September 10. Vernon left for Santa Barbara today. In rather a dither, because there were sixteen people to lunch, including the Kolisches, and Swami gaily announced that he is going to have the boys live up on Kolisch’s ranch near Idyllwild, after the war. Vernon’s dream of privacy and security in the studio at Ananda Bhavan is threatened already. Lots of people have gone up there today—Swami, Sister, Web, Madhabi and the Kolisches. (Swami habitually invites twice as many guests as there are beds.) Poor Vernon’s first night won’t be spent in the studio at all, or at any rate not alone. If his privacy isn’t respected, he’s ready to leave. I’ve got to explain this to Swami, and I can, because I understand just how Vernon feels. I’ve been through it myself. On top of this, he’s upset because of a visit to his friends in Santa Monica, who told him that mysticism and painting won’t mix. This makes me furious. What the hell do they know about it? We’ll have enough trouble without outside interference. …
(Here I want to insert a document which is practically my last word on the “should-I-have-gone-back-to-England?” question. It’s a letter addressed but (for some reason) not sent to Cyril Connolly. I’m not sure when it was written—some time in 1944. Obviously before August 26.
But first I must explain that there had previously been some correspondence in Cyril’s magazine, Horizon, about Swami, Ivar Avenue and myself. In one of the 1943 issues (I think) Tony Bower had written an article about America which poked a little fun at us and our way of life, stupidly but not aggressively, and without any real malice. It was exactly the kind of thing I’d have expected from Tony, with his confused Anglo-American background and complicated attitude towards Vedanta. It hardly annoyed me at all.
However, it hugely annoyed Bill Roerick, who was in England at the time. He wrote a reply to Tony’s article, without letting me know that he was doing so. The reply, unfortunately, wasn’t much better than the article, because Bill was angrily loyal and therefore a bit sweeping in his statements. It merely proved him to be a very decent, generous, impulsive person, and raised him in everybody’s estimation.198
And now a book appeared which was called Talking to India. The Beesleys lent it to me. It was a collection of English broadcasts to India, mostly on cultural subjects, by Indians in England and English writers, such as Forster, Orwell, etc.199 One of the talks was by Connolly, on “Literature in the Nineteen Thirties.” It dealt, among other things, with the careers of Auden and myself, very fairly and intelligently. The only passage I need quote, in order to explain my letter, is as follows: “So much has been said about Auden and Isherwood that I would only remark that as artists they were perfectly free to go and live where they liked when they emigrated, though as leaders of a literary-political movement they have done untold harm to their cause by remaining there. I think also that they are missing a great deal, and will miss more if we who stay can make the new Europe we hope for.”
This is what I wrote:
I have just been reading what you wrote in Talking to India, as well as Tony Bower’s article in Horizon, and I think maybe I owe you a letter. It struck me today that my “silence” must begin to seem somewhat snooty, since I can’t pretend not to know what is being written about Wystan and myself, and I can’t strike the pose of being superior to criticism. I am not now objecting in any way to Tony’s extremely inaccurate article. He was plainly enjoying himself, and I think it wasn’t unkindly meant. As for your broadcast, I would like to thank you for it, because it put several points extremely well, and was fair. I have heard that Bill Roerick has written some sort of “answer” to Tony, and this is another reason for my writing to you. Needless to say, I didn’t ask him to do this; didn’t even know of Tony’s article until after I heard Bill was replying to it. I am touched by Bill’s gesture, as an act of friendship. But the situation is becoming slightly farcical if I go on remaining silent.
One reason I didn’t write before was that I felt so confused. You see, our coming to America (or maybe I had better not speak for Wystan; this shall be purely personal) was an altogether irresponsible act, prompted by circumstances—like our trip to China, and my wanderings about Europe after 1933. When the war broke out in 1939, it was a fifty-fifty chance what I’d do. I was a bit bewildered, a bit guilty, pulled by personal relationships to stay here, and pulled by other relationships to return. I delayed, because that is always easiest. Then came the press attacks, and cowardice and defiance hardened. Yes, I quite admit that there was cowardice—not of the Blitz (which I think, from my limited experience of air raids, would have bothered me no more and no less than it did all of you) but chiefly because I knew that, if I returned to England, I would have to take the pacifist position and strike out my own line—not yours. That decision was made some while before the war started, and I have never changed it. I needn’t go into the whys and wherefores of that now. I think I have always been a pacifist, and that the whole Hitler episode confused me into thinking that I wasn’t, because it affected me personally. I had never properly thought the whole thing through.
