This is a rat-race period. Even with brisk progress and sustained inventiveness, I shall barely get “Paul” done on time. And then there are the three UCLA readings. And the Vedanta Society eyes me sadly, waiting for another Ramakrishna chapter.
As for Sutro and his film, God knows. It looks as if there will be so little money in it and maybe it would be smarter to go to England and risk getting something else. I have written to ask Mr. Sidebotham if there is any money waiting for me, under M.’s will.164
No more news of Ted. He’s still at the hospital, still under heavy sedation, apparently.
Don is to call tomorrow morning, I guess.
Good workout again at the gym today. I am losing weight, chiefly because I haven’t drunk or smoked since the Claremont visit.165 I suppose I shall on Thursday, when Johnny and I go to Santa Barbara and stay with the Warshaws. Wish I wasn’t going in a way. I don’t want to leave here till everything is finished.
Despite celery eating, I am, as far as I can judge, absolutely impotent. Is it old age, or just that all the gism has gone into novel writing, as it’s supposed to? I certainly feel terrific, otherwise. Absolutely transformed since I restarted exercise; and I don’t get a bit stiff any more. I haven’t been in such good shape in a long long while.
I keep up the japam, despite entire “dryness”—a counterpart to impotence? I always make one round of japam for Don and this is the only one that I take trouble over. I feel I only want to pray for Don, not for myself. This sounds very noble; it doesn’t feel so. And maybe it has some quite other psychological motivation. But I do think of him an awful lot. Always, when I do, the image of openness, aliveness, tenderness (in the early Quaker sense166) recurs. Despite all his egotism, he is more alive than most people. I love that look in his eye when he is drawing, so cool and yet hungry; he watches the sitter like an animal crouched to spring—well yes, of course a kittycat.
Am reading Shakespeare’s Richard II with the pleasure one has in eating wholesome food after a trashy diet.
March 2. 1:00 a.m. The madness of art.
Just to record that today I got to page 124 of the revised version, which means that, today, I revised ten pages. I took three Dexamyls in the course of the day, drank God knows how much coffee, ate no supper and almost no lunch. Never mind.
A good talk with Don in London this morning. I felt so much love and assurance of love.
What happiness to have these two things. And what does it matter, honestly, what becomes of the work after it’s finished?
March 2. 7:40 a.m. When I wrote the above last night—or rather in the early hours of this morning, I forgot to mention one thing which moved me very much and made me extra happy. In order to get on with my work, I had excused myself from going to Vedanta Place for supper, as I usually do on Wednesday evenings. So, around 7, Swami called and said, “I’m lonely for you, Chris.” It wasn’t that he was nagging at me to come after all; just an expression of love—a love that is without strings and therefore quite fearless; it doesn’t hesitate to make gestures of this kind for fear of being a nuisance, or making the other person tired of it—fears which would cause the ordinary “lover” to hesitate. Yes, sometimes I hesitate even with Don.
Another thing I’d like to record; I’ve thought it often, these last days. How symbolic one’s work is! What with the H-bomb, the population explosion, the menace of the lowering of living standards all over the world during the next fifty years, etc., etc., how less than probable that anything one writes now will, as one says, last! And how little that matters at the moment you write it! I write this book for Don, for Edward, for as many people as there are in Pacific Palisades, perhaps. All right! No complaints later about the critics, if you please!
And yet, at the same time, I can’t help saying to myself: Boy, it’s good!
March 7. Poor progress. I am now only on page 131 of the revised version, which is 130 of the rough draft; the gap has been nearly closed, as I anticipated. But there is still a formidable lot of work ahead; and I suppose, just about a month from today, I shall be leaving for London.
I talked to Don this morning. He said, “It isn’t just that I love you; I need you so much.” And this afternoon John Zeigel called and said, “I’ve been thinking about you all day.”
What a strange period this has been! I went to Santa Barbara with John last Thursday. We came back Friday and he has been staying with me over the weekend. It was very delightful, having him around; but really it didn’t add up to very much in terms of emotion. He is a good sweet boy, book-bright but maybe without much natural taste. He would fit quite happily into an academic job. Now he is definitely going down to Mexico at the end of the month to be with Ed, and then they will see what’s to happen next.
