Letters, manuscripts to read, all sorts of chores. Relations with Don very good; the television helps a lot, in an odd sort of way. It gives us a new vice in common—watching the ends of old films in the middle of the night and thus getting up late, next morning.
Tony Richardson is scheduled to arrive on Sunday; so then I hope things will start to happen.
Don has joined the Lyle Fox gym. Still no word about his license.
March 15. Last night, Don spent the first night out since he has been back. He arrived home late this morning in good spirits, so I hope this is going to help.
As for me—well, there’s Bart Johnson, sort of. I wish that would work out better, because it would be so damned convenient. Which is probably just why it won’t.
The day before yesterday, I saw Gerald Heard. He thinks that we are all losing our memories because of the spastic shifts of the magnetic pole. He told me what Chris Wood already told us as a deadly secret—that Margaret Gage is selling her house and thus turning him out. According to Gerald this is a sort of revenge; she feels she has been treated badly and her friends assure her that this is so. They regard her as a great seer, a leader with a spiritual message, and they tell her that she has been too much under the domination of Gerald. She has a new friend who is a psychologist and who encourages her to act like a young girl, although she’s near seventy. In the evenings she wears short ballet skirts. Gerald also believes that Michael did a lot to set Margaret against him—he is so bossy.
I asked Gerald what he is going to do. He was very vague. “After all,’ he said, “I don’t wish to say this melodramatically, but the fact remains, I am dying.”
He described himself as being “floored” by A Single Man, which he and Michael have just read. He thinks it is by far my best book. “Now, obviously, you can write anything.” So he advises me to deal with awe. Cites Outward Bound,fn530 and Chesterton’s play Magic.
Last Wednesday, when I was up at Vedanta Place, Usha remarked that someone had been into the bookshop and asked for a guidebook to the temples of India. So I said, why didn’t they stock a guidebook to India? And Swami grinned and said, “No, Chris—I will not deliberately send anyone to his death.” He is full of such cracks at present and behind them you feel a real resentment; he keeps declaring that he will never never return there. That he couldn’t meditate at all while he was there, etc. And yet he also tells how he went to meditate in the shrine of the Holy Mother at Dakshineswar and was aware that the image was alive!
March 29 [Sunday]. Here we are at Easter. Well, at least I’ve worked all day; my traditional celebration. The outline for The Loved One. I’ve been on payroll since last Wednesday, March 25, and it certainly is fun. Tony Richardson won’t be here much longer, however. He goes back to England soon and then returns to direct, in a couple of months.
Don still hasn’t got his license back. They took it away from him and sent it to Sacramento, and of course he drives, nearly every day, so the worst may be expected. No use dwelling on that.
Nothing more I want to say now.
My next chore: the article on Huxley. I just finished reading through my diaries to find all the references to him. It’s rather shocking, how seldom we met.
This morning I dreamt that Igor was dead. But the corpse could talk. This dream was somehow reassuring.
May 26. Don left yesterday at noon, by plane for London. He’ll stay there four or five days, then join Lee Garlington and his friend in Egypt.fn531 From there they’ll go to Greece, Austria and elsewhere. This is Don’s “birthday present” for his thirtieth birthday. He said he wanted to do it “with my blessing.”
When we got to the airport, the entrance to the plane was guarded by two cops. I said to myself “a bomb” but didn’t say so to Don lest it should worry him. Now we hear that two of the Beatles were on board and the authorities were terribly afraid of a mob demonstration.
On the 22nd, I was laid off The Loved One, because my screenplay is finished and nothing more can be done until Tony Richardson returns and starts work on it. I don’t think this is merely a brushoff. However, when Robin French went to John Calley and tried to up my price for the future, Calley turned him down flat.
Now I am beginning to think about the bits and pieces book. The night before Don left, we were talking about a possible title with Gavin, and Gavin suggested Digging up the Past—or rather, he said, “What a pity you can’t use it!” And then that made me think of Exhumations; so I shall call it that, provisionally.
My latest symptom: shooting pains in the groin.
