Michael Barrie and Bill Stroud are also on my blacklist because they haven’t been in to see us. Michael is scared of infection, Chris thinks—but if he is, why can’t he be man enough to say so? Harry Brown did.
A grey morning—quite quiet so far. The children on this street are being a sore trial. I used to blame everything on the boys next door, but the little girls opposite are really much more irritating. They come and play right under this window. And they slam the swing door of their house all day long, and the boys chase them around, and play miniature billiards on their porch. Besides—they are girls.
Yesterday, I sent off a little article—barely three pages—to Gerald Hamilton for his book. Thank God that’s done with!
Utter silence from England. Still no news of Peter Watson’s death. Nothing from M., Amiya, Dodie and Alec, Stephen, John Lehmann.
June 24. Don and I went to tea at Vedanta Place on Friday (the 22nd) with Swami, Aldous and Laura. It was rather a success. Swami seems to have accepted Don’s relation to me as a matter of course. He said to Don, as we were leaving: “Come again—every time Chris comes.” Aldous looked very handsome and was quite smartly dressed. Laura, no doubt, has spruced him up. She has also, probably, been the one who decided they should move from King’s Road—up to a house on a road which is on the hillside above Hollywood—just below the “Hollywoodland” sign. They are going there soon, and selling the other house. I’m still not sure if I like Laura—but at least she tries to be friendly. They are to come and visit us soon.
Yesterday we saw Anastasia. Viveca Lindfors was excellent—[Eugenie] Leontovich very good toward the end, but wildly theatrical and affected—far more like a great actress in retirement than an ex-empress.16
Supper with Speed and Paul Millard, at the Sunset Frascati’s. Douglas Dick17 was there. Speed asked me to ask him to our table, and then snooted him. So typical. Speed’s behavior is nearly always intolerable, unless you get him alone. A boring evening.
June 27. The Canyon is choked up by one of its local fogs. Don has gone off to the gym. I gave the kids next door our old weighing machine. The smallest one immediately began smashing it with a hammer, uttering, as he did so, cries of pain—he was making believe that the machine was crying out. Charming creatures! Why are we so sentimental about them and so horrified at the sight of a brood of baby snakes?18
A talk with Jo on the phone. She has a lot of trouble with nausea, sleeplessness, feelings of heaviness under the ribs. She thinks it’s gallbladder.
Last night, John van Druten and Starcke came to dinner. John had been “terribly shocked” because Swami said that Christ’s teaching was only for monks. He was very solemn about this. He always has the air of a judge very unwillingly pronouncing sentence. It hurts him more than it hurts the criminal, but he just has to do it. He can’t conscientiously refrain.
John has written a fantastic play, which he may put on at some just-off-Broadway theater. He has also written an autobiographical book of opinions, called Here We Go Looby-Loo (or some such). I have provisionally entitled it: Here We Go to the Loo.19
As usual, John spread depressing waves around him. I think Starcke has something to do with it. He made me worry about the difficulty of finding a movie job. He says the film market is dead.
Again with the air of a judge—but this time awarding the Nobel prizes—he chose to borrow Mansfield’s Journal, Plomer’s Child of Queen Victoria and Pember’s The Needle’s Eye.
This morning I’m a bit depressed. Stomachache and money worries. But really I should never be seriously depressed as long as all goes well with Don. That’s what chiefly matters to me.
June 30. John Yale came to tea yesterday to discuss a book of selections from Vivekananda they want to do.20 He was in a very malicious mood, and eager to discuss John van Druten and Starcke. He said, “They use Swami for a rabbit’s foot.” He also commented on how nice Swami had been to Don when we went to tea there—and managed to insinuate that this was just tactics. But he was forced to admit that Don had made a very good impression on everybody at Vedanta Place.
Bob Hoover came in with Ted afterwards to say goodbye. Bob is leaving—has already left—this morning for New York to conduct a party around Europe for his travel agency.
Am trying to compose a note to Charlie Brackett about his film of The King and I which we saw at the premiere, the night before last. I hate Anna, that sweetly smiling, gently snooty apostle of democracy and “our” way of doing things. Hammerstein has written some of his vilest lyrics for this play—particularly the one about “whistling a little tune” and “Getting to Know You.”