Up at Santa Barbara, a great feeling of warmth and family snugness with the Warshaws, both of them. Also, in a different way, with Douwe. They were all, maybe, just a particle shocked at my bringing John with me. I had to do a great deal of talking about Ed.
10:40 p.m. Just back from having supper with Phil Frandson, Bart Johnson and [his friend]. An oddly depressing evening. Phil was really very interesting about modern technology. The evolution of hybrid creatures. The IBM machines which work all night and talk to each other by radio. But it all adds up to the horror of production for production’s sake and the consequent stultification of our culture.
And, all the while, underneath this, was the stupidest nagging little ache of wishing John was around. Why? What for? Am I nuts? It doesn’t really mean anything. Just nervousness.
March 15. Yesterday—which was the anniversary of my first visit to Berlin in 1929!—I finished “Paul.” I haven’t the least idea what it’s really like, yet; but I know that I don’t want to do anything more to it, right now. So the whole novel is now complete, except for the work of relating the parts to each other. That I’ll probably leave until I get to England, and can discuss the whole thing at length with Edward.
Today I feel “restless and uneasy.” In the night there was a violent rainstorm, the first in months, and now it’s blowing frantically. And I have to go to Gerald’s, and then come back here and pick up Kent Chapman and take him up to Vedanta Place, so he can talk to Swami about Vivekananda, with reference to this story he’s writing, and then I shall spend the night at Paul Kennedy’s and then drive out bright and early to Claremont to see Johnny, and go with him to a college production of Hamlet tomorrow night, and stay the night at his place and then, on my way back into town, go over to the passport office and apply for my passport, and then come back here. And then Ben Underhill will be coming for the evening and to stay the night. . . . Most of this program is quite fun, in a way, but as a whole it makes me nervous to think about.
And Don hasn’t called yet; and that worries me. In fact, I’m going to try to call him, a bit later in the evening.
March 19. Don did call, but after I’d left, so I didn’t get to talk to him until yesterday. Kent Chapman came up with me to Vedanta Place and that was quite a success; but he left a note on Friday saying that the people he has been living with can’t or won’t have him any longer so he is “homeless.” I don’t know where he is now, but I have an uneasy feeling I very soon shall. Hamlet was awful; we left after the first act. As for being with John, it is all very fine, but teasing is still teasing, however tastefully conducted; and I left him feeling frustrated and at the same time just the least little bit uncharmed. Especially since Ben Underhill showed up on Friday and was entirely sweet and non-teasing and fun.
Gavin is wildly enthusiastic about “Paul.” He thinks it’s the best thing I’ve done and altogether extraordinary. Gerald, I fear, is displeased. At least, that’s the impression I get from Michael [Barrie], who put on a very grand, not to say snooty manner when I called him for news. He talked about himself and Gerald like a supreme court about to hand down a verdict. (I had never even given him permission to read it.) And, what was more, made difficulties about the date for doing this. It never
seemed to occur to Gerald to call me on the phone.
March 23. No—Gerald did not like “Paul.” I went to see him yesterday. He kept off the subject all through tea and forced me to bring it up. I suspect that his feelings are somehow hurt; but of course he wasn’t about to admit this. He only said that—I can’t remember his actual words, but the sense of them was—“Paul” was an anticlimax after “Waldemar”; it seemed a narrow, limited, trivial story and one lost all sense of the world crisis in it . . . Well, I just don’t think he’s right, that’s all. No use in getting steamed up. I must reread it and I must wait to see how it strikes Don and Edward.
Gerald went on to talk about the future. Although things look so awful and although, if several more countries get the H-bomb, war seems nearly inevitable, Gerald still feels we have a chance. He believes that the Demiurge who has been governing life on this planet may not wish to see the extermination of his experimental farm. The Demiurge very seldom intervenes in human history, but he may now do so; perhaps by direct telepathic action upon the various world leaders. . . . Gerald rather takes pride in his concern for the human race—because, after all, why should he bother, he says; he must expect to die within eighteen months or two years. I suppose he’ll go on talking like this for the next ten or fifteen.
