Oh, I’m sick at the thought of my cruelty to Don, who is truly and absolutely on my side and could not be sweeter. I really frightened him, I think. He said he felt I didn’t care for anything except my own thoughts, and being alone and getting on with my novel. That’s not true. In a way it might be good if it were. I need him too much.
Then of course in my drunkeness, I had to blab that I’d had this death premonition. So this morning I had to tell him about my dream. It does scare me, a little. And why not turn that to good account? Why don’t I live as if I were going to die this month? That’s quite an idea.
October 3. Fantastic heat. The sun, through a cloud of smog or smoke—there’s a big fire over in Monrovia—is bright orange. The air stinks. It is breathlessly hot.
Don has decided to stop going to Vernon for a while, and consider his future as a painter. He’ll still go three days a week to school.
Right now, he’s helping me a lot with my novel, which I’ve restarted. It does seem a lot better this way.
October 9. Good progress in planning my novel and getting the Ramakrishna book started. Oh, if only someone would give me money, so I would not have to work on anything else! Besides, “anything else” is not so easy to find.
Amiya was drunk, egocentric and raucous last night at Vedanta Place. Swami didn’t seem to mind. She says M. has only a little numbness as the after effect of the stroke; but she can’t use her hand. Amiya believes that if she could have Richard all to herself for six months, she could “rehabilitate” him.
The pope’s dead.49
Now they tell us that the U.S. is militarily stronger than Russia after all; and all this yelling scared was a mistake. Somebody is guilty of high treason.
Don is going to Ensenada this weekend. I wish I didn’t hate this so. It’s not that I really care—not the better part of me—only the possessive grim old dreary sex miser.
Japam. Actually I make lots. Well, make more.
October 11. Yesterday was one of the really bad days. Geller phoned in the morning to say that Eddie Anhalt had gone to Switzerland to work with Selznick on Magdalene. Well, it wasn’t that I wanted to go to Switzerland, but somehow it put the lid on things. And then Don went off for a long weekend at Ensenada, and I couldn’t help feeling that he was deserting me when I most needed him; though as a matter of fact he is far better out of the way when I’m like this.
So I did no work, and read Edward’s novel,50 which is marvellous, but depressing as hell.
How the devil are we going to manage if I can’t get more work?
Amiya came with us to the premiere of Bell, Book and Candle the night before last, with Elsa Lanchester.51 Amiya was so drunk and awful; she and Elsa hated each other. Don wrote about this in his diary yesterday morning with giggles.
Einsamkeit.52 I went yesterday night to see Andy Hardy Comes Home and Tarzan’s Fight for Life.
Have I really any mental resources at all? My despair yesterday was really ugly.
October 13. The day before yesterday Phil Burns came down, stayed the night and only left to go back into town after supper yesterday. I do like him and respect him; and I’m happy with him. We had such a wonderful time together on Saturday afternoon, and then went to Pacific Ocean Park, which was just the right thing to do.
Yet he couldn’t make me feel better about Don’s going to Ensenada. I mind that. It burns deep. I sort of hate him for it.
Yes, and I know one should mind. It is inhuman to be reasonable about these things. And yet, in the last resort, one must be fair, must show understanding, must admit that being twenty-four and fifty-four are two worlds.
Dorothy Miller, talking about the color question as I drove her home from working here, told me a landlord of hers had objected to Negroes because “they hang out of windows.” Dorothy is in favor of legalizing whorehouses and gambling in California.
Ben told me of a man whom he met at work whose tools were constantly being stolen from his car. So he put a small rattlesnake in the toolbox.
Don still isn’t home (5:45 p.m.) and I kind of instinctively know he won’t show up until late. And I’m mad because of that. And I know I shall show it.