Have just talked to Johnnie on the phone about this. He says he would never have agreed to do Anna if they hadn’t got Gertrude Lawrence.21
A sore appeared in my mouth yesterday. I showed it to Dr. Peschelt who says it’s caused by lingering results of the jaundice—excess uric acid. It’s nasty to think of oneself as being full of bitterness but it’s literally true. I only hope I can get rid of it.
Yesterday was the first day I did no work since I left hospital. Never mind, I’m quite well up in all my chores. Reached page sixty of my novel, kept to my schedule of Saradananda, and have done rough drafts of all the commentaries for the anthology. But still no word from Frank Taylor about this. I begin to suspect that the project is off.
July 1. Yesterday was a fine beach day (today is cloudy, so far) and Don and I were down there from 1:00 to 3:30 and again for a picnic supper with Jo and Ben. Went in swimming for the second time since I got sick. The water is fairly warm.
A record number of people I knew were around: Jim Charlton, who is hitting a new low of gloom because all his architectural projects have failed, and who wanted to know if this bad luck were his fault; I told him yes, partly. Ted, who had with him a boy named Mike Pederson whom I used to know in the 333 East Rustic Road days, when he was a friend of Harold Fairbanks. Also Wayne Parkes, whom Speed used to know in the Hartford Foundation days. And Ed Cornell, outraged because his friend wouldn’t do the kitchen floor, and had called him “stupid.” Also Paul Millard, who is stupid, I fear—maybe almost as stupid as Ed. Also Speed, who appeared briefly with Eva Wolas,22 and was rude to Starcke. Starcke himself was as bouncy as ever. He took us over to where Johnnie was sitting, absurdly out of place amidst the holiday crowd, and somewhat sulky. Starcke held forth brightly about Johnnie’s book, which Heinemann likes but wants called The Widening Circle. Also the usual urgings that I should write a play.
A picnic supper with Jo and Ben on the beach. Cold albacore. It was windy, turning cold, and we went back to their apartment for coffee; and talked about Jim and how his unfortunate surly manner gets him into so many difficulties. Jo wondered if she should speak to him about it, but despaired of making him understand.
Michael Barrie and Bill Stroud have got the flu again. It seems to be their chief indoor sport.
This morning, Johnnie phoned after seeing The King and I. He liked it much better than we did, but not Deborah Kerr, whom he called “Mrs. Miniver at the Court of Siam.”
Don hurt his back at the gym and again yesterday while swimming.
Our neighbor, Mr. Hines,23 whom Speed called “The Buck,” is shaming us again this morning by cutting the grass strip in front of our house. But he is also doing it across the road as well. Maybe, however, this is just a project for the oldest son’s scouting; because the other week he fixed up a neighbor’s garden, with the help of the rest of the family.
July 3. Yesterday, Don started work at the Chouinard art school. The first day seems to have been a great success. Don was able to follow the instruction and certainly his first attempts at figure drawing are really quite amazingly good. He came home in good spirits. He had been dreading this start for weeks.
Yesterday afternoon I went to see Eddie From, who is spending the summer with Hans Hokanson at one of those shacky houses out among the oil derricks, beyond Venice. Each of the little cross streets is called an “avenue” or
a “place” alternately. Each contains maybe six houses and ends on the beach. They have yards which are simply sand lots. The creaking of the oil pumps is louder than the surf.
Eddie looked sick—sallow and red eyed. He had his usual air of quietly amused patronage—the children (all of us) make him smile, just a little wearily. His adventures with a Catholic millionaire in Columbus, Ohio. He says he doesn’t like to go up to the Palazzo,24 it reminds him of Sam. And the life there is no longer campy, but merely comfortable.
Am making a drive to do forty pages this month on my novel, which will get me to 100 pages by August 1st. Am having great difficulties with the anthology—the introduction to Conan Doyle. It seems that I can’t hit the right note.
Let me never forget that this is really a very happy time for me. Steady work which interests me. Don busy and happy—I think. And a nice comfortable home.