Am in an absurd tailspin about something truly trivial; a party I arranged to give on Saturday. The party was really to please Jo, because I know she resents having been left out of so many of our social events. So I started asking people, and at present the guest list reads: Aldous Huxley, Prema (to drive him), Glenn Ford, Hope and David Lange, John Zeigel, Evelyn Hooker, Terry Jenkins (Charles Laughton can’t come; he’s going to New York to see Elsa), Michael Barrie and Gerald Heard, Tom Wright. Alec Guinness and his wife may possibly come. So may the Stravinskys. And Ivan Moffat will come in later with some girl. . . . Having invited everybody, the question arose, how to feed them. And Jo said that, with such people coming, I ought to get in a caterer. This made me mad. Because I loathe caterers, and Jo’s view of Hollywood High Society is so much a part of her fatal lack of style. And I’m doing the whole damn thing for her, anyway. So then Hope and Glenn offered to do all the cooking, etc.; and Glenn said, why not have the party up at my place, so I will know where everything is in the kitchen. And then we got to talking; and now finally it looks as if I’ll simply buy food from a delicatessen and that will be that. I somehow hate going up to Glenn’s, and it will add to all the trouble, not lessen it. But it seems as if it’s going to be that way.
Tailspin anyhow, because of all that has to be done. This wretched Ramakrishna chapter, and the whole unsolved problem of the journey, and packing and arrangements . . . Oh dear, how I hate it! How I wish that in some providential way, Don would come back—but without failure, regret, loss of face or any other disadvantage to himself—and that I wouldn’t have to stir out of this house! But that’s too big a miracle to ask. And I suppose I’ll like it when I’m there. At least I’ll be with Don; and that’s not least but most.
March 27. The party cost $175 for the food—some dull ham and too few hors d’oeuvres—plus $54.35 for the drinks: $229.35 in all. And it’d have been much more than that if I’d let those stinking caterers get the drinks. Glenn was so strange about the whole thing; sulky and grand. And yet I knew he was thrilled to death having the Stravinskys and Huxley in his house. Well, at least Terry enjoyed it, and Jo and Ben, and John Zeigel—maybe a few more. To me it was sheer torture and I only thank God it is over; and now I just want to rest and relax, financially and otherwise, until I leave. I hope I will have the sense never never never to commit such a folly again.
After the party, John came back to the house to spend the night, and we reached a sort of climax in our relationship, and got by it rather successfully, I think. I don’t really quite know how I feel about this yet, however. So I’ll go into it later. Or maybe I won’t. Anyhow, it’s very good that he’s going to Mexico in two days. I suspect some playacting on both sides. And yet he is a sweet boy and fun to be with.
My last reading at UCLA went off well, on the whole. I really was quite good, reading the end of Ulysses. And I gave Jo and Ben a big thrill by reading from The Crackerjack Marines.167 This morning, a couple who were present sent me a box of red roses, as if I were an opera singer!
This evening, Vernon Old brought in his new wife, Doreen.168 She is a pasty blonde, quite nice I guess but slatternly and sloppy. And Vernon, whose head is too big anyway, has ruined his appearance with a huge Victorian beard. I talked too much about myself and showed off and ended up by boring myself pissless.
Very tired now. Must sleep. Much work to be done on the Ramakrishna, if I’m to finish it by Wednesday and get it out of my hair.
April 2. Easter Sunday. I did finish the Ramakrishna chapter, and so that’s that. I shall have to write two more, probably, while I’m in England.
This last week has had some quite nice things in it. To begin with I enjoyed John Zeigel’s final visit. He met me at Musso Frank’s for supper on the 28th, stayed the night and I drove him out to the airport at midday next day to get the plane for Mexico and Ed. I now feel I know him really very well. His mind isn’t very interesting, and I much doubt if he could write a novel, as he wants to; but maybe I’m wrong about this. He is also a complication maker and a bit of a masochist. He claimed—the night we got drunk and had the big showdown, and he said he left it to me if we should or not; as far as he was concerned, he wanted to; and I said no [. . .]. Yes, I suppose that’s possible. Of course, fundamentally, we were on our party manners throughout. I guess, if there had never been a Don, I would have had a try at living with him; and I think it could have worked out. But then, so it could have with lots of people. That doesn’t make him a Don, or even a Don-substitute, by a million miles. As for Ed, I still doubt if that will work out. He sounds like the most self-centered, boringly narcissistic kind of queen.
