MINE. André Brink, love love,
Your Con.
PS: This is a letter, this. C. –
Don’t forget the photo album.
Grahamstown,
Wednesday, 23 October 1963
Darling, little white poesje,
Strange – or actually not strange at all, but obvious! – that you wrote out the lovely Van Waalwijk poem for me, because I remember once wanting to send it to you but then I forgot all about it. (Whatever the case, you’re not getting your little white “poesje” back – or does it have a brown coat again, shining in the light? – it’s mine, and you’re just keeping it in “safe custody” for me.)
I’ve been thinking so much in the past few days about our little moesie-girl. Has she joined her brothers and sisters down the drain? Or is she coming?
Darling, dammit, I feel such frustration today! First the call that didn’t go through last night, probably because Mrs Oxley was out. (And the frustration doubled because I knew you’d be out, too!) And then today’s frustration because I can’t phone tonight. You see, Estelle was going to swop her shift tonight with someone else – that’s why I wanted to phone yesterday; but then the whole thing fell through and so I let it be known I’d phone tonight rather, but guess what: the two of them agreed to swop after all, so once again I had to send a telegram! I hope you were able to keep up with all the conflicting reports. (The swop, by the way, is only for this week.)
I wanted to talk with you – especially about the moesie-girl, and about the Dagbreek matter. I’ve been through a few highly upsetting days because the wrong twist they gave this “sensation” has buggered everything up. I heard from Chris [Barnard] in Jhb that a good number of subscribers to 60 have withdrawn their subscriptions because they don’t want a journal in which a “national traitor” is one of the associates, and Bartho might have to resign from the editorial team as a result of pressure from APB. Etc. etc. etc. Oh this lunatic country of ours!
But I’ve just sent Dagbreek an urgent statement – to set the distortion right, and to motivate my position that I’m attacking a law and a situation, not South Africa itself (“loyal resistance”); that the truth remains the truth, “singular and old”, whether it’s inside or outside the country. Now, as far as I’m concerned, the whole row is a thing of the past. Over to the readers.
I will say NOTHING to the Sunday Times. When they quoted me incorrectly, I didn’t rush off to Dagbreek. The ST has got nothing, fuck-all, to do with this matter. It simply adds sensation to the whole thing, and that messes everything up. We’ve had more than enough sensation. You too. You must also say nothing to Muis [Levin], my little thing. The ST doesn’t exist to present points of view. They want circulation, via sensation. Finis.
Our lectures came to an end today. Finally. All this reaction has tired me out, though. And the Simenon translation still awaits me – from Monday I’ll be working at a rate of 10 000 words a day; I want to finish so that I can work unhindered on Orgie. Perhaps it’ll be completed by the time I come to you.
The cover still hasn’t arrived, but I phoned Koos today and it’s apparently arriving on Friday’s flight. I hope it’s good. Going by what Koos says, my fear is it’ll be too “realistic”.
Koos is apparently driving through Grahamstown on his way to Natal on 3 or 4 Nov. and is likely to drop in. I’ll have to play my cards carefully – because I’d been thinking I would say I’ll be staying with Koos! I’ll think of something. Thin ice. But I’m coming, hell or high water.
I love you. I need you. The past few days, and all this work, have exhausted me. I want to be there and rest with you, and feel happy, without tension and longing, just you and me, my shining person of light with your soft hands and little curl, having a Martini. Will we be enjoying some drinks again? And we’ll buy you a beautiful dress. Swim, play and live recklessly, fully; and then we’ll come to rest, exhausted, but oh so delicious in the marriage bed that Maggie prepared with such “awe” and scorn?
My Ingrid – my “clean”, “blonde”, beautiful, lovely bride, in quiet enchantment all my muddiness dissolves in you – “a last spot of quiet among the reeds”.
I hail you with love and longing and impatience and yearning and grace,
André.
Wednesday, 23 October 1963
TELEPHONE BROKEN YESTERDAY NO LITTLE ONE MUCH LOVE = YOUR COCOON
Castella
Wednesday night, 23 October 1963, 9:30
My lovely little sparring partner of the disarming letter and the lovely cheque with which I bought something that is going to be such a surprise to you – against my nature, I’m not going to tell you what it is; you’ll just have to come and see on the 8th.