As I reread Edward’s novel, it seems better and better. It is so solid—and the main character, Alan, who at first seems thin blooded and unemotional, is later shown to be impulsive in the best sense of the word. He follows the motions of his heart, calmly but recklessly. I could never write about anybody in that way, I fear. The “Peter”53 in my novel is just the opposite—all outward emotion, fireworks, sound and postures. He is not a real man, like Alan; I mean a self-directed human being, open to reason, swept by passion, willing to change his course or be driven right off it by temporary emotion, but never to throw up his hands and stop steering. I like the solid argumentation, doggedly followed through. And I have the feeling that, when Edward’s trilogy is complete, relations between the characters will become apparent which Edward didn’t even intend. In other words, they are what’s called “alive.”
Alan is a moralist. I suppose that’s rare in literature nowadays.
I can easily believe they won’t publish this book as it stands.54 It makes no concession to popular taste. It is utterly unshowy.
October 16. Yesterday evening, my brakes failed on the Simca. I was lucky to get it into a garage without accident; but now I’m stuck without a car.
As for the situation arising out of last weekend, I can only remember Eckhart’s line: “Nothing burns in hell except the self.”55
The weather is oven-hot.
After I finish this novel, maybe I’ll stop altogether writing about myself.
In a strange irrelevant way, I am happy. Perhaps merely because the ego, after its recent display, is tired and has let go. But, oh goodness, how aware I am that this is only temporary!
Because of the breakdown, Krishna drove me home last night. Such acute embarrassment and good will between us, especially on my side. Swami is cagey about Amiya. Last night she was drunk again, at a little party given at her house by the DePrys.56 She kept showing us the hats she’d bought. When she got on to the subject of mescaline—Aldous has just published an article about this in The Saturday Evening Post—he very nearly snapped at her.
October 23. Suddenly cold and grey. A bad morning—which should have been a good one; I went early and sober to bed—I began rereading The Heart in Exile57 and The Gay Year!58 A throbbing in my ear when first awake—heart?
Endless telephone talk with a silly boy trying to sell me The Encyclopedia Americana.
October 24. Stormy weather! We are just about to give a party for Amiya and I smell trouble. Don is nervous, and blew his top because I’m writing to tell Don Parks he can’t have the option to do his Sally Bowles musical. Don blames me for deferring to Carter, whom he hates.59 I’m sure we’ll quarrel tonight. What a bore! I feel tired and out of sorts and resentful and fat.
We like Paul Bowles, though. He came last evening to dinner. He was so funny about John Goodwin taking mescaline. The whole solemn cult of it.
Mrs. Stickel came in to ask me if I minded her playing the piano. She told me she’d had a nervous breakdown a few years ago, and Mr. Sammet cured her by telling her she was just bored. Mr. Sammet used to be a doctor in England, but he doesn’t practice here, except among the neighbors, unofficially. He cures falling hair. Timmy is adopted. They have never punished him; although he once threatened Mrs. Stickel with a garden fork.
October 25. The party last night was one of the worst we’ve had. Amiya was real loud, and she stuck around with Prema long after the others had gone, talking about the sacrifice she’d made when she married George and other such self-pitying crap. As for Prema he got quite fascinatingly sentimental. He told me he’d once attacked me to Swami and Swami had replied: “Always love Chris. He’s a great devotee.”
Don and I sat up talking till 4:00 a.m., after they’d eaten with us at Zucky’s and left. And this morning Don decided not to look at his movie m
agazines or clip any more pictures till our play is finished.60
Good effect of Dexedrine: no hangover, and today I have written a page of the Ramakrishna book, my novel, the travel diary, and a bit of the play; and rewritten the letter to Don Parks.
October 28. Last night we attended the fourth of four truly ghastly parties in a row—our party for Amiya, supper with Jo and Ben at the Harvey Eastons’, supper at the Hacketts’, supper with Tom and Emily Wright.
We are getting ahead with the plan for our play.
Don is in town, for the night. He left a fountain pen on the desk and it made a big ink mark. I scrubbed the mark out but have scrubbed off the varnish.
Listening to Johnnie’s voice on his record, telling how to write a play.61
About those parties—the Eastons’ was the squarest, the Hacketts’ the most meaningless, the Wrights’ the southernmost. I think the Wrights win for sheer desperate horror; and I believe Mrs. Wright is dying—though Rabwin holds out hopes.
Ben Masselink’s marines novel62 was accepted by Little Brown. He heard yesterday.