Then on the 30th, Howard and Fran Warshaw and Pepa169 came and we had supper and got drunk. I was really quite enchanted by Pepa. She somehow reminded me of a very young Katherine Mansfield. Howard is very resentful because they aren’t taking up his option, or whatever you call it, at UCSB. Shall he get another job, which he can—or devote himself to painting? Advised painting.
Then Ben Underhill came to stay the night of the 31st and we had supper with Alec Guinness, his wife, and the Goddard Liebersons.170 Alec was very nervous—probably because he starts work tomorrow on this grotesque film A Majority of One in which he plays a Jap and Roz Russell171 a Jewess. Anyhow, he made an absurd fuss, insisting that his wife (Marilyn?)172 should change her dress. As a matter of fact, he was right, but still it sounded tyrannical and embarrassing in front of strangers. And then at the res taurant, Perino’s, he insisted that he’d heard the waiter say, “They’re only English,” and “It doesn’t matter about them.” He was furious because he thought they hadn’t given us enough caviar; so he dug more out of the pot. They ended up giving him a check for ONE HUNDRED SIXTY-FOUR DOLLARS.
Ben Underhill is a very strange creature. He utters grunts and little laughs and uses some rather shaming slang words, like “tubby” for bathtub. Under his good-humored grin and sleepy ways and sweetly simple sensuality, he really is odd. You feel strange depths or shallows. I could never possibly live with him. He would bore me terribly and make me nervous.
Last night, I went to a party at Phil Frandson’s. It was really a bore, which I masked by getting drunk. That was the third drunk night in a row and I feel much the worse for it. Must lay off from now on in, until departure night, anyhow.
Mr. Mead’s social club is called The Camelot Club, and its motto is Sociability with Distinction.
Just called Glenn Ford to find out what Lady Guinness’s name is. He doesn’t know. Significant?
April 6. 5:20. Don, I’m late, I haven’t shaved or dressed and I have to call Eleanor Breese before Jo and Ben arrive; but I want to say one word to you, just in case it is the last. I lov
e you. Never doubt that. Never doubt that you are everything to me. And never doubt—since, in any case, you’ll hardly be reading this unless I am dead, earlier or later, that I am with you in whatever way one can be. I want you to know that I made japam for you every day while you were away. Maybe if I get to London I shall tell you this myself; maybe not. Goodbye my darling. I love you so. If anything happens to the plane tonight, I shall be thinking of you until the last moment. And beyond it. Yes, I believe that. Don’t forget old Dobbin, who loves you so.
A Stay in England: April to October 1961
April 13. I got here nearly a week ago, on April 7. (Here is 11 Squire’s Mount, Hampstead, NW3.173) And now I have rented this typewriter, which is going to be a bitch to work with, because I’m so used to the electric. But, bitch or no, I am determined to keep up a diary while I’m here, because I feel that this is going to be quite a memorable period, not necessarily a pleasant one, either.
I find Don desperately tense and full of his usual fears, plus a new one—that he won’t ever be able to paint in oils. He loathes what he has done so far, though it seems good to me, because he has been told that it isn’t painting at all but drawing colored. Like every American who comes here, he has been subject to British snoot. And of course even I can sense his utter failure to “make like a painter”; that is, do the sort of thing which corresponds to the French approach to writing, and which I detest. Well, we shall see how all that turns out. My only contribution can be to keep my own wig on tight, and sit for him when needed. I’m doing that now; and today I made him mad because I have a tearing cold (caught from him) and my right eye dripped so much that I couldn’t read—I’ve been reading the Shakespeare histories, starting with King John—and then I closed it and kept falling asleep. There’s also an argument about the bed. It’s soft and hurts my spine, but when I insisted on our putting the mattress on the floor, Don said that was too hard; and it certainly is, rather.
The Sixties: Diaries:1960-1969 Page 11