The dead telephone calls – Lord! Waited in a sort of sickness for it last night; and had to find out that the Oxleys’ phone is not working – received two telegrams at once; one sent at three o’clock and one at four o’clock – with the same message – are you mad? Thought the tidings were at the very least disastrous. So I postponed the visit to Simone – till tonight – from there to Chris at seven – cancelled our dinner; and had a drink; he brought me back here at 8:30 where this telegram was waiting: “Impossible after all …” Ag, I know it’s not your fault. You mustn’t be sad about it; I understand and I love you. Did you then not receive my telegram? I sent it myself from the main post office at 1:30 and said, among other things: There is no little one … Yesterday already, but I felt it coming about two days earlier and was expecting it. Wonder what became of the telegram; you should have received it by at least three o’clock.
Chris and I just had tea together and, laughing, read the terrible “poem” by Susann Kotzé: there’s a blatant dedication: To Ralph Palmer (poor thing).
Beminde man, ek vra, o laat my nou reeds gaan
voor hierdie hunkering in my siel steeds hoër gloei
en voor my bloed ontstuimig deur my are vloei
en ek ontblote van my weerstand voor jou staan.
Want môrenag, as jou liefde deur my diepte roer
sal ek miskien jou lippe op my voel verstyf
en ek, aan jou gebind deur bande van die lyf
sal blindelings uitdryf in die nag, deur pyn ontroer.
This book will accompany me to Gordon’s Bay, because I’ve decided that’s the place for us; sea and mountain, and (apparently) lovely accommodation.
I’m no longer far away; today I was very near to you; sometimes even closer than when we are together; “your supreme reality.” But I am sleepy and tired; this is not a letter; it’s a goodnight, much more than a letter: ’Night to your moesies and your beautiful teeth, and your papie, upon which my hand may rest.
Your Cocoon.
Grahamstown
Saturday morning, 26 October 1963
My Kontjie, darling,
I’m sitting here, waiting for eleven-thirty, because one of those affairs that are the cross of academic life will then begin – the inauguration of a new chancellor, where we all have to make our august appearance in togas and stuff. Hideous. I’ll be bunking this afternoon’s “garden party”; one has to draw the line somewhere.
The worst of the upheaval around the cover is finally over; I’ve only just dropped it at the station and phoned Koos to let him know. It doesn’t look like there’ll be enough time to change much. It doesn’t really matter, either. I’m sick to death of covers.
Thank you for last night’s wonderful, peaceable conversation. Today in two weeks’ time we’ll be lying on the beach or walking somewhere on a mountain; the air and sea and the stillness will be ours.
I wanted to send you another tape, but the last few days have just been too hectic. Monday I’ll have the whole afternoon to myself, and I’ll do it then.
I’m feeling a little frustrated because, with all the bustling about this week, I’ve not been able to get back to Orgie. It’s such an insult when one is unable to do one’s work. It’s only when I’m with you, and when I write, that I live fully; the
rest is just marking time, “spying out the options”. I want to be done with it by the time I come to you. Maybe I can start again this afternoon, or tomorrow – it’s a slightly difficult section, because “his” life must now emerge, especially his married life … and I’m not neutral in this regard, I can’t just separate myself from it; it’s an oppression. But maybe it’ll come out right. After this section the “search for the deceased god” begins – and that should go well.
Oh you, you: I love you. And I need you, urgently. I am terribly tired; after this year’s work, the rush with the recent translation, and this week’s disruptions around Dagbreek and the cover, I feel rather trapped; not free; far away from the sun. And for that reason I want to be with you, come to rest, be touched by life again, be moved towards the light; you do all of this, and for that reason you are so good, so precious.
I dreamt that I earned R2 000 somehow in prize money, and the two of us went away, far, untraceably far away, to small Greek islands with those old white pillars from the time of Homer; and a blue sea, a world full of myths, a sky full of gods, a forest full of satyrs, a little village with old brown fishermen, nets, superstition, piety and the scent of sea and seaweed. We roamed through it all, happy, hand in hand, swimming, playing, lying under the trees talking, and sleeping together in rapture. One must always take into account that “beautiful dreams never return to life”. But our dream is coming. In just two weeks we’ll be in it, and it’s going to be our loveliest and fullest and most happy time of all. Fill your little lamp with oil. Make sure you’re in fine feather. I’m coming – with love that “conquers all things” (verse for today). Now I’m going to have to sprint to be on time.
