by Gail Godwin
Write a six-thousand-word story entitled “Rush” for Mademoiselle.309 This must be carried through in order to respect my writing & also give a sample of what can be done.
The Southrons came by with their Square Deal. Maxim for future use: Human beings usually respond to other Human beings. So I’m going to Paris & am not broke. Stuart, who is a psychopath, in a way, came by with a frantic tale of woe: his girl besieged by dirty notes (which I’ll bet she wrote herself).
Last night, I dreamed of Antonio & a beach somewhere. “You’re just a little dreamer,” he said. Then he kept changing into other people.
YES. I am hot on the search. That is the triumph. To be hot on the search. To be on the way. I am not sure that this isn’t more important than the realization of the goal—which may be impossible. I must learn to be more tolerant of the people around me. Sometimes I feel that I do radiate an aliveness that other people catch & appreciate.
Funny enough. I believe I am “in alleviation,” a new term, but a good one. Nothing immediate is that pressing. “Music at Midnight”310 in Europe & I am very awake. One indication of the degree of the sickness is how much sleep I need. Ah, the notes are clear and astringent. I feel my soul pumping energy from somewhere. Kierkegaard had a point. To believe, to hope, to have faith in something not yet revealed is not fruitless. I see a network of night watches such as these. I am completely at peace with myself at these times. Not last night when I lay, hot and tumbly in my bed, thinking, What am I but a blob of flesh writhing in the sheets? I know, somehow, although I can’t be articulate, who I am. I have faith in my being, I believe in my being, I hope. I must take this unnameable on credit. It is the best I know at present and I believe that a person should be true to the best he knows at that moment.
APRÈS EASTER [APRIL 16]
The comfort of canned music on the “light programme”; a hamburger (“beefburger,” she said) in the West London Air Terminal—anything to put off going home. Paris was a huge disappointment. If I had gone there first I would have been tempted to return home. I look forward to tomorrow—an ordinary day of work, full of no fears.
Thoughts over Easter While Hating Henry & Paris:
If you find yourself losing yourself, or, as “they” put it, approaching a nervous breakdown, make a show of going through the motions both to yourself & to others. Incidentally, I think this is the essence of faith: going through the motions until a glimmer comes.
Theme from Romeo & Juliet311 —brings back Romeo & Juliet—fall of 1958—thinking of Marty, taking it out on Ronnie.312 Music— there is something of the eternal faith. This cannot be all.
And this faith—it is slippery. You cannot hold it tight. Just go along.
A resolution: Since it seems that these depressions are induced or at least intensified in certain situations, it might be well to stay out of them. One—is the company of certain people. We shall call them “dangerous people” in that they are almost there; they make a good plug for their product; they keep to a straight, well-defined course; they are sure of themselves, their surroundings; they know (think they know) exactly where they are going and what they are to find when they get there. The thing here is to remember no one has ever returned to tell, to verify his expectations. Two—is the lack of concentrated mental effort on something other than myself. This may be writing, or even doing my job as creatively as possible, which I have not been doing. Three—is the lack of physical exercise. This is also bound up in my will. I must get up & walk to work. I must play tennis with Dorothea—or something. Walks on Hampstead Heath on Sundays. Anything physical. If I see Gordon again I will ask him to take me camping. The air is a good panacea for malaise. Also the sun. Steaks and salad—music. Mental, creative accomplishments.
APRIL 17
THURSDAY
Met Conrad Hilton, went to one of a thousand parties for travel agents, had dinner with the Wests & became regrounded—at least temporarily.313 The wonder of it all—spinning around Hyde Park in a taxi at 11: 00 p.m. Pink skies with the new twenty-seven-story Hilton as part of the blend of old and new.314 Also met Richard Joseph, travel writer for Esquire.315 He wore a salt & pepper beard & had a cute story to tell. Andrew & I give our party next Friday. I have invited the girls connected with Gordon. Will he come? If so, will I still like him? My hands still ache when I remember the feel of his shirt. The summer is coming. I will write the novel, a novel per summer. I must leave here soon. Find another abode. Mr. Miller asks daily. I say: Consider the lilies of the field—
Last night sitting in the Thistle316 with Doreen, I let myself get trapped into listening to her tirade on integrity. Everybody seems to have it but me. I left feeling dejected because it might be thought that I did not have integrity by one Doreen W. But then I began thinking: What is integrity? Does she know the meaning of word?
