"I Am A Walking, Talking Example Of A 'Split Collection'"

From Robert Sward's presentation on Ethics as panelist at the American
Library Association's Rare Books and Manuscript / Special Collections
(RBMS)
Conference, June 13, 2001, Fairmont Hotel, San Francisco
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Title: "I Am A Walking, Talking Example Of A 'Split Collection'"

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1. Ethics
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eth·ic (èth´îk) noun
1. a. A set of principles of right conduct. b. A theory or a system of
moral values: EX: "An ethic of service is at war with a craving for
gain" (Gregg Easterbrook).
2. ethics (used with a sing. verb). The study of the general nature of
morals and of the specific moral choices to be made by a person; moral
philosophy.
3. ethics (used with a sing. or pl. verb). The rules or standards
governing the conduct of a person or the members of a profession:
medical ethics.

[Middle English ethik, from Old French ethique (from Late Latin êthica,
from Greek êthika, ethics) and from Latin êthicê (from Greek êthikê),
both from Greek êthikos, ethical, from êthos, character.]
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Over lunch recently, a valued friend--a writer I have known since the
1960s--told me she had sold her literary archive to Special Collections
at a large University for a goodly chunk of money. Included in this
archive were letters we had exchanged on and off for the past 40 years.
Because at the time of the sale she was also busy packing for a trip to
Europe, she said, she hadn't been able to go through all her materials
to pull out any possibly embarrassing personal letters or even to let me
know that this transfer of our correspondence was going to occur. On
the date of our meeting in fact it was already too late. The sale of
her papers had been completed and the archival materials installed at
their new home.

If I wished to re-read our letters in their now protected,
climate-controlled environment, I would have to pull out my wallet,
identify myself, sign in, and consent to wear white gloves so as not to
damage them.

Sitting across from her at the restaurant, my first response was one of
hurt, serious annoyance that I hadn't been consulted.

Then I recalled that I had in fact, without informing her, sold her
letters to me-including carbon copies of my letters to her. True, I
hadn't sold any of her letters individually, but rather as part of one
of my ongoing larger "deposits" with Special Collection libraries in the
U.S. and Canada. I mention this because as far back as the 1960s,
people I knew who received letters from Allen Ginsberg were taking
them--as a form of literary currency--to dealers and selling them the
same day for cash. Indeed, most writers and artists I've talked with
say that when you receive a letter from someone it becomes your property
and you're free to do with it as you wish. It is also said that brains
are no substitute for ethics and in my heart I know I'm guilty. Why?
Because I haven't carefully read and re-read letters I have received
from other writers--and informed them that their letters were going into
one library or another. Without question, I have fallen short of my own
ethical standard.

In my defense I'd say that having started archiving my papers in the
1960s (at age thirty), I carried on doing so in the spirit of that
earlier time. That is, I have tended to hold back nothing and, guilty as
charged, allowed a blurring of the distinction between Professional and
Personal, a distinction that is not always easy to make in any case. Now
in my sixties, if I were for the first time, let's say, placing my
papers in Special Collections, I'd certainly be more discreet, exercise
more care.

I know how to phrase the questions, but I don't know how to answer them:

(1) As a writer whose papers are being collected, how much am I turning
my own and other peoples' lives into commodities?
(2) Is there a problem, ethically, with selling (or donating)
contemporary correspondence sent to us when the individual who sends it
has no idea that it will be sold (or donated)?
(3) What about the buyers?

I raised my concerns with Bookseller P. Scott Brown, a friend, who
responded by telling me about an unnamed writer who "decided not to tell
his [well-known] correspondent that he was selling the letters. This is
a touchy issue since (1) the author of the letters doesn't get any money
from them; (2) he doesn't have control over who gets to see them (or
quote from them under the fair use rules); (3) he will continue writing
and the letters will pile up again and be sold again, I suspect. Part of
the reason for not asking was that the owner of the letters asked
several other better-known writers he corresponds with if it would be OK
to sell their letters and they said no. But once broached, it's a hard
subject to pretend you didn't bring up and those writers will always
think twice about it before sending him another letter."