October 31. Two days ago, Mrs. Pearson, who runs the liquor store, won a huge prize in the Irish Sweepstake. Who will the third fortunate person be?
I’m on page forty-six of my novel. During November I should be able to write enough to make it certain that the problem is solved. I now believe that the whole thing will be fairly short—say 150–60 pages. In two parts, one of them—the first—a good bit longer than the other.
Last night we went to Elsa Lanchester’s, to listen to a recording of two operettas she’d made. One—the better—was by Ray Bradbury.63 The composer of both of them was there, a strange fat boy name Ray Henderson, very drunk. Smiling, campy, maybe a bit sinister. Elsa fixed chicken curry.
November 3. It’s just six o’clock in the evening and Don is going to spend the night in town but he hasn’t left yet; he is doing a design of a spider and its egg sack against a dark background—school homework. However he’s rather off art at the moment, working eagerly on our play. I seriously believe it is a good idea, well constructed; and goodness knows I could never finish it without Don. He is doing all the spadework.
Glorious weather, though cooler at last; I went in swimming today.
Finances sinking steadily, but we still have about $6,500, all told. Oh, how I wish I could somehow get an advance! I think I have more work on my hands than at any other time in my life.
1. The novel. This, it now seems, will be quite short—about 40–50,000 words. Right now I have written maybe 16,000. All the big problems are ahead. I shall be lucky if I finish this by Christmas 1959.
2. The Ramakrishna book. I have so far only written fourteen pages of the new version. Admittedly, this work should go ahead faster now I am past the introductory section, because it is really a rehash of Saradananda. Nevertheless, I’d say Christmas 1959 for that, too. I can hardly believe I could possibly get both books finished by then, even if I did no other work—as I must, to live.
3. The play. This is a very difficult project to assess time for—especially as Don is helping. I would like to get a draft out before this Christmas.
4. The travel diary I’m retrospectively writing, based on Don’s diary, some notes and some letters of mine, of our trip to Asia last winter. This isn’t even for publication, except in snippets.
Now, none of this stuff is very promising financially. The novel will be a critical success at best; it has no adaptation value for stage or screen. The Ramakrishna book doesn’t bring me a cent—everything goes to the Vedanta Society. The play might be a goldmine—but when? Not for ages.
Thumb very painful again.
November 7. I have just been hunting high and low for my tie clip—only to find it in the tray where it belongs!
Fog, quite thick for the daytime. Smog in town.
Amiya really is an egomaniac. She cannot stop talking about herself. She says she said to Swami: “Haven’t you anything to tell me before I go?” and he said, “No—I don’t think so.” Then he said: “You have made a success of your life.” What did he mean?
Tension. Strain. Great weariness. But never mind—
Last night was so nice. Don drew me, while I listened to Gerald Heard’s record.64 Very snug. We ate salmon loaf at home.
November 12. Don has been making some big scenes—crying because he feels such terrible anxiety, about losing his hair, growing old, never amounting to anything, etc. Then disgusted with himself for making the scenes. He is so nervous and miserable, and yet we really have never been happier together and the dips are followed not merely by highs—that would be run-of-the-mill neurosis—but by real periods of happiness and calm.
Maybe Don is a person who ought never to live in this country.
Amazingly enough our play—I call it provisionally The Monsters—goes steadily ahead. We have a rough draft of act one, and of the first half of act two, scene one. Target: a complete rough draft by Thanksgiving. Part of Don’s scene was because he found he couldn’t write the dialogue, but now I dictate to him, and he makes plenty of suggestions and really is most helpful.
Really agonizing pain in my left thumb. Also a tiresome canker sore in my mouth. But my morale is good. Lots of work to be done!
November 14. Yesterday I realized that my novel just doesn’t amount to anything. More about that in my work notebook. I’m not particularly depressed because, of course, there is something in all the stuff I’ve written. Just a matter of disentanglement. Why do I always give birth to these Siamese twins? Same with The Lost. Same with The School of Tragedy.
