and most interesting letter was the next best thing.
Your account of Harvard, at least of several different departments in Harvard,
was hilarious and depressing at the same time, if those two effects can coexist.
(Lissy had previously given us one detail about the Pol. Sci. Department—that
when a graduate student elected Latin as a foreign language, you were the only
member of the staff that could give him an examination in it!) I would have
liked to think that Harvard Pol. Sci. was a superior kind of beast in its own par-
ticular zoo (and on second thought I can see that your words do not exclude
that possibility). What is especially good about your account is the concrete
examples that you casually introduce to dramatize the issue; I could use your
paragraph as a good example of expository prose. What you had to say about
philosophy did not surprise me at all, however, because the analytical airs from
there have been spreading out in all directions. I was pleased to have your judg-
ment of the Divinity School, because I know that that has been a pet of [Nathan
Marsh] Pusey’s for which Pusey has been much abused; one enjoys the irony
that a president is abused for picking first-rate men. But that the Yard faculty
surrounds them with a fence of either indifference or hostility is the saddest
news of all.
Lissy had told us that you had made short work of the students who felt it
was their business to quarrel with you and enlighten you if they could; it made
me envious of your method, for I never know how to handle these contentious
characters who seem to get more numerous and more rude. That the rest of the
class, who came not to confute but to learn, then gave you a dinner pleased
Ruth and me no end. Three cheers!
The Ingersoll lecture was another great and deserved triumph. (As Lissy has
doubtless told you, I told her all wrong, for I thought the Ingersoll in question
was the village atheist: we independently used the same term for him, at any
rate.) Until I see the rest of the lecture in print, I will cling to the idea of the
modern technique of getting control over other peoples’ immortality in history;
this, I feel, is bound to have literary echoes—I mean rather in aesthetic methods
than in historiographic writing—but so far this is vague, and I will have to see if
I can make it come through for myself. What fun to be quarreled over by edi-
tors, and I hope that you will send me a copy of the journal of whichever one
wins. . . . I am utterly delighted by the ironies in your four days of conferring
with investment bankers, and on their accessibility to what you had to say. I
would relish a transcript of the meeting, and I hope that the bankers not only
13. Nathan Marsh Pusey was president of Harvard, 1953–1971.

paid you well in cash but expressed their gratitude in the form of useful market
information. Incidentally, what precisely was the train of connection by which
they got to you?
Lissy told us that you had had an illiterate letter from Hugh Bone. I will con-
fess that I engaged in some correspondence with the Dean and the Provost, both
of whom trust me I think, in the interest of producing some gestures toward in-
teresting you in Washington when you retire at Munich. You are the kind of man
both would like to appoint. But it has to go through the department, and that is
what is discouraging, because they are so stupid. All that gets appropriately sym-
bolized in the epistolary style and manners of Bone, who is not even grammati-
cal. Well, in view of the quality of our Pol. Sci. department, I’m not doing you
much of a favor in trying to stir something up there, but it depresses me that even
that opening gun of any possibility is stillborn. A thull dud, as someone said.
Too soon we shall be running out of time here, and I will not be nearly so far
along on Tragedy and Melodrama as I had hoped. I’m not sure now that at-
tempting to deal with a number of dramas in terms of concepts of genre is a
good idea; all I can say for it is that I hoped not to be affixing labels, but to be
using a way of looking at structure that would be illuminating about individual
plays. What I think we have here is two basically different ways of looking at
human personality, and ways that seem to persist for a good many hundred
years; I’ve wanted to look at enough individual cases to suggest that historically
quite alien works are, without forcing, amenable to this way of looking at them.
Well, we will see if anything comes out of it that anybody will print. Inci-
dentally, I’ve found [Friedrich] Dürrenmatt and [Max] Frisch very interesting; it
seems to me that they go way beyond their master Brecht in permitting drama-
tis personae to function as characters instead of simply as signposts to desired
conclusions. Brecht I think is much overrated, but I have to keep my eye on my
own basic rule that you have to be a long way away from the dramatist in time
in order to have some sense of whether he is more than topically enchanting, or
for that matter, disenchanting. What I would call, in Dürrenmatt and Frisch,
the drift from the expressionistic morality to a valid imagining of character
seems to me to be in some way characteristic today; very few people start writ-
ing as if they had any interest in characters, but they want to prove something
about the world or about the force of some element in the personality, and they
get away from this narrow objective only, it appears, by accident. It is rather
fashionable nowadays, to look down on Tennessee Williams, but he has a great
deal of vigor in presenting his characters, as far as they go, and this very vigor
tends to make them go farther than the blueprint perhaps called for. Off the ev-
idence of the plays I think TW is a sick man, but yet the sickness always feels as
if it were about to slip over the line into an offbeat kind of health that might
produce something much larger than appears to be there.
I’ve taken time off from the BM beat only for a couple of lectures. The one on
critic and historian was at the Embassy, the lead-off in a series that Cleanth has
arranged, a series that will end with one by Lionel Trilling, one by his wife, Diana,
and one by Cleanth himself. An absolutely icy audience. But Cleanth, fortu-
nately, did think quite well of it and recommended it to some other people; so
I’ll take him as surrogate for a loud vox populi. We’ve just come back from
Leeds, where I used the Munich public lecture at the U; here the situation was
the opposite, for the audience responded very well, but no one had anything to
say afterwards. We were glad to see Leeds—made up entirely of the worst parts
of Jersey City, Chicago, and Scranton, Pa., nearly everything ugly and in the
worst 19th century manner.
We hope everything is going well at ND, with only the beautiful aspects of
winter, only the best of students, and not too many of them.
With very best wishes,
Sincerely,
<Bob>
107. Notre Dame, Indiana, February 22, 1965

Dear Bob:
A letter from you is a rarity and always a delight. Don’t be horrified that I an-
swer so quickly—I am in the middle of a lot of correspondence and if I do not
answer immediately the delay might be unconscionable. Besides, you ask about
one or two points, above all the letter from Hugh Bone.
Well, Bone invited me to come to Seattle for a lecture. I suspected that might
not be his initiative but rather yours. So I answered him I would be delighted
but could tell him only definitely when I was in Notre Dame in February. Then
I had another letter, more lengthy, in which he built up so many difficulties con-
cerning a date that I gathered he would be only too happy if I declined in view
of the obstacles. And that is the end of it, as far as I can see.
My relations to the investment bankers in New York are quite a saga. I hope
Lissy has told you a bit about it. The key to the connection is a young couple in
New York, by the name of [Stephen M. and Toni] DuBrul [ Jr.], who took a lik-
ing to my Order and History. So one day when they were in Munich, he just
14. Stephen M. DuBrul Jr. was instrumental in helping Voegelin fund some of his research. See
Eric Voegelin Papers, Hoover Institution Archives, box 10, file 18 for correspondence between
Voegelin and DuBrul.
called on me to see the famous man, and offered to support my work. He was
very insistent. And that is how it all started. We then became good friends, and
his wife, Toni, is a charming person. He is a partner with Lehman Brothers; she
is one of the daughters of the Container Corporation. Both seem to be very
wealthy. One pleasant fringe benefit to my recent activities in New York is his
insistence that his father, who seems to be another wealthy man with a function
in General Motors, pay for the expansion of the Institute in Munich. Tentatively
some $50,000 per annum for five years was mentioned. I am just now exploring
this pleasant possibility—which contributes to the increase of my correspon-
dence.
But there are less materialistic matters. You speak in your letter of a change in
dramatic style from expressionist morality to a new realism represented by
Dürrenmatt and Frisch. As I am not accustomed to think in these categories,
and am not quite sure with regard to their exact meaning, I should like to hear
more about the matter. The reason is that just now I am dabbling again in your
field of literature, and I feel that I am after the same problem. Let me present it
briefly—but I must warn you that I can only hope I have not completely mis-
understood you.
I hit on what seems to me the same problem through dealing with language
and some other symbolisms in connection with my eternal problem of Gnosis.
[George] Orwell develops in 1984, as you know, the symbolism of Newspeak.
His elaboration of the issue is in my opinion weak, but he is after a real issue.
The restriction of vocabulary and meanings: an ideological language has the
purpose of interrupting the contact with reality, and on the other hand to admit
as “reality” in quotation marks only the phantasy of the ideology. This restric-
tion now pertains not only to words and meanings, but to whole bodies of
propositions in philosophy or to facts of history that could interfere with the
ideological “truth” by showing it to be a falsehood. An essential in our American
ideological environment is, therefore, the destruction of philosophy, history,
and even the knowledge of languages in order to prevent access to recalcitrant
sources. Every ideology with its apparatus of taboos is, therefore, a Newspeak in
the sense of Orwell. (The opposite Oldspeak, incidentally, has become an estab-
lished derogatory term among our social scientists inasmuch as they characterize
a proposition in philosophic language as “old-fashioned.”) If one translates the
Orwellian issue into more adequate terminology, one would have to speak of
the “obsessive language” of ideologues—which has the double purpose of repe-
titious, mechanical iteration of the phantasy and of killing off, at the same time,
any conflicting reality. The term “obsessive language” seems to suggest itself
because the great analyst of speakers of obsessive language in the 19th century
was Dostoevsky in his Demons, a work that in the English edition has the title
The Obsessed. That seems to be good authority.
The result of the obsession, and of the use of obsessive language, is the dis-
tortion and deformation of reality. I had to struggle with this problem all last
summer when I gave the course on Hitler and the Germans. The adequate
means of representation for the distortion seemed to be what I called at the
time the burlesque. The term suggested itself through the study of novels and
dramas by Doderer, Frisch and Dürrenmatt. Recently, however, I reread [Gustav]
Flaubert’s Tentation de Saint Antoine and read some new literature on Flaubert,
especially the excellent study by Jean Seznec. The whole complex seems to
have been worked through already on occasion of Flaubert. In Flaubert’s emerg-
ing as the ascetic from the lush romanticism of the forties, the drama of over-
coming ideologies seems to have been acted already once. In the Tentation,
especially in the parts on heresies and on the libido scientiae, the whole manifold
of ideological aberration seems to have been worked through, on occasion of its
first occurrence in the early Christian centuries. The nightmare of Flaubert’s
time (and of ours) was cathartically overcome by going through its original
gnostic form. On this occasion, of Flaubert, there was also no doubt yet about
the vocabulary as these French erudites were a lot more cultivated than we are
today. (Excuse me: than I am today; for I am sure you are quite familiar with the
problems that trouble me.) The Gnostic symbolism, and the indulgence in
them, was called the grotesque—the early Christian centuries were to Christian-
ity what the grotesque is to literature, runs one of the formulations in the litera-
ture. So, grotesque seems to be preferable to burlesque as a term. Moreover,
these 19th-century men of letters were still wise to the essential connections be-
tween heresy and cruelty, profanation and sadism, etc. It was perfectly clear to
everybody that the autonomy of man in revolt against God was at the core of
the issue; that the attempt to replace a world of God’s making by a manmade
world could be perpetrated, as it could not be achieved, only through a sensuous
outburst of cruelty in overcoming resistance—a cruelty in permanence as the
goal could never be reached. The connection of heresy and cruelty is the con-
nection that we formulate today as ideology and terror, or on the less activist
level as the mixture of refined sophistic and spiritual vulgarity that is excellently
represented today by the vanitas of Sartre.
15. Jean Seznec, Nouvelles études sur La tentation de saint Antoine (London: Warbury Institute,
University of London, 1949).
I hope you see why your remarks interested me very much. The expressionist
morality of a Brecht is still “obsessive” language (through symbolism of charac-
ters in the drama). What we find in Frisch and Dürrenmatt, and what you diag-
nose as the higher validity of their characterization, is a new influx of reality.
Against the extreme destruction of reality committed by expressionists, there
stands a considerable spiritual substance in the Swiss authors. Even if they con-
strue puppets in order to make a point, the puppets have a reality superior to
any figures of Brecht, because the point they make is that they are puppets and
not reality.
It’s horrible—I am at the end of the second page. And I am not going to mo-
lest you with a third one.
So long then, All good wishes to Ruth and you.
Always yours,
<Eric>
108. [London,] March 21, 1965

Dear Eric,
I am not sure exactly when you are leaving Notre Dame, so to be on the safe
side I shall address this to Munich. When you get back there you will probably
have so much official correspondence waiting that you may not be displeased by
one letter that brings up no business and requires no answering.
Hugh Bone disgusts me, but that is nothing new. I will again complain to the
Dean, but nothing is to be accomplished by that, because the Dean thinks Bone
is as stupid as I do. I hope for a better opportunity later, though there is no rea-
son why you should go trotting across the country to carry the word to alien
parts—except that I would like you just to see those alien parts just once.
No, Lissy discreetly said nothing, really, about your relations with the invest-
ment bankers in New York, but the story as you sketch it in your letter from
Morris Inn is very interesting. For me the great thing is that investment brokers
sired by General Motors and out of American Can [Corporation] liked your
book so much that they thought something ought to be done about it. I enjoy
the irony that they look better than American academics. Then there is the
noble by-product that they want to pay for the Institute. Good. I tell you, I have
been almost on the edge of writing them a fan letter. Could you suggest to them
that, with retirement coming up, you would love to have them set up such an
institute in America that you could run for the next 15 or 20 years? This is my
idea of what ought to come out of it.
Re Dürrenmatt and Frisch: I have perhaps been using terms loosely, and you
may set me straight. I have used expressionism to denote that kind of literary
method in which the characters and actions do not at all resemble those of ordi-
nary life but are used rather as counters for ideas, single character traits taken
out of context, fragments of reality, behavioral eccentricities, all these reassem-
bled or simply juxtaposed in novel ways that at their best break the ordinary pat-
terns in which we are accustomed to perceive human conduct and presumably,
therefore, give a sharper sense of what we are doing and what is going on. I’ve
been making the point that, as I put it somewhere, “Post-realistic expressionism
in the end has remarkable resemblances to pre-realist allegory.” Well, either
mode can be good or bad, and it will probably take considerable experience of
expressionist drama to make us able to have a decent assurance about what is
meretricious and about what is really going somewhere and will have some
durability for later periods. Allegory (the old morality play) and expressionism
can move either toward making points or toward characterological fullness. At
their best, it seems to me, Frisch and Dürrenmatt move in the latter direction
(even Brecht does, at times), and I imagine that my impression of this is what I
was talking about in my earlier letter. I’m trying to proceed on the theoretical
basis that the better a writer is, the more the expressionist distortion turns out to
be not simply a dramatized editorial, but a novelly presented full character in ac-
tion. There are all kinds of slippery spots in this, and I can only hope that I don’t
fall down too often and make an ass of myself.
I am much impressed by your extension of the idea of Newspeak into whole
prescriptive vocabularies that have the effect of eliminating from consideration
whatever, on some ground or other, it is desired not to have to face. You carry it
much further than I am able to. Where I have noted this for years, without ever
being able to give a name to it, is in the intellectual practices of liberals, where a
very limited world is officially created to be the whole of reality. Liberalspeak is
surely one case of an obsessive language. But that is only a minor example of
what you find in a fascinating host of other ramifications—in Dostoevsky’s The
Possessed (I’ve also seen The Demons used, but not, to my memory, The Obsessed:
the connotative values are a little different, aren’t they?), in Flaubert, in the
Gnostic symbolism, and then of course in the whole business of the relation be-
tween heresy and cruelty as the instrument of imposing a man-made world.
[left:] <marginalia: Do you know Mario Praz’s The Romantic Agony?>
16. Mario Praz, The Romantic Agony, trans. Angus Davidson (London: Oxford University Press,
1933).
The shift from burlesque to grotesque as a term seems a good one. Forgive me
for being stupid, but I have still a problem with grotesque, which, as a term for
obsessive language, seems to refer only to that deformation of reality which re-
sults either from ignorance (the liberals) or from cool political manipulation
(demagogues, ideologues, etc.). To people with mainly literary associations it
would connote more immediately that deformation of reality which exists on
the surface, which is an aesthetic instrument with the intention of doing better
than ordinary realism (adjustment of literature to familiar social surface, con-
duct, etc.) in getting to forgotten reality, or in sharpening perceptions, partic-
ularly in a comic mode. Victor Erlich, who left us at UW to become Slavic
chairman at Yale, is working on Gogol as a grotesque writer, in which he has one
secondary purpose of defeating the Soviet view of G. as a social realist (as an ide-
ological figure). He is working from Wolfgang Kayser’s Das Groteske in Malerei
und Dichtung, which doubtless you know, and which perhaps you read differ-
ently from the way Victor does.
I’ve reached the end of my rope, as you will have seen—but I am delighted to
extend it further by means of two quotations from Dürrenmatt that I have just
come across. They are from his “Problems of the Theatre,” lectures delivered in
1954 and ’55, perhaps not yet printed in German; it appears that the original
MS, or “a version” of it, was used for a translation by Gerhard Nellhaus in Four
Plays 1957–62 (London: Jonathan Cape, 1962—translations by various hands):
“Our world has led to the grotesque as well as to the atom bomb, and so it is a
world like that of Hieronymous Bosch whose apocalyptic paintings are also
grotesque. But the grotesque is only a way of expressing in a tangible manner, of
making us perceive physically the paradoxical, the form of the unformed, the
face of a world without face; as just as in our thinking today we seem unable to
do without the concept of the paradox (p. 33), so also in art, and in our world
which at times seems still to exist only because, the atom bomb exists: out of
fear of the bomb” (p. 34). “Our task today is to demonstrate freedom. . . .
Tyrants fear only one thing: a poet’s mockery. For this reason, then, parody has
crept into all literary genres, into the novel, the drama, into lyrical poetry. Much
of painting, even of music, has been conquered by parody, and the grotesque has
followed, often well camouflaged, on the heels of parody: all of a sudden the
grotesque is there” (p. 38).
(1) For me, he overstresses the bomb as a primary fact. (2) I wonder if he is
17. Wolfgang Kayser, The Grotesque in Art and Literature, trans. Ulrich Weisstein (New York:
Columbia University Press, 1981).
not using “parody” in about the sense in which you were originally using “bur-
lesque”? I’m not sure what he means by it—apparently something more far-
reaching than the usual literary sense of a playful deformation of someone else’s
style by way of ridiculing it. (3) He does not define grotesque but simply as-
sumes the meaning. Maybe he derives from Kayser.
We are beginning to pack up. Our lease ends on March 31, and on April 1 we
fly to Sicily, then Naples, then Athens. I have hardly had time to think about
this, for I have felt desperately short of time at the BM; I realize now that I can-
not finish Tragedy and Melodrama before we go back, and I don’t know when I
will be able to do it later. But still I am using every minute and Ruth feels, with
justice I know, that I am not showing enough interest in forthcoming travels.
She is doing a splendid job of reading Greece. I’ve been reading a paperback on
[Heinrich] Schliemann—what a man.
I hope you had a good season at ND; and I know that both of you will be
glad that—or when—you are back in Munich. I wish DuBrul would want to
import you!
With best wishes from both of us, and affectionate greetings to Lissy,
Sincerely,
<Bob>
<We saw [Luigi] Pirandello’s Right You Are If You Think So the other night—the
inflation of a half-truth to look like a whole one, if I ever saw one (not to men-
tion the inflation of a one-act-er into a 3-act play).>
109. June 12, 1966

Dear Eric,
This year Glenn Leggett, who used to be Director of Freshman English in our
department and later moved up gradually to the provost-ship, became president
of Grinnell College. Glenn told his professor of philosophy, Paul Kuntz, that I
knew you, and Paul then sent me a file of the proceedings at the Grinnell collo-
quium conducted by you and [Arnold J.] Toynbee. Your brilliant Grinnell piece
is the first short thing of yours that has come to me in some time, and it took
18. Voegelin gave a speech entitled “The Configuration of History” and engaged in an inter-
change with Arnold J. Toynbee on April 14, 1963, at Grinnell College. This speech was later pub-
lished as “Configurations of History,” in Concept of Order, ed. Paul Kuntz (Seattle: University of
Washington Press, 1968), 23–42. It is reprinted in the Collected Works of Eric Voegelin, vol. 12,
Published Essays, 1966–1985, ed. Ellis Sandoz (Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 1990).
me back to the days when manuscripts from you regularly kept me on my toes
and seeing over the usual border lines. Then Glenn invited me to Grinnell to
hold forth in a literary symposium at his inauguration—the device for suggest-
ing that an inauguration is doing more than inducting a new promotional era. I
had some more chat with Paul Kuntz and found, among other things, that his
father and mine were very close to being classmates both at a Lutheran college in
Pennsylvania and at the Lutheran seminary in Philadelphia which they both at-
tended. Small-world clichés everywhere. In my piece I held forth against some
of the standard clichés that govern English departments and English studies,
among them the current rush to call everything “absurd” (I’ve been most curi-
ous about the enormous popularity of the word existential, and I’ve about come
to the conclusion that to most people it means little more than a way of assert-
ing fashionably that they are good reliable liberal atheists). This pleased Paul,
and he gave me a postal introduction to his friend, and chairman-to-be, Gregor
Sebba at Emory. Sebba then sent me his essay on you. This I am immensely
happy to have, for it gives me the impression—not I hope an illusive one—of
being a splendid, orderly, overall exposition of your positions in the opus mag-
num. I was so pleased that I begged a couple additional copies of him to distrib-
ute to several UW colleagues whose minds are open to something more than the
standard quasi-philosophic yak-yak of the faculty club. Incidentally they are
both Jews, and as such terribly liable to fall into the Marxian-Freudian-liberal
clichés, the defensive-aggressive dissent against everything, and the special-
privileges-for-me line of the ex-Ghetto boys; but they both have good imagina-
tions and reflective powers and so are constantly transcending the party-line. So
they will learn something from EV; they will object and resist, but still they will
take something in. Score a couple of runs for our side, as the sports argot has it.
Then in sending me the extra copies Sebba also sent me copies of an exchange of
letters between himself and a man named [Ellis] Sandoz (a former student of
yours I believe) at Louisiana Tech at Ruston—an interesting debate on Sebba’s
treatment of Altizer at the end of his EV piece, one which I am not competent
to understand but which I took great pleasure in. Among other things, Sandoz
urged Sebba to publish the EV essay in a good place, and Sebba replied in some-
what sad tones, “But where?” At this point I got into the act and wrote Don
Stanford of the Southern Review urging him to ask Sebba for the essay. I haven’t
yet heard from Don, but I would be most pleased if something came of this.
19. This essay was published; see Gregor Sebba, “Order and Disorders of the Soul: Eric Voe-
gelin’s Philosophy of History,” Southern Review, n.s., 3 (1967): 282–310.
Next Saturday Ruth and I move to our cabin on Camano Island for two
months. We rent the white house and move up there as a device for compelling
us to get out of circulation here and me to get to work—this time to finish, I
hope, the tragedy-melodrama thing which I got moving pretty well in London
last year. Once I get that incubus out of the way I want to collect some
Shakespeare essays I did during the last couple of years and maybe add several to
them in hopes of making a short volume out of it. But since we got back from
England just a year ago I haven’t been able to touch anything but very short
jobs. I have an essay on Macbeth which will appear in England this fall and
which has gone pretty well as a lecture on several occasions, and an edition of
Taming of the Shrew led me to think out a sort of theory of farce.
But 12 months of administration (I took the summer chairmanship in ’65
mainly to work myself gradually back into the nightmare of history, as Joyce
called it) have been taxing. I’ve hired 10 new people (which meant great waves of
recruiting during most of the year), fought off offers for good people, got rid of
some lemons (though not as many as should be eliminated), shuddered at the
usual series of crises (staff going batty or threatening to, assistant professors mis-
taking themselves for god because of being in short supply, student demagogues
mistaking themselves for assistant professors, searching for a new dean {as yet
unfound}, and at the end a negro acting instructor, female yet, giving automatic
A-grades to all her male students to help keep them out of the draft and hence
further away from going to Viet-Nam, where she disapproves of our activities).
Has anything yet been consummated at LSU? Now and then we get wind of
an intimation of some sort, but nothing definite from any direction. If the ques-
tion is unanswerable, and shouldn’t be asked, don’t hesitate to say so. I’ve been
making some efforts to stir other offers and have apparently had no success.
Did anything ever come of the proposal to translate my Voegelin-seminar talk
and include it in a volume? I hesitate to ask, for my suspicion is that your trans-
lator probably said, “This will never do,” and it seemed expedient to drop it, but
I may as well know the facts.
Eliseo Vivas has been trying to get some kind of grant to spend a year writing
a book about liberalism. I was asked to write a letter in his behalf, and so I got a
copy of the prospectus, which I will send on to you under separate cover. I don’t
know how well Eliseo will do it, but I shall be glad to see him work out the view
20. Heilman, “The Criminal as Tragic Hero: Dramatic Methods,” in Shakespeare Survey: An
Annual Survey of Shakespearian Study and Production, vol. 19, ed. Kenneth Muir (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1966): 12–24; and Heilman, “The Taming Untamed; or, the Return of
the Shrew,” Modern Language Quarterly 27 (1966): 147–61.
that in liberalism we have a remarkable case of a new orthodoxy spreading itself

under the guise of philosophical disinterested-ness. This, I suppose, is an old in-
tellectual fashion; it is wearisome as a contemporary phenomenon. We have a
quite different version of a comparable phenomenon going on before our eyes
presently: a set of Fundamentalist Presbyterians (backed, apparently, by Bircher
money) are suing the university to compel it to give up a course in English,
“The Bible as Literature.” The plaintiffs are making a fascinating two-headed
case: (1) the course is really a pressure for faith, and as such violates the church-
and-state prohibitions of the constitution; (2) the course is undermining faith
by treating the revealed as historical fact. If the plaintiffs were not such dingy
people, I rather suspect they would be joined by the ACLU et omne id genus,
who so desperately hope that the Constitution will put out of business whatever
is contrary to their own dogma.
I have let much too much time go by since I last wrote you. And now I have
used too many words to say too little. But please take it all as a token of admira-
tion and of affectionate greetings to you both,
<Bob>
110. [Munich,] June 19, 1966

Dear Bob:
To have a letter from you is a rare pleasure in a world not altogether pleasant
at the moment.
It seems you have run into a number of my friends. Kuntz, in Grinnell, is a
quite charming man, and a good philosopher in addition. Your mentioning of
my lecture I gave at some time in company of Toynbee, however, reminds me
painfully of the MS that Kuntz has sent me and that is still lying on my desk
unrevised. Sebba, in Emory, again is an excellent man—the author of the
great Bibliographia Cartesiana. He is greatly interested in my work: the essay
you mention is really good—in some respects better than I have ever myself
expressed what I wanted to say. If it could be published, thanks to your help,
in the Southern Review, that would be a good solution of Sebba’s publication
trouble.
“Trouble” is the key word: I have a lot of trouble with my Institute here, as
my dear colleague [Hans] Maier is doing his best to wreck what I have built up
21. This is a reference to the John Birch Society, a conservative, anticommunist organization.
22. “And all that sort.”
with some labor. There is a growing resistance in Germany against everything