But, ever since my first coming to Hollywood, I had begun meeting the Swami—Gerald Heard introduced me—and that set another influence going which has become increasingly powerful. Again, I don’t want to go into the Hindu philosophy, blended with Quakerism and Heardism, except to say that it offers me personally a solution and a way of life which I desperately needed, and which seems to work, and within which I can imagine living the rest of my life with a feeling of purpose and a lack of despair. Of course, I might equally have found all this in England—there is even a swami of the same order in London—but it has so happened that I didn’t. This is where I struck oil, and here for the present I must stay and develop it.
Tony says, and you report, that I may not write again. I think if I hadn’t found something like this I never would have written again: now I think I shall, I’m pretty sure I shall. As for the “literary-political movement” to which you say I have done “untold harm,” thank God if I have. I think your analysis of our group is pretty sound. No doubt we did advertise ourselves, though not as consciously as you seem to imply. But a certain childishness in myself—maybe in some of the others too—enjoyed the fuss and helped it develop. But now that boat is sunk and we are all separately in the water. Splendid. We shall learn to swim. You know how I was burdened with all sorts of ties in the old days. Isn’t it better if I ditch them? Sure, I am missing something, but I am getting something else. And I cannot honestly say that I would exchange.
I’ll be forty next birthday, which is over the present U.S. military age. If it is raised, I shall go into the Army Medical Corps—a permitted form of conscientious objection here. If not, I shall stay put for some years, unless other circumstances arise. Even if you wanted me in the New Europe (which I sincerely hope you’ll get) I couldn’t share it with you the way I am at present, and I couldn’t contribute anything until I know more. I am trying to hatch out into something different, and if you object that I have chosen the darndest time to do it, I can only answer that chickens can’t choose. This is not in any way to defend my conduct in leaving England in the first place—that, I repeat, was irresponsible. Whatever good or bad motives are found for it, I can’t honestly accept them. I can’t think of myself either as a traitor or as a disgusted prophet. From my personal point of view, it has all turned out for the best—through no merit or foresight of mine. And I suppose, if the result of what I am doing has literary fruit, people will one day say it was for the best all round. …)
September 11. A grey, busy, not unsatisfactory day, although I’ve smoked far too much and let down on my japam. But I did two pages of Prater Violet and helped mail the magazines, and cleaned out my room, and wrote some letters.
A talk with Roger Spencer last night. He’s hurt because Swami disapproves of his fancy diets and fasting—prescribed by some quack in Hollywood. A friend of Roger’s, a C.O. named Ed Tremblay, comes tonight, to live with us for a while. Ed wants to go on a diet, too. The gir
ls protest. More problems.
Sudhira brought me hot milk in my room last night, and was sweet about Vernon. She said he seems like one of the family already. I’m worried, of course, about how he’s making out at Ananda Bhavan. Swami called this afternoon and told us Amiya has hurt her leg and has to lie up. Vernon and Webster are digging a hole for the garbage.
September 13. Grey fog. Went down yesterday to Santa Monica. All the way down on the bus, and fairly continuously throughout the day, I made japam and this had two very apparent effects. First I didn’t get in the least rattled by Denny’s bad temper (he was in one of his worst moods) and secondly I was in a state of great awareness and kept noticing things which I could “use” in my writing. I think it was the best day of japam I have ever had in my life.
As I was waiting for the Palisades bus, I stretched myself and involuntarily smiled. An old man caught my eye and asked, in a thick foreign accent, “Feel vell?”
Sudhira, at breakfast this morning, talked about Swami Yatiswarananda (the one who’s now in Philadelphia and who used to be in Switzerland). When he was ordered to go to Europe—much against his will—he decided to try to see God in everybody. But Brahmananda appeared to him in a dream and said, “No—that’s wrong: try to see everybody in God.”