With love and love and love and softness and passion,
Your André.
Length shirt – armpit: 16”
Length arm (armpit – wrist): 24”!
It’s going to be lovely, my beautiful!
Castella
Monday night, 28 October 1963
My darling,
I wanted to come and say goodnight to you calmly tonight, without shadows, but now the night still stretches far ahead, with Dagbreek here next to me. I was astonished to read Chris Barnard’s attack on you; he is after all a friend of yours and apparently that involves “loyalty” – or is that just towards the press? Abraham de Vries, well. Did they read your statements to the BBC … did you send it to Dagbreek – if so, why don’t they quote from that – for or against …? No, my André, I get the impression that there’s a lot more jealousy at play than anything else. Don’t take any notice of it – envy has a nobler twin – admiration.
My first reaction was that you should resign from the editorship of 60, is this now an ultimatum … you or Bartho? God! Why must Bartho and his precious APB-bladdy-work always be protected? Of that, I’ve now also had enough. I like Bartho. Everyone likes Bartho. And we know it’s better that he rather than anyone else is head of APB … but Bartho came and asked me, against his principles and convictions, to leave “Die Kind” out of Rook en Oker – Bartho’s play, Die Verminktes [The Maimed] – which is a sharp attack on the South African situation, has been performed in England – do they call him a “traitor”, and my God – if Chris Barnard can publish his miserable Houtbeeld [Wooden Carving] or whatever abroad – would he refuse … (Just one ray of light: Preller’s stupid letter!) (That’s just by the way.) And now: your explanation to Dagbreek … why does poor old Uys get dragged in by his balding head and is then left aside? “Creative resistance must always be loyal.” To whom? Yourself – the truth – fine, then. But I think more consideration needs to be given – (Lord!) to the meaning of loyalty. I can only be loyal towards something I believe in, admire, something I can identify with. “My people.” I do not believe in the Nazi’s policies; I couldn’t be loyal to them, even if I were a hundred times a German. I cannot defend them. Therefore loyalty is out of the question.
Anti-South African (the Sunday Times). God! What is South African and what’s anti it? Anti-government, ah! So, my precious, “to the country I remain wholeheartedly loyal”. But South Africa or “the country” is not the Nats, thank God! At some point or other we’ll all have to start thinking, a search, relentless, along the lines of “Liberal Nationalism”, but much, much further than this. What a task! “Loyalty alone to the highest I know, more than to a friend or brother …” and maybe Chris Barnard found it …! His ambiguous, rather “clever” declaration to Dagbreek concerning 60 makes me weep out loud. Unless you remain editor, I’ll withdraw my subscription and my hitherto meagre contributions, expose this skulduggery in Contrast etc. etc. etc. (But I am busy with a song of lamentation, my first long poem – which I naturally wanted to give to 60 and for which I’ve already been approached by Contrast.)
Dear child! I love you. The Sunday Times. You’ve probably also seen that mess. I was sitting reading it perfectly calmly on the train to Bellville when my eye caught that tasteless photograph of me … I can assure you I’d given Muis as little of a statement or whatever for publication as you’d done – and so did Jack – I phoned him (Muis) today and when he said that Jack had given one, I said: “That’s a lie!” God, André, I can’t bear it when someone uses or abuses me. I don’t want cheap publicity in this slimy (probably like all Sunday newspapers) – why not rather a ban on their filthy sensationalism than on a Sunday swim? No, I gave this Muis a good telling off. I once gave him his miserable job back after he’d almost lost it because of his unfounded reports about me – because he’s got a whole bunch of kids. But today I told him that in future I’ll simply be greeting him – “and that goes for André too …” And that’s probably all there is about this dirty business. And then one confronts the shocking fact – there is no longer a platform for the serious person – everything just gets used – in whatever way. The Sunday Times and similar newspapers “play into the hands of the enemy”. And the enemy is stupidity and callousness and bondage and fear, and dishonesty and recklessness, all of which probably is stupidity and the celebration of stupidity, the greatest POWER on earth.
