October 16. The capsules Elsie Giorgi prescribed, Butazolidin Alka, certainly did their job. Hardly any traces left of my sprain except a little stiffness of one finger. Yesterday night was a double miss— we went to one party and Princess Margaret didn’t arrive before we left; we went on to another, where we found that Governor Brown had already been, made a speech and left. Got fairly drunk and took [Guy] Dill for [Laddie] Dill and complimented him on one of Guy’s pictures!
Missed my isometrics again because I don’t want to flex my wrists until I’m certain they’re both all right.
Billy Al Bengston, at the second party, warned me against the dangerous effects of Butazolidin—I forget what they are. “They give it to horses,” he said. “But I am a horse,” I told him. He thought this was brilliantly funny.
October 17. We had nine people to supper last night; God how I hate these chattering mobs. Up very late, slipped behind with all my chores. And now a young man named Gary Noguera is coming to interview me for The Gay Liberation Book. He will be late, and that will make us late for the movies, and Kitty will rage. And meanwhile the dogs down below keep barking as never before. Father forgive.
Missed my isometrics.
October 18. At least I accomplished one psychologically gigantic feat today, I roughed out a letter in German to Heinz about Christopher and His Kind, telling him he could change it, or even veto its German publication, if he cared to. Otherwise, dogs nearly as bad, and no isometrics, because my wrist is still sensitive. Thanks.
October 19. The letter to Heinz is typed up and I will mail it tonight. Today I fussed with a passage describing how I prayed to Ramakrishna at Trabuco to help me get on with The World in the Evening or else stop me trying to write it. So difficult, this semi-ironical, spiritual-psychological material. So hard to hit the right tone.
Boy, this is a hard dogged climb! So slow, and yet I don’t really feel any doubts. It must be Swami’s will that I finish this book. But no more prayers for literary aid!
A talk with Don on the beach—it’s still warm enough to go in the water—about the above subject. We considered my life as a writer’s deliberate hunt for material—beating the bushes, as it were, to flush out the game. Every artist’s doings can be considered from this angle, however much he may produce quite different and convincing reasons for them. It’s a good subject for farce. Especially when the doings are of the kind called good and noble.
Last night we saw Autumn Sonata, with Rick Sandford. Liv Ullman[n] and Ingrid Bergman are wonderful, but oh God I am tired of Ingmar Bergman’s delight in guilt.
No isometrics, wrist still hurts.
October 20. Last night I called Mrs. Lawrence Davidson, to find out what was going on about the dog barking, which has been fierce. She says she called the next-door neighbor, a Mr. Kline, and told him about the dogs and that he wasn’t at all nice but the dogs have stopped barking at night since then. I offered to go see Mr. Kline, but she said please not to until we had waited to see if the dogs will be better. Mrs. Lawrence is a truly remarkable case of a woman who switches from being a nasty screaming harridan to a tiny weak crushed put-upon mouse.
Jim Gates called to say he will very soon be breaking up with Warren, and that he’ll anyhow be going to live in Morocco next summer; a friend has invited him—not a lover. The tonic effect of this on him is such that he has started to read Vivekananda again!
Gavin has rented an apartment here for a year, with an option to renew. The apartment is empty, but he has gone out and got some furniture. What always amazes me about Gavin is his gumption. All alone, with a bad leg, he has the life-belief to go through with enterprises of this kind, to demand to be comfortable, to create a home place without anyone else to create it for. No isometrics.
October 21. Talking of Gavin, with whom we’re to have supper tonight, the latest we hear of him is that he thinks he may have Legionnaire’s disease but assures us it isn’t catching!
A very good day of work, I think, surmounting the first of three biggish literary “cliffs” in the narrative landscape; a description of my literary block at Trabuco, which resulted in my praying to Ramakrishna about it and then finishing the first draft of The World in the Evening. (The second cliff is a first description of Don, at the time of our meeting; the third is a first description of John Yale.)
My darling has been his most angelic self, today and yesterday. No isometrics.
October 22. Did isometrics today, by cheating the stress on my right hand slightly, so as to avoid the sprained parts. No pain at all.