INTEGRITY
State or quality of being complete, undivided, or unbroken.
I am a long way from that, but no one’s opinion on how far along the way will take me any more or less far—
APRIL 19
SATURDAY
Something about the dignity of feeling love for other people is there in those three color photographs from home. Monie’s hand on my sleeve. The incredible roundness & youthfulness of my mother’s face. The Horla317 is passing again. I am reading Pride and Prejudice. Longing again for principles. Illustration of the lack of them: Stuart dumping my garbage downstairs in the basement. It makes you nauseated when someone betrays himself like this. So I think the main thing is for me to develop my stick-to-it-ive-ness, as Father Liston318 used to say.
Something to explore in story form sometime: the peculiar quality people like Doreen have for draining people like me of all their definiteness. Picking, picking. Don’t you find that . . . ? Do you think? Isn’t that interesting? Gail liked the play very much whereas you found it rather a failure.
Qualities I can’t quite put my finger on: Doreen’s almost parasitic good humor. Henry’s self-satisfaction in things like always crossing the street with the traffic light. (“In my opinion, I’m just not in that big of a hurry.”)
APRIL 23
TUESDAY
Very few writers treat writing (as Mr. Eliot does) as an instrument for living, not as an aim in itself.
G. called. It was as simple as that—I have twenty-four hours to get through. This is the best time. When you are just meeting someone new. (You learn with each one, learn to give yourself away less. I don’t know if that’s bad or good.) One thing I know: I cannot make any other person like me more intensely than they do . . . The only times I really touch earth is when I listen to a certain type of music or when I am just beginning a new romance. Oh God, wouldn’t it be awful if he doesn’t last one time—if before the evening’s over I am dying to get back to my little room & surround myself with books & nightmares.
APRIL 24
WEDNESDAY
This evening there was a cool white haze over London. Before Gordon came, I walked to Grosvenor Square and sat in front of FDR’s cloaked statue and was conscious of my own well-being. This, I think, is a kind of praying. All the best that was in me was unified with the traffic around me. Today was a day of communication. A healthy eager-to-meet-the-world type named Robin Challis came in to see Mr. Miller & a look was exchanged & he took me to lunch. Dorothea & Doreen asked me what I did to “convey” myself to men. (“It’s something I wish I had. You say things to them I wouldn’t dare say.”)
Gordon. We start down the dusty trail. Only this time . . . or did I say that before? Gordon sits and watches or stands and watches. He says things to people that they expect him to say. He puffs on his pipe. He has a large, pure, sculptured face and a sensitive, generous mouth. He puts metals together in a laboratory for a living (“They pay me once in a while”) and sails & camps. He owns a cottage, which he rents. He wants to fix himself so that he has a ceramics plant, a restaurant & can write. Is not this craving to write simply a crying need to communicate?! I told Gordon how I’d
watched him all evening talking to the South African couple, yet never really entering into them. He said, “You’re the only one of my friends that notices. I was afraid you’d think: What a nasty social bore. But you do see things.”
He kept saying, “I like the way you get around & live in different countries.” The queers upstairs were flooding the bathtub & the deluge outside my window broke the tension.
I said, “Yes, you like me & I like you, but give us two more go-rounds & we’ll be finding flaws.”
“Ah, no, don’t say that. That’s horrible.” And then: “Give me a tinkle.”
I explained I didn’t “call men.”
“But you’re not calling them to ask them to marry you.” (He blushes here.) “After all, I feel the same way about calling you.” So he takes down my number.
