Liberation

by Christopher Isherwood

  August 2. This morning I finished a first draft of what will most likely be the end of the whole book, an analysis of Frank and Kathleen as influences on Christopher and as symbolic figures in his myth. What remains to be done is an outline of Kathleen’s life from the end of 1915 to her death. This is either a small chapter all by itself or it fits into chapter 17 immediately after the diary entries of 1915.

  Don and Mike got back around noon yesterday; they had been to see John Ireland29 in the morning to deliver a portrait Don drew of him several years ago, which he had paid for at the time but never collected! Don said he’d had a nice evening with Bill and Paul, but he didn’t come back happy and stimulated as he did after being with Jack and Ray. Talking to Jack Fontan about his horoscope was an important experience for him.

  Don has made four pages of notes of the things Jack told him— they talked for several hours. I’m not going to try to write down even as much as I remember of what Don told me, and it’s quite possible there are some very important things he didn’t tell me, for one reason or another. Jack said to Don, for example, “You don’t have to worry about losing him,” explaining that I would live to be very old and then die very suddenly. He also seems to have said that Don will die or be in danger of death a few years from now but that he will probably survive the crisis and will then completely change his way of life. (Don may well have done some censoring there.) Jack said Don would fulfil his ambition, to be taken seriously as an artist by those whose opinion he values. Jack thinks that Don is very ambitious in this way and very determined. He said that Don is an “evolved soul” (maybe that’s not the phrase he used) and that even when we first met[,] Don and I were equals (this seems to me to be absolutely true, in a paradoxical way).

  After hearing all this from Don, it struck me that analyzing a horoscope, when it’s done by someone with Jack Fontan’s perceptiveness and empathy, is really quite as good or better than a session with a psychologist. Don strongly agreed, saying that he had got far more out of talking to Jack than he ever got from Oderberg.30 I suggested that this is because the psychologist is fundamentally dealing with your hang-ups, inhibitions, phobias and other weaknesses, while the astrologer is helping you to create your life myth, to see your life in terms of poetic significance and creative potentiality, so that even your weaknesses are exciting, like obstacles and hazards on a knight’s quest, and even impending dangers only stimulate you to make a greater effort to struggle through them. “Why,” I said, “Jack makes our getting together sound like the meeting of Tristan and Isolde!” “Well, and so it was,” said Don.

  August 12. Poor old Jo called me this morning to report another disaster, she has lost her job! The firm is closing down her whole department because it isn’t making money and every business is economy minded these days. Jo doesn’t know what she will do next. She hates the thought of working at home because it’s so lonesome—and besides, her home’s being taken away from her, too!

  I have been going ahead revising the early chapters of my book, one a day, daubing the pages with “liquid paper” and typing in corrections on top of it. I want to make a version which can then be xeroxed, rather than copied by a typist. Today I finished chapter 8. Two more to go, and then I have to rewrite the rest of the book and write the passage about Kathleen’s later life, for which Richard has just sent me a lot of details I asked him for.

  Don is very active, painting. Also he writes down his dreams for Ray Unger and he is enthusiastic about Adelle Davis’s theories in her book Let’s Eat Right to Keep Fit. He is putting us on a protein diet, with some homemade breakfast food, etc. He is being absolutely adorable.

  A cliché of nowadays: “Have a nice day.” Even kids say it to you, in filling stations and markets.

  How-dumb-can-you-get department: A girl came into the gym the other day. About a dozen of us were working out. She looked at us, pulled out her card from the file and was actually heading toward the locker rooms when someone stopped her and pointed out that this was a men’s day. She was shocked and utterly amazed.