“foreign.” Hence, my build-up of Eastern Asiatic, Near Eastern, African, Amer-
ican, Ancient Orient sections etc. in the Institute causes resentment. What a
good German ought to know is German history, German political institutions,
perhaps [Charles] de Gaulle, and a smattering of the Common Market. America
is to be kept at arm’s length; students should not study in America, because that
would estrange them from the solid German methods of history and philology,
etc. That is the new spirit, and it is growing. I don’t want to bother you with de-
tails—but the past year has been one of unceasing trouble to ward off the worst
effects. It seems, however, that the powers of darkness will have to submit to
light—at least as far as the Institute is concerned. Elsewhere in Germany it does
not look so good. Not that there is a serious revival of National Socialism, but
there is marked increase in the provincialism that was the matrix of Hitlerism,
and may become the hot-bed again of unpleasantness in the future.
Intimately connected with this kind of trouble is the possibility of my return
to Louisiana. Pete Taylor has made a good offer—but I cannot accept it, un-
less I [am] given my emeritation here in Munich. And they won’t give it appar-
ently, until I have reached the age of 68. Of course, I could walk out [of ] here
any day, but then I would lose my pension rights. So, for the moment, I am tied
down.
Not that I am completely paralyzed. There just has come out a volume of
about 400 pages, entitled Anamnesis. It is my philosophy of consciousness. I am
not sending you a copy, because it is in German. The book has several functions.
In the first place, I had to publish a book in German sometime as a sort of pub-
lic obligation—my work in English is not read here (see xenophobia above) and
a professor has to come out with a book now and then. Second, I had to work
through quite a number of theoretical problems before I could finish Order and
History—this I have done, in recent years, in a number of articles published in
German, and now integrated into Anamnesis. Third, however, and most impor-
tant, I wanted to experiment with a new literary form in philosophy. Let me ex-
plain:
Heraclitus has been the first thinker to identify philosophy as an exploration
of the psyche in depth—its tension, its dynamics, its structure, etc. This exege-
sis of psyche or consciousness has remained the center-piece of philosophy ever
23. Hans Maier was the second political science faculty member at Munich.
24. Cecil Grady Taylor became chancellor of Louisiana State University (main campus in Baton
Rouge) in 1965 and served until he resigned in 1974.
since. However, it has been overlaid historically by philosophy in the secondary

sense of communicating the results of exegesis as well as its speculative conse-
quences. Hence, philosophy moves in history as an up and down of an exegesis
of consciousness and a dogmatic formulation of results, a return to the original
consciousness, new dogmatizations etc. At present, we are faced with the prob-
lem of getting rid of a considerable heap of dogma—theological, metaphysical,
and ideological—and to recover the original experiences of man’s tension to-
ward the divine ground of his existence. Now, while dogma can be presented in
the form of systems, of ratiocination from unquestioned premises, or discursive
exposition of problems presented in the philosophical literature, original exege-
sis of consciousness can proceed only by the form of direct observation and
meditative tracing of the structure of the psyche. Moreover, this structure is not
a given to be described by means of propositions, but a process of the psyche it-
self that has to find its language symbols as it proceeds. And finally, the self-
interpretation of consciousness cannot be done once for all, but is a process in
the life-time of a human being. From these peculiarities stem the literary prob-
lems. Heraclitus has found the form of the aphorism as the adequate expression
of biographical moments illuminating the structure of the psyche. Another
form is the via negativa of Christian meditation, still used by Descartes. The
matter is further complicated, inasmuch as every attempt at original exegesis of
consciousness is undertaken historically in opposition to the prevalent dogma-
tism of the time, and receives its coloration from it. The exegesis is an attempt to
recover or remember, (hence the title Anamnesis), the human condition reveal-
ing itself in consciousness, when it is smothered by the debris of opaque sym-
bols. Hence, one cannot simply take over an historically earlier analysis of
consciousness, such as the Heraclitian, Aristotelian, or Augustinian, but must
start from the current obstacles to human self-understanding. This should give
you some general idea of the problem.
In my special case, I proceeded in the following manner: Parts I and III of the
book contain two meditative exercises of about 75 pp. each. The first one I went
through and wrote down in September–November 1943; the last one, in the sec-
ond half of 1965. The first one, in Baton Rouge, was the breakthrough by which
I recovered consciousness from the current theories of consciousness, especially
from Phaenomenology. The second one, begins as a rethinking of the Aristotel-
ian exegesis of consciousness (in Met. I and II), and then expands into new areas
25. In an October 23, 1946, letter, J. E. Palmer, editor of the Sewanee Review, invited Voegelin to
contribute something to the journal. On November 5, 1946, Voegelin responded by making sev-
eral suggestions for possible submissions, and then he offered Palmer another possibility:
of consciousness that had not come within the ken of classic philosophy but
must be explored now, in order to clear consciousness of the above-mentioned
dogmatisms. —Between the two meditations, I have placed, under the title
“Experience and History,” eight studies which demonstrate how the historical
phenomena of order give rise to the type of analysis which culminates in the
meditative exploration of consciousness. Hence, the whole book is held together
by a double movement of empiricism: (1) the movement that runs from the his-
torical phenomena of order to the structure of consciousness in which they orig-
inate; and (2) the movement that runs from the analysis of consciousness to the
phenomena of order inasmuch as the structure of consciousness is the instru-
ment of interpretation for the historical phenomena.
Well, we’ll see how the public will take to this novel form which is neither
pre-Socratic, nor classic, nor Christian, though it has certain affinities to the
mysticism of Plotinus and [Pseudo-] Dionysius Areopagita, not to forget the
Cloud of Unknowing.
Another piece I just finished is a lecture of about 40 pages on the German
University as one of the causes of German social disorder. That will make me
immensely popular as I had to analyse Wilhelm von Humboldt’s conception of
man, science, and Bildung as a case of romantic narcissism calculated to make
man unfit for public life in society. Besides I had to praise Thomas Mann who is
heartily disliked because he said so many naughty things about dear old Ger-
many.
If you would rather have something on the literary side, I have also lying around a
MS entitled Anamnesis. It is an intellectual autobiography of my first ten years. The
crazy thing originated in a correspondence with a friend on the question whether the
Cartesian type of meditation is a legitimate approach to a philosophy of the mind. I de-
nied the legitimacy on the ground that the life of spirit and intellect is historical in the
strict sense, and that the determinants of mature philosophical speculation have to be
sought in the mythical formation of the mind in experiences of early youth. In order to
prove my point, I made anamnetic experiments on myself and collected twenty-odd
such early experiences which determined my later metaphysical attitudes. The thing is
of objective importance; the autobiographical element is of little relevance. There is,
however, one hitch to it. The myths of childhood are fragile, and I used for the descrip-
tion the only language instrument which I master myself and that is German. I would
not dare to translate these pieces into English myself. But if you have somebody at hand
who knows a little German and a lot of English, you can have it for translation and
publication. (Hoover Institution, Voegelin Papers, box 36, file 8)
Mr. Palmer did not take Voegelin up on this offer and these anamnetic experiments were not
published until the German edition of Anamnesis in 1966.
In March I spent three weeks in England, under the auspices of the British
Council, making a tour of Universities: London, Oxford, Cambridge, Man-
chester, St. Andrews, Dundee, and Sussex. But I managed to wedge Stonehenge
in. I saw Cleanth and Tinkum in London, established in splendour, and was taken
to the Atheneum. The purpose of the trip was to form connections for placing
our students for a term or two in England. Besides I saw quite a few people
whom I had known only from their books hitherto; especially Manchester has a
splendid concentration of comparative religionists like [Samuel George Fred-
erick] Brandon, [Frederick Fyvie] Bruce, and [David Syme] Russell.
Your account of your administrative woes reminds me very much of our local
problems; lack of personnel, and consequent megalomania of the younger set. I
am looking forward very much to the tragedy-melodrama piece, of which you
told me such enticing bits when you and Ruth were here in Munich. I hope you
will have some quiet in your retreat—for which I envy you very much, ours
being sadly impaired by the bad weather prevalent in Bavaria at all times.
We have no plans yet for summer, but I hope we can spend a quiet time in
August and [the] first half of September in Weilheim (where our cottage is), as I
want to work now on In Search of Order (the last volume of Order and History).
I plan to finish it in March–April 1967 in [the] Widener Library. In late Sep-
tember and early October I hope we can take some time off again for Italy.
All good wishes to Ruth and you from both of us,
Sincerely yours,
<Eric>
111. Munich, May 26, 1967

Dear Bob:
I have received the invitation to the Commencement Exercises of Lafayette
College. From the enclosures, I see that you will receive an Honorary Degree.
Thank you very much for letting me know about this honor so richly de-
served. My warmest congratulations to you and Ruth.
I believe Lissy has written to Ruth already some information that, in about
two years, we shall be permanently settled at Stanford. That will bring us practi-
cally in walking distance of Seattle, and I am looking forward very much to an
early reunion.
At the moment, I am quite busy with working out the lectures on the “Drama
of Humanity” that I have given at Emory in April. Another piece of work, the
essay on “Immortality” has been completed and is in the press. I shall send you
a copy as soon as it comes out, probably in July. You see, I am degenerating

more and more into a theologian.
With all good wishes to you and Ruth for the great day in Lafayette from
both of us,
Sincerely yours,
<Eric>
Eric Voegelin
112. Camano Island, June 21, 1967

Dear Eric,
Thanks ever so much for taking the trouble to write about the degree from
Lafayette. As one of my colleagues said, “I see Lafayette is trying for a nation-
wide spread but has run out of west coast candidates.” It turned out to be a
Doctor of Literature, the ritual encomia were modest and decent, people were
very pleasant, and we almost died of the heat. Afterwards we spent a week driv-
ing in the East, which we have not done since the time we visited you in Cam-
bridge. We saw some old acquaintances and friends of yours—two nights with
[the] Stokes in western Massachusetts (Harold, retired at last from the wars he
never loved, seems not very happy, and even a lovely home in a country village
seems not quite to do the job), and a lunch with [the] Brookses, just about to
head out for Finland, where Cleanth is to take part in some symposium, and
Russia. Finally two days in New York, where Ruth hadn’t been for years and
where I never get out of the hotel, all spent in museum crawling. At the new
Whitney we found most of the space taken up by two Americans of whom we’d
never even heard—one [William] Glackins, who is mediocre, and [Jules] Pascin,
who seemed extraordinarily talented.
We were delighted to hear from you both that you will be at Stanford, which
has obviously beaten everybody to the punch, and therefore undermined my
usual inclination to feel that the actuality of that place is generally less than the
reputation. Cleanth and I were both remarking that we’d failed to get any ac-
tion out of our own institutions. Three cheers for Stanford. Well, we’ll get you
to the Northwest at last, and meanwhile Pete and Janet and our grandson will
see you first. Janet came up last week with Erich (that is the strange spelling)
26. Voegelin, “Immortality: Experience and Symbol,” Harvard Theological Review 60 (1967):
235–79, reprinted in the Collected Works of Eric Voegelin, vol. 12, Published Essays, 1966–1985, ed.
Ellis Sandoz (Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 1990).
27. A.k.a. Julius Mordecai Pincus, American, 1885–1930.
for her sister’s wedding, and one evening we had our first grandparental sitting-
bee—a 41⁄ 2 hour period in which, I fear, we both felt rather nervously inept.
I am glad that the Emory lectures are evidently going to be in printed form.
(Incidentally, I took great satisfaction in being the intermediary in getting the
Sebba essay into the SoRev.) Will this material also include the debate with
Altizer? (At my class reunion I had a beer-chat with a classmate who is a Pres-
byterian clergyman and who seemed to know at least a little something about
Altizer.) I look forward to receiving a copy of the essay on “Immortality.”
Hopefully we’ll be at the island all summer (except, perhaps, for a brief run to
Palo Alto), and I have much work cut out. Random House wants to bring out a
new edition of the Gulliver I did in 1950, and that means going over a mountain
of stuff that has come out in the last 17 years. My introduction was somewhat
novel then, but meanwhile the ground has been worked over by everybody, and
I can’t see myself saying anything fresh at this point. The bigger job will be some
revisions of the Tragedy and Melodrama MS for the UW Press, which spent a
frustrating (for me that is) eight or nine months making up their minds what
they wanted to do about a MS that they thought, and perhaps rightly, too long
for commercial comfort. The present idea is to bring it out in two volumes, a
big one and a little one, a year apart, and I am to do some internal reconstruc-
tion. Truth to tell, I’ve been at it too long to face revision with excitement, and
I’ll be glad when I’ve pushed myself through the task. Then I do look forward to
finishing the summer on the third job—an edition of Hardy’s Tess of the
d’Urbervilles. The textual part of such jobs is a horrible bore, but then comes
the critical essay. I’ve never done a thing on Tess, so this will have the virtue of
novelty—if there is time for it.
But whatever does or does not get done, we flourish on the island. I spend
much too much time working around the place, a sort of compensation for a to-
tally un-athletic ten months at UW. Ruth loves it, even though we seem to keep
having summer school visiting professors up for half-days.
Our best to you both—and another paean to Stanford.
Sincerely,
<Bob>
28. Heilman, introduction to Thomas Hardy, Tess of the d’Urbervilles (New York: Bantam Books,
1971), vii–xlvi.
113. Camano Island, Washington, July 13, 1968

Dear Eric,
I have received, from Regnery, a copy of Science, Politics, and Gnosticism, with
an enclosed card “With the compliments of Eric Voegelin,” and I am again in-
debted to you for your kindness. I am glad that you have reprinted these lectures
and essays in an English edition, for, to whomever will read, they will bring
much enlightenment about the climate in which we live. I had a constant sense
of understanding and recognition as I read. You start out with the doxa that
“takes on the appearance of philosophy”: it describes the state of most university
faculties. The “prohibition of questions,” if it does not take on quite a Marxian
quality, is standard procedure among the liberals who make up most of the fac-
ulties—and, above all, the kind of question that you raise introducing the rele-
vance of transcendent being. Deicide is a source of self-congratulation among
these characters; insofar as they know about Prometheus, he would be a hero
just as he was for [Percy Bysshe] Shelley (who, I learn from you, did not invent
the idea of Prometheus as a deliverer from tyranny). The distinction between
possessing knowledge and loving knowledge again fits perfectly what we see
around us all the time—the assurance of possession and the deficiency of love.
The movement from philosophy to gnosis keeps suggesting to me—and I hope
this isn’t only sloppiness on my part—the denial of essence and the totalizing (to
invent a horrible word) of existence which has now become cant even among
undergraduates, the knowing ones, that is, that have some axe to grind (and it
reminds me, also, of John Ransom’s distinction between getting attuned to “na-
ture” and conquering it). The use of parousiastic as a term to match, or rather re-
fine upon, chiliastic makes a distinction that I would expect to be taken up. Has
it been? (I find myself wanting to come upon an occasion when I can say “is, as
Voegelin says, parousiastic.”) The deicidal approach to the “just and perfect
order,” with the incidental acquisition of supermanhood or divinity, seems to
me to have now reached an ultimate extreme in which the project is taken over
by people under 30; not only do they make the snatch, but many over 30 seem
perfectly content to concede them the spiritual wherewithal for the project.<*>
[left:] <what I now think of as “the children’s crusade” to liberate the holy city of
man from the corrupt.> What was once the possession of theorists has been
taken over by bandits. As you say, “Sentence has been passed; the execution fol-
lows.” (Incidentally, I learn from you that there is “scripture” for the “indigna-
tion” and “denunciation” that seem to have become a standard form of public
discussion.) Finally, the essay “Ersatz Religions” ought to be required reading for
university faculty and students generally. That is a beautifully organized analysis
of the teleological and the axiological components, of the types of immanentiza-

tion, of the Joachitic symbols and their modern applications, of the types of
omission of parts of reality, of the types of setting forth of insecurity in the psy-
chological conclusion. Incidentally, I was struck by Hobbes’s sense of the Puri-
tans: “the libido dominandi of the revolutionary who wants to bend men to his
will,” for this, it seems to me, is what I have increasingly seen in my colleagues
who are conspicuously reformist and self-righteous. Alas, Hobbes’s view of the
alternative is, I think, the only one they would be open to, having disposed of all
final judgments as a guide to life.
As always with you, there is some wonderful writing, in longer sections, no-
tably pp. 43 ff., on to the end of the chapter, and again in the concluding sec-
tions of the Ersatz chapter, though there it is hard to say of one part, rather than
another, that it is particularly distinguished. And throughout there is a great
flow of epigrams, e.g., pp. 45, the top of 64 (how true), the top of 107. And I did
enjoy the parodic use of Beowulfian-alliterative verse style in “Heavy with fate
fall the formulas.” There is a case of style as wit.
I wanted to write and tell you how much, also, I got out of the immortality
essay, and then I got so bogged down in department problems (some year, what
with the Black Students Union, whom at least one can understand, and the
Students for Democratic Society, who are nothing but destroyers) that I never
had the time. What stands out most clearly in my memory is your general tactic
of speaking of an experience as no longer experienced, and of the consequences
of the original experiencing and later on the non-experiencing. If you don’t rec-
ognize this as an account of it, you will have to attribute it to the translation of
complex Voegelin into simple Heilman.
Incidentally, a propos of Voegelin-into-Heilman: I can account for some of
the current events in America (Columbia University and elsewhere) only by
postulating a destructive instinct which is as much of a given as sex. And I am
sure that this is a version of your concept of “floating hatred” (do I quote cor-
rectly?) which I remember hearing you talk about 25 or 30 years ago.
We’re at the cottage for two months—for me, reasonable separation from the
department, and hence writing time. Essays, mostly; but there hasn’t been any-
thing that I felt like sending on to you.<*> (Incidentally, I was rather pleased
that some German publisher, planning to get out a volume on the picaresque,
asked permission to have my Felix Krull essay excerpted, translated, and in-
cluded; I even had some correspondence with the translator. This was a year
ago, and I’ve heard nothing since.) Tragedy and Melodrama is now in page proof
and should be out this fall. But I’ve been at it too long and too interruptedly.
We’re delighted that everything finally worked out right at Palo Alto, and
hope that that will be your permanent spot. You’ll have to put up with our look-
ing in on you occasionally. With all good wishes for a good summer, good trav-
els, and a good translation to California,
Warmly, as always,
<Bob>
<*However, I may send you one I’ve just finished, if it gets into print: “Diabolic
Strategies: Frisch’s Firebugs and Pinter’s Birthday Party.”>
29. Published as Heilman, “Demonic Strategies: The Birthday Party and The Firebugs,” in Sense
and Sensibility in Twentieth-Century Writing: A Gathering in Memory of William Van O’Connor, ed.
Brom Weber (Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1970), 57–74.

N O T A P O S T S C R I P T AT A L L
B U T A N E W E S S AY
Letters 114–29, 1969–1972

114. Camano Island, Washington, August 26, 1969
Dear Eric,
I hope that I have not distressed you by mentioning your work-in-progress to
Don Ellegood. I did not forget that your preference is for a commercial pub-
lisher, nor did I have any intention of trying to deflect the book into amateur
(though none the less commercial) printing. I assumed that you would feel
completely free to ignore Ellegood or to give him a gentle, or not so gentle, no.
But I also thought it not uncomfortable to have a press in pursuit of one (though
here I may be inaccurately transferring to you a feeling of my own): one can at
least always fall back on it if one gets weary or doesn’t find something palpably
better, etc.
When we got back to Seattle, I found a day of interviews set up at the office
(mostly talking to blacks whom we have hired or might hire) and another three
days of business letters that had piled up and that the summer chairman wasn’t
quite able to handle. Since then, I’ve been trying hard to catch up on my working
schedule with plays, but I’m still way behind, and this weekend, alas, we have to
go back to town and get ready for the SDS, assistant professors, English graduate
students, and English majors who will bring purity of heart, intellectual clarity,
and the will to power to the improvement of the present state of affairs in English.
Twice I have heard Ruth, talking about a house she liked, say something like,
“It’s just like Eric and Lissie’s house—spacious and unexpected.” We’re glad you
are in so satisfactory a spot, and we are glad to have seen you in it. We’ll keep
hoping that some time we can see you at this end of the line.
The Palo Alto Heilmans are here for two weeks—last week with the Bennies,
this week with us, here at the island. Of course the local weather, at best ill adjusted
to the physiological temperament of Californians, is sulking, and they shiver.
I don’t know whether this will come to the Institute during your trip abroad
or not; but if it does, it will keep. To repeat: ignore Ellegood if you prefer.
Our warm greetings to you both.
<Bob>
250
Not a Postscript at All but a New Essay, 1969–1972 251
115. Seattle, September 23, 1969

Dear Eric:
During the summer I had a letter from Don Stanford, editor of the Southern
Review, saying that he had heard that you had done some Joyce criticism which
he would like to print, and asking me whether I knew anything about this (I am
of course pleased by the fact that he thought I might know). I naturally replied
that I did not. This was before he had your reply to August 18.
Having dealt with that matter of business, I quickly went on to another in
which I have been interested for a long time, as you know. I told Don that
though I could produce no Voegelin-on-Joyce for him, I could produce some-
thing equally good, Voegelin-on-James, and asked him whether he wanted to
see it. He replied immediately, urging me to send it to him. However, it was
some time before I could do this, since we were up on the island, and your
essay was, I thought, in my file at home, still occupied by the summer renters.
When we got back there about Labor Day, I found the essay (it was actually in
my file at the office, to go into full historical trivialities), had it Xeroxed, and
sent it on.
I made perfectly clear to Don that this was your property, not mine, and that
if he liked it and wanted to publish it, it would then be necessary to take up the
matter with you. I emphasized that I had no way of knowing whether you were
willing to have it printed; hence the author’s permission was something we both
had to gamble on.
I even explained to Don why I was sending the essay to him without first ask-
ing you about it. Once I had encouraged you to submit the essay to an editor
whom I knew, and then the editor had rejected it. While you had taken this with
your customary urbanity, it could not have been a wholly delightful experience,
and I simply did not want to subject you to a possible repetition of it. I myself
thought the other editor had made a very bad mistake. But if he, Don, did not
like the essay, then you would never know that the adverse judgment had been
made. If he did like it, then we would see whether you wanted to print it.
That is where we are now: I have just received an enthusiastic letter from
Don, and I enclose a copy of it. I am very happy about Don’s attitude to the ar-
ticle, and I am also happy to see that there may be no problem about the au-
thor’s acceptance of the acceptance! For Don has enclosed (as his words to me
make clear) a thermofax of your August 18 letter to him in which you do indi-
cate interest in the publication of the James essay. In fact, I am delighted by the
remarkable coincidence: it must have been just about the same time that you
and I were both proposing to Don the James essay as an alternative to the Joyce
criticism! I am delighted, too, by the fact that Don proposes their maximum
rate of payment. (The essay must run about 4500–5000 words.)
If you will let me know how you feel about it now, I’ll pass the word on to
Don, and of course he’ll write to you formally. I’d be glad to follow Don’s sug-
gestion and write a short note, mostly, as far as my own preference goes, on the
circumstances out of which your essay developed, which I think I remember
pretty clearly. I could also say a few words about the general direction of subse-
quent criticism of The Turn. But whatever its contents, that note would come to
you first for approval: your recollection of the occasion might be rather different
from mine. If you felt inclined to make them, some “preliminary remarks” from
you would be excellent.
But enough of this. I’ll wait to hear from you.
One minor personal note. Did I ever report to you that several years ago a
Darmstadt outfit, Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, asked permission to translate
my essay on “Krull as Picaresque” (or part of it) for a volume on the picaresque
that they were getting out? After that, a long silence, but I have just heard from
them that they are sending offprints and DM 80. So I guess the thing has come
off, and I’ll be curious as to how it looks (or sounds) in German.
Ruth enjoyed her telephone chat with Lissy last night. Our best to you both.
Sincerely yours,
<Bob>
Robert B. Heilman
116. September 26, 1969

Dear Bob:
Thank you ever so much for your letter of September 23.
The correspondence with Don Stanford occurred in the days just before I left
for Europe. He, indeed, wanted some lectures on Joyce, which I had never given,
and I suggested The Turn of the Screw as some other paper instead.
The solution, which now offers itself, is delightful. I am very glad Stanford
likes my letter to you, though I am quite aware that it must appear somewhat
dilettantic to experts on Henry James. Still, I understand that, in a modest way,
it belongs to the history of LSU in a certain phase.
Even more happy am I that you still approve of the letter so far that you are
willing to write some introductory remarks to it. I would appreciate it greatly
indeed if you could go so far into detail that the shortcomings of my letter are
pointed out, as I cannot do that job myself.
Whether I should add any remarks of my own, I do not know yet. They would
pertain to the effect which your education of my English has had on me—and
in this context, I wonder whether it would not be advisable and permissible to
change a word here and there that now, in retrospect, would look infelicitous.
What do you think concerning this point?
I am writing, at the same time, to Stanford that we have come to an agree-
ment, and that I shall be delighted and honored to have the letter published by
The Southern Review.
Incidentally, on October 6, I shall give a lecture at Loyola, New Orleans, on
Aeschylus. If time permits, Don Stanford and I could get together for a talk. I
remember him as a most pleasant and learned man from my last visit at Baton
Rouge.
That’s the way all things come to light at last.
With many thanks, and all good wishes to you and Ruth from both of us, I am,
Yours sincerely,
<Eric Voegelin>
Eric Voegelin

