The Sixties

by Christopher Isherwood

  Robert Frost died today.

  Apparently, the Brahmananda puja the day before yesterday was a rare occasion. Prema says that Swami seemed to be filled with power. “He kept blessing people,” Prema told me, “and you felt he could really do it!”

  February 1. Light rain, yesterday and today. Put the plants out on the deck. Everything got a good drink. My novel is racing along, although this last part is in some ways the most difficult. I have written nearly ninety-five pages. Will probably finish this draft with 110. Oh, the joy of having a project! However much you may say it’s not really important—and even believe that it obviously isn’t, sub specie aeternitatis—who cares? It’s marvellous—just the joy of invention. It’s the joy of finding yourself not yet impotent.

  Last night, the Stravinskys took us, with Bob Craft, to Jerry Lewis’s restaurant.fn432 To find a good restaurant on the Sunset Strip is as much of an achievement as to find a good hamburger joint. This place is furnished most ornately with hangings of blackish-plum color and dangling baroque cherubs. The manager actually kissed Igor’s hand, and of course every other word was Maestro. We drank champagne. Not smoking turns drinking for me into a real pleasure. I must never do it any more. Igor talked about having schwarze Gedanken,fn433 but admitted that they could be taken away by Librium(?). (Question: Should one do this?) When he was composing in the twenties, he drank wine from southeast Spain. Now he says two double scotches are his limit. There was some undercurrent disagreement between Vera and Bob about the next volume of Stravinsky-Craft conversations, because they are being held up to include memoirs of the Russian visit last year, and Vera claims that Bob is misrepresenting what Igor says and feels about it.… Oh yes, I know what the Jerry Lewis restaurant reminds me of, the paintings of Francis Bacon, both have approximately the same background color. It gives an atmosphere of elegant horror; almost unthinkably sophisticated for this town. Alas, we hear the restaurant is already folding.

  When I was driving to Vedanta Place the day before yesterday, I thought I’d turn off Sepulveda on Mulholland and drive through the hills down on to the Cahuenga Pass. This would be fun by daylight but it was getting dark, and I ended up turned all around and having to go down Laurel Canyon into the valley and come laboriously through to the pass along Ventura Boulevard!

  Swami has a new project which excites him: to get some young swamis from India, train them at Trabuco and then send them as assistants to the various American centers. I see definitely that he does not want to produce U.S. swamis to head U.S. centers. He seems to feel that Americans wouldn’t take them seriously.

  Don is going through another desperate struggle to paint. But, although he is under such strain, he couldn’t be sweeter.

  February 5. After the rain, we’ve had glorious weather, beginning with a baby heatwave the day before yesterday; the temperature going up to nearly eighty by nine in the morning.

  On the 1st, we went to a party at Glenn Ford’s, at which the clairvoyant, Peter Hurkos, gave a demonstration. He wasn’t specially good but we felt he was absolutely on the level. An awkward bulky Dutchman who sweated profusely. Glenn mismanaged the party by inviting 150 people and making an asinine speech describing himself as Hurkos’s “disciple.” There were speculations about Linda Christian and Hope—would they fight? Neither Linda nor Hope was about to, of course—they couldn’t care less: Glenn should be so lucky. (A day or two later, Don drew Linda, who told him Glenn had asked her to marry him. Don thinks she will, if he’s serious.)fn434

  On the 2nd, I had supper with Frank Wiley, who has now departed for the Orient on his carrier. My God, he is stingy! Again he let me pay. And I had to go around to the apartment next day to collect the Miró book he borrowed.