  August 17. On Wednesday I saw Swami. He is up at Vedanta Place again, because Pavitrananda has been having his prostate operation and is still in hospital. He asked me about my meditation and I told him it was as bad as usual and he told me to try to make my mind a blank before meditating, and then to try to feel that I am in the presence of Ramakrishna, Holy Mother, Maharaj and Swamiji—only I think he said to think of Maharaj first, and then the others. I asked, is it all right if I think of you there, too, and he said yes. He also told me, as he has told me before, to say to myself that I am the Atman and that it doesn’t really make any difference whether I am aware of this or not, I am the Atman and that’s that. (This I do find helpful. As for the rest of his instructions they just don’t seem to help, at all. But then again, what do I mean by that? The point is, I am trying to meditate and that in itself is a great grace—a grace arising out of the infinitely greater grace of having met Swami and become his disciple in the first place.)

  Two things distract me chiefly at present; lust and my book. Right now, I am thinking of the extreme shortness of Michael York’s shorts which, despite the extreme longness and badness of the film we saw him in last night (Something for Everyone) kept me sufficiently stimulated throughout. And I am always thinking about Kathleen and Frank. I have now finished revising the first ten chapters and am about to start writing the section about Kathleen’s later life—how I wish I could start it today, instead of toiling down to Laguna and wasting time while Gavin gets his horoscope read and Don tell[s] his dreams to Ray. But Don for some reason wants me to go, so there it is.

  A fearful row is building up with Phil Carlson and probably with Elsa as well, over the article he wrote about Don. Phil asked for the interview letting Don suppose it was for an article on California artists, and now it’s revealed that what the magazine (Esquire) really wants is an article on “the friends of the great” and how their talents are being overshadowed by the friends’ reputations.31 In other words, it’s just another anti-fag operation. Phil knew this all the time and it does seem more than likely that Elsa sicked him on to Don; her enmity knows no limits and never tires, we are all to be punished for her sufferings during her marriage with Charles. Oh, cunts, cunts, cunts!

  And talking of cunts, I can definitely say, having now reached canto 23 of the Paradiso, that Beatrice is the character I most hate in the whole of fiction.

  August 19. Don is most terribly upset about the Carlson article. It has shaken his security to the very foundations; he feels that if it is published and Billy Al and Irving Blum read it he will be humiliated in a way which he can’t even face. When I try to get him to face it, he accuses me of treating him as if he were being a bit insane. Actually, he has talked to the editor (who suggested this himself, th[r]ough Phil) and been assured that the article won’t include him; but he feels he should discuss the whole thing with Arnold Weissberger and get his advice. This was Jack Larson’s advice and I think it’s a good idea.

  Talking of getting upset, I had an almost crazy outburst yesterday when one of these representatives of the oil company came around—“to improve public relations.” I slammed the door in his face, instead of being wonderful and subversive and fatherly and sending him away with a worm of guilt in his mind.

  I am full of nervous energy, these days, but so deeply weary underneath it all. We get very little sleep because we go to bed so late and Don insists on having the alarm go off at six-thirty, but the real trouble is, I don’t sleep soundly anyhow. And I keep bleeding from the rectum. I think it’s only piles.

  The visit to Laguna Beach was a success. Gavin was very pleased with Jack Fontan’s reading, thought him much the best of the astrologers he had met. And I got through a lot of nuisance-letter-answering. Jack and Ray’s new octagonal house is really attractive. But oh how they do talk, in their carefully quiet sweet calming voices!

  August 23. Today I finished in rough the extra part (Kathl
een’s later life) which I’m adding on to chapter 17; so now I have covered the whole book, more or less. What remains to be done is rewrite from chapter 11 on. This means actually that chapters 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 18 and the second half of 17 will have to be pretty thoroughly rewritten, but that 16 and the first half of 17 don’t need to be touched, except for a couple of inserts, because they are over ninety-nine percent direct quotation from diaries and letters. So I can still hope to finish this fall, barring serious interruptions.

  On the 19th, I went to see Dorothy Miller. She looked far better than I expected and although the doctor has given her a crutch she wasn’t using it. As usual we talked a lot about Elsa. Dorothy said, “If you talk to her a lot she bores you.” She is very happy about a Unity church in the neighborhood which she has just joined. The pastor is white and so are most of the congregation and it seemed that what Dorothy really appreciates is that she feels completely accepted by them.