Dear Eric:
I’m delighted that you are willing to have the Southern Review print your
James essay. Incidentally, as I should have said in the first place, please do not
feel compelled to keep the form of the letter to me if you would rather have the
essay appear as straight essay. On the other hand, I’m most happy to get into the
act as recipient if you don’t mind.
You will find enclosed several things. The first is my “Note,” in which I at-
tempt to do only what Don Stanford suggested: namely, give the historical con-
text in which the essay was written, and note the relationship of the essay to
other criticism. I send this to you so that you can make any correction you find
necessary or suggest any change you find desirable. Please be candid about any-
thing you think inaccurate or inappropriate.
In answer to your inquiry in your fifth paragraph: I see no reason for not
making any stylistic alterations that may contribute to clarity and idiom. In fact,
the officious editor, the pedant, and the busybody in me got to work and listed
all the places where you might want to consider an alternative. This list is the
second enclosure. I’m sure you’d catch all these yourself; the only thing to be
1. This document by Heilman, entitled “Eric Voegelin’s Manuscript on James’s The Turn: Pos-
sible Syntactic and Mechanical Changes,” may be found in the Hoover Institution Archives,
Voegelin Papers, box 77, folder 3.
said for my intrusion is that it may save you a little time. (This assumes, of
course, that the list is complete enough to save you from feeling that you want
to go over everything else.) Needless to say, you are the judge of whether these
suggestions make sense; whenever you don’t like them, pay not the slightest at-
tention to them.
I’ve retained the first copy of my “Note”; when I have made any changes that
you may propose, I’ll send it on to Don. I’ve also, of course, kept a copy of the
list of passages and can refer to it if there is any need.
If you will forgive me, there is, I think, one slight rhetorical problem in the
middle of the essay. Let me say what I think it is (and run the risk of your think-
ing me merely stupid, which may be just what I am being). Your interpretative
generalizations are in the first six pages and the last three; no problems there. In
between is a summary of all the details that lead to your conclusions. As you
summarize the textual materials, however, you rely on the reader’s having your
own grip of the subject and, as if you were avoiding an unnecessary condescen-
sion to him, do not always make connections between the details and the rele-
vant generalizations. Maybe he needs just a little more condescension?
Just an example or two. In the last sentence of section III, I assume that the
point is that the “human virtue” holds a dead body because the virtue, though
determined, is misguided and inadequate. But will the reader make the connec-
tion with the “vanity of the soul bent on self-salvation”?
On p. 9 I take the implication to be that James is being clever in using the
verb “know,” which encases two meanings both applicable to the Governess:
being recognized in her virtue, and being known carnally.
On p. 13 at the end of section VI I wonder whether the implications of the
summary of the action should not be made explicit. Will the reader make the
connection with the demonically closed soul? Might there also be an allusion to
this as the source of the continued and relentless turning of the screw (p. 15, 5b)?
On p. 16, last paragraph, the second sentence is very compact, containing much
that the literary-academic reader may need to have sorted out for him by an ex-
pansion of the statement. Perhaps this is also true of the last sentence in the sec-
tion, on p. 17.
Poor man, with your leaping and subtle imagination, to be tormented by
your literal-minded friend who wants to tie you down with a net of explicit-
nesses! I know I’m exposing myself here. But if I’m right about the readers on
my side of the fence, I hate to see them not feel the full effect of a fine analysis
whose subtleties may evade them now and then. Hence my rather diffident call
for an occasional crutch. But you, Eric, may feel that you are not in the crutch-
manufacturing business, and that I would wholly understand. It is a great essay,

and it can stand on its own feet.
Sincerely yours,
<Bob>
Robert B. Heilman

Dear Eric:
Our “James man” tells me that he knows of no biographical facts which
would indicate that James was, or permit the inference that he was, schizo-
phrenic. If better information is available, I hope that you will have got it from
a Stanford informant. I am not quite sure how reliable our boy is. I would be
glad to do some checking myself, but I am swamped in the office.
I enclose a newspaper column in which you are mentioned. The man who
writes it is, I suppose, “nationally syndicated”; he appears occasionally in the
Seattle Times. Doubtless you have seen other printings of this, but you may as
well also see that from the Northwest.
Best wishes to you both.
Sincerely yours,
<Bob>
Robert B. Heilman
119. [Stanford,] November 3, 1969

Dear Bob:
Thanks to the help of Dr. [Manfred] Henningsen—one of my Munich assis-
tants who is now working here at the Hoover Institution—I have been able to
ascertain what are the facts in the story about Henry James’s late schizophrenia.
The matter goes back to an article in the Times Literary Supplement of May 2,
1968. I enclose a photocopy, as I am sure you will be interested in it.
With many thanks for your letter and all good wishes, I am,
Yours sincerely,
<Eric>
Eric Voegelin
2. “Agnew: A Talkative Political Greenhorn with a Good Mind,” Seattle Times, October 31, 1969.
120. Seattle, November 10, 1969

Dear Eric,
Many thanks indeed for the Xerox of the Leon Edel communication to TLS
about James’s aberration in his last illness. Oddly enough, just this week I re-
ceived from the publishers a new book on James by an English writer, Mont-
gomery Hyde, who alludes to the stroke and the subsequent disturbance, and
even mentions briefly the Napoleon analogy. I wonder whether he is the British
writer whom Edel did not want to anticipate? As it turns out, he needn’t have
worried, since Hyde does much less with it than Edel does.
How fortunate you are to have a researcher who could dig this up, and how
remarkable that you should have remembered a matter which doubtless you saw
only glancingly and which is so little related to your major concerns. I am most
curious to see how you are going to use this (if indeed you do plan to do so) in
whatever additional remarks you append to the Turn materials.
Ruth left in haste this morning on another trip to Madison, since her sister
phoned to say that their mother is in bad shape. During the week she had bro-
ken a toe by walking into something, so she was not in the best condition for
traveling.
My best to you both.
Sincerely yours,
<Bob>
Robert B. Heilman
121. [Stanford,] December 11, 1969

Dear Bob:
At long last, the Postscript is finished. Enclosed [is] a copy.
I hope that your horror will not be aroused by too many grammatical and
other mistakes.
At the same time, I am sending a copy to Don Stanford. I wonder what he
will say when he sees into what that Postscript has gone.
With all good wishes and many thanks for the hospitality you extended so
graciously to us.
Yours cordially,
Eric Voegelin

Dear Eric:
Thank you very much for sending me a copy of your Postscript (not to men-
tion, also, the preceding materials). Thank you much more for doing the Post-
script, which is of course not a postscript at all but a new essay. The Southern
Review is lucky to have this extraordinary study, which is miles ahead of any
other essay on the Turn and which, above all things, does so brilliant a job of es-
tablishing the “relevance” (to use the fashionable word which fortunately you do
not mention) to the modern world of the prison-house (to take over your
metaphor for an existence of closure). One notices especially, of course, the
movement from Vacuum to violence, though you do not make a separate issue
of it but introduce it only as a part of the development of consciousness in closed
existence.
You start off with that very nice urbane retrospect which is the only really
postscriptal part of the Postscript—noting which [sic] you did observe and were
not yet ready to observe in that first reading of the Turn. In fact, you use an al-
most fictional rhetoric, introducing an issue which now stands as a mystery and
is to be resolved only later—the nature of a certain evasiveness or inconclusive-
ness in the James symbols. When you ultimately identify these, the central case
is concluded: the Inspector has solved the case, not of the man who went too far,
but of the man who did not go far enough.
Those early pages on the “deformation of reality” and on its modes of sym-
bolization are immensely revealing to me: This places Romanticism, for in-
stance, in a way that I have never placed it before. The “garden history” likewise:
the course from Milton to immanent Edenism and the illusion of creativity is a
fascinating one (how effectively you note the outcome of this in “The Waste-
land” [sic] and Huit Clos).
Then you get that enormously complex (at least for me) issue that keeps com-
ing up all through the second half of the essay—the cloudiness of the symbol
which in some way represents the artist’s participation in, or imperfect escape
from, closure. I think you keep an ambiguous issue wonderfully poised be-
tween, or perhaps rather partaking of, alternative possibilities: being in prison
and yet knowing it, symbolistically straining one’s way out, and yet not quite
making it. From the general problem you go on to the even more unresolvable
(though you really resolve it by the complex stating of the unresolvedness) prob-
lem of James himself, who doesn’t achieve or at least express consciousness of
3. Works by T. S. Eliot and Jean-Paul Sartre (No Exit).

open existence, who yet implies this in his perception of existential deformity,
but who keeps repeating this perception as if enclosed in it, and yet who grasps
the truth as he reveals in the use of the traditional symbolism. I’m not altogether
sure of the role of understatement or gentility here; not that I don’t take it on
faith, but that it needs more spelling out for one of my limited dimension of un-
derstanding.
And so then on to the final point about the complex of symbolizations of
oneness that have to be taken as a spectrum rather than separated out—a nice
final disposition of the purely Freudian. Incest as a snatch at divine oneness: I
shall steal this from you at the first opportunity. I found myself gratified when
you came back to re-stress how far James does go in seeing the immanent Eden
go down the drain.
There are many happy phrases that I could quote, but I’ll mention only one
or two: “Dead men die hard”; “Most depressing about the Garden, finally, is the
deadly futility of these men who cannot take a woman and these women who
cannot shake up a man”; “He is not obliged to pretend that disease is health, or
that men who suffer in public do not bore him à dormir debout.” And if I seem
to pick on obiter dicta, it is only that these are detachable from rich context.
I hope that Don Stanford and the editors are properly appreciative. They are
in luck to have this splendid study to print—and I to be having a momentary
hand in this as a sort of redcap.
Our best to you both.
Sincerely yours,
<Bob>
Robert B. Heilman
123. Stanford, December 30, 1969

Dear Bob:
Thanks ever so much for your letter of December 22nd. I am greatly relieved
that you have no major objection to what I did with the Postscript. It seems that
what you did when you initiated me to Henry James has come to a happy end
after all. Of course, that is still not the last word about James by far, but I am
quite content if you say that my effort is at least ahead of the current treatment
of James in the expert literature. Certainly this was the occasion to work out
some new problems such as the concept of a “spectrum” of symbolization that
appears as the expression of certain modes of existence.
There is one point on which you have very justified misgivings, however po-
litely you express them—the question of the “understatement.” I have misgiv-
ings myself. Yet there is more to the problem than appears in the Postscript. We
are faced with the oddity that English philosophy, or thought in general, ac-
quires a peculiar subduedness after the Glorious Revolution. After Hobbes,
Locke, and Berkeley, English thinking loses the incisiveness which characterizes
the French Enlightenment and the German outburst from Kant, via [ Johann
Gottlieb] Fichte and Hegel, to Schelling and Marx. The English 18th century—
setting aside Hume and his belated skepticism based on Sextus Empiricus, an af-
termath of the Pyrrhonian revival of the sixteenth century—has produced the
“common sense” philosophy from [Thomas] Reid onward. And “common sense”
is, for Reid and his successors, a deliberate toning down of philosophy, from
Aristotelianism and Stoicism, to Reason, in the same sense as Aristotle and the
Stoics have understood it, on the level of the common man who does not en-
gage in philosophical meditations. The common sense man of the Scottish
philosophers is a man who holds the same truths with regard to man and his
ethical conduct as a philosopher but without the philosophical apparatus. It is a
regression to what one might call a pre-philosophic “wisdom” literature which,
however, has absorbed the results of the philosophers. On this level, of course,
one can think only as long as the substance of the wisdom holds out. It cannot
be renewed actively from the philosopher’s movement in intellectual medita-
tion. Still, it holds out for quite a while. John Dewey’s Human Nature and Con-
duct, of 1925, is still a pure product of this Common Sense thinking. But it
becomes extremely vulnerable, when the social scene is dominated by ideolo-
gists who think incisively, however wrong their thought may be.
To illustrate what I mean, let me quote a passage from [Edmund] Burke’s Re-
flections on the Revolution in France, where he speaks of the function of the Church
to instill “worthy notions of their function and destination,” including their hope
of immortality in the rulers of a society. These notions, Burke says, are necessary
“to build up that wonderful structure Man; whose prerogative it is, to be in a great
degree a creature of his own making; and who, when made as he ought to be
made, is destined to hold no trivial place in the creation. But whenever man is put
over man, as the better nature ought ever to preside, in that case more particularly,
he should as nearly as possible be approximated to his perfection.”
There can be no doubt that Burke in this passage speaks of the nature of man
in the classical sense, as well as of the classical tension between potentiality and
actualization. Still, he uses the symbolism of progressive ideology—man a crea-
ture of his own making, approximating to his perfection, etc.—so that the clas-
sical actualization which cannot overstep the limits of man’s nature is softened
up to man’s making himself his own creature. The definite limit drawn by na-
ture is transformed into a “great degree” to which no limit is stated. Here you
have a good example of what I mean by an “understatement” that blurs the in-
tellectual structure of the problem so badly that any progressivist can quote
Burke, if he wants to, for justifying the immanentist approach to perfection
which Burke abhorred. The “fuzziness” in the use of symbols, which I criticized
in James, is also peculiar to Burke. It is an English style of messing up the Logos
of reality that goes parallel with the development of the symbols “understate-
ment” and “gentility.”
From these remarks, I hope, you will see that there is more to the problem of
“understatement” than I could let meet the eye in the Postscript. But you will
also see that here we have a secular problem of an English style of thinking
(which also has entered the American style as a component) yet quite insuffi-
ciently explored. I should add perhaps that these observations are not meant as
a negative evaluation: The deliberate refusal to enter into explicit intellectual de-
bate has proved an effective preservative for the substance of common sense in
England and America. The French and German adventures in more penetrating
thought have proved disastrous in their social consequences. Still, the Anglo-
Saxon world is no longer an island. The contemporary penetration of our pub-
lic scene by the concoction of Hegel-Marx-Freud, on top of an undigested
progressivist Enlightenment, can spell disaster also for America—incalculable in
its dimensions, because intellectual resistance cannot fall back on an established
discipline of thought, but must move in such dubious wash-out modes as “tra-
ditionalism” and “conservatism.”
Don Stanford has accepted the Postscript. He seems to be pleased by it. As far
as publication is concerned, thus, everything appears to go all-right.
Many thanks again for all your help. And a Happy New Year to you and Ruth
from both of us.
Yours sincerely,
<Eric>
124. [Stanford,] January 26, 1971

Dear Robert:
I just received a copy of The Southern Review with our Henry James efforts.
The splendor of the make-up overwhelms me, and I feel greatly honored by
4. Voegelin, “The Turn of the Screw,” Southern Review, n.s., 7 (1971): 9–48. This lead article con-
tained: Donald E. Stanford, “A Prefatory Note”; Robert B. Heilman, “Foreword”; Voegelin’s “A
Letter to Robert B. Heilman”; and Voegelin’s postscript, “On Paradise and Revolution.” More-
over, following all this in the same issue were: William C. Havard, “The Changing Pattern of
such excellent presentation of my amateurish prying into the secrets of American

consciousness to the general public. Let me thank you very much again for your
part in the effort to have this letter put into print.
Recently, we spent a week in Hawaii—our first vacation in four years—and
were delighted. Especially Lissy could recover a bit because she was free from
housework. The daily chores still are hard on her physique impaired by the op-
eration.
Next week, I am going for a semester to Notre Dame—but alone. Lissy re-
fuses to shut herself up in the prison of the blizzards and, of course, rejoices in
being rid of me for a while.
With all good wishes to you and Ruth, from both of us, I am,
Yours sincerely,
Eric Voegelin

Dear Eric:
That whole issue of SR pleases me very much. I’m delighted to have a small
hand, barely a finger, in getting Voegelin-on-James into public (well, at least
semi-public) circulation. Recently I had occasion to write to Gerald Willen,
who has edited the “Casebook” on Turn, and I called his attention to this and
expressed the hope that sometime he would want to include one of your essays
in his anthology. But since he himself wrote one of the sillier Freudian pieces on
Turn, I fear he may not be well attuned to the wave-length you use. On the
other hand, he may help advertise this issue among Americanists who tend to
read only American Literature.
I have also found the [William C.] Havard and [Dante] Germino interpreta-
tive essays very useful. Havard in particular interests me because of his sense of
your “growth.” Has he inferred all this from the writing, or has he had the ben-
efit of some help from the master? The editors are to be congratulated on getting
the Voegelin material together for this issue.
Hawaii sounds as if it had been a very pleasant experience, and we are both
delighted by the fact that it seems to have done something special for Lissie.
Voegelin’s Conception of History and Consciousness,” 49–67; Dante Germino, “Eric Voegelin’s
Anamnesis,” 68–88; and James L. Babin, “Melville and the Deformation of Being from Typee to
Leviathan,” 89–114. The last of these articles explores in Melville the deformation analyzed by
Voegelin in his postscript.
Your move from Hawaii to Notre Dame in midwinter gives you a nice little ex-
perience in contrasting physical worlds. May the contrast not be too sharp, and
may Notre Dame provide its own pleasures.
In the department we await the appointment of a new chairman. A good out-
side candidate has just turned us down, having used us to get the usual astro-
nomical raise out of his present department. I’m hoping for a solution before
too long, so that I can start turning things over to the new man.
Ruth’s been better lately. This weekend we go to Camano to see what to do
about some trees that blew down. All good wishes.
Sincerely,
<Bob>
Robert B. Heilman
126. Morris Inn, Notre Dame, Indiana, March 28, 1971

Dear Robert:
Thanks for your letter of February 1st. It is outrageous that I have not an-
swered it earlier. But about the obstacles later.
The issue of the Southern Review looks indeed magnificent. As you suspect,
Bill Havard had the benefit of some special information. The last time I was in
Amherst, he interviewed me in due form and took notes. As it usually happens
on such occasions, the details are all true, but the proportions look a bit odd to
me. Dante Germino, on the other hand, is an odd case. From a true-blue Cath-
olic he has developed into a supporter of the student revolt; and now, as I have
been informed, he wants to make me into a mind-expanding guru, a sort of sub-
stitute for LSD. Well, I shall see him on the occasion of the Symposium at the
end of April.
There has been a reaction to the great issue: A person named Quentin Ander-
son, Professor at Columbia University, wrote a complimentary letter, but in-
forming me that he too had done something on Henry James, most recently a
book on The Imperial Self. That book now is in my office in Stanford, and I
shall not see it before the middle of May. Do you know anything about the
man? The title of the book sounds intelligent.
My daily schedule is still a bit strenuous: Two courses with two 90-minute pe-
riods each per week. Preparing the MS of Vol. IV for the printer (200 pages
done). Minor chores, such as translating the “Gospel” essay into German, for
publication this fall. Next week, then, I shall be in Rome, for a meeting of the
Michigan Center for Co-ordinating Ancient and Modern Studies—for that one
I had to write a ten-page piece on Classical Studies (I revenged myself by giving

it a humorous cast). When I am back from Rome, I must give my Public Lec-
ture here at Notre Dame. At the end of April, there is that Symposium at the
end of which I am supposed to give an edifying address. On May 1st, there is a
lecture in Duke.
Lissy will come here for the Symposium. Since we, then, have to go on to
Duke, I plan to go further on to Merida, to see Chichenitza etc. The additional
plane-fare seems to be bearable. By May 10th I hope to be back home.
In order not to be bored to death with my active self, I do a little reading on
the side. Just now it was Joseph Conrad’s Nigger of the Narcissus—a magnificent
study of the disintegration of a community through sentimentalism about life
and death—the “Nigger,” who degrades everybody by forcing him into pity and
compassion with his dying, and “Donkin,” with his insistence on “rights,”
transforming the crew into “a discontented and aspiring crowd” to the point of
mutiny; not to forget the “cook” with his unsavoury zeal for saving people.
All good wishes to you and Ruth. Lissy was most happy to see you both at the
house.
<Sincerely yours,
Eric (Voegelin)>
127. Seattle, July 19, 1971

Dear Eric,
I wrote only a brief note to accompany the Xerox of John Sisk’s letter to me.
Sisk, a once graduate student here, and also once chairman at Gonzaga, where
obviously he still teaches, has written many articles for Commonwealth and more
recently, also, for Commentary. He has seemed to me one of the more intelligent
critics of the recent scene. I have not yet had time to read the last thing he sent
me, an article on the Berrigans and other Catholic radicals. But I digress from
the central fact, that Sisk’s letter reveals an enthusiastic appreciation of your
James article. Forgive him his polite references to my own words, and note what
he has to say about yours. Ironic that he should also bring into it your recent
Columbia correspondent.
We are in rather a bind trying to get away from here August 15. We have two
houses rented but still two cars to sell—a kind of preparation for travel for
5. Daniel and Philip Berrigan were Roman Catholic priests who were leaders in the anti–Vietnam
War movement. They were tried and convicted on charges of conspiracy and destruction of gov-
ernment property.
which we have no gifts. Aside from that, making all the other arrangements to
be away for a year—matters that you know about more fully than we. For her
vaccinations Ruth had to do without cortisone for two weeks before and two
weeks after; with four days to go, she is all but crippled. So she’s had a rough
time. I am trying to carry on at the office afternoons and in the morning finish
a companion volume to Tragedy and Melodrama. Not enough time, alas. Hence
I write only briefly.
We do hope that all is well with both of you.
Sincerely,
<Bob>
Robert Heilman
128. London, March 21, 1972

Dear Eric,
Heilman surgery never even faintly matches Voegelin surgery, so I can claim
nothing for my just-ended bout in a London hospital—appendectomy, re-
engineering of a Z-curve in some gut or other, and alleged widening of the exit
of the bladder—except that I come around more slowly than you people have
always done, that I spent 13 days in the place, and that now, two days later, I
seem up to nothing more than brief letters.
After your article on the Turn came out, I sent a copy to John Sisk at Gon-
zaga, a Catholic writer who has seemed to me brighter than average. He liked it,
read more EV, used you in a recent piece “On Intoxication,” and has sent you (if
he followed my request) a copy of it. He has also sent me a Xerox of a NYTBR
article which attributes influence by you to Flannery O’Connor, the first-rate
Southern Catholic fiction-writer who died of some terrible disease a few years
ago. You’ve probably seen this, but, just to be on the safe side, I enclose the
copy that Sisk sent me.
The year’s been a rather good one, though I am way behind schedule on com-
edy, and the present stoppage is doing me no good. Ruth’s rheumatoid arthritis
gives her some violently bad days, but she manages to make herself stay mobile.
The cataracts brought on by excessive cortisone dosage moved so fast during the
fall that [she] was almost blind waiting for new glasses (this country is so ineffi-
cient that it’s difficult to imagine its ever having been the technological leader of
6. John P. Sisk, “On Intoxication,” Commentary 53 (February 1972): 56–61; Francis Sweeney,
“Flannery O’Connor,” review of Voice of the Peacock, by Sister Kathleen Feeley, New York Times
Book Review, February 13, 1972, sec. 7, pt. 1, p. 30.
the world). Now that’s solved. For my repairs I got into Catholic hands, a sheer
accident which put me into a hospital that resembles about an 1895 high school
in a Chicago ghetto, but that more than makes up for this by as attractive a
squadron of Irish nursing lassies as I have seen anywhere, and I don’t think this
is only my advanced years. I limp down the corridor holding my wounded
paunch, and Sr. Flaherty chirps, “Hi Yankee Doodle, how’s your bambino this
morning?” That kind of thing.
Our best to you both,
<Bob>
129. Stanford, March 29, 1972

Dear Bob:
We were quite shocked to hear of your appendectomy—and apparently
under not the best clinical conditions. But we hope that by now you will have
recovered, after having duly completed linguistic studies with Irish lassies. They
are quite an important part in the London infra-structure; I also had some
amusing experiences with Irish girls in this or that boarding-house. They have
an uninhibited way of making intelligent and funny remarks to you as among
equals. We also hope that Ruth has recovered from her bad bout with arthritis.
This cortisone treatment is terrible; I have a colleague here at the Hoover
Institution who, last winter, suffered so badly from cataracts that he had to read
with a magnifying glass.
This winter was a bit exacting, because I had to give a course on “Greek
Religious Consciousness from Homer to Alexander” in the Humanities Divi-
sion here at Stanford (January to middle-March; with 25 exam papers). That’s
over now. But on the weekend of March 17, I gave a lecture at the Hartford
Theological Seminary on “Modern Gnosticism,” with Hans Jonas treating an-
cient Gnosis. Quite interesting, as permanently [constantly] new materials are
coming out. Tomorrow I shall fly to New York for a meeting on philosophy of
politics, with Raymond Aron coming from Paris, and [Shlomo] Avineri from
Jerusalem, and [Robert Jay] Lifton from Yale. To my lot has fallen the lecture on
“Reason—the Classical Tradition.” Enclosed you will find a copy of the synop-
sis, detailed enough to be intelligible. It might interest you, because I have
stressed certain linguistic factors. The dates in the section “The Newspeak of the
Self ” are taken from Oxford Dictionary (the continental first appearances of the
new words lie a little earlier); if one accumulates these dates systematically, a
7. For this enclosure, see Appendix C, no. 4.

fairly good picture of the symbols becomes visible which express the experience
of a contracted, warped existence. When I had finished the synopsis, I compared
with Whitehead’s lectures on The Function of Reason (1929) and found that we
agree on all the principal points. The classic existential analysis also agrees with
Pascal’s in the Pensées.
On April 5th, I have to go to the University of Dallas, for a concentrated term
of six weeks (six hours teaching per week). Lissy will come only for the last two
weeks in May.
Sisk sent me his article on “Intoxication”—very good—and I answered him
immediately. Thanks also for the article on Flannery O’Connor. I must confess
that I am not familiar with her work—I’ll have to do something to repair my ig-
norance.
All good wishes to both of you for your convalescence, and to you especially
for the progress of your work.
<Yours always,
Eric>

W H AT WA S F O R M E D AT T H AT
T I M E H O L D S TO G E T H E R
Letters 130–52, 1973–1984

130. Stanford, April 11, 1973
Dear Bob:
Professor Geoffrey Barraclough, a Fellow at All Souls College in Oxford, has
suggested I should apply for a Visiting Fellowship at his College for the Spring
term of 1975.
There is a procedure in applying for this Visiting Fellowship which involves
what is known as “short testimonials” on behalf of the applicant.
Do you think you could write a few lines to the Dean of Visiting Fellows, Mr.
Denis Mack Smith, All Souls College, Oxford, OXI 4AL, telling him that I am
a respectable scholar who would not disgrace All Souls College? You would
oblige me greatly by doing it.
I am presently preparing two additional volumes of Order and History for
publication. The volumes should come out in the Spring and Fall of 1974. After
that ordeal I should be very happy to spend three months in Oxford. The
Fellowship at All Souls College would be a great help in finishing The Drama of
Humanity through contacts with the English archaeologists and prehistorians.
With all good wishes, I am,
Sincerely yours,
<Eric>
Eric Voegelin
<PS. I hope you have recovered from your recent ailment. Greetings to you and
Ruth from Lissy, too.>

Dear Eric,
I will be very happy to write a “short testimonial” to All Souls; the execution
of this promise will be delayed only until Monday when I shall be at the office
and have the help of a secretary to make the thing look as if it came from a
267
typographically competent, and therefore literate, source.<*> I am delighted

that All Souls wants to have you as a visitor; I only wish that the scheduled time
were longer than three months. When you are there you may run into Alistair
Crombie, a historian of science whom I knew when he was a professor of phi-
losophy (visiting) here. Alistair is a Catholic, and the local boys, all raging liber-
als, considered this quite dishonest of him (they had not done their homework
and found it out in advance; it appeared that anybody having a connection with
science, even only historical, was trustworthy). He gave as good as he got; liberals
are not used to being talked back to by intellectuals, and the shock was terrible.
You are a more courteous man than I. By now, perhaps, you have discovered
that I listed your name as that of a possible referee for me vis-à-vis the Be-
havioral Sciences institute at Stanford. They had written me to ask whether, if
they were ever to approve me, I would be interested in spending a year of study
there. I allowed as how I was, and they asked for names. Since they explained
that the processing would take several years at least, I assumed that it would be
a long time before they got to referees, and I would have plenty of time to ex-
plain to everybody how I had taken his name, if not in vain, at least without
permission. But they got to several referees very quickly. If not yet to you, I am
relieved, and I hope that you will forgive me [the] assumption that you might be
willing to testify at least to my character (won’t steal the pencil-sharpeners, etc.).
That is very good news that two volumes of Order and History will be out next
year; I look forward to them. And The Drama of Humanity sounds as though it
will be a magnificent summa. Three cheers for it.
My flamboyantly entitled The Iceman, the Arsonist, and the Troubled Agent
(the publishers [right:] <University of Washington Press>—begged for an imag-
istic title) came out a few weeks ago. Since it is only a continuation of Tragedy
and Melodrama, with more recent drama as the subject, but no new theory to
speak of, I will spare you by not sending you a copy.
My annual March surgery is now a month behind me, and I am still in a foot-
cast; still wearing an inflexible wooden shoe, and still limping. Maybe in two or
three weeks my diminished foot will be able to go on its own, and I can get back
to normal locomotion.
Thank you for asking to write to All Souls. All our best to you both.
Sincerely,
<Bob>
Robert B. Heilman
<*unlike the present letter>
What Was Formed at That Time Holds Together, 1973–1984 269
132. Stanford, April 19, 1973