There is still a tremendous lot to be done before Christmas—a rough draft of the play, get The Vacant Room started with Gavin,65 get some travel stuff written for a magazine. And always the Ramakrishna book.
Spent yesterday afternoon with Gerald. He is still as sharp as a pin and I felt pricked by his aliveness. His wonderful poetic-scientific generalizations. Example: every living organism can be said to be a tune or pattern. If we could learn our own human tune we should know how to live our lives, instead of resisting the changes in them—trying to play the largo passages allegretto, etc.
November 18. Still have this sore on my lip. Peschelt wasn’t alarmed by it last week but he’ll see it again Thursday.
Don and I are now hard at work on the play—The Monsters. He is so happy to be doing this; he feels he has found something worthwhile. Of course I’m worried. I fear his abandonment of painting, his lapse into dilettantism, and I remember the (apparently) bad effects I had on Heinz and Caskey. And yet I don’t for one moment seriously think Don is like either of them.
These are happy days of work—walks on the beach in brilliant weather and yet my natural melancholy is so easily aroused. And then I pray—but not nearly often enough.
There is so much to do, and one should just be thankful for that.
November 19. Today we finished act two. Heaven only knows what it’s really all about. It seems to be making sense.
Ben brought round his contract for the marines novel, and Jo complained how sore her arms are still. My lip ditto. Also thumbs.
Tony Perkins66 to supper last night. We gave him such good steaks. Don fixed them. The almost unimaginable loneliness of Perkins’s life. One sees him as completely solitary. But he is going to an analyst four times a week (at 6:30 a.m.!)—apparently to get over the effects of splitting up with a roommate. He didn’t say who. And we couldn’t quite ask him.
Tonight I went up to Vedanta Place. Suddenly I was so glad to be sitting on the floor beside Swami—without a word, like his dog. After supper, I read them the first chapter of the Ramakrishna book.
November 27. What I chiefly have to give thanks for, this Thanksgiving, is that I’m still alive. The night before yesterday, bored after a long long evening with a not very nice friend of Wystan’s named Robin Hope, and somewhat though not really drunk, I fell asleep at the wheel driving home and ran smash into a parked car. I guess I was knocked ou
t. I remember nothing—until there was this very furious man, the owner of the parked car, yelling at me that he’d like to bash me to pulp—“And I’d do it too,” he said, “if you hadn’t got blood on your face already.” I had, as a matter of fact, hit the steering wheel, which was twisted up, cut myself between the eyes, bruised both eyes, maybe broken my nose, cut one knee and maybe hurt some ribs. The furious man, Mr. Raasch, was eagerly expecting my arrest on a drunk driving charge. But the police were very nice and sent me home in a taxi after I’d been fixed up at an emergency dressing station.
The other thing to be thankful for is that Don and I have finished the rough draft of our play The Monsters, also the day before yesterday. We are cautiously starting the rewrite.
Don has hit a new high of sweetness. He is very happy about the play.
November 28. Feeling lousy. My cold still very bad, knee hurts and pain in the ribs when I cough. Yesterday I got furious with kids playing ball outside and made such a fuss that they have been told to move down the road, but only a short way. The only thing which makes all this bearable is Don’s behavior. Oh, I do hope I don’t have to become an invalid later! The misery of minor ailments.
Swami sent Krishna down with some turkey. Jo and Ben were there when he arrived. Jo was off to some Thanksgiving parties, dressed as a “lobster” in a scarlet jumper and tights, with a bullfighter’s tie. I guess Krishna must have thought she was supposed to be the goddess Kali.
December 2. We have decided not to go to New York for Christmas.
Of course I never really wanted to go. As always, I loathe travel. And I hate the cold. Or the hot. Only this part of California is really habitable for me. But I’d never have said any of this. We came to it quite naturally and logically, realizing what an interruption this trip would be to our work on the play. The play is really our baby. Needless to say, I have misgivings; but still I do continue to feel that, fundamentally, it makes sense. It adds up to something. Probably it is too small beer for New York audiences—but that’s neither here nor there. We’re about halfway through act one, in our second draft.
Christopher Isherwood Diaries Volume 1 Page 114