Spirit of Place: Letters and Essays on Travel

by Lawrence Durrell

  But life on Corfu had one more gift for Durrell. He had the good fortune to live at leisure, free from all outside pressures, free from the need to write for money or work to a date-line, while he matured and finished his first important book, written under a number of provisional titles, Lover Anubis, Anubis, Anabasis, until it emerged as The Black Book. As John Unterecker was to say: “The writing of it was in an odd way both a consequence of spiritual agony and a labour of love. For Durrell had no expectation that any publisher would risk bringing out a book so savage in spirit and so uncompromising in language. It was, in this sense at least, the purest work that Durrell was ever to do; it was a demonstration, principally for Lawrence Durrell’s private benefit, that he had the potential of becoming a major writer.”

  Durrell sent the only typescript to Henry Miller in Paris, telling him to pitch it into the Seine if he did not approve. Miller was enthusiastic, he urged upon Durrell the importance of retaining his integrity, of not compromising, of not allowing an expurgated edition. He put aside the writing of his own Tropic of Capricorn, and, helped by Anaïs Nin, typed out three copies, one each for Herbert Read, T. S. Eliot, and Jack Kahane. Kahane was persuaded to publish The Black Book in Paris, and Miller saw it through the press himself. In due course copies “in plain wrappers” began to filter into England and America where Cyril Connolly and T. S. Eliot buttressed Miller’s high opinion with their own tributes: Eliot writing: “[it] is the first piece of work by a new English writer to give me any hope for the future of prose fiction.”

  When The Black Book was reprinted in Paris after the war Durrell wrote in the new preface: “This novel—after twenty-odd years—still has a special importance for me and may yet leave its mark upon the reader who can recognize it for what it is: a two fisted-attack on literature by an angry young man of the ’thirties.… With all its imperfections lying heavy on its head, I can’t help being attached to it because in the writing of it I first heard the sound of my own voice, lame and halting perhaps, but nevertheless my very own. This is an experience no artist ever forgets—the birth-cry of a newly born baby of letters, the genuine article.”

  [1934?]

  [Bournemouth]

  To George Wilkinson.

  … Anent ourselves:

  Corfu is the ideal place to use as a base for Mediterranean exploration: Nancy is rabid to examine the traces of early Byzantine painting down that coast of Greece, while I am mad to get to Knossos and examine the traces of a Minoan civilization, of which by this time I’m quite sure, my ancestors were a part. Do you know that the average height of the race was five four? Think it over. They were sturdy and lustful, and had a vital art of their own, which owes practically nothing to the huge contemporary civilizations around it. Only one more discovery will complete my certainty & happiness: did they wear silver candle-snuffers upon their most wholesome privities? I pray hourly that they did.

  I’m doing my level best to assemble a huge small library to bring out, so that we’ll have food for study & delight. I’m planning a specialized essay on Elizabethan writers, not because I hanker for the scholarly life, or a scholarly reputation, but because I’ve been reading so much lately that it helps to pour it into some sort of mould. It is also teaching me to concentrate, which is a valuable thing, hitherto neglected. I’ve got a great number of valuable reprints by scurrying round, and a huge facsimile Shakespeare fourteen ins. high by nine wide by nearly three thick … which ought to sink the boat … lots of poetry, too, some philosophy, some art-books (Nancy’s), but very little modern reading. For about the last three months I’ve not read a single contemporary thing: as the rich Yank art-collector said when he was showing Epstein round his collection: “My taste stops after 1633.”

  Gong.

  Having sealed up your letter and forgotten to post it, I gave way to an ungovernable impulse, dearies, and wipped it cwudely open. The days are so dun and gloomy that we pant for the tropics: as much too, to see your faces again. My mother has gotten herself into a really good financial mess and has decided to cut and run for it. Being too timid to tackle foreign landscapes herself, she wants to be shown around the Mediterranean by us. She wants to scout Corfu, largely because your letters have stimulated her so. If she likes it I have no doubt but that she’ll buy the place. For my own part I’m a leetle worried by its proximity to Albania. Have you read about the marriage of George & Marina? The papers deny any state of motive, but it occurred to me that we are more and more afraid of being unable to guard trade routes through Suez, and Greece will be the ideal base of operations against any southern country: more than that, if you look at the map you will observe how wonderful a base Corfu makes if Balkan trouble happens: Ideal … What I want to know is, will you, Wilkinson, give your life for gallant little Greece, our gallant little ally? I thought not. Then move a few islands south. Personally the intentions of us are (strictly dishonourable as ever) to have a glance round for a good base of operations with a cheap exchange and pit out our existence for a year or two until our stock as artists goes up …

  Love and love. Send us a snap or two sumtime.

  [1935]

  Hotel Internazionale,

  Brindisi, Italy

  To Alan G. Thomas

  Dear Alan,

  You will see from this that we have arrived so far—at a certain cost. The whole town has been alive with rumours of the Greek revolt—and the services have been disorganized. The place swarms with people who are held up. But by some special dispensation we have discovered a boat which will drop us off at Corfu sometime in the middle of tonight. I hope you can read this scrawl. I can get you a copy of the infamous Lady Chatterly for 14 liras—about 5/-.