Scott adds, "In another case I know of, an author was happy to help a
friend out financially by supporting the sale of letters and was honored
by the institution's interest. So it goes both ways… for me, the main
issue here is what remains private and what remains public. Personally,
I wouldn't want my personal papers, letters, etc., to be on display or
available until long after the fact. But it is a personal decision; some
writers demand privacy, others let it all hang out. The most private
person was probably Willa Cather who asked her friends and family to
destroy her letters when she died. Some years ago, there was a good New
Yorker article about it and there is a website:
www.unl.edu/Cather/world/life/letters/letters.htm
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I see it all perfectly; there are two possible situations- one can
either do this or that. My honest opinion and my friendly advice is
this: do it or do not do it- you will regret both.
Søren Kierkegaard (1813?55), Danish philosopher. Either/Or, vol. 2,
"Balance between Esthetic and Ethical" (1843; tr. 1987).
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In my own case, I've agreed to sell or donate my papers as "intact"
collections representing one or more years of work. If these donations
happened to include letters from well-known writers, well, that was part
of that year's harvest. I never pulled out correspondence with
particular people to sell separately.
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2. Sin & Disorder
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What is termed Sin is an essential element of progress. Without it the
world would stagnate, or grow old, or become colourless. By its
curiosity Sin increases the experience of the race. Through its
intensified assertion of individualism it saves us from monotony of
type. In its rejection of the current notions about morality, it is one
with the higher ethics.
Oscar Wilde (1854?1900), Anglo-Irish playwright, author. Gilbert, in The
Critic as Artist, pt. 1 (published in Intentions, 1891).
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Why do I do this? As a poet, teacher, free lance writer and broadcaster
for 40 years, I've never sought tenure. I've been a nomad, an itinerant
academic moving from city to city, job to job--country to country.
Moving every few years, I've seldom had the extra space it takes to
safely store archival material. A further complication: I've been
married more often than most people and, in setting up new arrangements,
each spouse in her own sensible way has said the same thing: "Those old
papers and letters are cluttering up the house. I don't care what you
do, just get them out of here."

I imagine behind every author in Special Collections there are one or
more mates or family members who simply wanted the manuscripts, old
letters and photographs out of the house.

Yes, it is an honor and a privilege for a writer to have her or his
papers collected in this way. Moreover, in spite of their protests,
most writers like having their work fussed over, organized and made
available. For me, the arrangement with Special Collections has become a
form of spring cleaning, a ritual. It's a joyful experience, like
getting a book published. You box things up, clear the deck and make way
for what comes next. I don't know about other writers, but my muse likes
it when I make donations to Special Collections.

Chatham calls me as a "walking, talking example of a split collection."
I respond by saying I sometimes think of the five or so libraries that
have collected my work as mutual funds. In these uncertain times, if
something happens to one, God forbid, at least another will serve as
backup.

Speaking of "backup," Chatham Ewing's Special Collections has been
helpful and wonderfully responsible-ethical--in fulfilling its promise
to send me photocopies of material I donated as, for one reason or
another, I've needed them. Washington University's Special Collections
also provides a listing of their holdings on the Internet. I am grateful
for that and coming here today I feel like something of a prodigal son.

What follows is a brief history of how I came to be a "walking, talking
example of a split collection":
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3. How A Split Collection Comes to Be
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In the mid-1960s, at the suggestion of faculty members Don and Connie
Finkel, I believe, Special Collections at Washington University in St.
Louis, Missouri, purchased my papers from the mid-1950s to the time of
the publication of "Kissing the Dancer" (Cornell University Press, 1964)
and "Thousand-Year-Old Fiancee (Cornell University Press, 1965). Special
Collections at Washington University now holds my archives pretty much
from my beginnings as a writer up until 1969 or so when I took up an
appointment as Poet in Residence at the University of Victoria in Canada
and started a small publishing company, SOFT PRESS. SOFT PRESS, by the
way, published twenty-one books by West Coast authors, perhaps the most
distinguished of which was a hand-set, signed, numbered volume by poet
William Stafford titled "In the Clock of Reason." More about that press
in a moment.

