Helen Oyeyemi - Mr. Fox

c/o Astor Press

490 West 58th Street

New York City

You seem bitter, Mr. Fox. Are you having trouble with the next book?

M. Foxe

85 East 65th Street,

Apartment 11

New York City

July 16th, 1936

“Mary Foxe”

85 East 65th Street, Apartment 11

New York City

Dear “Mary Foxe,”

Is this your true name? Have we met someplace; are we acquainted? Have I wronged you in some way?

Be direct. Allow me to

make amends,

St. John Fox

c/o Astor Press

490 West 58th Street

New York City

July 22nd, 1936

St. John Fox

c/o Astor Press

490 West 58th Street

New York City

Dear Mr. Fox,

I found your questions asinine.

Yours sincerely,

Mary Foxe

85 East 65th Street,

Apartment 11

New York City

July 28th, 1936

Mary Foxe

85 East 65th Street, Apartment 11

New York City

My dear Miss Foxe,

That’s quite some vocabulary you’ve got there. But this is not the day and age to waste paper, ink, and stamps. What is it that you want from me?

S.J.F.

177 West 77th Street,

Apartment 25

New York City

August 2nd, 1936

St. John Fox

177 West 77th Street, Apartment 25

New York City

I’ve written a few stories, and I’d like you to read them.

M.F.

85 East 65th Street,

Apartment 11

New York City

August 6th, 1936

Mary Foxe

85 East 65th Street, Apartment 11

New York City

Why me?

S.J.F.

177 West 77th Street,

Apartment 25

New York City

September 1st, 1936

St. John Fox

177 West 77th Street, Apartment 25

New York City

Mr. Fox,

I apologise for the brevity of my previous note, which was due to a combination of factors: I was surprised by the frankness of your letter and the fact that you had included what appears to be your actual home address. Also I had been having a difficult week but wanted to reply promptly, so was forced to do so without niceties. Why you? My answer is unoriginal: I-have-long-been-an-admirer-of-your-workand-have-found-it-a-great-encouragement- whilst-in-the-midst-of-my-amateurscribbling-to-imagine-you-reading-what-I- have-written. There, that’s over with. In short, I ask for nothing but your honest opinion of my stories. I’m aware that even asking this is an imposition, one that I would certainly resent if our situations were reversed, therefore I’ll take no offence at your ending this correspondence by dint of silence and shall remain,

Your interested reader,

Mary Foxe

85 East 65th Street,

Apartment 11

New York City

September 10th, 1936

Mary Foxe

85 East 65th Street, Apartment 11

New York City

Little Miss Foxe,

If you’d really been doing your homework you’d know that I am the last person in the world to consult with about your writing. It surprises me that you’re able to make reference to the January New York Times piece about my third divorce without also recalling the February piece that described me as “a suffocating presence across the breakfast table. . harsh destroyer of the feminine creative impulse.” Why don’t you write to the author of that piece? I’m sure she has some handy hints for you.

Sincerely,

S. J. Fox

177 West 77th Street,

Apartment 25

New York City

September 13th, 1936

St. John Fox

177 West 77th Street, Apartment 25

New York City

Mr. Fox,

You are suspicious of me. Don’t be. You feel exposed by recent scrutiny of your private life and you sense that I am mocking you or preparing the way for some kind of punch line, that I will send you some satirical pages about a writer with thirtyseven ex-wives, all of whom hate him and blame him for their own failures. I find it disappointing that you so transparently view your every interaction as a narrative. It is cliché, if you’ll forgive my saying so.

I had a birthday in June and became twenty-one years old. No, I am not pretty. Not at all pretty, I’m afraid. Yes, I am a Brit, in fact directly related to the author of Foxe’s Book of Martyrs (I am very proud — I consider Foxe’s Martyrs to be the sixteenth century’s best book). I grew up in a rectory, my father is a vicar, as a child I suspected him of having written the Bible. I am sole occupant of one medium-sized bedroom in a penthouse apartment not so very far from you; the place is full of Objects I am afraid I shall accidentally break. For almost a year now I have been tutor and general companion — there is not really a name for my job — to a fourteen-year-old girl who was asked not to return to school because the majority of her fellow pupils were frightened of her. On weekends the family usually leaves town, and that is when I take the opportunity to type what I have written in my notebook. I am not sure what I mean by writing this to you, or how much, if at all, my listing these things will strike you as reassuring, or even interesting. I’m not what you think I am, that’s all.

M. Foxe

85 East 65th Street,

Apartment 11

New York City

October 17th, 1936

Mary Foxe

85 East 65th Street, Apartment 11

New York City

Dear M.,

Your letters have interested me more than any I’ve been sent in a long while, and if you’d still like me to read your pages I’d be glad to. You must give them to me in person, though — I only read the work of people I am personally acquainted with. And before you make a smart remark, yes, I knew Shakespeare. I really am that old.

I almost always pass an hour or two at the bar of the Mercier Hotel of a Sunday — not even eavesdropping; everybody tries too hard to be shocking nowadays — just drinking. It would be my pleasure if you could join me there next Sunday. Seven p.m. No need to write back this time, just show up, and let’s see if we can pick each other out. If you have your pages in full view I’ll consider you a spoilsport.

Warm regards,

S.J.

177 West 77th Street,