STEPHEN SELEY - New York Times Obituaries 
Published: May 14, 1982

"Stephen Seley, an American novelist, died of a heart attack last Saturday in Ibiza, Spain, where he had lived since 1957.

He was 67 years old.

Mr. Seley, who was born in Brooklyn and grew up in South Orange, N.J., and Newark, wrote ''The Cradle Will Fall,'' published by Harcourt, Brace & Company in 1945; ''Baxter Bernstein: A Hero of Sorts,'' published by Charles Scribner's Sons in 1949, and ''The End of Mercy,'' published by De Bezige Bij of Amsterdam in 1969.

Surviving is a brother, Jason, a sculptor and dean of Cornell University's College of Architecture, Art and Planning._________________________________ End of obit.

God holding court at Bar Estrel
Seley was my father's best friend. The Two Steves were infamous in their own right on Ibiza where the locals called them Steve Primero and Steve Segundo in order to tell one from the other.

When I arrived on the island in 1972, the locals immediately named me, Steve Tecero.

Steve II Ericsson

My father was a painter and between Steve, the writer and Steve, the painter, there was plenty of trouble to get into. They'd met in 1960 when my father was working on a ship that had docked in the harbor. Seley got my father so drunk that he showed up on the docks to ship out 2 days late, and the only thing he found were his bags sitting on the dock.

Ibiza bag
We used to meet every morning for coffee and hierbas, (a local hangover remedy based mostly on the hair of the dog). Seley would be reading some passed-down, out-of-date newspaper and ranting about the state of the world. My father would be holding on to his basket (the traditional Ibizenco all-purpose bag that doubled as a shopping bag, overnight bag, whatever) ready to do his daily grocery shopping. I would still be drunk from the night before so I didn't care what those two were doing.

Steve II 1980
My father's moniker for Seley was 'God'. Did you see God today? he'd ask me. What did God have to say about you're antics last night in the disco?... shame shame.  

Seley's nickname for my father was The Nurse, because he'd nursed Seley back to life on several occasions from his renowned binges. Seley had returned the favor when my father ran away from his wife, The Warden,, which happened so regularly, that he finally rented an apartment across the street from Seley.

L- Seley & 3rd from L- Ericss

My father died suddenly in Jan. of 1981, of a stroke in his sleep. Seley was inconsolable. He'd lost his best friend, drinking buddy, partner in crime and nurse. He died the following year. I will forever treasure my memories of these two cracking private jokes at the Estrella and stumbling home drunk, holding each other up. I sure hope that there's a well-stocked bar in Heaven...

RIP Steves I & II, Love, Steve III


  1. Anonymous10/29/2011

    Dear Stephanie,

    I have much to share with you. I do not like doing bloggs or face book. I sent that black and white photo to the Ibiza blogg with many others.
    I am Stephen Seley's daughter- Bridget
    please email me bway82@rcn.com

  2. Bridget Galway1/27/2012

    In the Wake of Ibiza

    For only two months
    I walked with my father
    on the narrow white stone streets of Ibiza.

    Crisp white stucco buildings
    stood tightly together,
    their rod iron balconies,
    bursting red
    geraniums in terracotta pots.

    The walking rainbow of people,
    faces from a Fellini movie.

    Drinking Hierbas at Estrella
    or La Finca,
    talking to Kerstin,
    laughing with Clive.

    The abundance of those days
    formed in music.
    The acting out of characters
    in plays of passion.

    Those inspired passages
    we left behind
    on our way
    to his home.

    a stacked landscape;
    of soft
    hard covers
    formed on ash ridden surfaces.

    A few clothes hung in the dark.

    Scraps of his writing
    scattered about.
    The smell of red wine,
    and limburger cheese
    wrapped in cloth in his closet

    The sun set
    as he grumbled
    accounts of life into sleep.

    My thoughts went to places,
    some real,
    more imagined.

    I gathered myself to the window,
    to the sound of night life,
    its music,
    people’s voices in anticipation.

    I wanted the possibilities of that life.

    I looked to the stars,
    no longer wishing like a child,
    but knowing
    he would always be
    to me a dream

    I returned to the worn out sofa;
    where past characters posted,
    in sober or drunken merriment.

    I fell asleep
    like a half written poem.

    Then in a weepy morning,
    through the light stream,
    moving quietly,


    with hardly

    a breath

    I may not be
    discovered in my retreat.

    I stood in the bright of day,
    in this human thing,
    was stormed in
    as I walked away.

    Bridget Galway,
    My profound short life with father.

  3. Bridget Galway1/27/2012

    Hi Stephani,
    I do not like face book or blogging, and I miss letter writing. I have learned to appreciate the immediacy of email,and that it allows me to be able to write a letter to one person. If you would like to be in touch, and know Clive; he has my email address.
    I hope you will be able to get it. You probably have already seen me , my Mom and Papa Steve on the Ibiza blogg. I sent a few photos to it. The above poem and another about my Mom along with threee of my paintings are in the next issue Popt Art. It is a new art and poetry magazine, this is the 2nd issue.The following is a the poem about Mom:


    Each moment seems without measurement.
    There is no break or pause from this pain.
    It comes as the tides do,
    high tide is the welling up of sorrow,
    then sobbing out until low.

    Left is the imprint;
    a bittersweet beauty,
    like shells emptied of their creatures,
    and rocks that tell no story of their journey.

    Mom would collect these treasures.

    I would only pick them up to hold for a while,
    then put them back,
    thinking they should be left to crumble or travel back into the sea.
    It was the idea of holding a mystery of time.

    Mom’s gatherings are here with me;
    I see and feel her imprint.
    I see her like a little shadow,
    a vision of memory all around me.