  On the 3rd, I finished the first complete draft of the novelette. I have made notes about this elsewhere. But I do think I’ve got something there. Don, as always, was very helpful. He finished it today, and talking to him showed me a lot of things that are wrong. I said I would like to get started on the rewrite immediately, whereupon he said then why didn’t we give up our trip to New York. Of course I can’t help thinking to myself that this is at least partly because he doesn’t want to leave Bill. Don said that he doesn’t want to interrupt his efforts to paint, and I’m sure that’s true too. Well, I suppose it means we won’t go. I was actually rather hating the idea of going, stay-at-home that I am—and then it will be so cold there. But I have been looking forward to seeing Wystan—on whom Time is doing a cover article. Their Bob Jennings interviewed me for it yesterday, and I told him I thought Time’s corporate image is that of a neurotic woman so full of venom that she’s incapable of praising anyone or anything even when she sincerely wants to; the bitchery just slips out. However, I did manage to promote the idea that they should use one of Don’s drawings of Wystan. It can’t be the cover unfortunately; Bouché is doing that.fn435

  February 6. I forgot to mention that, a couple of days ago, Dr. Allen taped up my right side, saying that I may have a cracked rib. He was very relaxed about this, didn’t seem to want it x-rayed or to think that it mattered much if it’s cracked or not. Maybe today it is a bit less painful; but the tape makes me itch and feel dirty and unappetizing.

  This morning, Don made it quite clear that he does want to go to New York, so I suppose we’ll go. I feel unwilling because of the flying and because this means I can’t start the new draft of my novel until nearly the beginning of March. However, I must anyhow first read through my diaries for possible bits I can use. I have started doing this. Oh my God, it is so depressing! The sheer squalor of my unhappiness.

  Am getting into a flap about the Don-Bill situation. Last night I had two, if not three, dreams about them. This is so utterly idiotic. And meanwhile Don—no doubt largely because of this—remains quite unusually sweet and affectionate. I ought to be grateful, really. Oh—idiocy!

  February 9 [Saturday]. Every night this week, except Tuesday, Don has been out with Bill. Today it is pouring down rain and they have gone to Santa Barbara to see about his exhibition. Bill is living alone now in his own apartment, and Don took him some of our plates; admittedly, not ones we use any more. I am wildly miserable, but only in spurts. What I am miserable about is the feeling that Don is gradually slipping away from me. To go to New York with him at this time, especially in order to “celebrate” our anniversary, seems grimly farcical. I don’t feel I have the heart for it. Also, to make matters worse, I have been reading through all these diaries and feel absolutely toxic with their unhappiness.

  I have written this down, but with misgivings. Maybe I should stop doing this. Wystan in The Dyer’s Hand says, “Most of us have known shameful moments when we blubbered, beat the wall with our fists, cursed the power which made us and the world, and wished that we were dead or that someone else was. But at such times, the I of the sufferer should have the tact and decency to look the other way.”fn436

  Actually, under the misery, I feel almost glad, that the screws are being put on me like this. It is the only way I can ever hope to get through to “the ending of sorrow.”fn437 One thing is vividly clear to me: there is no question, here, of finding any kind of a solution to the situation on the personal level. I can only find a solution through prayer and japam. What will actually happen, as between Don, Bill and me—that’s really quite beside the point.

  So, courage, Dobbin.

  Jim Charlton is being a help. Quite unconsciously, because he knows nothing of any of this. I saw him again last night.

  February 16. Poor old Jo just called. She is terribly worried because she has had dizzy fits and now the doctor says her jaw is badly infected. She is sick. She is dropping behind. Oh—I do feel for her so.

  Not that I am sick. My ribs seem better. I have stripped off the plaster and I’m just off to the gym for a mild workout. We are not going to New York, thank God. I would have hated the cold, not to mention the other rat-race aspects of the trip.

  Since our tenth anniversary celebration the da
y before yesterday (Don cooked meatloaf and we showed several of our old home movies for the first time in years) I feel much much better about everything. Not only because Don says he would never under any circumstances live with Bill but because I realize I was quite wrong in thinking that he is becoming alienated from our life together. Indeed, Bill is quite probably the best thing that could possibly have happened. Much more about all this later.

  On the 11th, I started the second draft of my novelette. This is going ahead quite briskly, but oh, the work ahead!

  A nice placid evening at Dean Campbell’s yesterday. He is a terribly gracious liver, but sweet and naturally generous.

  Here’s a joke I made which I want to record because it’s topical and I wonder how much sense it will make in, say, five years. Someone told me that they are making a film called The Fall of the Roman Empire and added, “They’ve left out The Decline and.” I said: The Decline is directed by Antonioni; And is directed by Buñuel.