A very vivid dream which I had about a month ago.… I was standing with some others, including Don, on the terrace of a house high up on a steep hillside above the ocean. (I think it was Joseph Cotten’s house, but this didn’t have any significance in the dream.fn532) Attached to the side of this terrace—though quite unrelated to it in architectural style—was a wooden platform, a balcony without handrails.… Suddenly there was a tremendous blast of wind, and this platform was blown clear of its supports. Because of the updraft, it remained almost motionless, however, swaying slightly and hovering in empty air like a helicopter. There were four people on the platform: Arthur Loew, Natalie Wood, Sarada and another woman (unidentified). We all gasped, for they were obviously doomed; it could only be a matter of moments before the platform fell. What was so shocking was that they were quite near us, only a few feet away, and yet beyond all possible help.… The chief interest and vividness of the dream was in the behavior of the victims. Arthur (whom I don’t actually like much) behaved with a kind of heroism. He obviously wanted to cheer Natalie up and keep her from thinking of her imminent fate, and so he grinningly crossed himself, thus alluding to it and yet taking the curse off it, as it seemed to me, by his deliberate sacrilege. Also, there was the gallows humor of the self-conscious Jew making this Catholic gesture. And Natalie smiled bravely back at him. These two were playing parts, both for each other’s benefit and for ours.fn533 But Sarada, meanwhile, was obviously and frightfully scared; she had turned white with terror. (Did I think at the time, or was it later, that it was shocking to see that the thought of Ramakrishna gave her no support at all?) The third woman was neutral; I don’t know what she was feeling.… Well, all this was quite appalling and yet at the same time exhilarating, as any ghastly accident is to the spectator. And then the wind swirled the platform away, and it fell, far below, on the ocean highway and, I think, caused a huge traffic pileup.
Well, I reopened this record, which is all I really wanted to do. I am in a brisk housekeeping-choredoing mood which always immediately follows a parting from Don. You might call it a mild form of shock.
June 7. Just about to take off for a trip to Big Sur with Bart Johnson. Why in hell did I agree to this? I couldn’t want it less.
Nothing from Don yet.
The weather is clearing, after much greyness. Dorothy blames it on underground atomic testing. “They’ve shaken the veins of the earth.” She said she was tired, last time she was here, so I made her drink some bourbon. After this, she laughed wildly because I told her how Don will mop the floor with the sponge meant for the dishes.
Still this pain in my groin, through the left nut and down my leg. Also pain in my little finger, which is serious because it interferes with typing. I’m afraid it is the arthritis spreading.
Chris Wood has a new dachshund named Beau.
Ted, still nutty, claims he has found an agent who wants to get him into a Las Vegas show.
Have finished typing “Gems of Belgian Architecture” for my Exhumations book. An advance copy of A Single Man arrived yesterday. It could be worse looking. The type is good.
Arup refused to do some domestic work for the girls up at Vedanta Place, saying, “How dare you ask a swami to do that!” Swami told him off, saying that a swami should be humble, helpful, gentle, etc. etc. Prema also is in the doghouse because of his intriguing to get sent to the Paris center.
Jo says that Ben still refuses t
o see Betty [Arizu]’s children. The very thought that they exist upsets him.
June 18. Starting to feel very low and sad, because I miss Don so. Also because the discomfort in the groin persists. Dr. Allen saw it and took it as calmly as usual.
Big Sur was magnificent but Big Johnson wasn’t. I behaved badly, but made up for it later, I guess. Can’t be bored to relate all this.
Working on The Loved One again since yesterday, at the nice pool house of the house Tony Richardson has rented. Jan [Niem], the Polish chauffeur, has a respectful-sassy relationship to Tony, Bud[d Cherry] and Neil [Hartley], throws them the pool ball he bought at the filling station.
September 7. Labor Day. A restart after a big lapse.
What’s to report? They are shooting The Loved One, with dialogue about ninety-nine percent Terry Southern’s; all that’s left of my script is some of the skeleton. And now I have finished a first draft script of Reflections in a Golden Eye, and Tony says he’s delighted with it. So now the decks are cleared for my own work. All I have to do is get the proofs of Ramakrishna and His Disciples corrected.
