Dr. Kurtzman says I have got to have two more of my upper teeth pulled. If I lose another after these, I shall have to have a whole mouthful of falsies, I fear. Was bitten by a dog in the Canyon, while visiting a rather charming Englishman [who] had a crush on, and probably an affair with Vernon Old, in 1940. The dog was only a puppy and wanted to play with my red socks but I flew into a sick rage because its owner flatly denied that it had bitten me. I yelled at him and felt later as if I’d had a sort of anti-orgasm.
Michael Barrie came to see me yesterday. He wanted information about the La Verne seminar, for his book on Gerald. In the spring he is going to England, to interview people there. What Michael really wanted me to confirm was that the La Verne seminar was basically Gerald’s idea and that Gerald had led the discussions—also that it was Gerald who founded Trabuco. Michael has read somewhere that Aldous was the leader of both projects and he resents this, enormously. I assured him that Aldous was incapable of that kind of planning and leadership. Then Michael told me something I’d never known before—the money which paid for the building of Trabuco, the hundred thousand dollars, had all been saved by Gerald in the course of his life. Gerald use[d] to hint that it had been given him by some rich woman. This means, of course, that the ten thousand dollars Gerald gave Denny [Fouts] were also Gerald’s own money.
September 28. Dr. Kurtzman pulled out my two teeth today and now I have a much better-looking partial, full of bold broad white choppers.
The day before yesterday, I went to see Dorothy Miller, on my way to Vedanta Place. She has lost a lot of weight but looks well, quite recovered from her pneumonia. I realize that Dorothy’s form of vanity is that she can make absolutely anybody afraid of her. When she tells stories to illustrate this, she bugs her eyes at you like a tiger. Her beloved church is a paradise of gossip. She says, “I like to find where the juice is dropping from the grapevine.” She told about a friend whose doctor gave her some medicine saying that she must not take it until she was lying in bed. “But when that she got home, she couldn’t resist. Oh—just a taste! And, Mr. Isherwood, when that she drank that medicine she fell right on the floor. She’s a mulatto, and, I’m telling you, she turned purple!”
Dorothy repeated that in her opinion it was Jo who drove Ben away. Dorothy believes that, if you know something bad about a person who is about to get married, you are bound to tell the other party. Recently, she told a girl that her fiancé was still seeing his former wife (and screwing her, Dorothy implied but didn’t say). The man was furious, but later Dorothy was glad she’d done it.
When I told Swami about the pressure I sometimes feel on my eyeballs while meditating, he couldn’t explain it. But when I went on to tell him that after this I nearly always find myself taking a very deep breath which gives me a feeling of great calm and happiness, Swami was very pleased. “That’s a very auspicious sign,” he said, and added that “two of our new girls” have been experiencing the same thing.
Yesterday, we had a visit from Bruce Chatw[i]n, a blond blue-eyed but somehow not really attractive friend of Peter Schlesinger. He is an anthropologist9 and has spent some time with native groups of hunters in the lands south of the Sahara; Mali, Niger and Chad. He maintains that hunting groups aren’t religious; religion only begins when people settle down and have individual possessions. (I didn’t want to get into semantics so didn’t challenge this, because it was obvious that Chatwin attached a different meaning to the word “religion”.) But he was extremely interesting, describing how the boys between thirteen and sixteen wear a sort of drag and are regarded as girls. The whole hunting group is perfectly adjusted to its environment; even young children know what stars are rising and setting and when the migrations of birds take place and what habits the various animals have. As Chatwin put it, they differ from us in that they never try to interfere with nature in any way. They also think that our preoccupation with possessions is crazy; according to their way of thinking, you share everything you have, so they “steal” from tourists, only it isn’t really stealing because they don’t want to keep what they take.