  When I told Swami that my meditation isn’t any better he said he would write me out some instructions. I’m to get them when I see him next.

  The day before yesterday, a goodbye dinner for Peter Schlesinger, who returns to England today. We are both fond of him and rather concerned about his future, maybe without cause. He looks like “a flower of the field” but is probably a very tough little evergreen. Gavin’s friend, the one who dances (or maybe has danced, for now it’s banned) naked at the Honey Bucket, came with Gavin. His name is Mark Andrews.32 He is an overwhelming talker and flirt—he flirted with everybody, Jack, Jim, Camilla, Linda [Crawford], Peter, Truman Brewster,33 Ralph Williams, Don, me; but there’s something amusing and quite delightful about him; he made our party go.

  August 27. A happy busy birthday yesterday. Did some quite good work on chapter 11, I have to be careful and slow about this, and went on the beach with Don and in the ocean and then on to the gym (where damn it my weight has gone up again—I was down just a shade below 150, now I’m just a shade above) then we went up to have supper with Jennifer. This was quite delightful though sad because it’ll be for the last time at the Tower Grove Drive house; she’s selling it in two weeks. Such memories of that place, it really is the only “Great House” I have ever known throughout my life in Hollywood. And last night the living room was as beautiful as ever—all the more so for being empty—lit by a beige-gold radiance from the lamps. Don’s two great drawings, the one of David with the blank lens on one side of his glasses and the tip of his little finger appearing through the other, and the one of me, so cruelly and exquisitely exact. The dining porch with all its reflections of trembling candle flames amongst the dark bushes outside. The “hashish room” which Tony Duquette designed. And the chairs and table out on the porch all set with lighted candles and quite empty, as if it were a shrine. One had a sense that Jennifer is living here alone amidst her ghosts. Dinner was served by a maid, but you felt the house was vacant.

  Jennifer has a new deadline (October 15) on which her lover34 has to decide between her and his wife—which of course is the very last thing he wants to do. It’s curious how absolutely convinced she is that, if he does finally come to her, they will be happy for the rest of their lives! But she really is adorable and so delightful to be with. We stayed on until late.

  Don has now heard that the Esquire office is mailing his release on his photo back to him. (I still don’t trust them one inch.)35

  Also, which really is good news, Billy Al Bengston is holding a group show at his studio of the work of his friends and he is exhibiting three of Don’s drawings—this after only asking for one to begin with. So Don’s morale is considerably boosted.

  I want to discuss with myself the problem which immediately faces me in chapter 11; exactly what was the private mythology I created out of Wuthering Heights?

  Well, first of all, Wuthering Heights showed me how to see the Disley landscape dramatically; that much is obvious. It did this by showing me an approximately similar landscape which was related to a drama, a love drama. At the time when I first read Wuthering Heights I was (it seems to me) in love with Johnny Monkhouse, “Mr Honeypot,” with his blond hair and his grin and his beautiful long legs and his hockey stick.

  Johnny was a “hopeless” love; actually I didn’t even seriously want to make him and fear absolutely prohibited me from ever trying to. I enjoyed suffering and mooning around and watching the house to see if he’d come out. Yes, and talking about my feelings, of course, to Paddy [Monkhouse].

  Heathcliff doesn’t (apparently) make Cathy. Not because he’s shy but because she won’t cooperate, she’s married, she’s fatally sick and, finally, she’s his sister, so to speak. Their relationship is presented as being infinitely deeper, more violent, more binding, more everything than the mere sexual relationships which both he and Cathy enter into, quite irresponsibly, almost casually. Of course there are suggestions here of Emily’s relationship to her own brother; not to mention Byron’s relationship to his half sister. So there’s the incest thing as a barrier.

  When I took on the fantasy role of Heathcliff, the “hopeless” love wasn’t incest but homosexuality; which was all very well while I was very young and inhibited. Later, when the love turned out to be not in the very least hopeless, I had to drop that part of the Heathcliff role.

