I bought this book solely because I have for so long admired the work of James Salter. I'd never heard of his correspondent, Robert Phelps, who, it turns out, was something of a minor literary figure in New York from the 60s through the 80s, a journalist and book reviewer noted for his expertise on French writers like Colette, Cocteau and others. He was also a long-time friend of the writer Glenway Westcott, and, like Westcott, was an integral part of the gay literary community of the East Coast. (Moment of truth: I hadn't known, until I read this book, that Westcott was gay. I remember studying THE PILGRIM HAWK in college and admiring it very much. I don't think "gay" was even a term used back then, in the sixties. There were, sadly, much uglier terms in use those days.)

The letters here run from 1969 to 1980, though Salter and Phelps continued to keep in touch until the latter's death, in 1989. These two guy, both very talented writers, made me feel dumb. But I mean that in only the very best, most complimentary way. I loved reading their letters. There is, I suppose, something sinfully delightful about reading other people's mail, but in this case it was simply a delight, in every way imaginable. I felt I got to know Salter better through these letters. In fact Phelps made HIM feel kinda dumb too, what with the encyclopedic knowledge of books and writers he displayed in his letters, and, I have to assume, also in the many visits and telephone conversations they enjoyed through their twenty-year friendship. What surprised me the most about Salter, particularly in the early letters, was his own lack of confidence, his self-doubt about his writing. I mean, my GOD! This is James Salter, a writer admired by other writers around the country! But of course it was not always so. I was shocked to learn that his wonderful novel, LIGHT YEARS, sold barely 7,000 copies and then was remaindered. And that he often struggled to pay his bills. Of course he was maintaining two homes, on Long Island and in Aspen, but still ... In a 1971 letter, written while he was working on LIGHT YEARS, Salter tells Phelps -

"I want this book to be a failure, then I can go right on living as I am. Of course, a failure that frightens people, writers, that is. I want them to think: ... If he ever gets loose. Success would ruin me. I'm a century plant, I'm only going to bloom once, and I hope that's the year I die."

Fortunately, Salter "bloomed" multiple times, in many stories and books. And his desire for the approval and 'fear' of other writers was granted, as he was one of those 'writers' writer' we always read about, which often means, unfortunately, no bestsellers. (I think of the fine writer Frederick Busch, for example: thirty books and nary a one big commercial success.)

Looking on my own bookshelf, I find seven Salter books, all beautifully written, all favorites. And yet, if these letters are any proof, this marvelous master of the writing trade was continually discouraged, doubtful, asking his friend wistfully: "Among all the billions, do you think our voices will ever be heard?"

These letters are a gold mine of literary personalities, celebrities and allusions, of course, with references to people like Saul Bellow, Philip Roth, Harvey Swados, Gore Vidal, Dan Wakefield, Robert Redford, Roger Giroux, William Maxwell, and many, many others, as well as books being read and discussed - literally hundreds referenced. Salter also worked on screenplays for many years. A few made it to the screen, but many more did not. His book on mountain climbers, SOLO FACES, was in fact a rejected screenplay which he rewrote as a novel. Of working for Hollywood, he writes: "Unspeakable business. No wonder everyone is corrupted by it."

There are also bits and pieces of the personal here, as when he writes, as if in passing, of his divorce -

"My wife and I are parting. There are two children still at home, which pains me, but I won't be far off, just a few minutes' walk. There is a time to put one's self first. I suppose that's explaining it simply. But also inadequately. I'm moving out next week ... So I may be silent for a while, adjusting to a new life."

One can't help but feel his sadness, although he attempts to nullify it. This is Salter at his most human. And yes, it made me sad too.

I don't mean to lessen the importance of Phelps's letters in this collection, because they are often wittier and filled with more literary contacts and allusions than Salter's are. The guy seemed to know nearly everyone who was anyone in publishing and among the New York literati. And the notes and explanations by the book's editor, John McIntyre, are extremely helpful. Michael Dirda wrote a perfect introduction. How could he not? In addition to being a prominent book critic with the Washington Post, he was also a personal friend (as well as a fan) of Salter; and Dirda's college roommate was Phelps's son. Dirda calls these letters "love letters," and indeed they were. Salter and Phelps shared a passion for books and writing, and their friendship was deeply felt.

In one letter Salter is talking about an essay he is writing about cemeteries and how interesting he found it. He writes: "I love completed lives. Yours is an exception. Yours I would like to continue for ever ..." Sadly, Robert Phelps's life was cut short. He died of colon cancer in 1989, at the age of 66. In a note to his widow, Salter wrote: "I loved Robert. I love him still and always. He was an anchor to seaward for me and one of the few pure voices of my life."

In 2013, James Salter published his last novel, ALL THAT IS. It was, like all of his work, impeccably crafted, beautifully written, heartbreakingly human. And it was a bestseller, albeit briefly. The century plant finally bloomed. Salter died this year at the age of 90.

Yes. Michael Dirda was right about the letters in MEMORABLE DAYS. Love letters. I was sad to see the last of them. I wanted more. I loved this book. If you are a fan of James Salter, READ THIS BOOK. My highest recommendation. ( )