  If the English are a nation of shop keepers, then the Italians are a nation of waiters. Positively they radiate a sort of charming servility. I have never been as waited on in any country—or, I might add, so badly. All the service is done from the wrong side.

  I feel most disinclined to write. It’s very wearying kicking one’s heels in this military and naval port.

  I’ve got quite a lot of amusement parading the slums and attending funerals. Most impressive. But the excitement of Greek civil war—and Italian importunity consumes me. However we leave tonight. God knows what time we reach the island. Dawn, I imagine. We have met a charming Greek boy who speaks Italian and has taken us round the town; the only night-haunt—apart from the more obvious houses of Venus for the soldiers—is a vacuous café with a very bad amateur band. In order to give what Pat would call “body” to their music they accompany an exceedingly improbable and tinny gramophone. As the instruments are tuned from a piano which is several tones flat you can imagine the resulting noise.

  Still I bear up very well under the stacks of local vino I am forced to consume. I’m developing a paunch like a channel buoy.

  … For the rest—I’m too bored and the pen is too bad to write more. If I perish in the revolution you might save this letter as an example of what Italy can do to a gallant Englishman.

  P’fui

  Larry.

  [1935]

  Pension Suisse, Corfu

  To Alan G. Thomas

  Dear Alan,

  A line to tell you we’re alive, but held up owing to the non arrival of the bloody baggage. We hope it’ll come on tomorrow’s Greek boat from Trieste. Not another word from either Mr. Curtis or Mr. Brown: there must be some mistake about the novel: certainly they spelt my name Durnell: perhaps someone wrote a novel called “Pied Piper of Buggers” and that, being fashionable, was chosen! Today, tired of inactivity, I went into a shop to buy some exercise books to do some notes for the next novel. After a hell of a search (the amount people here know about their stock would give Baker the shudders) I ran a couple of dust-heavy books to earth and asked the price. Believe it or not they weighed them! On a great swivelling baggage weigher—like they have in the customs—with brass weights—and said, with uncertainty—24 dracs—I/-.

  Enclosed are a few rotten
scraps. More soon.

  Love to everyone

  Larry

  [1935]

  Pension Suisse, Corfu

  To Alan G. Thomas

  Dear Alan,

  What a smile on the face of the tiger! The family crawled ashore today and took us in bed so to speak, and wrung my withers with the news. We dashed straight off to the consul and seized the joyous letters. Of course accept. Positively accept. I feel like a sort of pontifical Lawrence this morning—I suppose the bloom will wear off in time. In a few days time my address will be Villa Agazini, Perama, Corfu. The scenic tricks of this paragon of places are highly improbable, and I don’t quite believe my eyes as yet. Let me digest—But I hate the Italians.

  … Cheerio and a million thanks—my love to Cooper—Pat—and anyone else who needs it.

  Lawrence Durrell

  [1935]

  Villa Agazini or Bumtrinket,

  Perama, Corfu

  To Alan G. Thomas

  Dear Alan,

  As you will see, we have more or less moved in. The paint is still drying on our furniture however, and there are a hundred and one things to be done yet. I’ve told you how unique it is up here, stuck on the hillside, haven’t I? Well, multiply that by four. Today we rose to a gorgeous sunlight and breakfasted in it. Our breakfast table looks out plumb over the sea, and the fishing boats go swirling past the window. There’s a faint mist over Albania today but here the heat is paralysing. Bees and lizards and tortoises (yesterday I caught a tortoise eavesdropping on us) are making hay; and the peasants together with those animals who cannot make hay are making water beautifully and indiscriminately. Soon I’ll send you some photographs—but even they can’t do justice to it all. Sometimes I almost suspect the whole thing; I don’t think I can yet really believe in it.

  George has bought a cool white sailing-boat and we bathe from it every day: in really deep blue water: fathoms of it. Of course, like all Edens the place has its drawbacks—and I don’t mean the donkeys’ foreskins. The peasants are incorrigible thieves and liars, but make up for it by having the dandiest arse-action when they walk. This is due to always carrying huge weights on their heads. They’re very saucy and can be persuaded to do almost anything within reason. Food is cheap: but the wines are not as brilliant as in Italy—and the milk is poor stuff: also the butter. But local stuff is good and cheap. For instance there is a good peasant wine which tastes and looks like iced blood. It costs 6 dracks—3d per bottle. What more does one want? In England I couldn’t buy a bottle of horse-piss for 3d. Yesterday we dined very royally on red mullet—as you know a most epicurean dish—it cost 10d. But prices will bore you stiff. The revolution has rocked the drachma up to 517: we hope it’ll go to six hundred, and it may.