While Yatiswarananda was staying here, he was a very strict disciplinarian. Swami was away, and he took over for a while. He ridiculed the girls because, as Sudhira put it, “We’d become terribly itsy-bitsy about Holy Mother”; they spent their time cooing over holy pictures and flower arrangements for the shrine. Yatiswarananda preached discrimination. He told them to walk every day to some place where they could see an extensive view. And to listen to music.
Woke this morning murmuring to myself, “God’s Weasel out of the West.” I think this title was intended for poor Ed Tremblay, who has a long, pale rodent face. He arrived looking terribly sick. His colon keeps getting irritated and he has to run for the bathroom. Sometimes, he doesn’t make it. The girls find him woefully unglamorous, but Sarada has hopefully decided that he looks “spiritual.” Actually, he’s very obliging and anxious to help. When he’s better I think he’ll make an excellent secretary for the magazine.
Lunch at the Farmer’s Market with the Huxleys and Kiskaddens. Afterwards, I found myself telling Aldous that I don’t want to go to Trabuco because, “I hate talking about God.” Maria was delighted.
Vernon called, this evening. He told me that, earlier today, he’d been feeling rather desperate and had planned to ask me to come up to Montecito at once. But that now he’d had a good talk with Amiya and felt better.
September 18. For a long time, now, a fight has been brewing between Swami and the draft board, over Asit. Selective Service wants to put him in the army. Swami says no, they shan’t—because Asit is not only a visitor in this country but a member of a subject race, which isn’t eligible for U.S. citizenship (though, of course, Asit could become a citizen if he chose to, as a U.S. soldier). Furthermore, the British themselves don’t conscript Indians. Swami has taken the matter up with the American Civil Liberties people, and there will be a court case; but meanwhile Swami is advised not to resist the induction. And today Asit was actually inducted. Before he left, with Sudhira and myself, to the center, a wonderful little Hindu ceremony took place on the temple steps. Asit, the hundred-percent westernized future movie director, suddenly prostrated before Swami and made the traditional gesture of taking the dust from his feet and scattering it on his own head (this is only pantomime, and anyway Swami’s shoes were flashing with polish) and Swami blessed him. It was startlingly beautiful. I felt a sudden affection for Asit, and hugged him when we said goodbye. On the way home, I remarked to Sudhira how foggy the streets were: we found that clouds of oil fumes were pouring out of the old family car.
September 20. Swami and I visited a Mr. Williams downtown who is responsible for deciding cases of religious objection. We were trying to get a 4-D classification for Webster, as a future monk. Mr. Williams received us in a very bare office: Swami and I had to sit on piles of fishing-tackle. Taking it in turns, contradicting and correcting each other, we delivered an extremely garbled lecture on the aims of Vedanta philosophy. Mr.Williams sat silent, apparently not understanding a word. But when we’d finished, he said smiling, “What you’ve just told me isn’t as unfamiliar to me as you may think, gentlemen—” and he produced from his desk drawer a small volume of Ramakrishna’s sayings. (Webster finally got his classification, just as the war ended.)
Now that my movie story with Aldous has come to nothing, I plan to go up to Ananda Bhavan with Swami, next Sunday or Monday. I want to get on with the second draft of Prater Violet and finish it, if possible, while it’s warm. Also I must read through the back issues of the magazine and make a book of selected articles. Later on, there will be difficulties about money—but they must be let solve themselves, as such difficulties always have. What matters to me now is my writing, and Vernon. For his sake, the effort to live this life always seems worthwhile now, even on a dull dormouse day like this, when I can find no personal desire at all, except to sleep.
Stephen writes from England—obviously feeling that Wystan and I have “missed everything.” I don’t feel that. I hardly know what he means, even. In life, I feel it’s less and less possible for me to regret having taken one road rather than another. Could any other have been as interesting, as extraordinary as the one I chose? Yes, any other. Life isn’t “about” air raids, swamis, love affairs, places, deeds done or undone—those are only the shapes of the letters in which the message is written. To read the message, that’s all that matters. But how? By being very alert, very still. By holding your breath and listening, always, everywhere, in the midst of this earsplitting uproar.