Dear Bob:
Thank you very much for your letter of April 14; and many, many thanks for
your willingness to write the famous “short testimonial” to All Souls. One could
apply for a whole year, but I preferred only three months, because a longer resi-
dence would disturb my work too much. In the course of three months I can
hope to reach all the people who are important for the archaeological and pre-
historical questions in which at the time I am interested.
I am delighted to hear that we shall have you here at Stanford, perhaps even
for a whole year. I have not received a request to write a testimonial for you, but
you can imagine that I shall throw myself fervently into it as soon as it comes.
That would be real nice to have you and Ruth here.
My calendar is just now filling up. I have received a tentative question,
whether I would spend some time, perhaps a semester, at the University of
Vienna during the academic year 1973/1974. If that comes through, we would be
in Vienna during the beginning of the Fall term sometime in October and No-
vember. I would combine such a trip with further studies of the Megalithicum
in the Bretagne or in Spain and Portugal. In the Spring of 1974 I shall give again
my three months term at Notre Dame. For 1975 there is the All Souls thing in
the offing, and in 1976 I would be in Notre Dame again.
Via Ruth and Lissy I have heard of your ailment in the foot and the necessary
operation. I very much hope that the procedure was successful and that, after
the healing process, you can move readily again. Via the same route I have also
heard of the new book of yours that just came out, and I am glad to have the
title. Of course, I have ordered it immediately and shall read it as soon as it
comes in. The title is beautiful.
At present I am finishing the Far Eastern section of Volume IV for print. That
involves bringing up to date my studies on Chinese Ecumenism and on the
Mongols—unfortunately requiring again some theoretical work. That is what
always takes the time. The facts themselves are comparatively simple.
With many thanks again for your kindness and all good wishes to you and
Ruth, I am,
Yours sincerely,
<Eric>
Eric Voegelin

Dear Eric,
Thank you very much for the offprint of “Reason: The Classic Experience,”
which is your usual superb performance, and which, as always, made me feel
that I had entered into a new illumination (subject to my own limits, of course)—
“the discovery of Reason as an epochal event,” the inseparability of the zoon
noetikon and politikon and historikon, the differentiation of the psyche, “open-
ness toward reality” as the content of Reason and hence alienation as the psy-
chopathological state, the Ciceronian “list of syndromes that sound quite
modern,” Reason “as a means of justifying the escape from Reason,” the epigram
“Man cannot live by perversion alone,” the sick claiming the status of health
(once in an essay I remarked, un-historically I fear, that our age was the first in
which sick men presented themselves as medicine men: I learn from you that it’s
an old pitch), existence in metaxy as [the] definition of man’s “specific human-
ity” (I once suggested that the trouble with “humanism” is its denial of man’s
essentially human trait—the seeking for gods {sounds like good Voegelin trans-
lated into bad Heilman}), the nice ironic comments on modern ideologies (es-
pecially by [sic] the wonderful paragraph on Hegel that ends the section on
p. 258), the final definition of the life of reason on p. 261.
I want to ask a silly question that will only reflect my own ignorance. It’s re-
ally two questions, reflecting the two parts of the phrase “tension toward the
ground.” I am so used to the idiom “tension between” (which you also use) that
I can’t get hold of “tension toward.” Is the meaning “ex-tension” toward? reach-
ing or stretching toward? attraction to? openness to? attunement to? Or none of
these? “The ground” is a long-used term of yours which I don’t sense securely.
Origin? source? genesis? “onlie begetter” (to borrow the famous Shakespeare
phrase from another context)?
I should be sending you something too, but I don’t think anything I’ve done
recently is worth sending. On the other hand, if your comic sense or your toler-
ance of academic jokes is generous, you might find some amusement in some es-
says of mine about the trade. If you haven’t run into The Ghost on the Ramparts,
I’ll send it along.
We had a charming message from Lissie in Japan, where, I gather, the experi-
ence has been wonderful, and whence, I assume, you will soon depart. We liked
1. Voegelin, “Reason: The Classic Experience,” Southern Review, n.s., 10 (1974): 237–64, reprinted
in The Collected Works of Eric Voegelin, vol. 12, Published Essays, 1966–1985, ed. Ellis Sandoz
(Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 1990).
2. Heilman, “The Ghost on the Ramparts” and Other Essays in the Humanities (Athens: Uni-
versity of Georgia Press, 1974).
Lissie’s comment on the state of Japanese philosophy and the alarm which your
revelations created in the gentle Oriental auditors. That I should have liked to
see. Incidentally, they do a lot of writing about English literature—they have a
journal or two in the field (typographically marvelous, with their own beautiful
characters here and there interrupted by quotations in roman letters)—and it all
sounds like very genteel observations from about 1920, as if they had been
brought up on pre-World-War-One English dons.
School is on again, and the comedy theme I spent this summer on will lag
again for nine months. A ten-hour-a-week schedule just about does me in. Two
years to go at most. The rate at which my pension is decreasing, what with the
condition of the market on one hand and inflation on the other, discourages
[me] from trying to make it before the compulsory termination.
Welcome back, good luck, best wishes.
<Bob>
134. Seattle, January 1, 1975 [OH]

Dear Eric,
Anyone who entertains so well, at lunch as well as at dinner, should have a
long succession of birthdays. Since this would be of great profit to guests, a
birthday wish from a chronic guest may seem only another evidence of self-
interest. But even with that risk: three cheers for your having achieved this
birthday, for your having achieved it in such fine condition, and for your going
on tirelessly with these January occasions.
Yours,
Robert
[The following handwritten note from Ruth to Eric was enclosed with Rob-
ert’s.]
Dear Eric,
Happy birthday and happy New Year.
We recollect our evening with you and Lissy as one rather splendid gathering
of forces; what goes on at the ladies’ luncheon date, I refuse to say.
Do you know the great 2 volume Arts of Japan by Noma Seiroku? The illustra-
tions are magnificent, and I’ve just been checking on your Kani scroll. Perhaps
that’s your birthday gift (the book, I mean), as it was mine several years ago.
Love to you both,
Ruth
135. Stanford, January 7, 1975

Dear Ruth and Bob:
That was most touching of you to send me a birthday card, with your charm-
ing congratulations. You found it out, because Lissy told Ruth about the Sacher-
torte she had to make for the occasion—which (the Sachertorte), incidentally,
was excellent and disappeared rapidly. Thanks to Ruth especially for the refer-
ence to the Arts of Japan.
It was a great pleasure to have you all here for X-mas. With you here, I was
just reminiscing, and having seen the [Robert] Harrises in November in Char-
lottesville, and having letters from Cleanth Brooks, Louisiana was not such a
bad place at all. What was formed at that time holds together.
About the influences of Japan, I just ran across an interesting observation.
[R. C.] Zaehner, of Oxford, wrote an article about the [Charles] Manson case.
The peculiar state of mind in which ecstatic murder becomes possible appears to
have been induced by a combination of mind-expansion through LSD and sex
orgies with a mystical transformation induced by Zen Buddhism in its Cali-
fornia variations. Considering the sources given by Zaehner, there seems to be
something to it.
Thanks again for your kindness, and with all good wishes from both of us,
Always yours,
<Eric Voegelin>
136. Seattle, January 12, 1975

Dear Eric,
We are glad that the birthday went off as it should, with a due production,
and a swift and total consumption, of Sachertorte. There seem to have been no
inner miseries to reflect a judgment of the conscience upon the sacrifice of Sach-
ertorte.
Your references to Zaehner on the Manson case reminded both Ruth and me
of a recent Gothic novel that we both have [been] reading, William [Thomas]
3. I cannot locate Zaehner’s article, but in the author’s preface to his Our Savage God (New
York: Sheed and Ward, 1974), R. C. Zaehner writes: “This book is largely the result of chance or
what C. G. Jung would have called ‘synchronicity.’ It was, I suppose, triggered off by a letter I re-
ceived from an American professor which included an offprint of his, along with a typescript of an
article he had written about the Bhagavad Gita which pointed out how dangerous this most
highly esteemed of all the Hindu sacred books could be if literally interpreted. As witness for the
prosecution he produced, among others, the sinister figure of Charles Manson who was responsi-
ble for the Sharon Tate murders, which shocked the world in 1969” (9).
Tryon’s Harvest Home—a best-seller paperback and yet astounding in that it

doesn’t come out the way a best-seller may be assumed to be obligated to do.
The combination of elements is like that seen in Manson by Zaehner. These
occur in a naturalization of Eleusinian mysteries in a New England village.
Compare also the famous short story, Shirley Jackson’s “The Lottery.”
Your interpretation of magical social transformations as essentially alchemical
made a deep impression on me, and I keep letting it sink in, hoping it will
bounce back with some further illumination of matters for me. Incidentally, it
sharpened my awareness of a passage which otherwise I might have hastened
over un-observantly. The passage is in David Ketterer’s New Worlds for Old (In-
diana, 1974), a book which sees science fiction as apocalyptic and therefore in
line with the main tradition of American literature which Ketterer alleges is
apocalyptic. (The word has become enormously fashionable in recent criticism,
and Americanists seem to use it so broadly that it seems to mean little more than
something like “concerned with a crisis.”) At any rate Ketterer, pp. 10–11, quotes
Northrop Frye’s definition of apocalypse (a much less easy and popular one than
most) and adds “The perception of our conversion to this reality, Frye relates to
the alchemical principle whereby base metal is transformed into gold.” The ref-
erence is to Northrop Frye, Anatomy of Criticism (Princeton, 1957), pp. 119, 148.
(This book, which gives basic definitions of the various genres in archetypal
terms, has been the most influential work of criticism in the last 25 years.)
Ketterer adds a footnote: “The possible relationship between alchemy and apoc-
alypse is explored by Louis Pauwels and Jacques Bergier, The Dawn of Magic,
trans. Rollo Myers (London, 1963), p. 73.”
For possible lazy reading, Anthony Burgess’ The Clockwork Orange, a tale of
the shortcomings of bio-mechanical transformations of personality, at least of a
man of malicious violence into non-violent maliciousness.
As you say, there’s too much to read. These references come only as informa-
tion, not as recommendations. Our best to you both, who were so wonderfully
generous as hosts.
Yours,
<Bob>

Dear Eric,
This is mainly to say thank-you for the copy of The Ecumenic Age, which has
come to me from the LSU Press. I had entered a standing subscription for all the
volumes in the series, and I don’t think you ought in this way to have undercut
the activities of the sales-and-promotion. But I needn’t tell you that I am happy
to have a copy from the author himself; the only thing remaining is to find the
occasion to ask for his signature in the volume.
I read slowly, as you know; so I am still in the Introduction. I need in a quite
literal way to work through the conceptual density line by line, and I am not
sure then that I bring to the text sufficient imagination, not to say knowledge, to
be certain that I am clearheaded about what you are saying. But no time is bet-
ter spent, and it is a pleasure to sense the increments of understanding that
emerge from my slow pursuit of you from a distance. I don’t know that I have
ever had the experience of a thinker’s recording the accrual of new evidence, the
impact of that evidence upon his original intellectual schematization, and the
resultant alteration in concept and procedure, as you do with such wonderful
fullness and equanimity here. (What an example of grace in that last sentence!)
Of course I am always delighted by the Voegelin sense of humor, which is so ev-
ident in the long paragraph pp. 3–4, and which you never repress as if it were an
indecent invader. The most real thrill, of course, is in the wonderfully lucid epi-
grammatic summaries as in the final sentence on p. 6. Incidentally, the clause at
the bottom of p. 8 (“the removal of the gods . . . science”) delighted me because
it seemed to confirm a device I had hit upon for a general lecture on the
Renaissance to a lay audience: starting with the familiar “humanities” I came up
with two parallel terms, “divinities” and “physicalities” (another triad of histori-
ography). It seemed to work as a publicly accessible scheme.
Would you by any chance consider, for your final volume, an appendix con-
taining a glossary of your central technical and philosophic terms? I know that,
for one writing to his peers, this would seem inadmissible. So I’m thinking only
of a non-theological, non-philosophic audience—a presumably intelligent “lay”
or “popular” audience—that might be assisted into the fold by such a device.
Decapitate me if this seems the naughtiest suggestion of recent decades.
Lissie made Ruth and me both very happy when she told Ruth about the
Marquette degree. Excellent!
The lecture that I mentioned above was the “keynote address” at a University
of Georgia alumni seminar in February: I rather liked the experience of trying to
describe, to a wholly lay audience, a historic period and to suggest its metamor-
phosis into “our own times.” I had to do a similar job for honors students at the
University of Southern Mississippi in January—an occasion made especially
pleasant by my being met in New Orleans by the USM operative and spending
a few hours there for the first time since 1948: traipsing around the Quarter and
gorging at an oyster bar. In March a lecture at Wisconsin: there I worked off a

few gripes by discussing literary portraits of ambiguous characters whose formal
personae are “man of integrity” and “man of benevolence.”<*>
Full-time teaching in winter quarter, plus the lecture trips, did little to help a
continuing case of what the office girls call “the plague”—a sort of half-flu,
three-quarters cold, full-time cough, and general debility which kept me for two
weeks coming home from classes and spending the rest of the day in bed. But I
think (knock on wood) I am over it now.
I have just got word—still confidential (announcements in April some
time)—that I’m going to have a Guggenheim in 1976, so I’ll probably retire for-
mally at the end of 1975. If we’re up to it, we may be off to London again. Half
the time I think Ruth is up to it, and the rest of the time not. The ailment seems
to be slowly worsening, but sometimes she has good days, or even a whole week,
when the stiffness and pain are reduced enough to make her seem to be going
about things “normally,” i.e., pre-arthritically.
This week (between quarters) I cut a PBK [Phi Beta Kappa] meeting in D.C.
and a Shakespeare shindig at New Haven to try to get caught up here—clearing
the desk, etc. The only important thing was writing to you. I hope that Texas
has been a good scene to be in, at least temporarily. Have you by any chance run
into William R. Keast—formerly Dean at Cornell, President of Wayne State,
English chairman at Texas—and now curator of some collection there? He was
the most savage reviewer of This Great Stage. We’ve become friends since. He’s
said to be now a bit on the alcoholic side, but I don’t know this for a fact. He
was one of the old Chicago Aristotelians; they used to slaughter everyone else,
but not do much affirmatively.
This is turning into an unending gossip; forgive it. Congratulations on The
Ecumenic Age (with its interesting typographic similarity to the preceding vol-
umes, but with what is, I think, a more elegant version of the same basic type
design), and my gratitude for the copy that I have received. All my best.
Yours,
<Bob>
The thing at Georgia was run by a pol-sci man named Robert Clute. He told me
that he reads you in German, and likes the German very much.
<*I didn’t quite have courage to use publicly the title I would have preferred
“Robespierre and Santa Claus.”>
4. This speech was later published with the title Heilman preferred: “Robespierre and Santa
Claus: Men of Virtue in Drama” (Southern Review, n.s., 14 [1978]: 209–25).
138. [Seattle,] May 13, 1975

[The following quotations were typed at the top of the page, preceding the letter.]
David Ketterer, New Worlds for Old: The Apocalyptic Imagination, Science Fiction,
and American Literature (Indiana University Press, 1974).
Ketterer quotes Northrop Frye, Anatomy of Criticism (Princeton University Press,
1957) on p. 10 as follows:
“. . . Frye states: ‘By an apocalypse I mean primarily the imaginative con-
ception of the whole of nature as the content of an infinite and eternal living
body, which if not human, is closer to being human than to being inanimate.’
{Frye under Blake’s influence.} The perception of our conversion to this reality,
Frye relates (10) to the alchemical principle whereby base metal is turned into
gold {Frye, p. 148}. . . . Frye reveals three basic images of the apocalyptic
world: the mineral image of the heavenly city of Jerusalem, the vegetable image
of the Arcadian garden, and the animal imagery of the sheepfold and pastoral
existence—to be opposed to his basic images of the demonic world: seas and
dark cities, forests and wasteland, and beasts” (Ketterer, p. 11).
Ketterer’s footnote 15 adds this: “The possible relationship between alchemy

and apocalypse is explored by Louis Pawels and Jacques Bergier in The Dawn of
Magic, trans. by Rollo Myers (London, 1963)” (p. 11). Ketterer quotes a sentence
or two from Pawels and Bergier’s p. 73.
Dear Eric,
A propos of your talking about alchemy and its influences on socio-political
thought—this was last Christmas—I couldn’t help copying out the above from
a book that recently came to me. I’m sure that it tells you nothing new, and may
be in a state of error which you will immediately recognize. Ketterer, by the way,
seems intent on making a more or less absolute identity between the three ele-
ments named in his sub-title.
You may still be on the road as I write this, but sooner or later, I assume, your
good character will earn you a return to the promised land, Palo Alto. Lissy’s re-
ports indicated that Texas life was not all it might be. I can only hope it paid
well, let you at least survive, and set you up for more joyous doings elsewhere.
Have a good summer. Our best to you both.
Yours truly,
<Robert>
<Many thanks to Lissie for the very interesting review of book by D. Sayers: we
both enjoyed it.>
139. London, May 24, 1976

Dear Eric:
I brought The Ecumenic Age along from Seattle—the only book to accom-
pany us but some paperbacks—and have been working my way through it. I say
“working my way” not to imply that my passage through it is work rather than
pleasure (it is both) but rather to acknowledge what you very well know, that I
am not equipped to hasten through it or even to be sure that the way is any-
where near the right one. But the labor is one that I would not have missed, and
one that, I know, has kept me as close to greatness of thought as I have been or
ever will be. The spread of your knowledge is incredible, knowledge as grasp
both of information and of the extremely complex and rigorous tools (some of
them fashioned by yourself ) to analyze the information and interpret it. I have a
new concept of history, if one may use “history” inclusively enough: a record of
the varying degrees of human openness to theophanic events, an openness mod-
ified by different modes of self-interpretation, and reaching a nadir in the post-
Enlightenment egophanic (an excellent coinage, if coinage it is) revolt, especially
as this appears in ideological doctrines (what a good crack at Hegel at the top of
263). I am enchanted by your running head-on into a central modernity by in-
sisting on the mystery of the cosmos, and detecting the various modern devices
for putting “off confrontation with the divine mystery of existence” (211). As to
the hundreds of supporting ideas developed in the course of the exegesis, I only
wish I had what it would take to take them in, naturalize them, and make them
productive citizens in my own intellectual economy. Alas! I am much taken by
the definition of the philosopher’s task (228 and of course elsewhere), by the
contrast of the Platonic and the Pauline (with the latter represented as an ad-
vance over the former), by your use of the concepts of the Beginning and the
Beyond, by the over-all self-revisionism of the Introduction, by the many com-
ments on gnosticism (I think the phrase “magic pneumatism,” 27, gave me more
of a sense of the implications of gnosticism than I have ever had, even though
the “pneumatic” causes me much struggle with connotation), by the numerous
references to the impact upon modern times of historically distant intellectual
events (e.g., the Stoic deformations, 23, and the very fine summary on 48), the nu-
merous skillful parallels (a small example at the bottom of 55).
One need not go around being a bore by parading one’s own ignorance, but it
has seemed to me that a confession of several of my difficulties might be useful in
illustrating the problems of the willing, eager, but ill-equipped outsider. (Or, if not
“useful,” perhaps simply amusing.) One can’t expect a diminution of the com-
plexity inevitably created by the combination of a highly technical vocabulary
with the syntactic interwovenness essential to a highly precise qualification of

meaning. Actually, technical terms may present a difficulty at odds with an ap-
parent simplicity of verbal form—e.g., those basic terms “compact” and “differ-
entiated,” to which I still cannot give a sense that I am sure of. I try substituting
“unified” or “integral” for “compact,” with the implication of an unreadiness for
making distinctions that would later improve the situation. But when “compact
truth of reality” seems to be synonymous with “earlier wholeness” (175) and
when I read the phrase “compact or deformed” (187), the virtue seems to lie in
“compact,” even though at other places “differentiation” appears to imply a gain
in insight. I don’t know whether the problem is in my basic ignorance or in my
failure properly to digest passages in which the connotations do become clear.
Again I am not sure whether “historiogenesis” means a bringing forth by means
of history (analogy with “parthenogenesis”) or a bringing forth of history (for
purposes of self-aggrandizement, etc.). I would suppose the latter from the defi-
nition on p. 101, but I remain unsure. I tend to translate the key terms “noetic”
and “pneumatic,” for which I have, so to speak, no “feeling,” into “intellectual”
and “spiritual,” but I am embarrassed by the thought that this probably means
at best a gross oversimplification. Numerous uses of it still leave me unclear
about “exodus,” which obviously takes on rich reverberations not present in its
root sense. When I come across “libidinous” and “concupiscential,” I assume
that they work metaphorically as does “lust” in such phrases as “lust for power”
(cf. “libido dominandi,” 254), “lust for money,” etc., but I am not sure. This idea
seems not to work in a phrase like “libidinous obsession,” so I try “obsessive driven-
ness by desire” or something like that. Sometimes a locution involves an unfa-
miliar idiom, as in “tension toward” (which I confessed earlier; cf. the entirely
familiar “tension between,” 137). For “transparent for” I try reading “revelatory
of,” but diffidently. Again, on 270, I assume that “becomes conscious” means
“enters consciousness,” but this may be an idiotic misreading. In certain phrases
“luminous” is not luminous, at least to me, especially in “to” and “for” combi-
nations when the luminousness appears not to be in the object upon which light
is thrown or in the mind receiving or gaining enlightenment: e.g., “process be-
comes luminous for itself ” (228), “luminous for its structure in noetic con-
sciousness” (232); “psyche . . . luminous for the order of reality” (237—perhaps
“psyche has received light on the order of reality”?); and perhaps most difficult
of all, “paradox . . . becomes luminous to itself in consciousness” (258).
I mean merely to illustrate, not complain needless to say. What is being illus-
trated is some typical problems of the mind lacking the philosophical training
or the conceptual intake that presumably would prevent one from having stum-
bling blocks at such points as those I have noted.
The opposite side of the coin is the great pleasure I have found in passages
where I did think I knew what was going on, and there are very many of these,
their charm ranging from humor to wit to lucid penetration and at times to
magnificence. I am charmed by the acid observations in the last dozen lines of
para. 1 on p. 4, the epigrammatic definition of the process of history (bottom 6),
the great series (17–18; and just before end of para. 1, p. 19), the ironic remark
about baffling Stoic combinations and “atheist reprobates.” Constantly there are
these easy, urbane cracks along the way. Delightful paragraph just above the
word “Conclusion” on p. 57, and the conclusion itself is a beautiful pulling-
together; and the next-to-last para. is wonderfully enlightening or “luminous” (as
I understand the word). I have to mention the wit in the “fabulating the fabula-
tion” sentence (63), on the “inconsiderate Sumerians and Egyptians” (68), of
“ideological mortgages” and “pagans like Plato” and other phrases in a pungent
paragraph (78), of “mythically excessive” (84), of “decay like any other under the
pressure of victory and prosperity” (127), the epigrammatic crackling all through
the first para. on 134, the wit on “liberation” (168–9), the epigrammatic account of
the “truth of the process” (176–77), the witty “newspeak of Enlightenment” (195)
(and the “egoistic” phenomena that need to be distinguished), “shortcuts to im-
mortality” (237), the aphoristic quality of the bottom lines and top lines (253–54).
A propos of verbal wit and witty thought, that questionnaire (243) is a gem,
wonderfully ironic. Three cheers for the effective slang re Hegel (mid 264). I
particularly enjoyed points (4) and (5) on pp. 217–218—lucid, pointed, fluid.
Some of the historical sections flow along in a particularly effective way—
e.g., “The Hellenic Case” (101ff.), the problems of the historiomachs, history
cum humor (110ff.), the Ecumenic Age in toto (115ff.). The introduction to the
Pauline Vision is very effective expository writing (239–240).
You rarely use a parallel series without doing it extremely well. I’ve already
mentioned a case or two, and I can’t help mentioning others that “sent” me—
the “time” sentence (79, near top), several examples in the conclusion of section
2 (142). Other passages that I like for one reason or another: effective image (line
1, p. 115), definitions of ecumene (124, 133, end of sec. 2), the convergence of
trends para. (117), the exegesis of Polybius (127), the “older societies” sentence,
parallelism again (mid 128), the easy and lucid para. on Plato (223), the defini-
tion of Revelation (bottom 232), the great “No longer” sentences, once again the
series managed so beautifully (234), the nice pairing of “fundamentalist” and
“positivist” (244), the page on “degraded symbols” (254), the paragraph on the
modern situation (under [3], p. 267), one of many of its kind.
Some of the passages I have alluded to are examples of the summarizing sec-
tion, a phase of discourse which you can handle masterfully. There is an
example on p. 95, one on p. 117 (already alluded to), the parallels para. (149),
then pp. 191–2, 211 (and here I have also to mention expository paragraphs
which I especially liked on pp. 182 [“The games by which, etc.”] and 214, under
Sec. 1). But the finest achievement of all, I think, is the concluding sec. on p.
266, which is both brilliant and moving (and add the final sentence on p. 267).
Qy.: is the “wheel” in Herodotus a possible source of the medieval “wheel of
fortune,” or is the latter an independent image?
The passages on mortals as immortals (179) and on “immanentist counter-
grounds” (192) remind me, if ever so distantly, of a passage in Marlowe’s Tambur-
laine which might be of mild interest to you. But I have to go to the library and
look it up, and I mean to do that before I mail this letter.
As you will see, I tend to take in detail better than large concept, and I have
to live with that. Speaking of detail, I have made a list of a few typos (in case
LSU might want to correct in a reprint), of places where there seem to be prob-
lems of idiom or of connotation, and of words which, insofar as they cause me
problems, might also do so for other readers of the same class. I once introduced
the possibility of a glossary. This is pretty presumptuous, but not, I hope, ab-
solutely offensive; the only issue would be whether one wanted to make all that
effort to play for the widest possible audience. I don’t know. Please don’t feel ob-
ligated to ask for the transmission of any of these notes, which can die quietly
without loss; I have already inflicted enough words on you. All of them are only
ways of saying what a magnificent performance the book is, and of my good for-
tune in knowing the author.
I will enclose an admiring letter from Gene Webb at UW, a copy of a book re-
view which doubtless you already have, and a clipping of a newspaper column
interesting in the fact that something like an idea of yours, even though its
begetter is not acknowledged, appears in a popular sheet with a circulation of
1,300,000.
Our very best to you both. We look forward to seeing you. Good traveling.
<Robert>
140. Stanford, June 3, 1976

Dear Robert:
I just had your long letter of May 24th. We are leaving in a few days for
Rome; and this is not the time for an answer of the length your conscientious
analysis would require. We have to leave something for our talk in London. But
5. See Appendix C, no. 6.