  February 24. Jo’s jaw is better, but she has headaches every night. Don is getting over a cold. He still has a cough. Most of this last week, he has been around; so I asked him, “Aren’t you seeing Bill nowadays?” He said, “I don’t want to talk about it.” “If you and Bill have split up,” I said, “I’m sorry—because, after feeling all sorts of different ways about this, I now realize that it’s probably the best thing that could have happened.” This pleased him, I could tell. And now today they have gone off together to the beach. Sooner or later I suppose I shall find out just what the score is, was.

  In a day or two, he will be driving up to Stanford to get his show opened. And then he’ll be going to Phoenix,fn438 and to New York. I’m just as glad. We are quite harmonious, by and large, but I need a little rest from him. Long enough, at least, so that I’ll miss him.

  To Jerry Lawrence’s today. The last two days have been glorious, and I thought I’d have a beach day of agreeable youthful atmosphere. But tiresome Jerry had invited old Louis Untermeyer,fn439 who’s a sententious bore, and a boring couple (John Weaver and his wife;fn440 maybe not boring really but silenced by Untermeyer). And then Mrs. Untermeyerfn441 had a raging toothache, which old Untermeyer blandly disregarded, leaving Weaver to organize an emergency dental visit.

  In the can, Jerry has arranged books with “suitable” titles, such as You Can’t Take It With You,fn442 and two copies of Charles Lindbergh’s book, to spell out We We.fn443 How I hate that picture of the line of sailors peeing off the dock into the sea!fn444

  At Vedanta Place last Wednesday, Swami retold me the story of how he met Brahmananda, with the various stages of his involvement. There was one episode which, he told me, he has never told anyone else: one time he went to see Brahmananda at someone’s house (Balaram’s?fn445) in the days before he became a monk and was still a student in his late teens, he suddenly felt an overwhelming desire to go and sit on Brahmananda’s lap. This made him ashamed, so he ran out of the room without speaking to Brahmananda.

  Since the 11th, I have been working steadily on the second draft of the novelette. I’m afraid I may be overwriting it a bit, but it certainly has much more meat this time and is expanding without my having to pad it. The only snag is, I don’t see how I can possibly finish it before I have to go up to Berkeley, and that will be a very serious interruption.

  February 28. The day before yesterday, Don went up to Santa Barbara in his car. He was planning to stop the night there, with William Dole,fn446 and then go on to Stanford yesterday. Haven’t heard from him yet.

  Meanwhile the weather is heaven and I am quite happy, especially as I am having “great openings” on the novelette. Probably for this same reason I feel a disinclination to write anything here.

  No news about Berkeley yet. Have just identified a quotation Gerald wanted from Pope:

  Tired of the scene Parterres and Fountains yield,

  He finds at last he better likes a Field.

  It’s from Epistle IV of the Moral Essays, to the Earl of Burlington, on The Use of Riches. Why Gerald wanted it, I don’t know. I neglected to ask him; and that is precisely one of my defects which I can do something about: I’m not nearly curious enough. I didn’t ask John Zeigel (whom I saw the same night Don left, at Pasadena, where he’s living now) nearly enough about his present feelings toward Ed Halsey. And this was inexcusable, because he told me a fascinating thing, that he has willed Ed to appear; and that Ed has appeared, two or three different times. Although he willed it, John doesn’t feel that this was any kind of autohypnosis. Because Ed appeared within light, and John, going counter to his will, felt afraid of the light and didn’t try to penetrate it. If he had done so, he feels he could have seen Ed more clearly; but he was afraid of being swallowed up by it. (Or is this an interpolation of my own?) His chief impression, however, was that Ed is very happy. (Gerald says that there seems very little evidence, according to the best belief of the psychical research people, for unhappiness after death. No signs of the Catholic purgatory. But, says Gerald gleefully, no doubt the Catholics themselves suffer in it. They don’t realize it’s all made of cardboard and mirrors.)