September 22. Today is scarcely bearable, it’s so hot. Asit has shown up already, delighted with Fort MacArthur and his uniform and the boys he has met there. The girls pamper their little warrior and goggle at his stories. He won’t be sent any place else until after the court hearing; and the lawyer is sure he’ll win it and be let out.
(Asit did win his case, and was let out. In fact, he left the army quite unwillingly, he enjoyed it so. His officers, not to mention his buddies, seem to have been entirely on his side and taken a sporting interest in the whole affair. The judge was Irish and pretty openly anti-British. And, while he was in camp, Asit was actually asked to lecture to several hundred men on the Indian situation. He delivered a rousing anti-British speech which was received with great enthusiasm.)
Vernon came up this morning. We sat around, at a loose end. He was bored, after having had so much to do at Ananda Bhavan. I realize that, when I’m with him, I must keep busy.
Lunch with Chris Wood. Paul Sorel is about to leave for New York, and, according to Chris, he’s on the verge of insanity. He plans to be the most famous American who ever lived; and he wants a sapphire. He has two daemons—a good one and a bad one. He has never, he says, met anybody whose daemon didn’t bow down before his daemon. All this nonsense is to protect himself from having to admit how badly he’s treated Chris. Actually, the relationship with Paul has done Chris infinitely more good than harm, and is yet another illustration of the truth that one is never the loser, spiritually, by behaving well and generously to anyone. But Chris is very sad, now Paul has gone.
Now remember—I’ll repeat it again—if you’re going to make a success of your life with Vernon, there’s only one way to do it: you’ve got to be strong. Follow along your own line, make japam, keep busy. Always be ready when he needs you. Don’t run after him. Don’t ever be possessive. Sentimentality won’t help. Be a tree, not a vine.
Can I do this, all day, every day? Only if I draw help perpetually from the inner source. Then it’ll be easy, natural. Well now, let’s see you try.
September 24. A party last night at Denny’s, for Stefan Brecht, who is leaving for the army. Denny asked me to preside, because I don’t drink too much on these occasions, as he does
, and pass out. “You can’t possibly have a good party,” says Denny, “without at least one monk.” Sure enough, there were tears before bedtime. Some of Johnny Goodwin’s records were smashed, and he left in a huff. Stef Brecht told a rather dreary movie director, “I think you are a most unpleasant person.” Finally, there was a terrible scene with a Jewish refugee who had been in the siege of Warsaw and was in love with Stef’s girlfriend and jealous of Stef. He broke a lot of glasses and seemed about to slash the Picasso. Much later in the night, when everybody was asleep, he crept back into the apartment and tidied everything up; a gesture which merely earned him Denny’s increased contempt. Denny said he would put a notice on the door in our favorite kind of dog German, “Warschauerbelagerungsopfer nicht erwünscht.”200
Stef himself was extremely sympathetic throughout the evening. When he was already fairly drunk, he told me, “I hope I have not caused you any pain. I don’t refer to criticism. I should never apologize for criticism. But I should not like to cause you pain because I respect you very much.” So I assured him that he had never caused me pain, and we shook hands solemnly, and bowed.
September 25. Swami, George, Sarada and I drove to Ananda Bhavan this morning. At present, there is really nothing to report. It’s just another move. I have a dear little room, with a light nicely fixed over the desk, and a shower, and now all I have to do is finish Prater Violet and get the Vedanta book prepared, and pray and pray and pray. Meanwhile, something will develop between Vernon and myself, for good or bad. No use worrying. Amiya is girlishly happy. She plans a little family within a family—herself, Vernon and myself. She’s prepared to make us comfortable, like an affectionate aunt. This is her home now. It is not my home. Perhaps no place ever will be again. There’s nothing tragic in that. To learn to be alone and at home inside myself—that’s what I’m here for. What more can I possibly ask than I already have? Conditions are perfect, if I know how to get the best out of them.
Christopher Isherwood Diaries Volume 1 Page 58