Under the Sun: The Letters of Bruce Chatwin

by Nicholas Shakespeare

  I gather from Lib that we’re coming over in the summer, and look forward immensely: but I certainly didn’t want to wait to thank you for those two magnificent French goblets, in which we drank your health!

  I hope to have something substantial to show to my publishers by then. There have been fearful upheavals at Viking Press, though I hope they all simmer down.

  All my love to you, Bruce

  Another Australian woman whom Chatwin admired was Ninette Dutton (1923-2007), an enameller and short-story writer, and one of the organisers of the Adelaide Festival. He had met her in Adelaide the previous January, after which he wrote in his notebook: ‘Dined last night with Geoffrey Dutton and his wife Nina – a glamorous late middle aged couple – she particularly stylish in the manner of the 40’s reminded me a little of Magouche. Grey hair and dangly earrings. Used to own a big station – Anlaby – which seems to have gone the way of all great landowners. He described by Bob Hughes as “mildly rebellious scion of old grazing stock” . . . We discussed the whole Falklands affair with sorrow and disgust. A lot of booze. Gave me names of a variety of things and people to see in the North.’ One year on, with her husband having walked out on her, Ninette was planning a thousand-mile drive to Queensland for a book on the wildflowers of Australia. She offered to take Chatwin along, so that he could see something of the back country, once he had finished his Aboriginal research at Kintore in late March. Elizabeth says: ‘She became a muse to Bruce.’

  Also at the Adelaide Festival, Chatwin met Anne-Marie Mykyta, whose 16-year old daughter Juliet was one of eight women murdered by two serial killers, James Miller and Christopher Worrell in what became known as the Truro murders. On 21 January 1977 Juliet was waiting at a bus stop when Worrell offered her a lift home. Instead, he drove her to Port Wakefield where he tied her up and strangled her. Mykyta had told the story in It’s a Long Way to Truro (1981). Chatwin was introduced to her because he wanted to speak to Ukrainians in Australia. ‘My husband’s family is Ukrainian so I invited Bruce to our house to meet my husband and his brother and his wife. The evening turned out very differently.’ A television programme, 60 Minutes,had recently interviewed Miller and Mykyta concerning a book that Miller had written while in prison. ‘During the evening a number of people rang begging/ ordering me to stop Miller’s book from being published. I had already taken legal advice and knew there was nothing I could do, but in the end when Betty Ann Kelvin (whose son was murdered) started screaming at me, I started screaming back. My husband took the phone from me, I walked out of the room and Bruce followed me.

  ‘“You promised me a copy of your book,” he said.

  ‘I signed a copy of It’s a Long Way to Truro (which is about the impact on us of Juliet’s death) and he signed a copy of On the Black Hill.

  ‘Over the few days left we spent time together every day, just very quietly, and planned to meet when he got back from Central Australia. We liked each other very much.’

  To Anne-Marie Mykyta

  Alice Springs | Australia | 14 March 1984

  My dear Anne-Marie,

  A quick note from the middle of nowhere to thank you for your beautifully conceived and, in the end, heartening book. Your courage is unsurpassed. Salman and I are having an enjoyable time in the Centre, but, needless to say, wherever I go in the desert, I always nearly get washed away. Love Bruce

  After the Adelaide Festival Chatwin and Rushdie flew to Alice Springs where Chatwin introduced Rushdie to the characters who would reappear, without much disguise, in The Songlines; he also introduced Rushdie (by telephone) to Robyn Davidson, author of Tracks,an introduction that was to have far-reaching consequences. They hired a four-wheel-drive Toyota and drove to Ayer’s Rock. Rushdie went on to Sydney to meet Davidson; Chatwin to the Aboriginal settlement at Kintore. At the end of March, he joined Ninette Dutton for a five-day drive from Adelaide to Boona where they stayed with the poet Pam Bell, who became yet one more in the line of Australian women who admired Chatwin as much as he them. Bell listened to Chatwin talk about his experience with the Aborigines.‘He was desperately trying to go to the centre. It was the most important thing for him and he realised half way through he wasn’t going to be able to do it, he was excluded. You have to earn mystery. It’s only lovers who get there.’