Then I can get on with Exhumations and think about my new novel.
Despite the sour reception of A Single Man in this country, I still feel very good about it. Not so much as a work of art but as a deed. I feel: I spoke the truth, and now let them swallow it or not as they see fit. That’s a very good feeling, and this is the first time that I have really felt it.
The only other thing I feel like reporting right now is some table talk of Tony Richardson’s. This was mostly said on August 17, while Don and I were having supper with him and Vanessa (she has gone back to England now). A few of the remarks seemed aimed at Vanessa. However—
He said that now he has lost interest in the theater. He wants to do movies. In the theater, you have to keep carefully to the interpretation of the author’s text. In the movies, you are much freer. The script is something you can depart from. You are free to improvise. Also, you are not so much at the mercy of the actors.
But actors are wonderful, because they accept life. When stars get old and are no longer stars, they accept this and take little jobs and don’t complain, as other people in other professions would.
Richard and Liz Burton are completely corrupt; they think only of money.
Samuel Beckett is a great writer. He has real compassion.
Chekhov is as great as Shakespeare.
Brando has a Japanese girlfriend. She appears at meals but leaves at once when the men are talking business. That’s the way women should be.
September 18. The day before yesterday, I went up to Vedanta Place and Swami and Vidya and Vandanananda and Usha and another girl who has been proofreading went right through the proofs of Ramakrishna and His Disciples and incorporated all our corrections and my changes, and so now, aside from checking the captions under the photographs, the whole work is done and the rest is up to Methuen.
India had a last straw to throw on my back—after all this while, they wrote to say that they hadn’t got my talk straightened out, because it was never properly recorded. So now they want me to rewrite it. No, I told Swami. Whereupon he said he would do it. Oh, the blackmail! So, of course, I had to say that, if he did it, I would revise it later. Didn’t even bother to look and see what talk it is.
Five days ago, I woke up with my back hurting. It has hurt ever since, not really getting much better. Dr. Allen gives it heat treatment and I take pills to relax the muscles. Oh dear, it is so tiresome being sick! I seem to go from one ailment to another, without a pause, and of course that means I’m toxic, physically and mentally. I do wish I could snap out of this. I am such a mess. And for no reason. I have money, fame, a happy home. Don is being marvellous. Tony wants me to do more work for him—either Marguerite Duras’ Le Marin de Gibraltar or Colette’s Chéri.
I must try to get back into some sort of regular meditation, however brief. I must try to prepare myself for death. I must try to be less of a cantankerous nuisance and more of a public convenience.
September 26. I finished the screenplay of Golden Eye on the 4th and since then all I’ve done has been the final correcting of the Ramakrishna material. Well, and why shouldn’t I take a holiday? I have certainly earned one. But the truth is, I am bad at holidays. Instead of relaxing—whatever that means—I just idle without joy and (consequently, I do sincerely believe) get sick. My back still hurts, but it is better than it was. The X rays showed a disc which has worn thin. Sooner or later, barring accidents, it will fuse and then the pain will stop.
The fire up at Santa Barbara came right to the eucalyptus grove at the edge of the convent land. The girls were evacuated, taking the relics from the shrine with them. Then the wind changed. Vidya and the other monks from Vedanta Place went up there to help. Vidya is under some sort of a cloud. Apparently he lied to Swami, but I haven’t heard the whole story of this yet, because Don was with me the last time I went to Vedanta Place, so Swami didn’t talk about it.
Am still waiting to get the English translation of the Duras novel, Le Marin de Gibraltar. Then I must make up my mind, do I want to do a screenplay on it. If I do, I shan’t go to New York with Don on October 8 or 9. I don’t really want to go, because anyhow I should be quite inactive there, and I ought to get on with my book of bits and pieces. I wrote to Alan White, asking if they would approve the title Exhumations, but no answer yet.
Have been making a tape for Don of various poems. He wants to play them to himself while he is painting in the studio.