September 30. I had some more talk with Chatwin yesterday morning on the phone—I think he has now left Los Angeles, on his way to see some of the pueblos of New Mexico. He repeated some of the things he told me when he came to the house—that he regards the hunting groups as being fundamentally unaggressive; that “much of what passes for aggression is a response to confinement” and that there is no confinement in the way of life led by the hunting groups; that, in their case, gift giving replaces aggression—when two groups are in the same territory they don’t fight over it, they exchange gifts, one group leaving its gift at a certain place and the other accepting it only when the gift seems sufficient; if the gift is not accepted, the giver adds to it until the recipient thinks it adequate and takes it away, leaving another gift in its place. Chatwin is very scornful about Konrad Lorenz’s [On] Aggression and says that his philosophy is derived from the same sources as that of the Nazis. (He mentioned a book called Die Weltraetzel by Heckel(?).10
Alan Searle came to supper last night, with George Cukor, Roddy McDowall, Paul Anderson, Gary Essert and Gary Abrahams (who run the Los Angeles Film Festival).11 Cukor was charming and amusing—Don says that he feels in almost one hundred percent agreement with everything Cukor says about films and actors—Roddy was lively, Paul was cute, Gary Abrahams quite dazzling, Gary Essert rather silent but in a sympathetic way, in fact the evening was a success. Except for poor Alan, who seemed out of it, vague, dazed and gaga. He stared dully at our faces. He is as round as a barrel. He talked of some boys they had seen at UCLA but it seemed impossible that he could still be capable of any sexual feeling. Is this the result of the famous youth cure he and Willie took? It seems to have turned him into a prematurely old man.
Hunt Stromberg called this morning from Texas, for the first time in many weeks. Still nothing definite from Sheinberg. Hunt is all excited because Julie Christie has said she’ll play in “Frankenstein”—maybe sometime. Meanwhile he has heard that a first-draft screenplay has been completed by our rival, Coppola!
Gavin writes that he has found “a terrific villa,” forty-five minutes from Rome, which he has taken for a year. “Rome itself seems as seductive as ever; am beginning to feel the boost of a European injection, after the downer of France.” He doesn’t mention Mark.
October 9. Gavin wrote (dated October 2): “Mark, alas, is unhappy here. . . . So he’ll be going back to California pretty soon. It saddens me, but there’s no alternative. In a way I have not been good for him—postponing (without meaning to) the necessary day when he stops being automatically dependent. It’s the old story of someone having to learn that you can’t be attractive and naughty and funny and totally selfish for ever.”
Both Don and I are slightly staggered by this. Don says he’s sure that Gavin consciously or unconsciously made this move to Europe in order to get Mark to leave him. That would certainly explain why he sold his house here, instead of renting it. Maybe Mark suggested to Gavin that he, Mark, could stay on in the house while Gavin was away.
When I last saw Swami, on the 4th, he asked about my meditation. I said I was finding it helpful to keep reminding myself how near my death may be. Swami then told me that Vivekananda had said: If you are trying to know God, you must imagine that death is already gripping you by the hair; but if you are trying to win power and fame, you must imagine that you will live for ever.
October 22. Toothache because my new bridgework is pressing on the gum, depression because Nixon is going to win and because oil is coming to the Canyon and maybe high rises. But a deep happiness because of my life with Don. He said today, “Dobbin is so lucky to have Kitty, and sometimes Kitty loves Dobbin just because he’s so lucky.”
Swami, Krishna and I have now made two recordings—an hour and a half each—of Swami answering questions, about his childhood, chiefly. We taped them on the 11th and the 18th. And though there are many repetitions of o
ld anecdotes, I think we have some valuable new material. Lately, Swami has seemed eager to tell us as much about the past as he can, and he says he can remember more than he used to. Larry Holt, who follows all such Vedanta Place doings feverishly from his flat—by means of telephone calls which drive the bookstore staff nuts—is of course pessimistically convinced that this attitude of Swami’s is an omen of his approaching death.
Lately, when meditating, I’ve been using the photograph of Holy Mother which I got not long ago. It turns me on, like none of the others, because it shows her deeply absorbed. It is a marvellous glimpse of her. This is the first time that I have really wanted to worship Holy Mother. At least for a very long time.