My André, my heart, defend yourself against the “battalions of lies and organizations of hate”. Because I’m going to “entirely encompass” you again (in just eleven days). Thank you for your letter; and your telephone call on Friday – and you are right, this time is going to be the most wonderful, in the Van Riebeeck Hotel – thank you for your measurements – I’ll see to it – and stay CALM till then – with the longing and passion and love that you know so well by now. As always for always,
COCOON.
Today’s reading:
Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do!
Tuesday night, 29 October 1963, 9:15
Dearest my mine,
I have just missed your phone call – when I opened the gate, I heard Mrs Oxley put the telephone down – I was with Simone and came back early precisely because I thought you might phone – sorry, my heart – the stupid bus drove past and then I had to walk across the sports grounds – all the way home. And now you’re probably wondering where I’m roaming around? And I still wanted to ask you whether I should dye my hair white – it’s been cut short. Last night, when I wrote to you, I was too angry about the BBC affair to even tell you properly about the weekend. Went to the beach on Saturday – I ended up not being in the mood for a whole weekend in Bellville – and had a lovely swim with Simone, and Saturday evening had a peaceful braai on the beach with Jack and Simone – Uys and his teacher-girlfriend joined us at the house. Only went to my friends in Bellville on Sunday – home at twelve o’clock. Yesterday nothing – today supper with Mrs Bouws – and that’s all the news! (And this is, in any case, far more than your usual “news”, my emotional darling!) And, oh yes, did I really forget to tell you – I’m now getting tea. They decided against tea in the board meeting and so I went to see the Brigadier.
After these meagre offerings it probably seems that I’m not very busy, but my heart, I hardly have ti
me to read the beautiful Stroomgebied and by this stage I am ravenously hungry for poems – intellectually-sexually-poetry-hungry. Now you’ll probably read something into that. The jersey is coming along – thank you for your measurements – maybe it’s a bit big – because your measurements were late, but that’s just how it will have to be. I’m looking forward enormously to Die Ambassadeur. Koos says the first copy won’t be ready before the 6th. What plan have you now devised with regard to your “accommodation”?
You’d have a heart attack if you had to walk into the castle now – newspaper clippings and cut-out newspapers EVERYWHERE – but Maggie is coming tomorrow. I’m going to have a bath and sleep immediately now so that I don’t have to look at the mess. With you – because I actually haven’t for a long time – you are very close these days – are you calm and happy? I would so much like to speak to you – now. Now I will just have to rely on “the silence (that) becomes the dancing”. I’m looking forward to the tape and I’m so sorry I haven’t been able to make one for you yet – yours will probably have to be played at my good friends in Clifton again.
Love my precious my André my own. There are ten little pebbles left then the Volksie is red and you dead tired and bathed and happy beside me.
Love also for little Anton from little Simone,
Cocoon.
Grahamstown
Wednesday morning, 30 October 1963
Sunchild, moonchild, starchild,
I miss you!
I hoped there might be a letter from you this morning, but no such luck, and last night I wanted to go to the movies (Brigitte …!) but stayed home precisely to phone you, except “Miss Jonker is not in this evening”. Never mind, I know, it’s my fault; I was the one who said I’d phone tonight.
But I wanted to talk to you so badly, because I finished Orgie yesterday at six o’clock. 88 pages – not quite double-spacing, which means it’ll run to just over 100 pages in print. I’m very pleased with it. I think it’s gained an increasingly musical form, in which the emotional, irrational, “non-significatory” impression of the words become more important than the text’s logical import; and in which symbols, words, and bits of sentences all recur, like musical themes. I am not, as in ordinary prose, dealing with one line or one row of notes at a time, but trying to work in chords. One of the pages is entirely black! (The walk into night – which is not merely a real night.) And as I’ve already said: I’m going to base the cover on an enchanting, dynamic red rooster by [Marc] Chagall. (I’ve suddenly developed an obsessive adoration for Chagall. When I’m in the Cape – just ten days, darling! – I want to buy some beautiful art books, and shut my eyes to the cost.) I’m so broke. But I’m going to start working on John Malherbe’s new book today – not too long, the same as the Pharoahs’ one – and see if I can’t finish it before I come down. Not sure, because piles of exam scripts will be arriving on Friday – awful work.
Flame in the Snow Page 25