I must tell you that I am deeply touched by the time and labor you have in-
vested in reading a book that, after all, moves somewhat on the periphery of
your main interests.
As always I could learn a lot from your detailed praise and criticism (even
with page-references!). And I am deeply in sorrow about the “tension” of human
existence which is characterized by its direction toward the ground of existence.
I simply do not know how to describe this phenomenon other than by the word
tension, which the Latins have already used to render the Greek tasis or tonos in
reality. The Latin tensio derives from the verb tendere, which means, just as the
English tend, being stretched or tending in a certain direction toward some-
thing. I am a bit at a loss to understand why the philosophical meaning of ten-
sion, which stresses the directional factor in the existential tension, should cause
such difficulty? Especially since the cognitive direction of consciousness is cov-
ered by the related term intentionality. The abstract tension was formed in antiq-
uity to cover such concrete cases of tension as love, hope, and faith; and even
more generally, the directional tension of matter toward the form that is fit for
it. For Plato and Aristotle, this tension of existence manifests itself concretely in
the “quest,” the “search,” the “questioning” and “inquiring” of the thinker in the
direction of the ground of his existence that is, at the same time, the “mover” of
the inquiry and the “drawer” of the soul toward its immortality.
But obviously, such questions need talk rather than writing.
We shall arrive in London on July 11th, and probably stay until the four-
teenth. Then we shall try to organize some visit to the southern cathedrals
(Salisbury, Winchester, Canterbury, not to forget Stonehenge). We are looking
forward very much to seeing you both as soon as possible.
With many thanks,
Sincerely yours,
<Eric>
PS. The letter by Webb is really touching. Sandoz, by the way, has invited him
to participate in his panel on Political Theory at the meeting of Amer. Pol. Sc.
Ass. in September.
141. August 3, 1976 [OH]

Dear Eric,
The time is so short, and there is so much to be done here, that I shall not at-
tempt a letter. Ruth has already told you how fine an evening we had with you
as generous hosts; our only regret was that you were pretty tired after all the
travels. I’m not sure whether you walked back to the hotel; at any rate, I hope
that somewhere you found stamina for the remainder of the journey home.
I cannot resist sending on to you another letter from Gene Webb—so full is
it of the most charming admiration for you and gratification at being included
among the devoted students.
South Africa was an immensely enjoyable experience, and of course after ten
days there I am ready to explain the country to the world—well, at least the
topography. The depths don’t show easily, of course, but still one gets a sense of
considerable foreboding. No answers, alas.
Our affectionate greetings
to you both,
Bob
142. [Stanford,] January 16, 1977

Dear Bob:
Just a note to thank you for your memoir on Cleanth Brooks. We both read
it with delight, and with admiration for the style and form in which you ac-
complished your task.
Of course, I should have liked to hear more about the situation in which
Brooks, and you, engaged in the new criticism, about the execution and effect of
your work, and the “trends” at which you hint toward the end. I liked the
“every-man-his-own-Toynbee” dig at interdisciplinary studies (and I shall use it
on occasion), but from my own observation of such studies I would rather com-
plain about the illusion that something new will come out, when half-a-dozen
specialists get together and none of them knows what the other fellows are talk-
ing about. Well, I always deplore not to have you nearer by to ask you questions
about what is going on in Eng Lit.
With many thanks again,
Always yours,
<Eric>
6. Heilman, “Cleanth Brooks and The Well Wrought Man,” (“The Critics Who Made Us” se-
ries), Sewanee Review 91 (1983): 322–34. Reprinted in Heilman, The Southern Connection: Essays by
Robert Bechtold Heilman, as “Cleanth Brooks: Selected Snapshots, Mostly from an Old Album”
(Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1991), 81–97.

Dear Eric:
The enclosed dinner-table place-card—obviously academic, since it is a con-
verted 3 x 5 card (I’ve done this myself)—reveals, on the pink side, a rather rococo
hand by the hostess. On the blue-ink side is a name, written out for me by the
owner of it, which may ring a bell or two from your distant past. The dinner
where this card identified the woman whom had been introduced to me as
“Mrs. Elkin Wilson” was in Birmingham, Alabama. Mrs. Wilson and I, as a
matter of fact, had been thrown together during the highball period, and some-
how we got to talking about trips to Europe. She had mentioned a freighter
trip—originating in Houston, perhaps?—taken a long time ago, maybe around
1950. I said that I had never been on so long a freighter trip and wondered how
it worked out: suppose all the rest of the small number of passengers were im-
possible people, and so on. Well, she said, she didn’t know, because she had been
lucky on this trip, for one of the passengers was a very interesting man named
“Eric Voegelin.” I promptly acknowledged that I could claim knowledge of the
bearer of the name, and we were off into as much of a bosom palship as a dinner
party permits to two people when the total number of diners is seven. She re-
ported something of your conversations and of a walk or two in Paris, on one of
which you said, “Maybe the master will show himself,” and sure enough, when
you went by his place, the master did look out and become visible—Jean-Paul
Sartre. Then I got around to the story of Ruth’s and my temerity in being your
house-agents the time you were evicted in a hot August, and she said, “Why, I
have been in that house.” Well, that’s about it. But she did want me to give you
her greetings, and she wrote out the name Whitis which I gather was hers at that
time. Mrs. or Miss, I don’t know. The marriage to Elkin Wilson took place just
a few years ago, I gather—perhaps a second, or a late-ish first, marriage for each.
Elkin, now 77, was at Harvard part of the time I was, and although we had
barely known each other, we had of course, much to talk about. He is a rather
courtly gentleman from Valdosta, Georgia, and I suppose that he moved to
Birmingham when he retired from NYU, and then met Mildred, who appar-
ently taught school there for many years.
I was there as “visiting scholar” at the University of Alabama in Birmingham,
the Alabama medical school which is becoming a university by their building a
college of A & S around the extensive medical establishment. They apparently
hope to launch it in the right direction by having a series of academic visitors for
ten days at a time; I was the second of three in English in the present term. I had
to do two lectures and then take over three two-hour meetings of the Shakespeare
seminar. Since I had never taught Shakespeare, the preparations took a good
deal of time. Birmingham is a more attractive city than it was in the late 30’s and
early 40’s when we used to go through it driving US 11 up to Pennsylvania and
New York, and I had completely forgot that it is rather nicely equipped with a
semicircle of nearby mountains, or at least large hills. But I nearly froze. Only
one day did the temperature go over 50; every night it was down in the 20s, and
one night, coming home from dinner about 8:30, I saw a “19” on a bank ther-
mometer. Then back here to camellias and flowering fruits.
I’ve just finished the index for the comedy book, due presumably in April.
The contents are pretty well summarized in a piece in the winter Sewanee.
Otherwise I’ve been making non-haste slowly on several essays I’ve got commit-
ted to.
Ruth sends affectionate greetings to you both. She’s doing an early-to-bed
after a midday dinner for 8 today. Two of the 8 were Wex and Helen Malone,
whom you probably knew at LSU. Wex, now retired, is just finishing two quar-
ters here as a visiting torts man in the law school—a witty and charming man;
we should have done more for them than we did.
Good luck on the next volume and the next travels. My best to you both.
Yours,
<Robert>
144. Camano Island, Washington, September 3, 1978

Dear Eric:
This elegant paper is what is produced by the paper-drawer in the old desk at
the cottage. I hope you don’t find the color blinding.
When we were at Sewanee in late May, another guest at a dinner party was
Hal Weatherby of Vanderbilt. He told me that he had written an essay which ei-
ther concerned you or made central use of your work (my memory is hazy, as
you see). I urged him to send you an offprint. He asked whether he might use
my name in forwarding it, so that he would not seem to be pushing himself
upon you. I said of course. He was also going to send me a copy, but he has
never done so. Forgetful, or indifferent, or timid—I don’t know. At any rate I
hope that he may have sent the copy to you.
I have been invited to contribute to a “Shakespeare and Politics” conference
at the U. of Dallas next month. The organizer is a man named Cole in the
Department of Politics there; one of the letters alluded to my having known
7. Heilman, “Comedy and the World,” Sewanee Review 86 (1978): 44–65.

you. I suspect that you are responsible for the invitation, since you have been to
Dallas a number of times, I think, and I am grateful. They may not be, for they
will expect something Voegelinian, and I shall fall miles short of it. But I hope
to satisfy my usual curiosity about the tone or style of a place to which I have
never been.
Retirement is a burden. I don’t get anything done. Too much time to attend
to what ails me now.
My best to you both.
<Robert>
Maybe you met Weatherby at the Vanderbilt shindig—an ascetic-looking fellow
recently converted to the Greek church.
145. [Seattle,] March 1980 [OH]

Dear Eric,
In a late Sunday evening reading of the Sunday-morning paper—a quieten-
ing down exercise after the latest of the all-families-in-one long-distance bash—
I came across the enclosed. Since I doubt you’re engaging in the same reading,
I venture to send it on. Don’t bother to acknowledge; just cause another clear-
ing—[indecipherable] if you will.
We had a lovely time with Lissie and you, generous and amiable as always. I
was blessed as usual, not only with a host of ideas but with a special nugget or
two of gold that may be stamped into coins in my own lesser market.
Ever yours,
Robert

Dear Eric,
I did not call you back because I could not bear to waste any more of your
time in the trivialities of phone-chat. I know a busy man when I see one, and I
feel that I intrude enough into your schedule by taking a half-day of your time
whenever we come to Palo Alto. You and Lissy are most generous hosts, and we
are grateful. But there is no reason for taking more time away from your work.
You keep at it all the time as I rarely do.
8. Harold Bloom, “Gnosticism: An Elitist Religion Featuring a Cosmic Dungeon,” review of

The Gnostic Gospels, by Elaine Pagels, Sun-Examiner Chronicle, December 23, 1979.
I hope that you may have a moment’s amusement from the enclosure—
a clipping from a UW organ that on this occasion devoted itself to a dozen
retirees. Most of them told how well they are doing; I thought it worthwhile to
mention the problems. The quotations on the other side of the page are from a
luncheon talk which was obviously an occasion for trivial jests.
But my main purpose in writing is to offer good wishes for your birthday that
is due shortly and that will receive such deserved attention from the scholarly
world. You have done magnificently in the past, and the passage of years allows
you no longer pause for idle breaths. Cheers.
With admiration and best wishes,
Yours,
<Robert>
Robert Heilman
<Ruth joins me in sentiments and felicitations.>
147. Palo Alto, February 14, 1981

Dear Bob:
Many thanks for your letter with the birthday wishes, as well as the delightful
enclosure about retired professors. As always when I read a few sentences of
yours I pale with envy—I wish I could write English like that. To one of your
remarks I can add an experience of my own: Sometime ago I had a reporter
from Time here—he thought professor emeritus was some honorific title, as e.g.
distinguished professor.
But I must protest against your reasons for not letting me see more of you.
Of course, I am busy—but my business consists in knowing people from
whom I can learn something, not to mention the pleasure and entertainment
of your conversation. And certainly I have not forgotten what you did for my
English by your patient and thorough criticism in LSU, and how you helped
me by your inexhaustible knowledge of English literature. I have always a
whole list of questions I would like to ask you, as for instance just now about
what you think of William Arrowsmith’s article on T. S. Eliot in the most re-
cent issue of the Southern Review. I am unable to judge on the basis of my
9. “UW Retirees Continue Productive Professional, Personal Activities,” University of Wash-

ington Report (date and page numbers undiscernible from clipping).
10. William Arrowsmith, “The Poem as Palimpsest: A Dialogue on Eliot’s ‘Sweeney Erect,’” South-
ern Review, n.s., 17 (1981): 17–69.
own knowledge whether the man is right about the symbolism of “Sweeney
Erect.” If he is, that would open quite an insight into the symbolism of man-
animal ever so far back as Swift.
Ruth called the other day, and Lissy is quite worried about how she is doing
after her recent mishap. Is she all-right again? We should like to hear more how
things are going.
With all good wishes, and the hope of seeing more of you the next time, I am,
Affectionately yours,
<Eric Voegelin>

Dear Eric:
Thank you very much for your gracious letter of several weeks ago. You made
me feel quite literate, and I went around preening myself for an hour or two on
my accomplishments. But I do promise not to take benevolent correspondence
too literally, however gratifying it may be to fasten on the kind words themselves
rather than on the amiable spirit of him who orders them. And if only my
English even faintly approached your mastery of subtlety and precision in philo-
sophic vocabulary.
Thank you too for the card that went to all of us who are fortunate enough to
be on the Tabula Gratulatoria (I was struck by the fact that three old LSU ad-
mirers of yours were bunched together under the H’s). You are kind to make
all those acknowledgments. I’m sure all the others feel as honored as I do to be
on the Tabula. (Gene Webb is very angry that he is not there. The Department
of English, under new management now and very lax in many ways [naturally],
failed to forward the invitation to him until too late. There is no explaining
these secretarial lapses. Ruth is probably right in saying that Gene should have
practical wits enough to stop in the English mailroom regularly.)
My copy of the Festschrift came a few days ago—immensely impressive, I
need hardly say. What a distinguished international list of contributors, and
what a bibliography of the honoree, with its remarkable 52-year extent, and as
yet, obviously, nowhere near an end. Your exchanges with Alfred Schutz are
masters of differences managed with unequaled firmness and urbanity: that is
the style one would like to have. In order to have something to quarrel with and
thereby show my independence, I pick on the jacket photo, which hardly does
11. See Appendix C, no. 6.

justice to the subject, who seems at this moment to be in danger of a climax of

mal de mer.
I like much better the one on the jacket of Gene Webb’s book, of which I saw
a prepublication copy at his house the other day. Gene is pleased with the
photo, which he took, and which he feels approaches the best levels of his
photographic art. The book itself is handsomely designed, as you have perhaps
already seen. I hope that you will like the contents—but after all, you probably
did read it in MS.
Ruth was delighted by Lissy’s phone call the other day. The phone chats with
Lissy are among the happy events of her life. We were both charmed by the news
that you fly to Europe first class: that extra width of seat, and the lesser extent of
population, are among the blessings available in the physical world.
The events in Europe will, I hope, be as delightful as they are gratifying. We
both wish you the happiest of trips.
Yours admiringly,
<Bob>
149. Eric (and Lissy) Voegelin to Robert B. Heilman [Mailgram]

July 16, 1981
Congratulations and all good wishes for the Remaining Quarter of Your Cen-
tury. With gratitude for all the help you have given us.
Eric and Lissy
150. Camano Island, Washington, July 20, 1981

Dear Eric and Lissie,
I was enormously pleased by your birthday wire; it confirmed my belief that I
have a quarter of a century to go (actually I count only on nineteen years, which
will take me to the magic date of 2000). You are both gracious and generous, as
we have long known; your ceremonial kindness may detract a mite from your
truthfulness, but let that pass. On a birthday one can briefly believe anything;
credulousness for 1/365 of a year will not morally destroy the rest of it.
Your wire was a glorious surprise, and I hope you will relish the brief history
of my reception of it. The message somehow sounded “like family,” a category
12. Peter J. Opitz and Gregor Sebba, eds., The Philosophy of Order: Essays on History, Con-
sciousness, and Politics (Munich: Klett-Cotta, 1981).
13. Eugene Webb, Eric Voegelin: Philosopher of History (Seattle: University of Washington Press,
1981).
from which I should not exclude you but in which I did not instantly recognize
your membership. Thus I began to read words in my own idiosyncratic way,
when I heard the signature—the wire came first by phone—the “Eric” made me
resolve that the sender was my grandson. So I made the second sender fit the
pattern. Later I realized that what I had heard was “Lizzie,” and that should have
alerted me, for Elizabeth, though often called “Liz,” has almost never been
“Lizzie.” But by then I was beyond being alerted. “How cute of the children,” I
thought. “They knew they would be in our house on my birthday, but they
thought that a wire would be something special, and so fun; hence they worked
all this out before they left Palo Alto. Clever youngsters.” When the P. A.
Heilmans returned—they were out somewhere at the time of the call (I guess
seeing to Pete’s car, since he had got run into in Seattle: much damage, no in-
juries at all)—I told Pete how pleased I was by the wire I had just got from the
kids. He looked a little blank. Then, as the kids appeared, I told each of them
separately how sweet they had been to work out this rare greeting. Well, they are
honest. They refused to take any credit for it. So Ruth and I decided that Pete or
Jan had worked this out in the name of the kids, but they both denied complicity.
We saw in their faces, however, what was not really there—a touch of smugness, so
that we continued to tax them with birthday vision; only after repeated denials by
them did we accept the fact that some other senders had to be identified.
When we were talking about it, it was Liz who said, “Have you thought about
the Voegelins? After all, the names are almost the same.” “Impossible,” said I
with assurance, “it isn’t their style.” But then slowly, as slowly as all matters great
and small percolate into the Pennsylvania Dutch mind, it began to come to me
that I had heard “Lizzie,” and that this might well have been “Lissie.” Finally, in
due time—a lot more of it, in fact—I began to suspect that scholarly research
was, as the medicoes say, “indicated.” I checked the phone book and found that
the nearest W.U. station was Everett, some 20 or so miles from here. So I call
them. They check all their files, and report no evidence of their having phoned
a wire from Palo Alto to one Heilman on Camano Island. In fact, say they on
second thought, it wouldn’t come through them anyway, but through the
Portland, OR, office, which does all phoning of wires for the region. They give
me the Portland number, and in time I get through to Portland. Yes, such a wire
would come through them. They would check their files. They checked for five,
probably nearer ten, minutes. No luck. So they said that, if the sender had
known my phone number, the wire wouldn’t come to Portland at all but would
be routed through the Reno, NV, office and phoned from there. They would
give me the Reno number. They did. But just as we were terminating they had a
second thought and said that maybe the Reno office wasn’t the right place after
all, since under certain conditions (these I did not grasp), the right place to call
was their Red Bank, NJ, station, which knew all about everything.
So I ring Reno, feeling that professional gambling is safer than the state
which had the most bootleggers during Prohibition. When I ring Reno, I get a
series [of ] odd sounds, and then a recorded announcement, “It is impossible to
complete your call as dialed. Please dial again, or consult your operator.” Well, I
am dialing the number that Portland gave me and that for accuracy’s sake I had
double-checked with Portland, so it seemed unlikely that I could be dialing a
non-existent number. So I dial Reno again. Again the same recorded announce-
ment. I sink back with a sigh and think. Should I call Portland again to see
whether I do have say one digit wrong? Oh, that would take so much time and
effort. I shall go with Red Bank, NJ. So I do get thru to the W.U. office there.
But oh what trouble I cause to the gal there, the gal with a Jersey City accent
which established irrefutably that it’ll be hell to explain things to her. Think of
asking a Jerseyan, provincial and probably idiotic, about a wire from California
to a small place in Washington. I try. “What state?” says she incredulously. She
has heard vaguely of California, but Washington has to be DC or else, and ob-
viously Camano Island is a gag, not a place. Contempt drips from her voice. But
she says “wait a minute, I’ll put you on to” whoever it was (I missed the iden-
tity), while I thought, “No, not again. I can’t go thru another explanation.” So I
wait, I would guess, five minutes. Then the other party turns into a machine
which lets off a series of loud rhythmic sounds painful to the eardrum, and com-
municating nothing but indifference tinged with sadism. Suddenly it stops—
thank god—but now I am back on dial-tone: nowhere. That is how Jersey
handles the west coast, even the west coast registering curiosity on the beginning
of a man’s final quarter century.
So clearly I would have to write to you and make a tactful inquiry as to
whether you had sent me a wire recently (not mentioning my birthday, lest I
seem to indicate expectations of universal action on that occasion). I would
delay this for a few hours until I got my strength back. Then the mail came—
and there was the mailgram, now clearly from “Eric and Lissie.” They had
mailed it even though I had failed to ask them to do so, a mistake which, they
had informed me, would probably mean the wire was lost forever.
Puzzlement came to an end, life was restored, and my pleasure was great.
Many thanks indeed. And I hope that the story of my identifying the sender, if
not morally uplifting, has a moment or [two] that generates farcical pleasure.
Affectionate greetings to you both.
Now I realize that this letter may never get to you. Another strike.
<Robert>

Dear Eric:
How very charming and generous of you and Lissi to propose lunching Ruth
and me once again. What sponges we are—not only of the bounty of both of
you but especially of your time. I rather feel that, like ladies about to be hanged
some years back, you might well “plead your belly,” i.e., its filled state, relinquish
the lunch, assign the care of the ladies to me, and devote the needed time to
your desk. But then, alas, we should miss your wit. So I can’t push the really sen-
sible idea too hard.
The enclosure is a printed version of the sermon I delivered at the Red War-
ren 75th at Kentucky last year. Maybe it will have a little quasi-historic interest.
Cleanth writes me that he has had a tumor removed from his neck, and is
undergoing radiation, but seems to feel no apprehension. Tom Kirby parked his
loaded car in front of a motel in Cleveland, took a suitcase inside, came back
just a few seconds later, and found the car, and everything in it, gone—and ap-
parently gone forever. Ruth coughs, and I hear the melodies of tinnitus. But we
make out. You both sound in excellent shape. Good.
Au voir.
Best greetings to you both,
<Bob>
152. Stanford, September 28, 1984

Dear Robert:
I am sorry to learn you have trouble with a review on my account. The sen-
tence you quote does not make sense as it stands. Regarding the sense in-
tended, there are various possibilities—of which I consider #1 of the following
most probable:
(1) The author intended Anschluss. Ausschluss is a typographical error which
escaped the author.
14. Reprinted in Heilman, The Professor and the Profession (Columbia: University of Missouri
Press, 1999), 103–17. “Red” was a nickname for Robert Penn Warren.
15. Apparently, while writing a review of Thomas W. Cutrer’s Parnassus on the Mississippi: The
Southern Review and the Baton Rouge Literary Community, 1935–1942 (Baton Rouge: Louisiana
State University Press, 1984), Heilman had called Voegelin—no written inquiry appears in the
correspondence—to ask him about a sentence that appears in Cutrer. Voegelin writes this letter in
response to his inquiry. Heilman’s review of Cutrer later appears as “The Story of The Southern
Review,” in Sewanee Review 93 (1985): 330–33. In a footnote on page 332, Heilman points out a
number of errors that he found in the book and the clarification between “Ausschluss” and
“Anschluss” appears here. Voegelin died on January 19, 1985, before this review appeared.
(2) The author intended Ausschluss as an event that afflicted me personally.