APRIL 27
Crosscurrents & adjoining doors—so much done, said, & thought by connecting human beings & it all has relevance if I can only fit it in. Keynotes to the discovery of G.: Score one point for the conversation while dancing (at last, after being a good hostess for hours—all of which he noticed). “Do you drive to work every morning?” “Yes.” “I’ll bet you do a lot of thinking on those drives.” He looked as if I’d caught him naked and clasped me to him and said, “Shut up. You make me talk too much.”
Doreen on the subject of G.: “Gail, now is the time to remember everything you learned in Sunday school.” She likes him. They danced together much of the evening. What I think he does is insert himself painlessly into any number of roles to accommodate as many people as possible while keeping himself apart & untouched & uninfluenced. I must beware of complimenting him too much. He thought I was insincere at the beginning, I think. Numela319 came with Andrew & went home with David, G.’s roommate—a very blond, David-like type, slightly aware of his blessings in the looks department. This morning, David called at 21 Old Church Street to pick up £2 Numela had given Andrew for safekeeping. Andrew was magnificently composed, wrote her a short note itemizing the money he had spent on her during the evening while she was his date. Taxis, dinner & cigarettes came to £2. Said David, respectfully, “Oh, I never would have thought of that.”
Temporary alleviation arrives in the pleasant springtime form of lacquer & bath salts, new clothes and a new man to explore.
Warning signals about G., so I can play “I told you so” with myself later:
The way he liked Alden for his quaint Americanisms. “I snuck up the aisle.” Said: “He’s just the type we want.” It smacked of something that has displeased me before.
When he was tight: “Get tight, woman, so I can take you to bed.” And he actually asked me to come back to his flat before my party was over.
I don’t know if this is good or bad. It is a trait that points either to sluggishness or to sublime indifference. The way he stands against a wall, making himself part of the wall. The way he tells a story—slow, unhurried, pausing, not at all concerned whether anyone is listening or not. Doreen, whose summations of people have been known to be grossly wrong, said, “He’s thought about you a lot.” At the moment, I think I know what he feels: I am a novelty to be with. I have all sorts of potentialities, but he’s not sure which ones relate to him.
His conversation is meaningful—or is it just the slow, unconcerned manner in which he speaks?
His style is not my favorite. James’s, I think, came nearer the mark. It was a studied one, but permitted because I do not hold it against someone for wanting to make their envelope as easy to read as possible. James’s Chelsea boots of brown suede, pipe-stem trousers, car coats & plaid weave suits presented James to the world as James saw himself. And he knew how to make the most of it. G., on the other hand, wears atrociously fitting casual clothes, the seat of his pants is baggy, his socks are off-shades of green, and his leather shoes of that mud color that ruins any suit.
To be remembered: While in “alleviation,” keep on friendly, intimate terms with yourself, so that when the other period returns, you will not have the discomfort of getting acquainted all over again.
Tonight we embark on Round 3. Will it dim or brighten?
That’s the way it was—before the beginning last night, I projected myself into the end. It seemed so awful that, as I sat on the bed in my green dress, waiting for the doorbell to start the motions again, I had a fleeting despair: Why do anything at all if it is already over before you’ve begun? But this is the mystery of the time cycle. T. S. Eliot is trying to express it.320 God, how incredibly gentle this mutual probing is. Except for the moments when we sat on the floor getting tight & shooting darts at each other’s vulnerabilities.
Gordon & me by the Thames: “London’s bridges are good, aren’t they?” A chorus of “Onward Christian Soldiers” throbbing over the shortwave radio. This is another type of alleviation.
The bridge. The black waters. Gordon talking, a hand on my shoulder. He said, “I’ve never been as happy as I am now.” “We deserve it,” I said. “Yes, you’re right.” The lights. The Thames has always held a fascination for me. Last fall, I walked there at night alone or with James and suspended time for a moment at least.
Then we came back here, went through the pretexts, making coffee. (How many romances have been forwarded by the excuses of coffee? “Let’s have a cup.” “Stay for a cup.” “Come in for a cup,” etc.) I told him some more about Copenhagen & about my trip to Berlin and writing in my journal about the horrible Hansen boy321 while he was in the same room in the other bed.