I should say here I was perfectly happy with my relationship with
Washington University and became a split collection under circumstances
no one could have foreseen.

In the late 1960s, before moving to Canada, I marched in silence with a
group of Quakers to protest the War in Vietnam. Twenty of us were
proceeding past a weapons factory in New Hampshire when someone stepped
out of the jeering crowd and smashed a rotten egg against the side of my
head. The moment was captured by a newspaper photographer and, bearded
and hairy at the time, carrying an anti-war placard, egg shells and
slimy yolk sticking to my face, I seemed to fit some editor's image of a
Hippy Vietnam War Protestor. The photograph appeared the next day on the
front page of a Boston newspaper and the Director of the MacDowell
Artists' Colony-where I was living and writing at the time-was
questioned by Authorities about "that writer Robert Sward."

In 1971, now Poet in Residence at the University of Victoria in Canada,
I again shipped a couple boxes of archival material to Washington
University. This time my papers had to go across the border and U.S.
Customs officials opened the boxes and discovered the Boston newspaper.
The curator of Special Collections later wrote me a painfully polite
letter saying that he had been called before The Authorities to explain
why his library was collecting work by a Vietnam War protester. For the
record, I had served in the U.S. Navy (1951-1953) during the Korean War
and had been honorably discharged-even got a couple medals for serving
in the Combat Zone. I was, in any case, not a border-crossing draft
dodger. As a Korean War vet I was not even eligible to be drafted. I was
simply living and working in Canada as a Visiting Professor because that
is the job I was hired for.

I felt badly for the Special Collections curator who had been called in
by Authorities to explain his library's practices: Should Washington
University's library collect the papers of someone living in Canada who
writes and protests against The War? I should add that my book-length
anti-War poem, "Horgbortom Stringbottom / I Am Yours / You Are History"
(Swallow Press, 1970) had been published at about the same time.

An obscure, little-known poet, I did at least have an answer to a
question I sometimes asked myself: Who is going to want to read these
old papers?
Answer: Well, U.S. Customs for one!

Later, when I informed Washington University that I had more material
for Special Collections, I was told that, sadly, their budget had been
cut and funds were no longer available to purchase my papers.

It so happened that when I moved to Canada in 1969 a friend asked if I
would look after his 100-year-old treadle-operated Cropper platen letter
press. I agreed and, at a time when printing technology was changing,
bought 2,000 pounds of lead printing type at a relatively low price. An
inexperienced typesetter, it took me up to eight hours to prepare the
press, set the type, and print a single page of poetry. Nonetheless,
for much of the 1970s that press was the heart of our 1050 Saint David
Street (Victoria, B.C.) home.

The National Library of Canada in Ottawa expressed interest in beginning
a SOFT PRESS / ROBERT SWARD archive and made an offer I couldn't refuse.
So most of the writing and publishing I did in Canada from the early 70s
to the time I returned to the U.S. (1985) is now in Ottawa, Ontario.

The name Soft Press comes from a line by William Stafford: "The spirit
in man is soft. It can go anywhere."

In 1982, when we sold our house in Victoria, I noticed that some papers
I had stored in our garage had begun to mildew. There wasn't time to
consult with the National Library. I simply rescued and found safe haven
for those drafts, letters and photographs in Special Collections at the
University of Victoria's MacPherson Library. The split collection split
again.

Living in Toronto (1979-1984), I received a Canada Council grant to
write a non-fiction book which was published in 1983, THE TORONTO
ISLANDS, a best-seller, I'm told, at least by Canadian standards.
Librarians at the Toronto City Archives had been helpful when I was
doing research-as had former mayor John Sewell and Larry Grossman, a
Member of Parliament--so I donated most of my notes on that project to
the City of Toronto, and also to a private collection on the Toronto
Islands.