  But Heathcliff has another aspect. Like Byron, he is a mysterious traveller; he has been away somewhere, “in foreign lands,” but he won’t say where. And then he returns. That part of the role was what really appealed to me—the returning traveller from romantic journeys and that part I still play whenever I go up to Disley on visits.

  Heathcliff wasn’t visiting, however. He came back to stay. And this stay was tragic and ended in death. This suggests that what I have latterly made out of the role is a Heathcliff who refuses to stick around and get involved in the tragedy. After enjoying the emotions of the returned native son, he leaves again while he still can, and returns again and leaves again, over and over.

  August 31. On the 27th, Swami gave me new meditation instructions; he had written them out for me. They are (abridged):

  Cover the whole universe with the presence of Brahman as Light, and repeat mentally: “I meditate on the glories of that Being who has produced this universe. In Him we live and move and have our being. May he enlighten my mind.”

  Feel the presence of Ramakrishna with you, and talk to him: “Oh Lord may I serve Thee in every way, whatever I do, whatever I give, may I do and give as an offering unto Thee. May I be truly an instrument in Thy hands. Thou art my only refuge. Enlighten me for I am Thine.”

  Feel that you are free through His grace and rest for a while thinking that you have His peace and bliss.

  Send love and goodwill to every being.

  Think of your guru, feel his presence. Then of his guru, Maharaj. Now again feel the protection and guidance of Ramakrishna, Holy Mother, Swamiji and Maharaj. “May they inspire me with love, truth and purity. May I feel their grace.” Then think of the mind as pure and perfect and that no evil can enter your mind.

  Now hold the mind in the lotus of the heart and think of your Chosen Ideal for a few moments. Then let the mind run as it wills for about ten minutes and you stand as a witness and watch. Do not seek to control it even if the thoughts are bad.

  Then take a firm hold of the mind, concentrate on your Chosen Ideal, seem to see him as bright and luminous and hear his voice. Repeat the mantram as you meditate. Perform mental worship, offer flowers at his feet, place a garland around his neck, wave the light before him, burn incense, wash his feet and wipe them.

  (I meant to write a lot about my problems in connection with this, but must wait till tomorrow because I have been interrupted so much by people coming in.)

  September 1. I find the above desperately frustrating, almost meaningless. All my old resistance to things Indian comes back upon me and I keep remembering Aldous’s objections to formal meditation (which actually made me rather angry when he used to speak of them) and even someone
at La Verne (it was Harold Stone Hull, I’ve just looked this up in my journal) saying sarcastically, “When do we stop the motion pictures and start meditating?”36

  The only part which is relatively easy and seems helpful is mentally doing the acts of ritual worship. The hardest part is thinking of the universe covered by Brahman as Light. And when I try to assemble the two Ramakrishnas, Maharaj, and Swamiji in the room I get a feeling, where are they all going to sit?

  Well, I really do want to watch my reactions to this problem so I’ll write down something about it every day. I know that will be helpful.

  Hunt Stromberg called up out of the blue at the end of last week and asked would I be interested in doing a T.V. series, “the definitive ‘Frankenstein’”?! So he’s coming round this afternoon.

  Don much upset yesterday, said I am never frank with him, jolly him along, why don’t I tell the truth—that his paintings are faggy. I said, even if they are, why the hell shouldn’t they be if that’s your myth? He said, I’m ashamed of my myth. . . . I write down these lines and they sound funny, but there is a terrific deep problem here which I only partly grasp. (“Because of a basic inattention”? Yes, there’s that, and there’s my desire to get on with my work undisturbed and not have the boat rocked. True. But it is also true that I’m not nearly so perceptive about Don’s problems as Don thinks I ought to be and secretly am and won’t let on to being, lest I have to get involved with them. Of course you can say my stupidity is self-protective and so we go round in a circle.) All is love again now for the moment. But I must pursue this problem. I must pursue it particularly at the times when Don is not disturbed about it—though usually when I try to do this he isn’t inclined to talk about it.