In that case he could refer only to my dismissal. But the German word for dis-
missal is Entlassung. It would require more poetic license than is permitted
without explanation to transform the Entlassung into an Ausschluss.
(3) The Ausschluss could be intended as an ironical inversion of the
Anschluss. But in that case, the point of the irony remains undetermined. Did
the Anschluss entail my Ausschluss from Nationalsocialism? or the Ausschluss of
Nationalsocialism from civilization? The ironic relation of Anschluss and
Ausschluss has tempted me frequently; but I doubt it was the author’s inten-
tion.
(4) The author may not have intended anything at all. As a German word,
Ausschluss looked to him just as good as Anschluss. In that case, he would have
wanted in mastery of the linguistic means necessary for expressing the in-
tended thought adequately.
We are sorry to hear of the new water-break in the house—this year you have re-
ally got a full measure. Our good wishes are with you, especially for Ruth’s
health. We are already looking forward to seeing you both again at some future
holiday.
Sincerely yours,
<Eric>

APPENDIX A
Chronology of Letters and Locations

Eric Voegelin Papers, Robert B. Heilman Papers,

Hoover Institution Archives, Manuscripts, Special Collections
Stanford University and Archives, University of
Washington, Seattle
Box 17, File 9 Accession 1000–5–90–19,

Box 3, Folder 6
1. RH May 27 [no year]
2. RH No Date
3. RH No Date [OH]
4. EV July 12, 1944 [OH]
5. RH July 21 [1944]
6. RH October 25, 1944
7. RH November 20
[probably 1944]
8. RH July 3, 1945 [OH]
9. EV April 9, 1946
10. RH November 4, 1947
Accession 1000–14,
Box 1, Folder 2
11. EV November 13, 1947
(EV’s long letter on James with
RH’s questions and corrections)
12. EV March 19, 1948
13. RH April 26, 1948
14. EV May 1, 1948
15. RH May 8, 1948
16. EV May 16, 1948
17. RH May 18, 1948
293
294 Appendix A

Accession 1000–5–90–19,
Box 3, Folder 6
19. EV January 1, 1949
20. RH January 6, 1949
21. EV January 31, 1949
22. EV April 2, 1949
23. RH April 18, 1949
25. EV April 3, 1950
26. RH April 7, 1950
27. EV April 18, 1950
28. RH May 21, 1950
29. EV May 26, 1950
30. EV December 1, 1950
31. EV July 7, 1951
32. RH July 11, 1951
33. EV August 1, 1951
34. EV October 28, 1951
35. RH February 6, 1952
36. EV February 25, 1952
37. EV May 3, 1952
38. RH May 13, 1952
39. EV May 22, 1952
(Box 65, File 1)
40. RH October 14, 1952
(Box 63, File 11)
41. EV October 21, 1952
42. RH March 12, 1953
43. EV March 30, 1953
44. RH June 30, 1953
(postcard)
45. EV July 17, 1953
47. RH January 20, 1954
Chronology of Letters and Locations 295

51. EV March 1, 1954
52. RH March 10, 1954
53. EV March 14, 1954
54. Lissy Voegelin to RH
May 30, 1955 (re: dedication
to EV of Magic)
55. EV June 28, 1955
56. RH December 11, 1955
58. RH May 14, 1956
59. EV May 19, 1956
60. EV June 8, 1956
61. RH July 20, 1956
62. EV July 23, 1956
63. EV July 24, 1956
64. RH August 19, 1956
65. EV August 22, 1956
66. RH October 13, 1956
67. EV October 17, 1956
69. RH January [8,] 1957
72. EV June 5, 1957
73. RH June 26, 1957
74. EV March 7, 1958
75. RH March 1958
76. EV March 18, 1958
77. RH March 26, 1958
78. RH June 4, [1958]
79. EV August 31, 1958
81. RH Christmas noon [1958]
83. RH August 16, 1959
84. EV August 20, 1959
85. RH August 30, 1959
(aerogram)
296 Appendix A
86. EV October 4, 1959

87. RH October 29, 1959
90. RH January 9, 1961
91. EV January 14, 1961
92. EV April 11, 1964
93. RH April 27, 1964
94. EV May 5, 1964
95. RH May 14, 1964
96. RH June 23, 1964 [OH]
97. EV June 25, 1964
98. RH June 29, 1964 [OH]
99. EV July 2, 1964
100.RH July 7, 1964
101. RH July 30, 1964
102. RH August 4, 1964
103. EV August 13, 1964
104. RH August 19, 1964
105. EV January 19, 1965
107.EV February 22, 1965
108. RH March 21, 1965
109. RH June 12, 1966
110. EV June 19, 1966
111. EV May 26, 1967
112. RH June 21, 1967
113. RH July 13, 1968
114. RH August 26, 1969
115. RH September 23, 1969
Accession 1000–2–71–16
(no box or folder numbers)
116. EV September 26, 1969
117. RH October 2, 1969
118. RH October 29, 1969
Chronology of Letters and Locations 297

124. EV January 26, 1971
126. EV March 28, 1971
127. RH July 19, 1971
128. RH March 21, 1972
Accession 1000–5–90–19,
Box 3, Folder 5
129. EV March 29, 1972
130. EV April 11, 1973
131. RH April 14, 1973
132. EV April 19, 1973
133. RH October 8, 1974
134. RH January 1, 1975 [OH]
135. EV January 7, 1975
136. RH January 12, 1975
137. RH March 29, 1975
138. RH May 13, 1975
139. RH May 24, 1976
140.EV June 3, 1976
141. RH August 3, 1976 [OH]
(Box 115, Item 381)
142. EV January 16, 1977
143. RH March 4, 1978
144. RH September 3, 1978
145. RH March 1980
148. RH March 14, 1981
149. EV and Lissy Voegelin
July 16, 1981
(mailgram)
150. RH July 20, 1981
152. EV September 28, 1984

APPENDIX B
Number of Letters and Publications
Referenced in Letters1

Year RH EV Total Letters Exchanged
No Date 3 0 3
or
No Year
1944 3 1 4
“Siger de Brabant” in Philosophy and
Phenomenological Research; “Nietzsche, the
Crisis, and the War” in Journal of Politics;
“Political Theory and the Pattern of General
History” in American Political Science
Review
1945 1 0 1
1946 0 1 1
1947 1 1 2
“Freudian Reading of The Turn of the Screw”
in Modern Language Notes
Turn of the Screw letter to RH; “Plato’s
Egyptian Myth” in Journal of Politics
1948 3 4 7
This Great Stage: Image and Structure in King Lear;
“The Turn of the Screw as Poem” in University of
Kansas City Review
1. Because it does not include publications not mentioned in the letters, this document does
not present the larger picture of Heilman’s publications that include numerous critical introduc-
tions to classics of English literature, articles, books, and collections of essays. Neither does it pre-
sent the larger picture of Voegelin’s work.
299
300 Appendix B
“The Origins of Scientism” in Social

Research
1949 2 4 6
“An Inquiry into Anti-Highbrowism” in AAUP Bulletin
“The Philosophy of Existence: Plato’s
Gorgias” in Review of Politics
1950 2 4 6
“Introduction” to Gulliver’s Travels
“The Formation of the Marxian Revolu-
tionary Idea” in Review of Politics
1951 1 3 4
“More Fair Than Black: Light and Dark in Othello”
in Essays in Criticism
“More’s Utopia” in Österreichische Zeitschrift
für Öffentliches Recht; “Machiavelli’s Prince”
in Review of Politics
1952 3 4 7
“Dr. Iago and His Potions” in Virginia Quarterly Review
The New Science of Politics
1953 2 3 5
“Alcestis and The Cocktail Party” in Comparative Literature
“The World of Homer” in Review of Politics
1954 3 4 7
Review of Critics and Criticism by R. S. Crane et al.,
in Modern Language Notes
1955 1 3 4
(1 from Lissy Voegelin to RH)
1956 4 7 11
Magic in the Web: Action and Language in “Othello”
Israel and Revelation, vol. 1 of Order
and History
1957 3 2 5
The World of the Polis, vol. 2 of Order and
Number of Letters and Publications Referenced in Letters 301
History; Plato and Aristotle, vol. 3 of Order

and History
1958 5 4 9
“Variations on Picaresque: Mann’s Felix Krull” in
The Sewanee Review
1959 3 2 5
Review of D. H. Lawrence: The Failure and the Triumph
of Art, by Eliseo Vivas, in Sewanee Review; “Fashions in
Melodrama” in Western Humanities Review
1960 1 1 2
1961 1 1 2
“Bardolatry” in Yale Review
1962 0 0 0
1963 0 0 0
Speech: “The Configuration of History,”
Grinnell College
1964 8 5 13
Lectures in Munich on “Historian and Critic: Some
Observations” and “The Role We Give Shakespeare”
1965 2 2 4
“Historian and Critic: Notes on Attitudes” in Sewanee
Review; “The Role We Give Shakespeare” in Essays on
Shakespeare
Speech: “Immortality: Experience and
Symbol,” Ingersoll Lecture, Harvard
Divinity School
1966 1 1 2
“The Criminal as Tragic Hero: Dramatic Methods” in
Shakespeare Survey; “The Taming Untamed; or, the Return
of the Shrew” in Modern Language Quarterly
Anamnesis: Zur Theorie der Geschichte
und Politik
302 Appendix B
1967 1 1 2
“Immortality: Experience and Symbol” in
Harvard Theological Review
1968 1 0 1
Tragedy and Melodrama
Science, Politics, and Gnosticism
1969 6 4 10
1970 0 0 0
“Demonic Strategies: The Birthday Party and The Firebugs”
in Sense and Sensibility in Twentieth-Century Writing
1971 2 2 4
“Introduction” to Thomas Hardy, Tess of the d’Urbervilles
Turn of Screw letter and “Postscript: On
Paradise and Revolution” in Southern
Review
1972 1 1 2
1973 1 2 3
The Iceman, the Arsonist and The Troubled Agent . . .
1974 1 0 1
The Ghost in the Ramparts
“Reason: The Classic Experience” in
Southern Review; The Ecumenic Age, vol. 4,
of Order And History
1975 4 1 5
1976 1 1 2
1977 0 1 1
1978 2 0 2
“Robespierre and Santa Claus: Men of Virtue in Drama”
in Southern Review
1979 0 0 0
1980 2 0 2
1981 3 2 5
Number of Letters and Publications Referenced in Letters 303
1982 0 0 0
1983 0 0 0
1984 0 1 1
Totals 78 73 151
(+1 from Lissy Voegelin)

APPENDIX C
Selected Enclosures in Various Letters

1. Series of Letters Discussed in Letters 50, 52, and 53.
a. Karl E. Ettinger  to Eric Voegelin
Washington 25, D.C., December 22, 1953
Dear Professor Voegelin:
Congress has given this committee the mandate to study the significance of
foundation activities, especially those of foundations in education, propaganda,
and in influencing legislation. The committee thereupon decided to concentrate
on the study of the support and non-support of activities in the social sciences.
By social sciences we understand the scientific and pseudo-scientific activities
generally conducted under this label in American universities and research orga-
nizations.
The money of foundations, as you know, is responsible for the emergence of
a considerable bureaucracy and for the existence of very influential organiza-
tions, which dominate this field. Some foundation managers have formulated
their philosophy in expressing the hope that by applying the methods of the
natural sciences to the problems of society, we may finally bridge the cultural
lag. Although we have not reached any final conclusions, we are very much
under the impression that the trade associations of university professors who
influence foundation giving exert a very energetic influence in favor of “quanti-
tative” and “inductive” social studies to the almost complete exclusion of philo-
sophical and historic inquiry.
By sheer volume the manufacture of degree diplomas in the social sciences is
the major product of American diploma mills. The product of foundation sup-
ported research and teaching programs therefore influences the thinking of the
1. This whole series of letters are to be found in the Correspondence File for the Rockefeller
Foundation, Voegelin Papers, Hoover Institution Archives, box 30, file 14, and in the Heilman
Papers, accession 1000–5–90–19, box 3, folder 6.
2. Karl E. Ettinger was a research consultant to the Special Committee to Investigate Tax
Exempt Foundations (House Resolution 217), House of Representatives, U.S. Congress.
305
306 Appendix C
half-educated that like to think of themselves as educated, and consequently in-

fluences popular pressure on legislation.
Whether you approve or disapprove of foundation policies in the field of
[the] social sciences, I would greatly appreciate your advice and opinion on how
best to use the opportunity contained in our research assignment. I hope that
you will have time to give me the benefit of your advice at your earliest conve-
nience.
Very truly yours,
/s/ Karl Ettinger
Karl E. Ettinger
Research Consultant
b. Eric Voegelin to Joseph H. Willits 

[Baton Rouge,] January 14, 1954
Dear Mr. Willits:
I have received a letter from Mr. Karl E. Ettinger, Research Consultant of the
Special Committee to Investigate Tax Exempt Foundations. Of this letter I en-
close a copy for you.
The letter was somewhat embarrassing, because I could not well ignore it. I
drafted an answer designed to make clear to Mr. Ettinger that the foundations
are not responsible for the situation to which he referred, and that certainly no
Congressional Committee could do anything about it.
Then, however, I thought it better not to send the letter, because my analysis
of the problem might provide materials which politicians could use for purposes
not intended by me. Hence, I wrote an evasive letter to Mr. Ettinger, of which
again I enclose a copy for you.
Nevertheless, while my analysis of the situation should not be made accessible
to politicians, the draft of my letter to Mr. Ettinger should be read by a man in
your position. Hence, you will find a copy of the draft as a further enclosure.
I do not believe, of course, that the line of investigation suggested by Mr.
Ettinger’s letter will be pursued by the present Committee just now. And as long
as they play with Communism and the Kinsey Report, not much can happen.
If, however, a Congressional Committee is sufficiently well organized to hire as
Research Consultants men who are as intelligent as Mr. Ettinger seems to be,
they might find out what the trouble really is. And when that day should come,
3. Joseph H. Willits was director of the Division of Social Sciences at the Rockefeller Foun-
dation.
Selected Enclosures in Various Letters 307
the consequences might be unpleasant. The danger, I repeat, seems to be not

“clear and present.” But in our hectic times, one never knows how fast events will
move.
With my best regards, I am
Sincerely yours,
Eric Voegelin
c. Eric Voegelin to Karl E. Ettinger 

[Baton Rouge,] January 14, 1954
Dear Mr. Ettinger:
Your letter of December 22, 1953, came just at the time when I had to un-
dergo an operation in New Orleans. I have now sufficiently recovered to resume
my correspondence.
It is most interesting that the Committee wants to extend its investigation to
the regrettable fad of quantitative research in the social sciences. And I thank
you for asking my opinion in the matter.
Unfortunately, there is not much I could tell you, and the little that I can tell
will not be of much help.
For, personally, my experience with foundations were of the most pleasant
kind. I received a Guggenheim Fellowship for collecting materials in Europe
which have resulted hitherto in my “New Science of Politics”—a work which is
definitely of the philosophical and historical, not the quantitative variety. And
since my post-graduate years, in the twenties, I have received support from the
Rockefeller Foundation in a most agreeable manner: Three years of study in
America and France; support when I was secretary of the Austrian Committee
that worked for the International Studies Conference in 1937; support when I
came to America in the first years of my integration into the American univer-
sity life; and, finally, support for my studies in the history of political ideas, of
which the first volume is to be published in the fall of this year.
My personal experience, of course, does not invalidate the observation, made
by all of us, that a vast amount of support goes to quantitative research. But no-
body who does not make a special study of the record of grants over the years,
can form an opinion concerning the actual state of things. I certainly would not
venture an opinion which I cannot base on a knowledge of facts.
With regard to your question what the Committee, of which you are a Research
4. This letter was sent to Ettinger.

308 Appendix C
Consultant, could do in the matter, I am afraid my opinion will also disappoint

you. For I suspect it can do nothing at all. You suggest yourself that the origin of
the undesirable situation is not to be sought in the policies of the foundations,
but in the suggestions which they receive from the academic profession. Again,
we all know that the profession is loaded with positivist ideologues. But what
can one do about it? The predominance of ideologues is a symptom of the vast
phenomenon to which we usually refer as the “crisis of Western Civilization.”
Do you believe that a Congressional Committee can “do” something about a
millennial historical process?
If you have any more concrete questions, I shall always be happy to answer
them to the best of my knowledge.
With best regards,
Sincerely yours,
Eric Voegelin
d. Draft Letter 
Eric Voegelin to Karl E. Ettinger
Dear Mr. Ettinger:
Thank you very much for your interesting letter of December 22, ’53. This is,
indeed, surprising news that a Congressional Committee wants to take a look at
the direction in which the social sciences move under the influence of various
foundations and, inversely, at the direction in which foundation policies move
under the influence of pressure groups in the academic world.
I am very glad to offer you such opinions as I can reasonably form, but I am
afraid these opinions will not have the character of a rounded, well-founded
judgment. Such a judgment would require a detailed knowledge of the actual
practice of various foundations which I do not have. I am not engaged in any of
the “research projects” which have become a by-word for the knowing in the
profession. And my own relations with foundations have been the most amiable
ones. I received a Guggenheim Fellowship for collecting materials in Europe
which have resulted hitherto in my “New Science of Politics”—a work which is
definitely of the “historical and philosophical” variety which foundations are
suspected of not supporting sufficiently. And since my post-graduate years, in
the ’twenties, I have received support from the Rockefeller Foundation in the
5. This letter was not sent to Mr. Ettinger, but a draft copy was sent to Heilman and to Joseph
H. Willits at the Rockefeller Foundation, among others.
most munificent manner. Three years of studies in America and France; support
when I was secretary of the Austrian Committee that worked for the Inter-
national Studies Conference in 1937; support when I came to America in the
first years of my integration into the American university life; and, finally, sup-
port for conducting my studies in the history of political ideas, of which the first
volume is to be published in the fall of this year. With such a record I am in-
clined to be prejudiced. If support of this kind is not given more widely than it
is; if, quite obviously, the dubious “research” enterprises to which you refer by
far outweigh in foundation support the type of studies which I pursue; I am in-
clined to believe that the reason has to be sought in the nature of the applica-
tions made, [and] in the nature of the stimulations which foundations receive
from the academic environment, rather than in policies originating in the foun-
dations.
This is my principal thesis. And with this in mind I can see[,] not without
alarm[,] a Congressional activity which, however cautiously conducted, might
cast a shadow on the policies of foundations. This is not to say that the evils to
which you refer do not exist. But I believe they have their root in the social sci-
ences as a profession, not in the foundations. That the social sciences are in bad
shape, is a matter of public record. I have not attended a meeting of the
American Political Science Association in years, without being appalled at the
mediocrity of the performance and without hearing numerous, frank expres-
sions of disgust. Insofar as a certain amount of this exuberant mediocrity is sup-
ported by grants from foundations, they are involved in it. But anybody who
would want to criticize foundations under this aspect of their involvement,
should be aware that foundations are organized for the purpose of giving sup-
port to science, not for the purpose of pushing scientists around and telling
them what to do. Precisely when they stick scrupulously to their task and do not
interfere with the freedom of science, their policies in awarding grants will be-
come reprehensible when the state of the science which they support is as dubi-
ous as it is today in the social sciences in the departmental sense. I can only
express my hope, therefore, that the Congressional Committee will recognize
where the cause of the evil lies and not attack it at the point of its effects [and]
that it will occupy itself with the state of science (if that is what it must do) and
not interfere with the work of the foundations.
In the spirit of these declarations I shall now attempt an analysis of the prob-
lem.
With the reservation that for dubious foundation policies not the founda-
tions are to be blamed but the profession which they support, one must say that
310 Appendix C
the policies are indeed sometimes dubious. One of the most important sources
of funds for work in the social sciences is the Social Science Research Council.
Let me reflect on its policies as a concrete example. In recent years, the SSRC
has issued statements of policy by which it frankly favors the allocation of
funds for quantitative and “behavioral” studies, to the practical exclusion of
theoretical and historical work. I remember one of these policy statements
which provoked me to closer examination. I estimated that the available funds
were sufficient to bribe every promising young man in the profession into stud-
ies of this type. If the program were completely effective, within twenty years
there would be no social scientists left in America. They would be replaced by a
horde of “research workers” engaged in “projects” whose relevance for science
would not even be doubtful. Scholarship in these fields would be effectively de-
stroyed in America.
That sounds bad. But now let us consider what actually is going on. First the
practical aspect. I doubt that the program is really effective. I myself have re-
ceived grants from the Social Science Research Council, as well as from the
Rockefeller Foundation directly, for my studies (as previously mentioned) which
do not fit into the overt program at all. And I have no reason to assume that my
case is isolated. If such cases should be not more frequent than they are, the rea-
son probably will have to be sought in the lack of applications. Moreover, I have
recently received a letter from the Director of the Social Science Division of the
Rockefeller Foundation, informing me that special fellowships are available for
studies in political and legal philosophy, and requesting me to submit names of
suitable candidates. Certainly the Rockefeller Foundation is not to be blamed
for the fact that in answer to this letter I could submit only one single name of a
man who looked fit to me to receive such a fellowship. The trouble obviously
lies in the academic environment.
To this environment we must look when we want to understand how such
reprehensible policies as the just mentioned of the SSRC are formed. The policy
in question expresses the attitude of positivist ideologues. To this class probably
belonged the academic “representatives” who were consulted by the SSRC in
formulating the policy, as well as perhaps one or the other administrator within
the Council who had been drawn from the profession. The well-known fallacy
of determining the object of science by the method, instead of choosing the
method which is adequate to the object, is characteristic of this attitude.
Objectively, by the standards of critical science, such men do not know enough
about epistemology and methodology. Subjectively, their specific ignorance is
motivated by their contempt for the intellectual and spiritual life which lies at
the essential core of man and society. If the use of quantitative methods is ex-
tended beyond their legitimate field of application (economic statistics, popula-
tion statistics, etc.), and the monopoly of their use is erected into a dogma, the
result is destruction of the object of the social sciences. To adopt a program of
destruction, we may agree, is not exactly the purpose for which a Social Science
Research Council is instituted. But not much is gained by indulging in the
beloved game of approving or disapproving such policies. We must realize that
the cause of such grotesque perversions of purpose lies in the predominance of
positivist ideologues in the social sciences in the departmental sense. The schol-
ars, who certainly also are to be found in the departments, cannot make their in-
fluence effective against the overwhelming mass.
Hence, the trouble in the academic environment is real. But it is difficult to
repair, if it can be repaired at all. Educational idealism and economic wealth
permit in this country the maintenance of an extraordinar[il]y large number of
universities. Scholars of outstanding quality, however, are rare, and cannot be
multiplied by wealth. Considering the number of universities and colleges, on
the one hand; and the number of outstanding scholars that will be thrown up by
a nation of one-hundred-and-sixty million people in one generation, on the
other hand; the result must be inevitably a rather thin spread of scholarship over
the academic surface. This seems to be a hard fact about which nothing can be
done. If you then consider that among the academic personnel of not so out-
standing scholarly qualities, there are great numbers of intelligent, industrious,
ambitious, promotorial men who want to justify their professional existence by
playing at science though science is not a virtue in their souls (in the Aristotelian
sense); if you, furthermore, consider that this country is wealthy enough to pro-
vide, through foundations, private gifts, and state-governments, the necessary
play-things for such men[,] the result will be unhappy. A number of men who
would never leave much of a mark in any science, if left to shift by their wits,
will acquire social power in their academic environment through the sheer force
of apparatus with which their activities are lavishly equipped. And, finally, we
must realize that there is an intimate connection between intellectual and spiri-
tual poverty, on the one hand, and the pursuit of quantitative studies, on the
other hand, insofar as the pursuit of quantitative studies does not require the in-
tellectual and moral stature of scholarship. This is the only point at which I
would admit that the activities of foundations can have an aggravating effect on
the situation. But I hasten to add that the effect would be the same, whoever
dispenses the funds under whatever policy. The pursuit of scholarly studies in
the social sciences does perhaps not require the amounts of money at present
312 Appendix C
dispensed; if they are dispensed nevertheless, the result will be a social re-
enforcement of mediocrity. And this is not a problem for universities alone, but
generally in our society; and not in America alone, but everywhere. When a
member of the British Labor Government, after the Second World War, glanced
at the effects of the rising standard of living for the masses, he felt compelled to
observe: the income of a lot of people is higher than their moral stature. If you
place money in the hands of academic mediocrities, it will hardly improve
scholarship or advance science, but rather increase the social power of medioc-
rity. In the academic environment the result will be what may be called a
“swamping effect” by which the great majority of the mediocrities, with powers
of patronage and economic advantages concentrated in their hands, will make
such scholarship as there exists socially ineffective.
This aspect of the matter is rather serious. For we have developed in our uni-
versities, through the process indicted, a sort of “science commissars.” Since we
are living in a period of communist hysterics, let me hasten to say that the term
has definitely no communist implications. I want to stress that in no case of a re-
search project that has come to my attention[,] however dubious it may have
been for other reasons, have I ever caught the faintest whiff of communism, ei-
ther in the research personnel, or in the sources of its funds. If I use the term
nevertheless, I do it because communism is not the only ideology which can be
used for the destruction of science. Our home-grown varieties of progressivism,
pragmatism, instrumentalism, positivism, operationalism, behaviorism, and so
forth, do the job quite as well. I am also fully aware that these home-grown va-
rieties are politically by far not so atrocious as communism—but as far as sci-
ence is concerned their effect is about the same. When you jump from a
sky-scraper, as Christopher Dawson said, whether you choose the window to
the right or the left does not make much of a difference by the time you reach
the pavement. For a scholar there is not much to choose between a “rigorous
method” boy and an adherent of dialectical materialism. Hence, by a “science
commissar” I understand an ideologue of one or the other variety who, by the
use of economic power, makes himself a social power in the academic environ-
ment and detracts young men who should become scientists into the follower-
ship of some ideology. This, as I said, is a serious matter; and on this point I
shall not hesitate to use strong language, for I firmly believe in the justice of the
Platonic dictum: The corruption of young minds through false doctrine is a
crime, second in foulness only to physical murder.
The evil is great and pervasive, but in detail it is difficult to trace from within
the academic environment, and probably not at all from the outside. Let me
give you an example. I know a young man, intelligent, energetic, and ambitious,
a philosopher, who specializes in political philosophy. For the public he assumes
the position of a pragmatist; in private conversation it turns out that he is not at
all convinced of the validity of the position assumed in public. But he is careful
not to betray his true convictions, because that would ruin his career. Since in
addition to his talents he is a likeable, presentable fellow, my prognosis is that he
will end as a highly respected professor in some Eastern university; and in due
course his opinion will be solicited by foundations when it comes to the alloca-
tion of funds for this or that purpose. I know two or three such cases. Now,
these cases of the semi-conscious rascals are rare, because such semi-consciousness
already requires a degree of intelligence, literacy, and sensitiveness which is not
to be found generally. In a larger number of cases you will find young men who
are too dopey ever to find out, by their own powers, that something is wrong.
Once they have gone through the process of college and graduate school, they
are sufficiently brainwashed and morally debased to hold their positions with
sincerity, and for the rest of their lives will never have a critical doubt. And then,
of course, there is the small, but still surprisingly large number of young men
who have enough intelligence and moral stamina to resist corruptive influences
but are badly hampered in their development, because their education does not
find sufficient institutional support. They will never achieve the full unfolding
of their talents, because too much of their energy is lost in overcoming the
handicap of their environment.
You may have become impatient at the digression, and wonder what all this
has to do with your problem of investigating tax exempt foundations. Well, it
leads to the conclusion that we are dealing with a highly complicated situation
which neither is caused by the foundations, nor can easily be influenced by
them in any direction.
Let me give you a concrete example to illustrate the nature of the difficulty.
One of the oddest things about our social sciences as a profession is their atti-
tude toward Marxism. I think we can agree that communism is of a certain im-
portance on the contemporary scene, and we might expect political scientists
to throw themselves with full force into the understanding of the phenome-
non. Well, in 1933 were published, from the archives of the German Social-
Democratic Party, the early works of Marx, from the period 1843–1847. They
came as a revelation. For the first time it was possible to understand the back-
ground of the Marxian ideas, their motivation and genesis, their meaning and
implications. In his later works little information is to be found on these ques-
tions because Marx always presupposed the process by which he had arrived at
314 Appendix C
his position and only rarely reverted to his philosophical principles. The early
works are recognized by all scholars who dealt with them (that is, by barely ten
persons in America and Europe) as the key to the understanding of Marxism
down to its present Russian deformations. Moreover, Marx gives in these early
works an analysis of the various aspects of communism that would furnish ines-
timable propaganda material, from a strictly political point of view, against
communism. Some passages, if judiciously quoted by an American representa-
tive in a UN meeting, would make a laughing-stock of the communist repre-
sentatives. Here is a treasure for any ambitious political scientist to carve a career
for himself by evaluating these materials. But what has happened? These works
are available in print by now for exactly twenty years, and not a single social sci-
entist has given any evidence in writing that he has ever read them. (I am ex-
cluding now the aforementioned scholars.) As far as I know, the social sciences
as a profession are blissfully unaware of the existence of these fundamental ma-
terials on communism.
Why is that so? I can only give you my guesses for what they are worth. In the
first place, probably the language barrier is the great obstacle. Second, however,
there is the even worse problem of philosophical illiteracy. When I think of a se-
ries of my colleagues in this connection, I wonder whether there are many who
could make head or tail of Marx’s Economic-Philosophical MS., if they could read
it in the first place.
I consider the digestion and adequate discussion of the early works of Marx a
matter of the first importance in science, as well as in politics. But: what could a
foundation do, in order to get this task under way? Let us assume, first, that
a foundation could do anything at all in the matter through grants. How should
such grants ever be extended, if the academic “representatives,” on whose stim-
ulation and opinion a foundation would have to depend, are not even aware
that such a problem exists? And if the case would be brought to the attention of
a foundation, what should it do about it? What obviously should be done is that
a certain number of political scientists drop their “research” for a while, instead
repair to their respective libraries, and sit on their posteriors for a year or two,
until they have digested Marx and know what communism is all about. But that
does not require any grants except perhaps a little money to purchase the works
in question, as well as the small amount of monographic literature. It rather re-
quires serious work, for in order to understand the works of Marx one must
know at least as much about philosophy as Marx did—and that was a good deal.
It might easily happen that a “researcher” fresh from his “project” would find
that a year or two is not enough to read a hundred pages of Marx, but that he
will have to invest ten years in order to acquire the background knowledge nec-
essary for an intelligent analysis. Of course, that would be all to the good; for it
would keep him for a while from research and in the end he might find that he
really has become a political scientist. But again: what conceivably could a foun-
dation do in such matters? It can support men with scholarly inclinations when
they appear, but it cannot produce them. And it cannot support them in oppo-
sition to the academic environment.
I have chosen this concrete example because it goes a long way to illuminate
the intellectual and spiritual paralysis in our universities in the face of commu-
nism. I doubt that there is much active communism in our universities; person-
ally I have never encountered any case at all. But there is a formidable force of
philosophical illiteracy. And sometimes I wonder how many universities there
are in the country where a lively, idealistic young man, with liberal tendencies
shading off to the left, could find a professor, with sufficient competence to im-
press an intelligent, and naturally rebellious youngster, who could explain to
him what the problems of communism are and what is wrong with it. A good
deal of moral and intellectual confusion among young people in the universities
is not caused by active political intentions, but by the absence of authoritative
guidance.
Before coming to a conclusion one more point must be touched. It is little
observed, but essential for a rounded picture of the situation.
From the brief sketch which I have drawn, one might gain the impression
that social science today is in bad shape. As a matter of fact, it is not. To be sure,
social science in the departmental sense is in the doldrums; but social science in
the substantive sense is flourishing today in our country as hardly ever before.
American scholarship with regard to basic questions of the social sciences is not
only as good as anywhere in Europe, but in certain respects even leading. But:
this important development only to a small extent takes place in the social sci-
ence departments; it rather occurs in classical philology, Egyptology, Semi-
tology, history, and theology. A survey of this development would go beyond the
framework of this already rather long letter. Let me give only one concrete in-
stance, that is, the work of the Chicago Oriental Institute. Such works as [John
A.] Wilson’s Burden of Egypt, [Henri] Frankfort’s Kingship and the Gods, the col-
lective enterprise of [Henri Frankfort, Mrs. H. A. Frankfort, John A. Wilson,
and Thorkild Jacobsen, Before Philosophy:] The Intellectual Adventure of Ancient
Man outweigh in their advancement of basic problems most of the production
of the Sociological and Political Science Associations. Let me add, at random,
the work of [Werner] Jaeger and [Moses I.] Finley in Harvard, of David Grene
316 Appendix C
in Chicago, of [probably Erwin Ramsdell] Goodenough in Yale, the magnifi-