APRIL 30
Here I am with tried-and-true company: the radio (Chopin). A glass of Rémy Martin (so smooth it slides down your throat) and aids to the next plateau: T. S. Eliot & a book called The Outsider.322 I have fed Alden a mushroom omelet and sent him off to Jill, 323 secure in the knowledge he’d rather have stayed with me. A man from the London County Council Architects came in to see us today, has invited us over to inspect the human models, quiet chaps from MIT, & go sailing, etc. He retires next year & sculpts again. He is good. We are all trying to say something. I was just thinking: I’d rather spend an hour with a man of sixty-five who has been hot on the search than six weeks with a man my own age who is navel-gazing.
There is a time for the evening under the starlight . . .
(The evening with the photograph album).
Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter.324
This, for some reason, is comforting.
Also the lesson B. taught me: “When you love someone you should have enough confidence in them to know that whatever they are doing, they should be doing. That is, if they are worthy of confidence.”
Eliot: “For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.”325
MAY 1
I am fed up. But at least I have reached the point where I know it is only part of the cycle. I have only to flip back through the pages for proof of the ups & downs, in and outs.
Robin came by in his white raincoat. There is definitely something in an uncomplicated soul with a buena cara. “If I ever have children, I shall teach them not to think.”
Dorothea & I discussed Gordon & the ways of men. They compartmentalize their lies so logically. The central thread of work is flanked by women, sports, and, perhaps some intellectual pursuit—unless that is included in the work they do. So my Gordon drives to Putney, invents his little ceramics, drives home in the still of the afternoon, sails, reads, plays baseball, eats or cooks in the little community circle (depending on whether or not it’s his week), then retires to read or lets himself be pursued by some girl. Or—who knows what he does or thinks.
Had three gins with the sleepy-eyed man from Washington. Some people are perfectly genuine but there’s just not enough of them—of their nature, I mean.
I said: “Dorothea, what do you do when a man doesn’t call?”
“I have hysterics, I go back over what I have said, I know it is ended, & I am in hell.”
MAY 5
> SUNDAY
The retreat at Peace College—the fine preacher—take a problem to him—no communication. “His name was the Reverend Michael Briggs and he had come all the way from Edinburgh, Scotland, to lead the spring retreat at Juniper College.”326
MAY 6
“Gee, it’s hard to do away with these Sundays.” Two full days in anybody’s company is too much. Alden & Robin got along so well they didn’t miss my contribution. With tales of the Yukon & good men’s talk (Robin gave Alden a pipe), I was content to sit and watch. Sitting in one of Robin’s big overstuffed chairs, listening to de Falla327 & watching them, blond heads bent, facial construction so different, I loved both of them. Robin is more than a body, after all, & I wish he weren’t. He writes & writes a lot. It is unpolished, but has something. Said Robin: “I could, or can, straighten you out.” He’s a saint, says Alden.
MAY 7
Even rewriting two pages of “Ambrose” gets me back on the track. Dinner with Jill. She was in the Royal Ballet & had her appendix out & suddenly got fat & depressed. (She tells it with great guffaws. She does give good value for an evening.) Robin crucified himself last night & this morning.328 Dorothea sums people up too well. “He’s not integrated. He makes me feel unquiet.” How we take everything to pieces.
MAY 8
Said Jim Jensen in his never-hackneyed, pleasantly pedantic English: “Even if you get 98 percent of the way with someone, there’s always the other 2 percent. And if he’s so good, then you can get up to 98 percent contact. The corollary is usually that the 2 percent is an extremely vital part.” He has a good lectureship at McGill University next fall. Of all the people I know, he certainly rates among the most perceptive and the most tender—once you get through his protective coating. Alden & Robin, blond & alive, came in “to have an audience” about their sour party. (“The Sour Hour,” Alden says.) Robin has bundled up his entire typewritten soul & handed it to me in a folder to read and tell him what I “really think.” The mistakes he makes make me tired because I can remember when I made them & how oblivious I was to them; thus they make me wonder just how bad are the ones I’m making now.