  To Shirley Hazzard

  Postcard, The New Moree Hotel | Newell Highway | Moree | Australia | 5 April 1984

  I hope your aesthetic sensibilities will be OUTRAGED by this card – but this is, after all, the heart of New South Wales . . . [Ninette Dutton’s handwriting] We are thinking and talking of you very much as we career across vast areas of this country while I search for the smallest of wild flowers. We hope to reach Cape York and see some Aboriginal painting. Much love, Nin, Bruce

  To Shirley Hazzard

  Flat 7 | 77 Eaton Place | London | [May 1984]

  My dear Shirley,

  Just back from Sydney to find your wonderful letter of January. I discovered the use of sleeping pills for a long distance flight, and considering the fact that I failed to notice Singapore or Kuala Lumpur or Abu Dhabi, they must have worked. I am only feeling slightly hazy the day after. I enjoyed Oz far more this time than the last. The Adelaide Festival was a little like going to a clinic for a week, in that there were always young, encouraging, nurse-like figures at one’s elbow, with gentle words to say it was time to do this or that. I had never been to such an occasion; hope never to go again; but found that to have done it once was all right. I still maintain what I thought last year: that it is the interior of Australia which determines what goes on around the periphery. At a dinner in Sydney, a very intelligent man picked a quarrel with me; said he never met Aborigines; implied that Aborigines were irrelevant to the Australian situation. I then found voice and said that the Aborigines, or their destruction, were as important as the Penal Colony in the Australian consciousness. The enormous riches of Australia are generated by the heartland; and by the same token that your Sydney intellectual has never met an Aborigine, he has never seen the iron-ore trains approaching Port Headland – without which, of course, the cities of the fringe would not, in their prosperity, exist. But as a place, it is immensely intractable to the pen. How few writers really get the texture of, say, a small town in the Outback! Randolph Stow,642 for Western Australia, is the exception. Why also am I moved, almost to tears, by the women, and indifferent to the men? Except, I may add, by the drunk truckie at a pub famous for its red-neck attitudes, who, when taunted for having abused his Aboriginal wife, tried to explain to his tormentors the immense elaboration of Aboriginal society and when completely lost for words, shouted, ‘I tell you, it’s so com . . . fuckin’ . . . plex!’

  There is one astonishing film on the Bakhtiari nomads called Grass, made by Americans in the Thirties. I’m not sure it’s the one your friends saw. I suspect not. The word ‘rhythm’ is the key to all: one has to remember that the cantillation of rabbis; the to-ing and fro-ing of the Passover and, for that matter, all the prostrations of the Islamic Hadj – are the ritualised versions of an original nomadic journey.643

  I found South Africa of enormous interest. What on earth is to be made of a country in which one can be jailed for marrying a Vietnamese wife, yet be an honoured member of Afrikanderdom if married to a Japanese? The amazing aspect of S.A. is that Apartheid can no longer be seen as anything but a joke, a sick, black joke. Often, in Australia, one heard of South Africans who could no longer support the brutality etc, and had come to a better place. Yet my friends, mostly Jews, I might say, who have to put up with the indignities and yet fight inch by inch to make the system yield, were contemptuous of the runaways. There’s nothing bland about South Africa: and if, by some miracle, the country is saved from the bloodbath so many people have predicted, then its salvation will have been hammered out all the way. The scientists I talked to in Pretoria, for example, seemed to be some of the sanest, most creative people I’ve ever met: there is, one felt, a certain advantage in being so
isolated, for then one can take it for granted. ‘Bob’ Brain, the man I went to see, is I feel sure a genius fit to rank with the giants of the 19th century. He and his assistant have been completely rethinking the theory of evolution, in particular the mysterious transition from ape to man. I’m a bit too gaga to explain this all in a letter: it’ll have to wait till I see you.

  Murray B[ail] took me out to see Maisie Drysdale644 on Tuesday and we had a marathon discussion in the car. I relish his company. I’ve no idea what I’ll be doing, but I have to go away and write all summer. I intend to start on the 1st of May in a friend’s house in France, and just go on and on . . .