With Jo, last night, we looked at her still photos of our Mexican trip in 1954 and then at our movie film of it. Astonishing, how dead the stills are—and then the figures jump out of them into the movie and are as alive as they were then: boyish-modest obliging Ben, bossy self-confident Jo (surprisingly plump), Drub far sprier than nowadays but just as sulky-suspicious when caught off guard, just as painfully smiling when he knows he’s on camera—and black-haired delicious Don, a wild, defensively hostile kitten, the sexiest imaginable jailbait—but oh, how different and how much less dear than my darling Angel of nowadays!
October 27. Swami told me yesterday afternoon that he now feels dizzy if certain people touch him. (I think this included a married couple who he initiated the other day.) I wanted to ask him if this applied to me, but I hadn’t the courage. He says this has never happened to him before.
We now have the go-ahead to do the screenplay of “Lady From the Land of the Dead.” Universal wants it to be long enough for two and a half hours but I don’t think we ought to worry about that, for the time being. Our first big problem is to find a good opening.
Meanwhile I crawl along with the reconstructed diary; am now nearing the end of 1948. The work bores me but I know how valuable it will be when finished.
The day before yesterday, I went back to Dr. Kurtzman because it still hurt me to bite on my denture. He discovered that a bit of bone had broken off from my jaw and worked itself up through the gum; he says this isn’t unusual. He stuck a needle in my jaw to give me a shot of novocaine and it was very sore and I yelled. When I came out through the waiting room, I noticed that two small children looked quite pale; they had heard the yell and were beginning to fear that they would get hurt too.
Another ailment: the pad of flesh at the base of the second and third toes of my left foot is swollen and it hurts me a little to run.
November 2. Just before eight in the evening. I’m at home alone because Don has gone to draw and have supper with a friend (Dan Price; he’s a film historian, quite cute). Hunt called about half an hour ago. He has arrived here, he claims, to get to the bottom of the “Frankenstein” mystery at Universal.
Meanwhile, we are slogging along on “The Lady from the Land of the Dead” which we started October 28. We have made quite a good start, but it will be a long time before we know how much of a story we actually have. Meanwhile, I must skim through parts of Frankfort’s Ancient Egyptian Religion to find out just what the Egyptians did or didn’t believe about reincarnation. What an odd working of providence, that Gerald should have given me—or advised me to buy—this book, years and years ago. I don’t think I have ever opened it before today!
The grim shadow of the election is on us. I just want it to be over with, and Nixon to have had his obscene little hour of triumph and be immersed once more in his own political karma.
One little blow today, a letter arrived at last from Bryan Forbes— he wrote it on September 18 and sent it surface mail—to say that he couldn’t persuade the National Youth Theatre to accept our play.
November 5. A chilly breeze but glorious clear weather. Don has been away drawing, so I ran down to the beach alone and went in the water, which was, as they used to say in England, “bracing.” I also ran along the beach—the tide being out. When I started to run, a strange vigor possessed me, I felt almost weightless and able to sprint all out; I don’t suppose this lasted for more than a couple of hundred yards, however.
Yesterday, I saw Dr. Allen about my foot. He gave me some ointment called Synalar Cream,12 a tiny professional sample tube. I think he meant it merely as a placebo. He simply didn’t know what’s wrong with me and didn’t much care. And yet I get such an odd impression of his goodness—a sort of Dostoevsky innocence, which wouldn’t necessarily be incompatible with a readiness to commit murder. He complimented me on my clothes—the wide Jerry Magnin pants and the blue soft leather Mexican jacket from Ohrbach’s: “That’s a nice outfit you’ve got there.” And he told me that, in the past ten years, he has noticed that his senior patients seem to be behaving in a much less “elderly” way. He ascribes this to (1) better nutrition and (2) a changed psychological attitude; they no longer accept the role of ancients so easily, or maybe the young don’t force it on them so ruthlessly.
Hans Mechtold, Elsa’s gardener, is running for assemblyman in the 63rd district. He hasn’t any money for publicity, so he has had printed up a lot of fake dollar bills with his name and picture on them. The bills are marked 250, because that is the amount he promises to get taken off our property taxes or rent if he is elected.
Yesterday, I saw Cabaret for the second time and liked it much better than before. I still don’t think it adds up to anything much, but Michael York this time seemed not only adorable and beautiful but a really sensitive and subtle actor. Liza Minnelli I liked less, however; thought her clumsy and utterly wrong for the part, though touching sometimes, in a boyish good-sport way.