  An extraordinary tale told me by Prema. Two members of the Vedanta congregation were both drunkards. The other night, the wife called in hysterics that her husband had come home drunk and she had strangled him in self-defense with a judo hold, after he had attacked her. Prema went around and the police were there. The wife wept and took Prema into the bedroom and confessed all over again, even offering to demonstrate the judo hold. The police certainly know all this; but they haven’t even taken her down to the station for questioning and it doesn’t seem there will be any prosecution! Of course, they may be convinced she is lying.… Prema was quite thrilled, and subtly pleased to have had such an adventure. He talked to the police photographer who was taking pictures of the corpse—it lay right there on the floor. “You must see some ghastly sights as a police photographer,” Prema said; and the photographer answered, “Yes, and I bet you see a lot of things as a church secretary!”

  Last night, Swami warned us strongly against making japam while you are feeling any kind of resentment toward anyone. He even seems to think it might harm that person, after the manner of black magic. I shall have to watch this—indeed, I have been getting horrifyingly careless about my thoughts during japam. This morning, instead of trying to stick to Ramakrishna, I thought all the time about Swami—sitting up in his chair, meditating in the shrine, etc. This worked quite well.

  March 6. Splendid weather. Mood ditto. This is one of the famous-last-words periods when it seems as if Don and I had it made for the rest of our mutual life. (If we really had, it would be two other guys, and a bore.) He said yesterday, “Dub used to be my jailer, now he’s Kitty’s convict.” The Henry Kraftfn447 situation, into which I never probe, seems to make him permanently happy and at the same time much fonder of me—in all ways. Well, good while it lasts!

  Novelette progresses steadily, though not fast enough. Berkeley is fixed. My rib seems all right, but now I have a curious condition like varicose veins in my calf.

  Forgot to mention that someone (a woman) gave Swami a book about the trials of Oscar Wilde. Pagli asked him what the book was. He said, “You see, in those days, people were sent to prison for homosexuality,” and then he added, “Poor man!” And to Prema he said, “All lust is the same.”

  March 20. I am making another entry here, after this long long lapse, out of a feeling of duty. I don’t really want to. Partly on account of Don. This is a strange period, and I feel I don’t want to make any statement about it until it is over. Seriously, it is possible we might have parted by the summer. And yet our frankness with each other might equally well lead to a much better relationship. It is very good, in any case, that I am going away to San Francisco so soon, in about three weeks.

  Wystan has been staying with us. He arrived on the 16th, left today to continue his lecture tour. Of course he was an awful nuisance and stank up the place with smoke and had us
drinking pints. But he is marvellous and strong. I don’t think I could possibly undertake a tour like his.

  I keep on at the novel. Slowly but fairly surely. Only external accidents will prevent me from finishing this draft, at least. What I have written so far—thirty-four pages—I quite like.

  March 23 [Saturday]. Ben Masselink has had a second book accepted! Something to do with Tahiti,fn448 which I haven’t read yet. He much admires Jim’s half-finished stories. Talking about them on the phone today, he said how Jim simply regards them as a means of making money, in order that he can go back to Japan. Deploring this, Ben said, “That’s the only reason you’re writing, for sort of a source of love.”

  We saw Dorothy Tutin yesterday. Jerry Lawrence brought her by to see the house; then we went to his house for lunch. Don really loathes Jerry and perhaps this colored his attitude to Tutin; he says he dislikes her. She is false, and looks “like a stale bun,” and her accent is wrong, “She is no more U than they are.” Oh yes, of course she is false, poor wretched little thing. I felt sorry for her, though, with her alcoholic father and her leaky barge on the Thames. She longed to stay here, but she has to go back to England tomorrow—she has been touring in The Hollow Crown—and get ready to play in The Beggar’s Opera.

  Since the 20th, we have both given up drinking; we plan to stay on the wagon until Don gets to Phoenix and I to San Francisco. Or approximately. It is really much better. You are bored more, but the pain stops when you leave the bores; you don’t hate them next morning for causing your hangover. And, with me, it also automatically means quitting smoking—I still have this strange thing of only wanting to smoke when I drink. And that is even more valuable.

  I want to get this (eighteenth) chapter of the Ramakrishna book done before I leave; and reach page 50 at least of the novelette. Not at all impossible.