Don is now getting quite enthusiastic about his painting—partly because Paul Wonner and Bill Brown have at last told him that they like it and think he ought to exhibit some of it. But the New York gallery (the Banfer) only wants drawings. Dr. Oderburg tells him that he ought not to stop painting at this time; so there is the problem of trying to work at it while he is in New York.
October 1. Thick fog in the Canyon all day, and my back and ribs as bad as ever, but somehow I felt gay and full of love—not only for Don but also for Budd Cherry, Phil Anderson and most everyone else on earth who isn’t old, hideous, pro-Goldwater or otherwise impossible.
Lyle Fox massaged my back, probably without any effect but never mind. Told him this story—I think I got it from Paul Wonner:
A young man boards a plane, sits down next to a lady, takes out a copy of Playboy, pins up the two-page photo of a nude cutie on the back of the seat in front of him and jacks off, looking at it. When he has finished, he wipes his cock with his handkerchief, puts it back in, takes out a pack of cigarettes, turns to the lady and asks very politely, “Do you mind if I smoke?”
October 28. Don left for New York on the 15th. His show opened there yesterday at the Banfer Gallery.fn534 Stephen Spender called me last night to tell me that he had been there and there was quite a big crowd.
Strange weather. At lunchtime yesterday it was warm enough to go in swimming. Later it rained. Today it is grey and more rain is said to be coming. I am plugging away at The Sailor from Gibraltar. There is an awful lot of it and I still really do not know just what I am doing. The chief technical problem is the fragmentation of the flashback.
Neil Hartley told me today that Tony should be through shooting The Loved One by Thanksgiving.
I still feel a sick foreboding about the elections, despite all the pollsters who declare that Johnson has it in the bag. It is the mere smell of Goldwater that sickens me. Horrible to think that he got even this far toward being elected.
Supper with Cecil Beaton last night. He was very gleeful because George Cukor had made a poor showing at the big press conference which was held for the opening of My Fair Lady. The opening is tonight, and I have not been invited, despite the fact that I am such friends with Cecil and on good terms, even, with Cukor and Rex Harrison—not to mention Audrey Hepburn.fn535 Well, I don’t regret it; it would really bore me to go, without Don. Also Tony Richardson (who, like me, hasn’t been invited) is showing the Jean Genet prison film tonight.f
n536 Even to miss seeing that again doesn’t break my heart. I would far rather be doing what I am doing—going to Vedanta Place and then looking in on Bob Rosen. Isn’t that typical of me!
Rib still hurts; lower back more or less all right. A nasty lump in the mouth cleared up as soon as Dr. Stevens filed a bit off my lower bridge. He is now preparing my $400 upper bridge, which is to combine the three separate bits.
Am fat and drinking too much, but feel a good deal more energy since I went back on the high potency vitamins. As usual, I am bored without Don—nothing bounces off anything; it just falls flat to the floor. He won’t be returning till the 15th, at the earliest.
Reading wonderful Byron (his letters) and a drag-queen autobiography Gavin lent me, called Mr. Madam.fn537 And now Peter Viertel’s novel, Love Lies Bleeding, has arrived—a wretched title and I do so hate bulls and their annoyers.
October 30. Budd Cherry took me to the Kirov Ballet last night, and to supper at Perino’s, where we sat in splendor in the best banquette because, apparently, the waiter had mistaken Budd for a Dr. Cherry who is one of their best customers. Budd told how Tony resists all possessiveness and security, and how he uses people. All this with a despairing affection; for Budd still feels that Tony is the greatest artist he ever met and the most marvellous person, and he loves him. Actually, I think Budd’s inviting me was in itself a gesture—not exactly of defiance but of self-assertion; he was determined to show Tony that he can still have his own relationships, even with Tony’s friends. And, of course, I’m quite ready to play along with this, if it makes Budd feel better.
When we got back to their house, after the ballet, Tony was engaged in a typical piece of mischief—trying to persuade a boy who supports Goldwater to come to a party on Tuesday night, to share in the (presumed) Democratic triumph.
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