When I moved to Santa Cruz in 1985, Special Collections at UCSC's
McHenry Library began collecting my papers.
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An author's concerns:
On a professional level:

* When unpublished material is donated to or paid for by Special
Collections, who owns copyright ©, who does a publisher go to for
permission to use on the Internet and/or hardcopy? Naturally, it is my
wish that my estate-my children and heirs-retain ownership. I'd also
like assurance that my papers will not be sold or transferred without
written permission and that they will be maintained using standard
document preservation technique.
* Again, Scott: "With the advent of the computer, another problem has
emerged-defining a manuscript. In many cases, multiple versions of a
work are kept on a computer and can be printed out as often as
necessary. It might truly be an 'early draft' but it could be the tenth
copy printed."
* Where does one go and how does one establish the fair value of
archival material? How about hiring an agent to act on one's behalf?
Raymond Chandler says of Agents:

Throughout the history of commercial life nobody has ever quite liked
the commission man. His function is too vague, his presence always seems
one too many, his profit looks too easy, and even when you admit that he
has a necessary function, you feel that this function is, as it were, a
personification of something that in an ethical society would not need
to exist. If people could deal with one another honestly, they would not
need agents.
Raymond Chandler (1888?1959), U.S. author. "Ten Per Cent of Your Life,"
in Atlantic Monthly (Boston, Feb. 1952).

On a personal level:

* I've never regretted placing my papers in Special Collections but I
did make a deliberate choice to withhold nothing. I might have been more
discreet, suppressed journals and letters, presented myself in a better
light. Other writers no doubt settle on a particular persona and
transfer only material consistent with the image they want to project.
Indeed most authors and others who deposit papers at institutions
separate their correspondence into two categories, personal and
professional.
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[Note: I had intended to conclude my presentation with the following
material.
However, because our panel was running short on time, I ended before I
could get to this. Still, it is part of my contribution to the RBMS
Ethics panel so I am including it here.]

There is something about the number Sixty… For one thing I came of
age-as a poet, a teacher of writing, a little magazine editor, etc.--in
the 1960s. It was in the 60s that Washington University began archiving
my papers. It was also in that decade that I made what seems now a
descent into exile, self-indulgence and darkness. I made my Odyssey,
exercised poor judgment, fell into traps, and wrote some of my best, but
also some of my worst poems.

A few years ago my teaching colleague, poet Joe Stroud observed, "So,
you're turning sixty. The sixties are serious." That was the inspiration
for the following, a poem in three short sections with which I would
like to end this presentation:

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TURNING 60

"The first 40 years of life give us the text; the next 30 supply
the commentary on it.."
--Schopenhauer

1.
HOMEWORK

According to Webster, the word six derives from the Latin
"sex" [s-e-x] and the Greek "hex" [h-e-x].
Six units or members
as, an ice-hockey team;
a 6-cylinder engine;
sixfold, six-pack, sixpenny nail, six-
shooter, sixth sense.

"Zero" denotes the absence of all magnitude, the point of departure
in reckoning; the point from which the graduation of a scale
(as of a thermometer) begins;
zero hour,
zeroth,
as, "the zero power of a number."

Zero, the great "there's nothing there" number,
a blast off into a new decade.

2.
GRAMMAR AS HYMNAL

Seeking solace in a review of grammar, I turned to Strunk & White's
"Elements of Style." Standing at attention,
opening to the section on usage, I chanted and sang ?
uniting my voice with the voices of others, the vast chorus
of the lovers of English.

We sing of verb tense, past, present and future.
We sing the harmony of simple tenses.
We lift our voice in praise of action words,
and the function of verb tense.

We sing of grammar which is our compass
providing, as it does, clues as to how
we might navigate the future,
at the same time it
illuminates the past.

As a teacher, I talk. That's present.
For 30 years as a teacher, I talked. That's past.
It may only be part time, but I will talk. That's future.

3.
LIVING THE FUTURE PERFECT

I will have invoked the muse.

I will have remembered to give thanks, knowing our origins
are in the invisible, and that we once possessed boundless energy,
but were formless, and that we are here to know 'the things of the heart

through touching.'

I will have remembered, too, that there is only one thing
we all possess equally and that is our loneliness.

I will have loved.
You will have loved.
We will have loved.

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"Turning 60" reprinted from Robert Sward's "Rosicrucian in the Basement"

Black Moss Press (Canada), ISBN 0-88753-353-1. Distributed by Firefly
Books,
800-387-5085, email: service@fireflybooks.com