November 7. We voted this morning, with heavy hearts. It was estimated by a T.V. speaker last night that balloting would take each voter about ten minutes, because of the many propositions to be voted on. Don said afterwards that he felt frustrated and I know what he meant. One longs to be able to stand up in public and yell one’s vote aloud—“One vote against the liar and crook Nixon!” etc.
Mark Andrews is just back from Rome. He called to ask if we could loan him $1,600, because he needs the money immediately for a car and an apartment. He must make the down payments at once or he would lose both, and Gavin’s money order wouldn’t arrive for three days. Tried to reach Gavin in Rome to check if Mark is speaking the truth, but couldn’t. Don said not to trust him, remembering how he had stolen from Gavin. So I told him we couldn’t let him have the money. He took this quite calmly. Incidentally, he told us that Gavin has had yet another robbery— after his three in Santa Monica. Someone stole nearly all his clothes from his Roman villa! Mark said he cried, telling this over the phone.
A couple of nights ago, a man named Philip Chamberlain called me to ask if I would introduce one of the films at the Filmex exhibition. I asked him how much they paid. He said nothing— and then made the tactless mistake of going on to give me a list of all the distinguished people—like Norman Corwin13 and Ray Bradbury!—who were doing it for free. This was supposed to be a rebuke and it made me mad, especially since the invitation was obviously a last-minute need for a substitute and they felt they were scraping the bottom of the barrel. So I told Chamberlain that I thought it was “deeply dishonest” to organize an exhibition and not put aside any money to pay speakers. This shocked him. Don says I did wrong, and I did, I should have just refused. Now I have probably offended all the other organizers, including his cute friend Gary Abrahams. It’s just that I hate this type of academic public relations fart.
Today we had lunch with Hunt Stromberg at Universal. He’s back from Texas to get “Dr. Frankenstein” on the road, ha ha. When we met, he told us that ABC has announced a Frankenstein film of its own, but this didn’t seem to worry Hunt a bit. He says we have a big start on them! To me, he seemed dazed and not with it, like a dope taker. Still, at least he’s here and answerable to us.
November 11. The Forces of Hell won by a landslide, which I hope will carry them downhill to disgrace and Nixon’s imp
eachment, during the next four years. There’s much talk of the upcoming scandals, which will involve the White House.
Every single person we voted for lost—except that Bugliosi, the Queers’ friend, still claims that he will upset Busch when the damaged ballots have been counted.14 And the death penalty was reinstated. And the marijuana initiative was defeated. But, for our side, the obscenity initiative was thrown out and so was the labor relations initiative, and Proposition 20, to protect the coastline, won, contrary to all expectations.
Mark Andrews says that Gavin has now sent him the money. He got the car he wanted to buy but lost the apartment.
Peter Schlesinger came to see us on the 7th, looking seedy and pale. He says that David still makes scenes from time to time and tries to get him back. But he has no intention of going. He won’t even live with his Scandinavian boyfriend, says he still loves living alone. Somehow, Peter charmed us less, this time. For one thing, he kept saying about nearly everybody he mentioned, “He’s so stupid.” And he seems so languid and cold-blooded and un enthusiastic and sloppy and ungracious. Still—he is doing a lot of painting.
On October 10, for the first time, I started recording my weight in my daily diary. Perhaps because I had hit a longtime high, 152 and ¾ pounds. During the month that has followed, my low has been 148. This morning I was 150 and ½.
Hunt now declares that the studio has given him the go-ahead and that he wants to get a director this coming week. Don says this means we get a hack. We’re going to try calling John Boorman in Ireland tomorrow, but he never did answer our cable; and now Hunt claims that Boorman’s agent here has told him Boorman is no longer interested in the “Frankenstein” project. Jon Voight says languidly that he’ll still do “Frankenstein” if he can fit it in, maybe. Meanwhile, he is eager to get us to work on a film with him, says he’ll raise the money and we’ll be independent of Universal. He wants to do The Idiot.
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