cent edition of Ancient Near Eastern Texts by [James Bennett] Pritchard in
Princeton, the work of [William Foxwell] Albright in Johns Hopkins, the giant
enterprise of [Harry Austryn] Wolfson in Harvard, the work of the two Nie-
buhrs [Reinhold and Richard] in Yale and New York, and so forth—and you
have a picture of occupation with basic problems relevant to the social sciences,
unprecedented in American history, and of a brilliance of which any country at
any time could be proud. But: this important development has no noticeable
repercussions in the social sciences in the departmental sense. The professional
social scientists rarely take notice of the substantive development of their own
science.
What is wrong here?
There is a fairly watertight separation between substantive and departmental
social science. This separation occurs not only in America, but also in Europe,
whenever social science departments are instituted as independent organizations
for a generation or two. If in Europe the evil is as yet less flagrant than in
America, the only reason is that Europe is too poor to institute social sciences on
our mass scale. The cause of the evil is well known, and it is not irreparable. We
must face the plain fact, that there is no such thing as a social science in the ab-
stract. Social science is the theoretization of historical materials by referring
them to a philosophical anthropology. In order to accomplish this task one must
be, first, familiar with historical materials; and be, second, a good philosopher.
“Memory and comparison” are still the methods of the social sciences as they
were when Aristotle laid down the rule. It is not surprising, therefore, if a classi-
cal philologist is frequently a better political scientist than most professionals,
for in order to write a competent study of Thucydides, Plato, Aristotle, or
Demosthenes, one must know not only Greek, but a good deal about political
history and philosophy—while any group of doubtful scholarship can engage in
a formidable research-project on election statistics. Hence, the social sciences in
the departmental sense had their great day in the time of their “founders.” For
the “founders” were no “social scientists” but had a solid grounding in history,
law, economics, philosophy, theology, or a combination of such basic sciences. I
am thinking of men like [Emile] Durkheim, [Vilfredo] Pareto, [Max] Weber,
[Max] Scheler, and so forth; or of men like [William Archibald] Dunning or
[John William] Burgess in America. With the passing of the “founders” begins
the inbreeding of the departments, that is, the cutting off of the social scientists
from their basic sciences; and the situation becomes more dreary with every new
social scientist who has received his training in a social science department in-
stead of in a basic science. A man like Durkheim could write a study of Rous-
seau, with a philosophical competence which no director of any contemporary
research project I know of could match.
And now for the conclusion.
The situation, I think we can agree, is dismal. It is so dismal—and here I am
speaking from the experience gathered at various meetings—that a surprisingly
large number of men in the profession is nauseated by it, even if they do not
quite know what to do about it. But what can one do about it? The answer will
have to be very cautious and restrained. I hope I have made it clear that the
foundations are not an appreciable cause in the situation, and consequently they
can not be much of a cause in repairing it. We are faced with a historical process
of infinite complexity, that is, with the secularist crisis of our age, and the evil
must heal from within. Certainly one can not do what on the basis of my sketch
would seem obvious. One cannot throw massive foundation support to the ac-
tually flourishing substantive social sciences, because that would only result in
the dilution of quality and perhaps kill a hopeful development. The support
which actually is extended in this quarter—and could perhaps be somewhat in-
creased—is strictly limited by the absorptive capacity of sciences which require
men of quality for their pursuit. And one cannot, through the power of the
purse, compel the departmental social scientists to mend their ways. In this
quarter we run into the brute fact that the scale of our social science develop-
ment makes a formidable amount of mediocrity inevitable. I shudder to think
what would happen if the hordes of intellectuals who at present play at “behav-
ioral” studies would descend on Plato and Thomas and wring them through
their IBM minds.
The healing process must start from within. And I think one can discern the
ever so faint beginnings of it even now. The separation of the departmental from
the substantive social sciences can only be repaired by the resumption of rela-
tions. As William Rappard once formulated it: Cooperation in science consists
in one man writing a book, and another man reading it. The intellectual climate
of the departments would change fundamentally, if the professionals would start
reading and digesting the fundamental treatises of their own science, classic and
Christian, as well as the contemporary work of the scholars in their own field.
The root of the evil is non-cooperation as it inevitably will spread where sec-
tarian ideologues cut themselves off from the intellectual and spiritual devel-
opment of humanity. And the evil can be repaired only by abandoning
ideological sectarianism and returning to the fold. This situation—that the de-
partmental social sciences have run off on a wild tangent and lost their contact
318 Appendix C
with substantive science—is beginning to be recognized. And the recognition

manifests itself, though in rare instances yet, in the resumption of reading. In re-
cent years I have noticed more than one case of a colleague who hit on the idea
that perhaps he could learn something if he read [Henri] Bergson, or [Nicholas]
Berdiaev, or [Reinhold or H. Richard?] Niebuhr, or [Arnold J.] Toynbee, or [Karl]
Jaspers. But this is a slow process, and the day is far off when a political scientist
who does not master his Aristotle will be as much of a joke as a physicist who
cannot handle a differential equation. We shall not live to see it. Nevertheless,
this is the healing process on which we must rely fundamentally. Nothing dras-
tic can be done about the situation.
Still, the process can be accelerated, perhaps, through support and pressure.
And here I see a point where the foundations could lend a helping hand.
Research grants in the social sciences usually are extended to personnel in social
science departments. I consider it possible that a foundation, when considering
a grant, will take a good look at the department of which the applicants are
members. If it should turn out that such a department is overloaded with ideo-
logues to [the] exclusion of scholarship, the foundation might turn down the
application until such time as the composition of the department is sufficiently
diversified to give room to at least a modicum of scholarship. Such a policy
could justify itself by the principle of guaranteeing freedom of science and
breaking the totalitarian stranglehold of the ideologues.
Clearly this is a ticklish task. We all remember the howl that went up when
Hutchins in Chicago tried to introduce freedom of science in the philosophy
department by breaking the monopoly of the pragmatists. Later he resorted to
the more devious device of organizing a Committee on Social Thought, in com-
petition with the existing departments, in order to check their influence on the
students. But that is an expensive luxury, setting aside that one could not orga-
nize many groups of this kind because of the natural scarcity of good men.
Ideologues are aggressive and vociferous, and our native variety is quite as ready
as their communist opposite numbers to yell that the most precious freedoms of
mankind are at stake if they can’t have it all their own way. Nevertheless, this is
an unpleasantness we must face. And I am afraid the foundation will have to
face it, too, if they want to live up to the purpose for which they are created.
Goodwill in this matter, however, is not enough. Not even a dictator with un-
limited power and wealth could break the ideological predominance, because
there are not enough scholars in the social sciences to establish a respectable bal-
ance in every university. One must start from the education of young men; and
that means breaking the inbreeding of the social science departments. We must
attempt to restore the situation of the time when the departments began to be
founded by men who came from the outside. That is to say: nobody should be
permitted to become a social scientist who has not a solid grounding in one of
the basic sciences which furnish the materials and the theory for the work of the
social scientists. A social scientist must be solidly a historian (political, legal,
economic), or a classical philologist, or a philosopher, or a theologian, and so
forth, in addition to, or rather as a precondition of, being a social scientist. That,
of course, can be done by appropriate combination of degrees in the social sci-
ences with degrees in basic sciences. And here certainly the foundations can lend
a helping hand by financial assistance in training a stock of young scholars, as
well as indirectly by putting pressure on the departments to join in such a pro-
gram. A program of this kind would also have the advantage of automatically
weeding out the weaker types since serious studies are not their speed. Only
when young scholars with such training are available, can one consider the fur-
ther assistance of foundations in putting pressure on recalcitrant departments to
employ them.
That a solution must be sought in this [sic] directions is today recognized,
even if imperfectly, by some foundations. The Russian Research Center at Har-
vard draws on scholars from various fields in addition to departmental social sci-
entists in order to create an academic organization which competently can
tackle a task as complicated as the exploration of Russian political culture. And
the experiment has been remarkably successful. Every one of the studies pub-
lished hitherto is respectable. And some of them, as the Documentary History of
Chinese Communism (by [Conrad] Brandt, [Benjamin] Schwartz, and [John K.]
Fairbank), are of inestimable value in presenting critically edited materials. Still,
there seems to be a limiting factor even in this successful enterprise, as far as one
can judge it at all considering that it has run for only five years. While the series
of studies is highly respectable, none of them is marked by the broad back-
ground knowledge, the grasp on the essentials of Russian intellectual history,
that distinguishes the works of [Charles] Quénet (Lettres Philosophiques de Pierre
Tchaadaev, 1937),6 of [Alexander von] Schelting (Russland und Europa [im rus-
sischen Geschichtsdenken], 1948), or even of the liberal, somewhat pinko, theolo-
gian [Fritz] Lieb in Basel (Russland Unterwegs[: Der russische Mensch zwishen
Christentum und Kommunismus], 1945). None of the studies of the Russian
Research Center, valuable as this accumulation of materials is in other respects,
6. This work is listed in the Union Catalogue (Great Britain) as Tchaadaev et les “letters philos-
ophiques”: Contribution à l’étude du mouvement des idées en Russie, 1931.
320 Appendix C
has advanced our critical understanding of Russia to the same degree as any of
the aforementioned studies or a number of others that could be added to the
list. As I said, it is too early to pass judgment on an enterprise of so recent ori-
gin. Nevertheless, it seems as if wealth and organization were no substitute for
the “free enterprise” of personal scholarship. The trend which appears in the
Russian Research Center is healthy, but the reunion of the social sciences with
basic sciences must be carried beyond external organization into personal
achievement. And that is long and slow work for a generation or two.
This is all the advice I can tender in this matter. And now let me say a word
about the role of the Congressional Committee, of which you are a Research
Consultant. From the outline of the problem which I have presented, I can only
arrive at the conclusion that the Committee can do nothing at all. It can study
the situation, it can clarify it, it can attract public attention to it, it can by its ex-
istence be a warning signal to the profession that time is running out for ideo-
logical nonsense, and thereby accelerate a reform process which is under way
already—but that is all. Certainly nothing can be done by molesting the foun-
dations. They have not caused the deplorable situation, and where possibly they
have acted unwisely they have succumbed to the unwisdom of a profession
which they tried honestly to support. And let me remark incidentally that one
of the greatest sinners in sponsoring silly research is today the Federal Govern-
ment—I have become aware of some projects sponsored by the Navy that are
hair-raising. The house-cleaning, which is urgently needed, must start from
within the universities. The foundations can do no more than lend a helping
hand to leadership where it appears, and use some discrimination in the award-
ing of grants so that scholars will be strengthened in their influence in academic
life rather than ideologues. Nobody, and least of all a Congressional Committee,
can “do” something about a situation which has its profound origins in the cri-
sis of Western Civilization.
2. Enclosure with Letter 68

Copy of Letter Written by Eric Voegelin to the Guggenheim Foundation
in Support of Robert B. Heilman’s Application.
It is a somewhat delicate task to answer your request for a critical appraisal of
Professor Robert B. Heilman’s abilities, because any elaboration of the theme
would imply that praise is necessary—and that implication, in the case of one of
the foremost American literary critics, would make me look a bit ludicrous.
Moreover, Bob Heilman is one of the very few real friends I have found in this
country—and this friendship is based on common endeavor over the years, on

the development of parallel methods in our respective fields of science. Hence,
my critical appraisal must praise him for doing the work in history of literature
that I myself would do, if that happened to be the field of my choice. With these
provisoes, let me say the following:
Heilman has broken out of the prevalent positivism and historicism in the
treatment of works of art. He has created, and successfully applied—in his
books on Lear and Othello—the methods for interpreting a work of literature as
a symbolism which expresses verities about human existence. Of special interest
in this respect is H’s theory of the “parts” of a tragedy—these “parts” being, not
only the scenes of the drama, but also the recurrent language symbols, the dram-
atis personae, their actions and modes of speech. All of these “Parts” are essential
instruments for expressing the meaning intended by the poet. By using these
methods, H. has developed the understanding of recurrent symbols in
tragedy—such as the symbolism of “blindness” and “seeing” in Sophocles and
Shakespeare (in his Lear); while in his Othello he has given a masterful exposi-
tion of Shakespeare’s art in measuring the whole gamut of human order from
spirit and salvation to passionate defilement and cons[p]iratorial destruction. In
this second work, H. has taken special care to draw the parallels between
Shakespeare’s study of order and disorder and contemporary phenomena, so that
Magic in the Web is as much a criticism of contemporary society as it is a study
of Shakespeare.
About the project, the “Changing Structure of Tragedy from Shakespeare to
Lillo,” I cannot say much in detail, because I do not know enough about the
materials in question. From the description it looks like a study of the disinte-
gration of tragedy as a literary form. And that line of investigation would dove-
tail with the problems raised by [Erich] Auerbach’s Mimesis—a line that has not
yet been pursued in America, as far as I know. That alone would be a consider-
able achievement; but anyway, if H. proposes the study, one can rest assured on
the basis of his past achievement, that the problem will be an important one.
Let me conclude by saying, that it would be difficult, in my opinion, to find
a man whose work is more worthy of support by the Guggenheim Foundation
than Heilman.
322 Appendix C

Donald E. Stanford to Robert B. Heilman 
September 20, 1969
Dear Bob:
Thanks for sending me the Voegelin piece on Turn of the Screw. I am plan-
ning to accept this fascinating document. As you can see from the thermofax
copy of Voegelin’s letter of August 18 he has given prior approval. However, be-
fore writing to him I want to exchange an idea with you.
I think the MS should be published just as it is, entitled “On The Turn of the
Screw: A Letter to Robert Heilman” by Eric Voegelin and dated November 13,
1947. It is both a literary and historical document. It gives us the response, the
initial response, of an important mind (Voegelin’s) to another important mind
(James’s). And I think it would be appropriate for you to write a preliminary
statement, recalling the situation in which the letter was written, and making
any updated remarks you want to on the content of Voegelin’s interpretation
and the present critical situation with regard to The Turn of the Screw. Perhaps
Voegelin would also like to make some preliminary remarks.
Perhaps you could mention to Voegelin that you sent me the Letter, that I
want to publish it, and add my suggestions about the preliminary statement.
Payment would be five cents a word (our maximum rate, not very often em-
ployed) on acceptance for Voegelin’s Letter and also any preliminary statement
or statements.
How does all this strike you? Favorably I hope. Please let me know soon.
Sincerely
<Don>
Donald E. Stanford
7. Heilman Papers, accession 1000–2–71–16. A series of letters passed among Professors Heil-
man, Voegelin, and Donald E. Stanford concerning publication of Voegelin’s letter to Heilman.
In the Voegelin Papers (box 36, file 34), a series of letters between Stanford and Voegelin culmi-
nates with an exchange of letters in which they continue a discussion of literary criticism that
began with a visit by the Stanfords to the Voegelins in California. The discussion in these latter
letters centers around two poems by Wallace Stevens and brief summative comments on Eliot’s
Four Quartets.

Eric Voegelin to Robert B. Heilman
Excerpt from Outline. “Reason as Governor of the Passions:
The Classical Tradition.”8
V. Reason—Diagnostic Instrument
(3) The Newspeak of the Self
a. Existential Moods
Optimism (1759)
Pessimism (1794)
Nihilism (1817)
Ego (1824)
Egoism (1785)
Egomania(1825)
Altruism (1853)
Megalomania (1890)
b. Reality as Fundamentalist Belief
Liberalism (cca. 1820)
Conservatism (1835)
Socialism (1839)
Communism (1843)
Positivism (1854)
Capitalism (1854)
< Humanism (1812)
Fundamentalism (1923)
Modernism (1737) (1907)
Pluralism (1818; 1887???)>
c. Self-Compounds
Self-conscious (1697)
Self-control (1711)
Self-restraint (1775)
Self-assertion (1806)
Self-reliance (1837)
Self-culture (1847)
Self-repression (1870)
Self-realization (1876)
Self-expression (1892)
8. Voegelin Papers, box 77, file 8.

324 Selected Enclosures in Various Letters
5. Handwritten note sandwiched between pages of Letter 139

Robert B. Heilman to Eric Voegelin
C. Marlowe, Doctor Faustus (short title)
Sc. Vi, the first few lines, F. tends to “repent” of his bargain “When I behold
the heavens.” M. replies with a seductive humanism:
But think’st thou heaven is such a glorious thing?
I tell thee, Faustus, it is not half so fair
As thou or any man that breathes on earth.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
’Twas made for man; then he’s more excellent.
[in some edd., made into Act II, Scene ii]
cf. also Sc. Iii, 38ff (in some edd., Act I, Sc. Iii, 35ff ), in which F. summons up
M., reveals his own humanist arrogance, and hears (but disregards) some
homely [?] truths from M.
6. Enclosures with Letter 147

Eric Voegelin to Robert B. Heilman
Empfangen Sie, bitte, meinen herzlichsten Please, accept my affectionate thanks
Dank für die besondere Liebenswürdigkeit, for your personal kindness in having
Ihren Namen der Tabula Gratulatoria für your name included in the Tabula
die Festschrift anzuschliessen. Gratulatoria of the Festschrift.
<Eric Voegelin>
[A Xeroxed copy of “Eric Voegelin at Eighty” by Gerhart Niemeyer, National Re-
view, December 31, 1980.]
9. While Heilman claims to be sending a passage from Tamburlaine, he actually sends a passage
from Faustus with no explanation. The letter from Gene Webb that Heilman apparently enclosed
was not found in either the Heilman file (Voegelin Papers, box 17, folder 9) or the Eugene Webb
file (Voegelin Papers, box 41, folder 5).

INDEX

Aeschylus, 86, 158; Eumenides, 87; Prometheus, Bergier, Jacques, and Louis Pauwels: The
86, 87; Suppliants, 86 Dawn of Magic, 273, 276
Agee, James, 88 Bergson, Henri, 318
Albright, William Foxwell, 316 Berkeley, George, 122, 259
Allegory: pre-realist, 235 Berns, Walter, 193
Altdorfer, Albrecht, 177 Berrigans, Daniel and Philip, 263
Altizer, Thomas J. J.: Voegelin’s “debate” with, Bios theoretikos, 105, 195
mentioned, 238, 246 Blake, William, 108; bibliography on, 25–26
Analogia entis, 189; Thomistic, 105 Bloch, Ernst, 222
Anamnesis. Zur Theorie der Geschichte und Bochenski, Joseph M., 208
Politik (Voegelin), 12, 223, 225, 241, 242 Bosch, Hieronymous, 236
Anderson, Quentin: The Imperial Self, 262 Brandon, Samuel George Frederick, 244
Aquinas, Thomas, 195, 317 Brandt, Conrad, Benjamin Schwartz, and
Aristophanes: Frogs, 86 John K. Fairbank: Documentary History of
Aristotle, 82, 137, 158, 227, 259, 316, 318; and Chinese Communism, 319
homonoia (like-mindedness), 2; and human Brecht, Bertolt: and Max Frisch, 234, 235;
nature, 105; method of (memory and com- Mother Courage, 192; and obsessive
parison), 316; and methods of social language, 234; relation to Friedrich
sciences, 316; Poetics of, 83, 89, 210; and Dürrenmatt, 230
Thomas Reid, 259; and tragedy (Voegelin Brinton, Crane, 30
on), 89, 158 Broch, Hermann: Death of Vergil, 168
Aron, Raymond, 193, 265 Bronson, Bertrand Harris, 218
Arrowsmith, William, 286 Brooks, Cleanth, 4, 24, 26, 29, 57, 58, 59, 141,
Auden, W. H., 88 272
Auerbach, Erich, 321 Bruce, Frederick Fyvie, 244
Augustine, Saint, 105, 137 Brunner, Otto, 192
Avineri, Shlomo, 265 Buckley, William F., 141
Bultmann, Rudolf Karl, 202
Baader, Franz Xavier von, 111, 157 Burgess, Anthony: The Clockwork Orange,
Babbitt, Irving, 87 273
Balthasar, Hans von Urs: Theology of History, Burgess, John William, 316
92 Burke, Edmund: Reflections on the Revolution
Barraclough, Geoffrey, 267 in France, 259; and understatement, 259,
Barth, Karl, 92, 143 260
Being: consubstantiality of all, 16, 152; dialec- Burlesque: and distortion of reality, 233; and
tics of, 111; divine, 110, 111; essential move- the grotesque, 233, 236
ments of, 225; in flux, 223, 224; and Butler, Rohan d’Olier, 30
Homeric characters, 129; leap in, 187; mean-
ing of, 16, 152; mode of, 102; transcendent, Camus, Albert, 115
147, 186; truth of, 87 Carnap, Rudolf, 115
Berdiaev, Nicholas, 318 Chadwick, John, 170
325
326 Index
Chambers, Raymond Wilson, 65 Diderot, Denis, 225; Rameau’s Nephew, 221