  If, ever, I manage to get the work in hand done, I intend to go and learn Russian in Paris with Les Pères Jésuites de Maudon. Russia exerts for me the most enormous fascination; and if one doesn’t get to grips with it now, one never will.

  I am sorry for this incoherent note and send you and Francis all my love,

  Bruce

  Nin Dutton and I sent you a post card from a small town in NSW. She is recovering from the dreadful shock of Geoff’s disappearance,645 and is putting the pieces together in an incredibly courageous way.

  To Anne-Marie Mykyta

  as from Flat 7 | 77 Eaton Place | London | 1 May 1984

  My dear Anne-Marie,

  I am so sorry we never made it on my return to Adelaide. Things were a really terrible and hectic rush. I literally spent hours, rather than days, in the city. And now I’m infinitely far away in a more or less empty French farmhouse, trying to summon up my Australian experience and put it onto paper in some manageable form. We’ll meet again before long, of that I’m sure. Do let me know if you’re heading this way. Much love, Bruce

  To Kath Strehlow

  as from: Flat 7 | 77 Eaton Place | London | 4 May 1984

  My dear Kath,

  On getting back I found in my post the magnificent golden scroll. I hope you didn’t think I’d omitted to thank you: it simply hadn’t come before I left England. I adored seeing you AS USUAL; and you must promise me to signal PROPERLY THIS TIME when you’re next heading this way. The chances I have to tell you of getting me at the above number are remote. I can’t do a thing of work in London (Depressing place!) and at the moment I’m holed up in a farmhouse in France trying to summon up Australia. The best contact is my agent in London: Deborah Rogers, who usually knows where I am, roughly!

  In the hectic rush of leaving Australia, I didn’t get the chance to go to Canberra and talk to Mollison,646 which would be the best way of sussing out the ground. I certainly will write to [him] if you like: but I’d need to know what to write. He is a rather mercurial, but likeable character, and from what I gather he’s been under fire lately. He staked a huge part of his reputation and the gallery’s money on modern American painting; and it turns out the Australian public couldn’t care less about American painting, even though Americans come on special pilgrimages to see the Canberra collection. As Geoff Bagshaw647 rightly said: the place for the Strehlow Collection IS the National Gallery; but as I don’t have to tell you, there are complications!

  Look after yourself; and there is, as a postscript, one thing I beg of you (though it’s absolutely none of my business!). Technicolour film has a tendency to fade unless stored in the right temperature. I do think you should consult an expert on the matter. I took some footage in the Sahara – beautiful footage – and the whole thing is now a shadow of its former self, because I was unaware of this fact.

  Much love,

  Bruce

  To Elizabeth Chatwin

  France | 25 May 1984

  Not doing so badly in complete seclusion: Paris – a nightmare. Have put off Spain till after the summer if at all. Should – or rather will be – back 3/4 weeks for further research etc. XXX B

  To Penelope Tree

  Apartado 73 | Ronda | Spain | 2 July 1984

  Something always prevents me from having MY way and settling on a Greek island. For silly reasons am here in Spain. So you got the Renata A.648 You wanted it, and got it. I couldn’t read it, I have to say and frankly I’m glad you couldn’t. I too adore her – what little I’ve seen of ‘her’: but it does make me realise that NY is a very small pond. A disaster with the Australian book – in that another, by accident, had cannibalised it – temporarily. Think of you always XXX Bruce

  To David King

  Ubeda | Andalucia | Spain | 2 July 1984

  A crowd of small boys have clustered round my windsurfer – on the roof-rack. Recklessly – and with an American Ex card I bought a most elegant and speedy model. When I tried it out, of course, I fell off again and again. I have a ridiculous new book in hand – which has grown ORGANICALLY out of an article. As always B

  To Lydia Livingstone

  Apartado 73 | Ronda | Malaga | Spain | 23 July 1984

  Am stiff and back-biting after 3 months of writing rubbish. But I did buy a windsurfer. Thinking of you often and long to be back. Much love B

  To Murray Bail

  Flat 7 | 77 Eaton Place | London | 31 July 1984

  Dear Murray,

  I am reunited with my post after 5 months: so you can imagine the state I’m in. Fine. You can use the flat from August 23rd for two weeks. I’ll be around but can spend my odd nights in London with friends: but nearly all the time, flat out writing (I hope) about an hour away in the country. All going very badly! I hate all this business of writers doing places – or doing them in – and wouldn’t dream of doing the same for Australia. Hence my problems, but I won’t bore you with them.