A nice run down to the beach and plunge in ocean, in my new sporty blue and white Adidas trunks. They made me run better down Mabery, such is the power of vanity, even at my age; I felt quite light footed and springy jointed.
We saw the Olivier–Jones film of [Dreiser’s novel] Sister Carrie last night. Decided, as so often before, that tragedy as tragedy (and comedy as comedy) bores me. Even when it is well done.
A phrase from one of the questionnaire statements in The Gay Report,74 which has just been sent me for a blurb: “He takes off his shoes, perhaps, and my shirt is unbuttoned or off. Or I help him take off his shoes and I feel the shoes, enjoy them, smell the leather. I like to set an air of genteel shamelessness.” (Italics mine.)
October 23. Really commanding pillars of smoke from two brush fires, one up north, the other much nearer, around Mandeville Canyon and the Sepulveda Pass. Hot violent Santana wind, said to be blowing seventy miles an hour in the Angeles National Forest. I have stomach upset and the shits from a meal last night at Lucky’s, with Tony Richardson, who claims that this is the only Chinese restaurant which serves food like the food you get in China. The fire makes me nervous, sort of, and I didn’t run down to the beach today, as I should have, because of the high wind, which I hate—but already it’s dropping. All I want is to get the hell on with my book. My darling is upset too, but that’s from other causes—chiefly this feeling which he still gets from time to time that people don’t take his art seriously, or him either. And of course, there are always reasons, good ones, for him to feel like this. So I don’t know what to say, because I know that, if I do say anything, it’ll be the wrong thing. What he really needs is a good disinterested friend of his own age, preferably an artist, to talk him out of this mood and into some self-confidence. Late bulletin: Peter Plagens,75 who at least counts as a serious critic, called to offer Don a trade—one of Peter’s pictures for one of Don’s paintings. So morale is up a bit, especially as Peter asked for a painting, not a drawing.
October 24. Another morale-raiser today, a citation sent to Don by the Art Direction magazine for his drawing of me on the cover of the Avon paperback of The Memorial!
The fire last night got really quite scary. We watched it from our deck while eating an omelette and drinking with Bill Franklin. Don was seriously concerned; I either couldn’t or wouldn’t believe it would get to us, though, actually it seems that it might well have if the wind had been stronger. It was coming down Mandeville Canyon, which is an extension inland of our canyon.
Yesterday I did no work at all on the Swami book, which is sinful tamas, and today I shall only do a token stint. This is disgraceful. My Chinese gut-ache persists.
October 25. Jim Gates phoned this afternoon to say that he is moving out of their apartment and going to live on his own. He will soon have a salaried job with his real estate company and no longer have to depend on percentages from closed escrows.
Am feeling (and look) bulgingly fat after a rich dinner at Perino’s, given us by David Hockney last night; Mark Lipscomb and John Ladner were the other guests. In honor of the occasion, Mark was done up in a neat suit, instead of wearing those terrifically sexy cutoffs in which he often appears on the most unsuitable occasions. I am really very fond of him, except when aiding and abetting Carlos [Sagui]. And John was charming as always, and David very lovable in his Bradford millionaire persona.
October 26. Last night, The Downer declared that Los An
geles would be a dull dreary place if it wasn’t for the big Jewish population. At which I spoke out, having had a few drinks—not nearly as violently as I did that time to Sue Mengers, but violently enough. I’ll have to watch myself when he’s around, because I don’t really like him and I shall show it if I’m not careful, which’ll be upsetting and inconvenient for my darling. Ah, why couldn’t dear Rick Sandford be in The Downer’s place? But that’s Rick’s fault.
October 27. Feeling depressed. Morris Kight just admitted to me that it looks like we’ll lose on Proposition 6. I certainly realized this to begin with, but had then begun to hope—and indeed things have been looking much better. Of course it’s also true, and not just a phrase, that we have won a victory of sorts just by getting ourselves into so much prominence.
By today’s mail I got a letter from a Craig Smith, living in Illinois, apologizing for an attack on my writing and character. I do dimly remember such a letter but I remember it as being anonymous. Should I answer him? I know it might well entangle me in correspondence; he sounds like a neurotic, maybe psychotic nuisance.