“Chicago School” (of Aristotelians), 20, 159, Doderer, Heimito von: The Demons, 168; and
275. See also Neo-Aristotelians portrayal of obsession as burlesque, 233; and
Christianity, 111, 189, 194, 233; Dostoevsky’s, “second reality,” 168–69. See also
100; problems of, 126, 169 Dürrenmatt, Friedrich; Frisch, Max
Civilization(s): cosmological, 223; inferior, Dostoevsky, Fyodor, 27, 35, 225, 232–33;
160, 163; Mycenean, 127, 134n21; Western, Brothers Karamazov, The, 77; Gambler, The,
91, 120 225; Idiot, The, 100; Notes from the
Coleridge, Samuel Taylor: Kubla Khan, 103–4; Underground, 225; Possessed, The (Demons),
and Plato, 103 233, 235
Comedy: and melodrama, 85; and tragedy, as Drama: cosmic, 52; Expressionist, 235; forms
basic literary types, 84–85. See also of, 84–85, 86; language body of, 31; novels
Melodrama; Tragedy and, 233; symbolism of characters in, 234
Communism, 22, 66, 164, 166, 208, 306, 312, Drama of Humanity (Voegelin lectures/writ-
319, 323. See also Marxism ings), 244, 267, 268
Community: cooperative, among men, 2, 194; DuBrul, Stephen M., Jr., 231–32, 237
disintegration of, 263; of the psyche, 20, 158 Dulles, John Foster, 66
Comte, Auguste, 228 Dunning, William Archibald, 316
Confucius, 105 Dürer, Albrecht, 177
Conrad, Joseph, 95n60, 103; Nigger of Durkheim, Emile, 315, 317
Narcissus, 263; Under Western Eyes, 103 Dürrenmatt, Friedrich: expressionism of, 230,
Conscience: complex of consciousness- 235; and new influx of reality, 234; and por-
conscience-virtue, 40; and Homer, 98–99; trayal of obsession, 233; “Problems of the
and responsible ego, 42–43 Theatre,” quoted, 236. See also Doderer,
Consciousness: Aristotelian exegesis of, 242; in Heimito von; Frisch, Max
closed existence, 257; cognitive direction of,
281; concrete, 16n24; dogmatic formulations Ecumenic Age, The (Order and History, vol. 4),
of, 242; and intentionality, 281; meditative 7, 13, 273, 275; Heilman’s response to,
exploration of, 242; of open existence, 277–80
257–58; philosophical, 16, 152; and philoso- Eliot, George: Adam Bede, 123
phy, 241–42; Voegelin’s philosophy of, Eliot, T. S., 286; Cocktail Party, 108, 129n18;
241–43 passim Family Reunion, 108; Sacred Wood, 108;
Conservatism, 323 “The Waste Land,” 257
Conservatives: Voegelin on, 142–43; 208 Empire and Christianity (Voegelin), 147, 170
Cosmos: and Time of the Tale, 223; in com- English (language, usage, style), 1, 7, 8, 10, 21,
edy, 85 23, 252–53, 286; and philosophical language,
Cowley, Malcolm, 3, 4n6 110–11, 281
Cromwell, Oliver, 55 English, Louisiana State University
Cross, Frank Moore, 226 Department of, 4, 29n3
English, University of Washington
Dante, 108 Department of, 4n6, 114n6, 250
de Gaulle, Charles, 241 Enlightenment: fundamentalism of, 189
de Jouvenel, Bertrand, 193 Erasmus, Desiderius, 65, 71
Demosthenes, 316 Eroticism: in The Turn of the Screw, 49. See
Dempf, Alois, 83, 92, 137, 180; Critique of also Love; Passion; Sex
Historical Reason, 173 Euripides: Alcestis, 9, 126, 128–29, 132
Descartes, René, 111, 242 Evil: Voegelin on forces of good and, in The
Deutero-Isaiah, 169, 190 Turn of the Screw, 40–52 passim. See also
Dewey, John: Human Nature and Conduct, Good
259
Dialogue: as form of art, 82; great, in history, Fairbank, John K., 319
19, 20, 157, 158; meditative, 223; Platonic, Faith: Hebrews 11:1, 105; and hope and love,
153, 190 105, 281
Index 327
Faulkner, William: Hamlet, The, 70; Heilman Gogol, Nicolai, 236

on, 70; Lissy Voegelin on, 169; Voegelin on, Good, 65; forces of, and evil, 40, 41, 42, 52;
65; Warren’s article on, 65; Wild Palms, The, love of the, 2. See also Evil
70–71 Goodenough, Erwin Ramsdell, 316
Fichte, Johann Gottlieb, 259 Gospels: literary form of, 183; and Western
Finley, Moses I., 315 spirituality, 183, 190
Flaubert, Gustav, 235; Tentation de Saint Grene, David, 315–16
Antoine, 233 Grotesque, the: and Gnostic symbolism, 233;
Form(s): of the aphorism, 242; appropriate and obsessive language, 236; as understood
literary, 153; appropriate symbolic, 16; con- by Friedrich Dürrenmatt, 236; uses of, in
nection of content and form, 104; and con- literature, 236
tent, 223; differentiated, 223, 224; Heilman’s Guardini, Romano: Der Herr (The Lord), 169
classification of dramatic, 86; literary, of the Guérard, Albert J., 95, 123
Gospels, 183; of myth, 223; new literary, in
philosophy, 12, 241; poetical, 104; specifi- Haberler, Gottfried, 62
cally human, of literature, 223; and spirit, Hadas, Moses, 189
39; of the via negativa, 242; Voegelin’s classi- Hardy, Thomas, 95, 123; “On an Invitation to
fication of symbolic, 183 the United States” (poem), 26–27; Tess of
Frankfort, Henri: Kingship and the Gods, 315 the d’Urbervilles, 246
Frankfort, Henri, et al.: Before Philosophy: The Hayek, Friedrich A. von, 61–62, 63, 208
Intellectual Adventure of Ancient Man, 315 Heer, Friedrich, 92
Frankfort, Mrs. H. A., 315 Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich, 222, 259,
Freud, Sigmund, 260 260, 270, 277, 279
Friedrich, Carl Joachim, 134 Hemingway, Ernest, 65
Frisch, Max, 230, 232, 233, 235; Firebugs, 249; Heraclitus, 105, 241
new influx of reality in, 234. See also Herder, Johann Gottfried von, 157
Doderer, Heimito von; Dürrenmatt, Heresy: ideology and terror, 233; as instrument
Friedrich of imposing man-made world, 235
Frye, Northrop: and alchemy, 273; Anatomy of Herodotus, 127, 158, 280
Criticism, quoted, 276 Hesiod, 82
Historicism (historism), 163, 321; and histori-
George, Stefan, 30 cal relativism, 157; and history, 18, 157; in
Gigon, Olof Alfred, 92 literary studies, 156, 213
Gnosis, 100, 188, 222, 265; in literature, 120; Historiography: of literature, 92; and psyche
movement from philosophy to, 247; prob- of historian, 19, 157
lem of, 232; Voegelin’s search for materials History: Greek-Hellenic, 158, 170; of litera-
on, 144 ture, 66; philosophy moves in, 242; philoso-
Gnosticism, 277, 265; and the grotesque, 233; phy of, 144, 222, 223; practice of literary,
and revolt against God, 158 155; as unfolding of the human psyche, 157
God: and Baader’s Cogitor ergo sum, 111; of History, The [of Political Ideas] (Voegelin), 4, 5,
governmental order (Jupiter), 35; intellectu- 6, 13, 69, 82, 91, 98, 107, 307, 309
als and, 189; of Light (Apollo), 35; measure Hitler, Adolf, 29n2, 59; and Ostara fantasies,
of man is, 20, 158; revolt against, 20, 158, 211
233; symbolism of, 111; Thomas Mann and, “Hitler and the Germans” (Voegelin lectures),
77; in Turn of the Screw, 41–43 passim 212, 223, 225, 233
Gods, goddesses: as creations of humans, 102, Hitlerism: in Austrian academy, 92, 96;
186, 189; and evil, 123; Homeric, 98; human German provincialism as matrix of, 241
seeking of, 270; in King Lear, 34, 35; as sym- Hobbes, Thomas, 226, 248, 259; Leviathan, 65;
bols that articulate transcendence, 189; theory of politics, 194–95
there are no, 132, 186, 189; and the uncon- Hölderlin, Friedrich: Odes, 209
scious, 93 Homer: and beginnings of “conscience,”
Goethe, Johan Wolfgang von, 5; Shakespeare 98–99; Carl J. Friedrich on Voegelin’s, 134;
und kein Ende, quoted, 36–37, 104 complicated psychology of, 93; Elizabeth de
328 Index
Waal on Voegelin’s, 126–27; Heilman on de Kant, Immanuel, 259

Waal’s reaction to Voegelin’s, 129–31; Kayser, Wolfgang, 237; Das Groteske in
Heilman responds to Voegelin on, 123; and Malerei und Dichtung, 313
theory of blindness and sight, 98–99; Kennan, George, 199
Voegelin on characters of, 127 Ketterer, David, 273, 276; New Worlds for Old:
Hope: and experiences of transcendence, 105; The Apocalyptic Imagination, Science Fiction,
of immortality, 259; as tension toward and American Literature, 276
ground of existence, 281. See also Love King Lear: Heilman’s study of, 57, 63, 104, 113,
Horney, Karen, 225 198, 321; Voegelin’s comments on Heilman’s
Humanism, 161, 187, 270, 323, 324; atheistic, manuscript on, 31–37. See also This Great
189; and humanity, 189; modern, 189; Stage: Image and Structure in King Lear
Thomas Mann’s, 77, 79; “true,” 189 (Heilman)
Humanities, 105, 184, 185; “divinities,” and Kinsey, Alfred Charles, 210
“physicalities,” 274; positivism in, 5; and Kirk, Russell, 143; and Conservative Review,
television, 103 140; as reviewer of Order and History
Human nature: always wholly present, 18–19, (Voegelin), 186, 189
157; artist and the fullness of, 210; insights Kraus, Karl, 53
of poets into (Aristotle), 210; and poet’s
compact symbolism of, 15; in a time of cri- Ladner, Gerhart B., 208
sis, 64; and the Victorian novel, 21, 161 Language: ideological, 232; knowledge of, 232;
Humboldt, Wilhelm von: conception of man, Liberalspeak as obsessive, 235; and
243 Newspeak, 235; and reality, 232
Lattimore, Richard, 61
Iceman, the Arsonist, and the Troubled Agent, Lawrence, D. H.: Heilman review of book on,
The (Heilman), 12, 268 204; Lady Chatterly’s Lover, 209; Plumed
Ideology: American varieties of, 312; conserva- Serpent, 209; Sons and Lovers, 209; Voegelin
tive, 142; and language, 232; and Newspeak, on, 209–11 passim
232; progressive, 259; symbolism, 232; and Leibniz, Gottfried Wilhelm, 122
terror, 233 Lerner, Max, 143
Ingersoll, Robert, 228, 229 Lesky, Albin, 124
Ingersoll Lecture (Harvard), 227, 229 Liberals, 101, 117, 132, 143, 235, 247, 268; and
Israel and Revelation (Order and History, vol. conservatives, 208; northwest, 124, 140. See
1), 13, 147, 149, 167; and amnesia of the also Conservatives
past, 21, 161; Heilman’s response to Lieb, Fritz, 92; Russland Unterwegs: der russis-
Voegelin’s acknowledgement in, 21, 159–61 che Mensch zwishen Christentum und
passim; Voegelin’s acknowledgment of Kommunismus, 319
Heilman in, 1 Lifton, Robert Jay, 265
Literary criticism: formalist, 102; historism in,
Jackson, Shirley: “The Lottery,” 273 156; and Homer essay by Voegelin, 123; and
Jacobsen, Thorkild, 226, 315 humanism, 189; as permanent occupation
Jaeger, Werner, 89, 315 of Voegelin, 142; in the United States, 65
James, Henry, 71, 109; Princess Cassamassima, Literature, 4n7, 19n25, 103, 165, 211, 236, 240;
103; and schizophrenia, 225, 256; symbols American, 7, 24, 126, 261; as former of real-
of, 258, 260; The Turn of the Screw analyzed ity, 205, 210; “of disaster,” 155; English, 65;
by Voegelin, 39–52 passim; Voegelin essay as expression of human experience, 5; the
for Southern Review on, 251–58 passim, grotesque and, 233; history of, 66, 321;
260–61 passim, 262, 263, 322; vogue, 103 Homer’s work as first, 98; life and, 186, 192,
James, William, 109, 227 197; moral status of, 205; myth and, 223;
Jaspers, Karl, 92, 193, 318 positivistic studies in, 80; Renaissance, 93,
Jonas, Hans, 265 100; symbolism and, 321; teaching, 21, 161
Joyce, James, 169, 197, 239; rumor of Voegelin Locke, John, 105, 226, 259
lecture on, 251, 252; theory of static and Love, 73; and D. H. Lawrence, 211; deficiency
kinetic art, 88 of, 247; faith, hope, and, 105; of the Good,
Jung, Carl, 185, 190 2; and governess in The Turn of the Screw,
Index 329
51; and hate, 152; and Helen, 106; for life poetry, truth, and, 170; political, 126;
excessive, 128; in Othello, 97; scene and “Shakespeare,” 213; as symbol of human
symbolism in Turn of the Screw, 49; as ten- existence, 76; and Time of the Tale, 223
sion toward ground of being, 281; of true Myth, History, and Philosophy (Voegelin), 122
reality, 211. See also Eroticism; Sex
Löwith, Karl, 222 National Socialism (Nazism), 96, 241. See also
Lubac, Henri de: Drame de l’Humanisme Hitlerism
Athée, 189 Neo-Aristotelians (at University of Chicago),
Luther, Martin, 75 17, 141, 154. See also “Chicago School”
New Criticism, and “old historicism,” 213
Machiavelli, Niccolo, 65, 94, 105 New Critics, 102
Magic in the Web: Action and Language in New Science of Politics, The (Voegelin), 107,
Othello (Heilman), 149, 321; Heilman’s re- 307, 308; Heilman acknowledges receipt of,
sponse to Voegelin’s comments on, 153–56; 112; reprint planned, 122; Voegelin com-
Voegelin’s response to, 147, 150–53, 156–59; ments on reviewers of, 136–37
winner of Explicator Prize of 1956, 175. See Newton, Isaac, 122
also Othello Niebuhr, Helmut Richard, 318
Man: American “self-made,” 94; autonomous, Niebuhr, Reinhold, 143, 318
in revolt against God, 233; “common,” 35; Niemeyer, Gerhart, 202, 324
differentiated, 223, 224; Everyman, 152; Nietzsche, Friedrich, 30, 222; and demonically
God is measure of, 20, 158; little, 20, 158; closed human will, 52
mass, 153; “modern,” 152; nature of, 21–22,
105, 157, 158, 161, 259, 270; and relation to O’Connor, Flannery, 264, 266
nature, 34, 95; “socialistic,” 94; and theol- Oppenheimer, J. Robert, 199; and the
ogy, 11, 111; views of, in “naturalistic” University of Washington, 3, 4n6
tragedy, 9, 95, 123–24, 126. See also Human Order and History, 13, 170, 173, 174, 177, 190,
nature 231; Heilman comments on, 185–86; last
Mann, Thomas: and the devil, 77, 79; Doctor volume of (In Search of Order), mentioned,
Faustus, 77, 79; and the German disaster, 244; and theoretical problems, 241; two
77; humanism of, 77, 79; and the additional volumes planned, 267, 268;
picaresque (Felix Krull), 175, 186, 198, 248 Voegelin responds to Heilman’s editing of
Manson, Charles, 272 chapter 1, 10, 110–11; vol. 1 received by
Marlowe, Christopher, 280 Heilman, 159; vol. 4, mentioned, 147, 169,
Marx, Karl, 98, 222, 259; capitalism and, 209; 170, 202, 209, 212, 214
Heilman responds to Voegelin’s article on, Order and Symbols (Voegelin), 122
94–95; Voegelin on, 314–15 Orwell, George: and symbolism of Newspeak,
Marxism, 313–15 passim. See also Communism 232
McLuhan, Marshall, 120 Othello: and cholos of Achilles, 126; Heilman’s
Melodrama, 85, 88, 196; complacency and, 95; study of, mentioned, 104, 113, 119, 141, 143,
disaster and conquest, 192; Heilman on, 146, 147, 321. See also Magic in the Web:
197–98; Hobbesian psychology and, 194–95; Action and Language in Othello (Heilman)
politics as, 193–94, 197; replacing genuine
drama, 194; spirituality and, 195; Voegelin Pacher, [Michael or Friedrich], 177
on, 193–95 passim; war as, 193. See also Pareto, Vilfredo, 316
Comedy; Tragedy Pascal, Blaise: Pensées, 225, 266; Provincial
Mill, John Stuart, 63, 105 Letters, 225
Milton, John, 257 Passion: and excellence, 102, 195; life of,
Montesi, Gotthard, 137 194–95; psychology of, 194; the seer’s, 160;
More, Thomas, 65, 71, 75, 101 and spirit, 195; in The Turn of the Screw, 51.
Musil, Robert: The Man without Qualities, See also Eroticism; Love; Sex
168; and problem of “second reality,” 168 Philia politike (political friendship), 2, 194
Myth, 51–52, 155; Coleridge, Plato, and, 75–76; Philosophical anthropology: Lear, a study in,
and language symbols, 151; and metaphysi- 64; and literary criticism, 15; problems of,
cal speculation, 82; new philosophy of, 189; 105. See also Human nature
330 Index
Philosophy, 16, 18, 153, 157, 158, 189, 211, 232, state of potentiality, 210; symbolic appre-
247, 314, 316, 319; “common sense,” 259; of hension of, 140; whole of, 235
consciousness, 241–43; English, 259–60; of Reid, Thomas, 259
existence, 208; at Harvard, 227, 229; history Religion, 132, 133; among intellectuals, 88;
of, 11, 111; of history, 144, 222, 223; of lan- ersatz, 247, 248; humanism tinged by, 77
guage, 10, 110, 223, 232; of myth and revela- Rijn, Rembrandt van, 177
tion, 189; new literary form in, 12, 241; “Role We Give Shakespeare, The” (Heilman
political, 136–37, 265, 313 lecture), 213, 214, 217, 219
Pinter, Harold: Birthday Party, 249 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 226, 317
Pirandello, Luigi: Right You Are If You Think Rubens, Peter Paul, 177
So, 237 Russell, David Syme, 244
Plato, 35, 82, 84, 105, 108, 111, 137, 157, 158,
227, 279, 316, 317; Coleridge and, 75–76; Salin, Edgar, 92
Heilman’s response to Voegelin on, 37–38; Santayana, George, 30
interpreted as fascist, 151; Ion, 75; Laws, 37, Sartre, Jean-Paul: and Camus 115; Huit Clos,
38; and meditative dialogue, 223; Phaedo, 257; vanitas of, 233
75; Republic, 38; sense of tragedy in, 89; and Scheler, Max, 316
tension of existence, 281; and theology, 110; Schelling, Wilhelm Joseph von, 111, 157, 259
Timaios, 34; and twentieth-century way of Schelting, Alexander von: Russland und
life, 38; Werner Jaeger on, 89 Europa im russischen Geschichtsdenken, 319
Plotinus, 243 Science, Politics, and Gnosticism (Voegelin),
Political Science, 65, 151, 157, 226 247
Political theory, 30, 226 Schlick, Moritz, 115
Politics, 227, 314; academic, 212; classical Schmitt, Carl, 137; and his conception of poli-
(Aristotelian) conception of, 194; Gnostic, tics, 194
100; and immortality, 228; intellectual, 189; Schwartz, Benjamin, 319
as melodrama, 193–94, 197; philosophy of, Science (natural): and the antitheological tra-
265; science of, 137; as struggle for power, dition, 124; and power, 123
194–95, 278; theoretical, 91 Science (philosophical), 22, 58–59, 156, 164,
Polybius, 279 309, 310; as an Aristotelian virtue, 105; con-
Pomponazzi, Pietro, 65 dition of, 151; cooperation in, 150; freedom
Praz, Mario: The Romantic Agony, 235 of, 74, 309; ideology and destruction of,
Pritchard, James Bennett: Ancient Near 312; inventions of sciences by man, 102;
Eastern Texts, 316 Wilhelm von Humboldt’s, 243
Proust, Marcel, 169, 224; and time, 223 Science (political), 157, 177; conventional
Pseudo–Dionysius Aeropagita: and Voegelin’s treatment of Thomas More in, 65; need to
meditative form, 243 rebuild, 226
Science (social): foundation policies toward,
Quénet, Charles: Lettres Philosophiques de 306; positivism and historicism in, 5; posi-
Pierre Tchaadaev, 319 tivist ideologues in, 310; quantitative re-
Quispel, Gilles, 222, 226 search in, 307; Voegelin’s analysis of the
state of the social sciences, 308–20
Ransom, John, 247 Scientism: “The Origins of Scientism”
Reality: as actualized nature, 210; appearance (Voegelin), 74, 79, 122, 124
of, 152; attitude toward, 197; constructed Sebba, Gregor, 238, 240, 246
and true, 211; and D. H. Lawrence, 211; Second reality, 168–69. See also Reality
deformation/destruction of, 233, 234, 236, Sex, 209, 248; Kinsey and, 210; orgies and
257; demonic, 87; genuine love of, 211; LSD, 272. See also Eroticism; Love
Homeric, 130; and language, 223; and liter- Sextus Empiricus, 259
ary artist, 210; literature constitutes, 210; Shakespeare, William, 104, 151, 270, 275;
new influx of, in Friedrich Dürrenmatt and Anthony and Cleopatra, mentioned, 37; on
Max Frisch, 234; omission of parts of, 248; blindness and sight, 321; Coriolanus, men-
and problem of “second reality,” 168–69; as tioned, 37; and Elizabethan habits of mind,
Index 331
161; Goethe on, quoted, 36–37; greatness of, of, 11, 270, 278; between potentiality and
161; Julius Caesar, mentioned, 37; and actuality, 259; of the psyche in depth, 241;
“modern man,” 152; on nature and astrol- of the soul toward the divine ground, 242;
ogy, 34; and Plato on man, 157; role given Voegelin’s response to Heilman’s reserva-
to, 10, 222 tions, 11, 281
“Shakespeare and Politics” (Heilman lecture), Theology, 315, 316; and attunement to divine
284 being, 10, 110; Bultmann’s, 202; and man,
“Shakespeare 400” (lecture series), 213 10, 110–11; Protestant, 203
Shelley, Percy Bysshe, 247 This Great Stage: Image and Structure in King
Shils, Edward Albert, 186 Lear (Heilman), 5, 38, 57, 63, 104, 113, 116;
Socrates, 86, 153, 170 Voegelin’s comments on, 63. See also King
Soul: as component of human nature, 16, 152; Lear
conflict within the, 84; demonically closed, Thomas Aquinas, 195, 317
41, 254; fate of, 88; and human order, 87; Thucydides, 316
and immortality, 281; order of the, 87; spiri- Tillich, Paul, 227
tual transfigurations of a, 16, 152; symbol- Time of the Tale, 223
ized as the governess in The Turn of the Toynbee, Arnold J., 237, 240, 318
Screw, 41–52 passim; “vanity” of the, 254 Tragedy: Aeschylean, 86–87, 89; Aristotle and,
Spengler, Oswald, 209 83, 89, 158; and catharsis, 87–88, 89, 192;
Spirit, 108, 321; capacity for acting as, 102, 105; and death, 126; and disaster, 192, 195,
excellence and true, 195; form and, 34; law 197–98; and excellence, 198; and happy end-
of the, 38; life of the (bios theoretikos), 105, ings, 85, 86; Heilman’s study of, and melo-
195; mind and, 17, 154; passion and, 195; drama, 186, 188, 192, 195, 197, 205, 239, 244;
polis and, 39; problems of the, 194; quality Heilman’s theory of “parts” in, 16, 152, 321;
of, 36; true role of, 169; of the world, 37 as literary genus, 16, 152; and milieu, 86,
“State and History” (Voegelin lectures), 123 153; modern variant of, 16, 152–53, 155; natu-
Stendahl, Krister, 226 ralistic, 9, 95, 126; Platonic sense of, 89;
Swift, Jonathan, 287; Gulliver’s Travels, 85, 86, Shakespearean, 151; structure of, 84, 146;
89, 246 Voegelin’s study of, mentioned, 86, 97. See
Swinburne, Algernon Charles, 108 also Comedy; Melodrama; Tragedy and
Symbol(s): Classic and Christian, 111; cloudi- Melodrama
ness of, 257; of contracted existence, 266; Tragedy and Melodrama (Heilman), 12, 230,
experience and, 16, 152; “fuzziness” in, 260; 246, 248, 264, 268
ideological, 142–43; inconclusiveness in Transcendence: articulation of, 189; experi-
James’s, 257; Joachitic, 248; and language, 15, ences of, 105
151; opaque, 242; pattern of, 40; and ratio- Trilling, Lionel, 65, 231
nality, 151; sight, 31–32; and transcendence,
189; in The Turn of the Screw, 51–52; of “un- Unamuno, Miguel: Nivola, 77
derstatement” and “gentility,” 260; word, 32
Symbolism: of ancient gnosis, 222; of blind- Valéry, Paul, 116, 169, 185, 190; Voegelin’s
ness and sight, 321; and characters in drama, translation of Semiramis, 116, 118
234; Gnostic, 232, 233, 235; of the God who Ventris, Michael, 170
becomes man, 111; of man-animal, 287; of Viereck, Peter Robert Edwin, 197
Newspeak, 232; and progressive ideology, Vivas, Eliseo, 204, 209, 210, 239
259; sensual, 31; for transcendent meaning,
31; in The Turn of the Screw, 49, 51 Warren, Robert Penn, 65, 70, 291
Symbolization(s): compact, 15; complex/spec- Ways of the World, The (Heilman), 12
trum of, 258; and forces of the soul, 87; Webb, Eugene, 8, 280, 281, 287, 288
modes of, 257; and tensions in the Puritan Weber, Max, 217, 316
soul, 40; of transcendental reality, 171 Wedekind, Frank, 209
Whitehead, Alfred North, 266
Tate, Allen, 65 Wilkerson, Marcus M., 99
Tension(s): Heilman questions Voegelin’s use Willen, Gerald, 261
332 Index
Williams, Preston N., 226 Xenophanes, 189

Williams, Tennessee, 230–31
Wilson, Edmund, 123, 168 Zabel, Morton, 217
Wilson, John A.: Burden of Egypt, 315 Zaehner, R. C., 272
Wimsatt, William K., 141 Zen Buddhism, 272
Winternitz, Emanuel, 193
Wittfogel, Karl August, 208
Wolfson, Harry Austryn, 316

(Charles R. Embry) Robert B. Heilman and Eric Voeg

Uploaded by

Document Information

Original Title

Copyright

Available Formats

Share this document

Share or Embed Document

Sharing Options

Did you find this document useful?

Is this content inappropriate?

Copyright:

Available Formats

(Charles R. Embry) Robert B. Heilman and Eric Voeg

Uploaded by

Copyright:

Available Formats

ROBERT B.

Other Books in the Series

Art and Intellect in the Philosophy of Étienne Gilson

Augustine and Politics as Longing in the World

Eros, Wisdom, and Silence: Plato’s Erotic Dialogues

A Government of Laws: Political Theory,

Hans Jonas: The Integrity of Thinking

Lonergan and the Philosophy of Historical Existence

The Narrow Path of Freedom and Other Essays

Transcendence and History: The Search for Ultimacy

Voegelin, Schelling, and the Philosophy

Edited with an Introduction by

UNIVERSITY OF MISSOURI PRESS

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

This paper meets the requirements of the

Designer: Kristie lee

Pound he did; my earliest recollections of going-to-sleep sounds were of his

I extend my thanks. The political science administrative assistant Jana Dooley

to standard typographical practice (such as placing colons and semicolons out-

A special pleasure it is to say my thanks to my friend and colleague Professor

Thus wrote Eric Voegelin in the final paragraph of his acknowledgments in

Heilman’s response—emphasizing as it does Voegelin’s phrase “my friend and

professional dimensions of his relationship with Heilman. The personal dimen-

Politics is indeed melodrama, if politics is understood as a relation between

administering a large department at a major university. He belonged to and

Ten days later Heilman replied:

That you ask me to read the MS is of course only an honor. . . .

In Autobiographical Reflections (1973), Voegelin would gratefully recall this ser-

I especially want to mention the help extended by Robert B. Heilman, who

Heilman’s admiration for Voegelin’s work was often accompanied by frustration

feelings of inadequacy, Heilman committed himself to helping Voegelin improve

Voegelin admired and envied Heilman’s mastery of English language style,

There were . . . a few emendations which I hesitated to accept, and I should

In 1974 (Letter 133) Heilman, commenting on Voegelin’s offprint “Reason:

a divergence acknowledged in Voegelin’s response to Heilman’s remarks on The

An Exemplary Year in the Correspondence

19. Heilman, Professor, 102.

proached classical literary texts himself: “no adequate interpretation of a major

You have used, or created, an ontological category that brings to philosophical

Finally, Voegelin offered a point, “if not of disagreement, at least of hesitation in

We have no tragedies today. The phenomenon of the mass man cannot be

Three more letters—one from Heilman and two from Voegelin—were to

It’s hardly becoming of me to go beyond the verbal medium, but I have to

In the same letter Heilman applauded Voegelin’s remarks on historical rela-

And then he ended with:

In Voegelin, Heilman had encountered a thinker who “kept me on my toes

26. Heilman, Professor, 101.

Heilman an American intellectual untainted by the dominant trends in the

Voegelin might have said the same, later, of Robert Heilman.

1. Baton Rouge, May 27 [No Year]

1. Oxford History of English Literature.

1910—[G. K.] Chesterton

3. University, Louisiana [No Date] [OH]

4. Cambridge, Massachusetts, July 12, 1944 [OH]

Otherwise, I am drowned in German constitutional history of the Middle

5. Baton Rouge, July 21 [1944]

6. Baton Rouge, October 25, 1944

7. Baton Rouge, November 20 [probably 1944]

8. Cortland, NY, July 3, 1945 [OH]8

here” or “There you see” in a determinative, pragmatic sense, without implica-

beyond the meaning explicitly contained in the sentence as a grammatical unit.

is humanistic. The position of Edmund (Thou, nature, art my goddess) is the

p. 29 the word “appearances” reminds me that all appearances are dissolved in