  The Cézanne watercolours are at St George’s Gallery.649 Call me the moment your plans firm up, so I can get you the keys etc.

  In haste, Bruce

  To Elisabeth Sifton

  Flat 7 | 77 Eaton Place | London | [August 1984]

  Dearest Elisabeth,

  Enclosed 55 pages of this ‘experiment’. There are many more, but in a chaotic condition, since this is like the jig-saw puzzle you despair of finishing.

  The ‘middle’ of the book, if it has one, is a revelation that, in the case of Swartkrans, the killer of the hominids was not any old beast: but a specialist predator who it appears preferred our kind to the exclusion of almost all other flesh. The coda examines the implication of the fact that at the particular moment in palaeontological history, when our intelligence suddenly appears with a Bang, there was a Beast with whom we were locked in a 1:1 relationship. All very speculative, I admit, but nonetheless arresting!

  Love,

  Bruce

  P.S. I am now intent on getting the thing onto paper first – and then checking and ‘Englishing’ it backwards. Call you next week.

  On 28 August Sifton telegrammed Deborah Rogers: ‘Bruce’s manuscript is tremendously exciting and I am very eager 1. to see the whole thing 2. to see it published.’

  To Ninette Dutton

  Flat 7 | 77 Eaton Place | London | 1 November 1984

  My dearest Nin,

  Sorry if our correspondence has gone a bit astray. I’ve been in the thick of it, beavering away on the book: by the end of the day it’s as much as I can do to sign a cheque, let alone write. And what a monstrosity it is! About monsters, no less! But touch wood, over the last few days I reached a watershed, and can, I believe, see light at the end of the tunnel. The real cause of my distraction was the annual visit to London by my American publisher, Elisabeth Sifton, who has almost become my alter ego when it comes to books. She was wonderful: not only did she take the point, entirely: she also provided the wherewithal to continue – which considering the extremely cranky viewpoint was, to say the least, encouraging.

  Alas, I can’t see my way to coming out again this winter (ours). Who knows, another month of this dripping cold climate and I may change my mind utterly. It is after all possible these days to hop on a plane. But on balance I think I’d better try and slog it out. The only date I have in mind is Midsummer’s Day in Finland at something called the Lahti Festival. By that time all being we
ll, I’ll have cleared the decks for my so-called ‘Russian’ project650 – though, I have to say, I’m having second thoughts about beginning that at once. Wouldn’t it be better, I ask myself, taking a real wanderjahre, my head empty of grandiose (and? unattainable projects), just to roam around and write short stories. Anyway to Finland I shall go, but what I wondered is whether that coincided with – or around – your plans for Moscow.

  Many thanks for the clipping. I never read S[alman] R[ushdie]’s Tatler article651 because I had a feeling it might make me mad – and wouldn’t it just? Silly arse! It’s one thing to go knocking Australia if you’re paid to do it by an American publisher – as I believe Shiva Naipaul652 is doing – quite another when you’re invited by the city, given that degree of attention, even adulation – and then what? He got it all from a rather painted-up, ogle-eyed and not-to-my-mind-so beautiful literature-groupie who went the rounds, it seems, of every writer at the festival before latching onto him. How silly can you be? The Mayor, in my view, was dead right. But then I do believe he’s gone a bit barmy recently. He left his wife for my friend the ‘camel lady’ Robyn Davidson653 – all my fault – or so I was told! – but now he’s back again in London, full of the ‘weirdness’ of Australia. Frankly, I find the ‘weirdness’ of Mrs Thatcher’s Britain quite enough to contend with without adding to the list. And it is strange to find myself, as a Pom, becoming more and more patriotic and defensive about Australia – thank God I wasn’t so thunderstruck on my first visit – but now I see the whole thing in better perspective, I’m secretly tempted to up-sticks and move there.