July 5. I’m glad the Fourth is over. It always makes a big gap in the continuity of things. Also, yesterday was dull. Don, just getting into the swing of art school, felt at a loss. He has just been reading the passages in my 1944 journal about X., and this put him into a suspicious, questioning mood. He finds my attitude toward X. cynical—which I suppose it is, in a sense. The point is, I am attacking the X. sensations quite subjectively as if they were symptoms of a disease I longed to get rid of. And, at the same time, I’m dwelling morbidly on these symptoms—gloating over them, indeed. It’s the same attitude that’s so distasteful in Proust. He talks constantly of love, yet it’s clear that he really loathes Albertine.
Don returns again and again to the examination of my character—with the furious impatience, indignation and fascination of one who studies a book which is full of matters vitally interesting to him, but which is very badly and ambiguously written. What does the goddam author mean?
Don is going through a phase which is very important in his development and much more positive than his moods of last winter. I think that the art school may really be an answer to his vocational problem. But now he has to get to feel independent in himself, and thus turn his dependence on me into a free association. This will be a great test for both of us, of course.
The day before yesterday, a man named Bob Vogel came to see me. He is the secretary(?) of the Friends Service Committee out here. He wants me to participate in their work in some way, and I probably will. Also, he tells me that the Friends have a center in Berlin which deals with the emigration of Germans to the States. This would be a possible way for Heinz and his family to get here. And now the question arises—do I want them to come? And the answer is NO. But have I the right to withhold help for them to come? No, of course not. Don warns me against getting into this mess. I warn myself. But what else am I to do?
Chief topic of talk: the double air crash near the Grand Canyon.25 I have two ideas for bad-taste imaginary advertisements: “Fly American Airlines and see the Grand Canyon—from above.” “Fly United Airlines and meet people—from TWA.”
July 8. A grey day, which is disappointing, because the last two have been wonderful on the beach, with big surf. Ted is staying the night with us, and now he and Don are working on the project which was set them by one of their instructors at the Chouinard—Ted goes there two evenings a week, and they are both studying composition.
My various chores keep me steadily going. Am up to page seventy-two of the novel. It couldn’t seem sillier or more inept, but nevertheless great chunks of subconscious intention are gradually separating themselves off and fitting into the scheme of the book.
Don has started well at the Chouinard, I hope and think—although he is worried about oil painting. He is still full of tensions and problems, and so am I, of course; but all this will straighten itself out if only we keep our wigs on and give it time.
Joshua Logan has gone away to Japan, Fred Zinnemann hasn’t called me, MGM is said to be cutting salaries. Well, we shall see. I’m worried, but somehow not seriously. Not yet.
Gerrit Lansing, Sam Costidy’s friend, is here on a short visit. He has grown quite sloppy-fat, but is very amiable and quite intelligent. I like him very much.
This is a great period for rejection neurosis. Some of the people who have rejected me, or Don, or both: Peggy, Michael Barrie, Gerald, Aldous, Gottfried Reinhardt, Joan Elan, the Bracketts, Marguerite, Jessie Marmorston. But, on inspection, this list gets considerably shorter. Peggy, I needn’t speak of—I could go back to her at any time—on her terms. Michael did react, after I’d let him know we were offended, through Chris Wood, that invaluable ambassador; he came around with Bill Stroud and a portable radio which he didn’t want—but unfortunately Swami was having tea with me (to talk about obscure passages in Saradananda’s Ramakrishna book) so Michael left again immediately in a sharp frost. Gerald is probably just busy; Aldous ditto. Gottfried, I hear from Speed, is in town and working at Columbia—he might have called, but since when have I expected any attention from film people? Joan is a more solid rejection candidate; she has been here quite a while and we have heard nothing from her. The Bracketts did send a couple of tickets to The King and I which I hated, and Muff is away; so that’s nothing.
Marguerite is in New York and never writes—but why should she? Jessie hasn’t called, and that’s really mysterious, after all the fuss she used to make.