A sweet evening with my darling, snugly watching Dead End, which seemed almost incredibly stagey, though politically daring, I suppose, in 1937. When one contrasts those Dead End kids with the beautiful young black murderers John Ladner has to deal with, it becomes farcical.
Jim Gates just called to tell me he has found an apartment. He told me how, after he had been away from Vedanta Place for six months and had already met Warren, Swami had asked him to come back. So Jim said to Ramakrishna: “I feel responsible for Warren. If you want me to come back to Vedanta Place, then find someone to be with Warren instead of me[.]” Which Ramakrishna has now done—but much much too late—or so it seems.
October 28. A cable from Peter Viertel yesterday to say that Salka died in her sleep on the 26th. Gavin tells me today that Peggy Hubrecht, whom we saw a lot of in Tangier while staying with him in 1976, has cancer of the liver.
We went to see The Razor’s Edge film last night. The religious part is insufferable, all sweetness and cardboard, and Tyrone Power has a stunned look throughout, but the worldly Maugham comedy-drama scenes really work; I liked Clifton Webb and [Anne] Baxter best. Don preferred [Gene] Tierney. When we go to the movies with Rick, the atmosphere is one of extreme aesthetic seriousness. He and Don notice every nuance of direction, lighting, cutting, acting, set design; they concentrate on the film as though it were a chess game. I can’t properly participate in this, because I can’t seem to get a meaningful high, as they do before we go into the theater. Still I enjoy it at secondhand.
October 29. We had supper with Leslie Caron last night, at Jeanne Weimer’s(?) apartment.76 Despite the cuisine of la belle France, the lamb was tough. Leslie seemed much more Frenchified and even had difficulty finding English words[. She] frequently hesitated. Aaron Co[pl]and was there, deaf and vague and dull; altogether another of these utterly unfruitful parties, which Don hates just as much as I do.
A truly horrendous new threat: a dog has been barking from inside (apparently) the garden of 147 next door! But, if there is going to be a showdown about this, I think I can rely on Elsa’s tenants, Dick Shawn77 and his nice-looking son, to be understanding about it.
Speaking of Elsa reminds me that I happened to notice, in my little date book, that the 28th was Elsa’s birthday. So I phoned her yesterday afternoon. We had a sad little talk. She is scared of Michael Hall, who has been phoning people out here from New York, uttering hysterical expressions of despair over his friend Bill Mills’s death and threatening to come out here and jump into Elsa’s bed and “just hold” her. She dreads seeing him [. . .]. And yet she is lonely and terribly bored, and she hardly eats anything on account of what she calls her hernia (the doctors told her that that is what it is, but I can’t help suspecting cancer); anyhow, it makes her vomit whenever she eats. I know I ought to go and see her sometimes but I am nearly certain that I shan’t. The millionaire feels guilty about the starving poor but doesn’t, in practice, visit them.
October 30. After another party at Leslie Wallwork’s—not as bad as the previous one because I was interested to meet Jeremy Brett78 again—though rather disappointed both by his present looks and personality—I came home drunk, with Don, and fell down the outside stairs from the carport. I hurt my right arm just above the elbow, and my knee slightly, and I feel lousy. And Don is cross with old Drub for his clumsiness. And The Downer will be with us this evening. Didn’t do my isometrics today because of my arm.
Gavin has heard that Peggy Hubrecht died, the very day after she talked to him on the phone.
October 31. Thanks to The Downer’s presence, another gloomy evening, which I cut short rather than have supper with him and Don. And this morning I wake up with strange new symptoms; the muscles of my throat are so tender they feel as if someone had tried to strangle me, and the muscles at the back of my neck hurt so much that I can hardly raise my head from a pillow if I lie down.
A letter from Heinz, saying yes, please send him the German translation of Christopher and His Kind. Heinz has now retired on a pension. After remarking how many of our friends are dead, he goes on: “We’ll see how much longer we’ll be tolerated on the earth.”
Two parties to go to this evening, but at least I’ll have Pussn all to myself on the way there and back.
No isometrics, because of all these muscle pains.