But how many people have I rejected (neglected)?: Harry Brown, Rodney Owens, Paul Sorel, Carter Lodge and Dick Foote, everybody up at the Palazzo From, etc. etc. And what’s the reason? Just simple apathy. Why, right in this Canyon are at least half a dozen people I should see occasionally, and don’t—Mrs. Hoerner, Don Litebaum, Jack Dominguez, Bob Gallagher, Lee Mullican,26 Renée Rubin. Oh, yes, and then there’s Virginia Viertel—but at least we did call her once, and she never called back.
Fred Zinnemann just called. As always very cordial and stalling desperately. Why doesn’t he call me next Thursday? Fine, I say; do that. But he won’t.
July 9. An idea I had yesterday—to turn the living room gradually into a big studio-sitting room, put in the north skylight that Jim recommended, get rid of the piss-elegant furniture we bought from Hal Greene, make the place human. This is a long-term objective.
If only every day could be like today—I worked on my novel, the Ramakrishna book and the anthology (about Chesterton), did errands in town, spent nearly two hours on the beach, wrote to M. (from whom I’ve just heard, worried because Amiya told her I’d had jaundice) and am about to water the garden!
Glorious weather. Another swimming day.
Resolves—to read Piers Plowman (or at least the extracts in Wystan’s anthology27), more Chaucer, Don Quixote and all of the Divine Comedy. Also do something about Spanish.
Reached page seventy-six of rough draft of The Forgotten. Am reading O’Flaherty, O’Faolain, etc. to see if I can find extra Irish stories, as Frank Taylor requests. Tomorrow I am seeing Jerry Wald about a possible job. I want one and yet I don’t, because this working at home is really my ideal of happiness, right now.
In the morning, after the men (including Don) have left for work, the women and children take over on this street. Mrs. Hine is heard in her corncrake voice, admonishing her youngest: “Stay out of the road now, won’t you? Put that bottle back! Back in the can! Back! Put it back, now! Atta Boy!” Two little girls sit on a porch fanning a small dog. They giggle when they see I’ve seen what they are doing. Greg, Mrs. Hine’s youngest, will never forgive me for running him off our steps. He calls me “that man.”28
Today, two people on the rejector list were heard from—Marguerite wrote, Joan Elan phoned.
July 13. Eight twenty-four in the morning—our breakfast made, eaten, cleared away. Don’s lunch—turkey sandwiches with lettuce—prepared and packed. Don seen off to school with his half-finished oil painting of the lantern on the chair, his colors, his notes, his palette, etc. Late for a rendezvous with a girl student named [Jeanne] Le Gon, whom he’s to drive in to school every morning.
The satisfaction in this for
me—as in so much of life—is just the sense of having fulfilled a schedule, beaten the clock.
Yesterday afternoon I was so exhausted that I slept for three and a half hours. This pleased Don very much. And today I feel plenty of energy again. Waking this morning, I was aware, as often before, how dulled the mind and senses become, as you get older. Or is it just the senses that are dulled? Is the mind even maybe clearer for a while and better able to grasp things?
What I really find wrong with the way I spend my life is this—and I’ve been commenting on it on and off for the past twenty-five years at least—I’m so apt to lead the life of symbolic action. I’m so apt to carry out the forms of action, merely writing forty pages a month, no matter what. Even in my relationships, even in my religion (such as it is) I’m so apt to step aside and call the attention of a third party (who is he?) to what I am making or being—like a guide taking tourists around a city and showing the quaint natives at work. To so many (not all—yet!) of the pleasures of my life, you could tie the label: “as advertised.” Even now, I’m writing a “sincere” entry in this journal—“self-revealing”—“as advertised.”
That’s what Edward and I meant by “The Watcher in Spanish” at Cambridge: the Devil of self-consciousness.29 And yet—it’s something to be aware of this falseness and emptiness. Nothing is safe from it. There is no top shelf on which I can put my superior experiences. No—all I can say is: amidst the grey mud there are occasional sparkles of genuineness. Alas, they are mostly the product of pain, anxiety, a bad scare; then something comes through. Because the advertisements don’t include pains and scares, your reactions are your own.
Christopher Isherwood Diaries Volume 1 Page 93