Had to look something up in the life of Aldous Huxley today. I don’t know why it is—both such wonderful people—but for me they both simply reek of pessimism, doubt and death. Is it their Frenchness?79
November 1. Pains annoying—no worse than that—in neck and back of head. Last night we had a quite nice short visit to Vaccaro, with a highly theatrical performance by Roscoe Lee Brown[e],80 including a recitation of an e.e. cummings poem. Then a Halloween reading by dim light at the Rosamund Felsen Gallery by a gracious-voiced monotonous female amateur. It was about a séance; I thought it must be an inferior Poe, but could not find it in his works. Don thinks it might have been by Borges, who is much admired in the Felsen circle. . . . Well, I got to eat supper with my darling at Casa Mia later.
This afternoon I mailed off the German translation of Christopher and His Kind to Heinz. No isometrics.
November 2. I seem to do nothing but complain about parties. Very well, I complain. Last night it was William Burroughs, at the Tropicana. I like old Burroughs, he’s a friendly man, not in the least demonic, or sex maniacal in a tiresome way. One could become very fond of him, I expect. But last night two spidery photographer girls skipped about taking pictures of us—for a collection called Bad Boys! Meanwhile poor [K]athy Tynan told me that Ken is very seriously sick, and their children want to be educated in England, where Ken’s health won’t allow him to live, and she doesn’t know what to do.
Pains much less bad today, despite the kind of windy weather which excites them. So I did my isometrics.
November 3. Yesterday, Armistead Maupin and Ken Maley came to see us, and while Don was drawing Armistead I had to entertain Ken. He is a nice boy but a compulsive talker and very proud indeed of being the man who runs Armistead’s life for him. I must say, however, that I feel this is a real justification for someone’s existence. Because Armistead, on second acquaintance, impresses me greatly. He seems to be absorbing impressions constantly, which means that he is tremendously “responsive” in Kathleen’s use of the word, and kind of mediumistic in the way he has psychic feelers out, testing the atmosphere.
Today we had William Burroughs over to be drawn again (brilliantly) by Don. Was not charmed when the gate buzzer buzzed and I opened to admit five people—Burroughs and his friend James Grauerholz,81 Victor Bo[c]kris the skinny little English journalist,82 a photographer he’d brought with him, and Paul Getty. Does Burroughs always go around in mobs?
We had, however, known that Paul Getty was coming; Grauerholz had asked if he might bring him. Indeed Don and I had had a joke. Don wanted me to a
sk him about his kidnapping. “Say to him, if you’ll tell me about it, I’ll lend an ear.”83 Paul proved to be not only fairly pretty, though spotty and looking much older than twenty-two (his claimed age), but also really charming and genuinely interested in our collection of pictures. A mop of curly reddish hair concealed his ear-lack. He emitted almost, but not definitely, flirtatious vibes which reminded me somewhat of Mark Lipscomb. He asked about the Vedanta Society and asked, “Do they need money?” as though he had a few millions to spare, though we had supposed him penniless. I said, “Doesn’t everybody?”
Which reminds me that Anandaprana called to nag me about recording the Gita. Would I be able to do it before I left for New York? “If God wills,” I bitchily replied. I bet she could have slapped me.
Title ideas Don and I have had for my Swami book. Guru and Disciple. A Guru and His Disciple. My Guru and His Disciple. Guru and Friend. I sort of feel these are on the right lines.
November 5. A day missed, chiefly because I had to go out and see a Canadian from London, Ontario who had read Ramakrishna and His Disciples and was only here for a couple of days. Told him to go up and see the Vedanta Center today. He was a quite nice, youngish, skinny man; a bit too intense. His name, John Kennedy.
On the evening of the 3rd, we went with Billy Bengston and Penny to Nick Wilder’s first show back of the same building, in the rooms which are to be his new gallery, or shared with Jim Corcoran. Harry Brown and June were there, I can’t imagine why. Harry seemed to be relatively prosperous—that is, he had just finished a job and was starting another. From there we went on to the “Change Inc. West” show at the museum—it’s somehow in aid of beginner artists—to which Don has contributed a very beautiful painting (of Muff Brackett) which I fear he’ll be simply gypped out of. Guy Dill was there, very drunk, and greeted me with maximum enthusiasm, insisting on kissing me and giving me a hug. My identity mistake has mysteriously paid off.
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