  Peter Bull, the actor, of whom you wot, is coming out next month for a week or so, to stay with George. He’s going to have a long way round from N.Y. The island is littered with writers of all degrees, sizes, shapes, religious denominations, nationalities, and capabilities. George is the sort of grand old man of Corfu: his charm and his whiskers make him much sought after. I’m too much of a sans-culotte and bellicose gamin ever to be popular in society. However people are very charming and decent. The luggage hasn’t arrived yet. I’m praying for it daily. Leslie is in his element rowing boats all over the place and has nearly been wrecked once: blown down to Benitza and been forced to paddle back.

  I am in pod again and am pupping a novel: but it’s too upsidedown here as yet to really work. God but the Sun. I’ve written a lovely poem which I transcribe for you on the back of this.

  Give my love to everyone. Mrs. Penry, Pat, Watts, etc., and tell them to come out here. Also a chunk of greeting to the giant intellects of the Municipal College.

  Adio

  Larry.

  The other day Professor Dawkins blew in to see George at A. J. Symonds’ request. You may remember him in Corvo’s Desire and Pursuit of the Whole, as Macpawkins, the “blubber-lipped professor of Greek.” A nice little man. Going to Mt. Athos to write a book about it. Laughs like a penny whistle.

  A LYRIC OF BODIES

  What sweet white meat our bodies are

  Who have no canon but delight:

  Such pretty devil’s food—

  O! daintier by far

  (We triflers in a foreign night)

  Than all those delicately-tended meats

  That weight the tables of the rich.

  Angels have little meat in them

  But vague and evanescent shapes

  Declare the wise

  Who hoard their comforts up for paradise.

  Are we then brutes, my dear, or hinds

  Who for refreshment can devise

  A sport so rich, a food so able

  That soul, a gracious wedding-guest

  Waits at the body’s table?

  Corfu 1935

  Sometime when you have it to spare, will you send me the Turner satire? Like a B.F. I lost it.

  Sorry

  Larry

  [1935]

  Villa Agabumtrinket,

  Perama, Corfu

  To Alan G. Thomas

  Dear Alan,

  … I’d like to tell you how many million smells and sounds and colours this place is, but my stock of superlatives would give out. As I sit, for instance. Window. Light. Blue grey. Two baby cypress lulling very slightly in the sirocco. Pointed and perky like girls’ breasts. The sea all crawling round in a bend as the coast curves away to Lefkimo with one sailing-boat on it. In the road, which I can’t see since the lower sill of window hides it, the peasants are passing on donkeys. Raving, swearing crashing colours, scarves and headdresses. To the north nothing. Ahead Epirus and Albania with a snuggle of creamy cloud clotted on them. South mists and the mystery of the other islands lying out there, invisible, in the water.

  In this quiet room above the sea I’ve just played the fourth1 again. I know it now—every stich of it—more intimately than I know Nancy. I’ve got it in my bowels. Sort of empathy. I’ve been it. I act it, sleep it, shit it, sleep with it—everything. And I can tell you that compared to it, the Emperor is a collection of musical platitudes written for a lavatory-paper musical box by a deaf mute. So There!

  Can you arrange my paper reviews for me with the slip I sent you? Let me know how much money you want and I’ll send it you. And for god’s sake only send me good reviews if there are any. The least bit of discouragement and my present novel will go farting off the rails into the blue. Wait till I’ve finished it and then I can face the superior sneer of the reviewer runtlings.…

  My God! talking of epics. Have you read a book called Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller? Published by the Obelisk Press, Paris. I implore you either to order the shop a copy and read it, or buy one yourself. There isn’t a word with which to express its excellence. Of course, like all works of genius it’s strong fruit and you’d have to be careful about getting it into England. If you know anyone who is going to Paris make him get it for you. You won’t regret it.

  Everyone champs for the Lawrence here. I’m eager to read it as hell. Lucky swine you are being in the trade. BUT GET THE MILLER. It’s of another pedigree but as large as anything as yet written in the novel line.

  And don’t feel guilty about not writing me long letters very often. I understand perfectly.

  Hail!

  Larry

  EZRA

  Ci-git Ezra

  Who knew ten languages

  But could not choose

  When writing English poetry

  Which to use.

  W. H. DAVIES: “COUNTRY NEWS”

  A bed I have

  So white and straight.

  All night I lie

  And copulate.

  A mirror on

  The mantel-shelf,

  So I can lie

  And watch myself

  While I am warming

  To my task.

  What more can any

  Poet ask?

  [1935]


  c/o The Ionian Bank,

  Corfu

  To Alan G. Thomas

  Dear Alan,

  … We’ve just spent a week or so with the Hudsons at the north of the island, in a little bay where their house is [Mangkephali]. It’s much more bristly and rocky and male country up there. Cliffs and promontories. We’re thinking of taking a house up there for the winter, which would be a daring and lonely thing to do. It’s built on a great rock over the water. In winter they say the sea fairly licks up at the drawing room windows.

  Yes, the Lawrence is a great book.2 I’ve just finished it. But man what a disgusting little thing he was. His own personality decreased as the saga grew. I’ve lost every shred of interest I had in him. What a little neuter, ripping and goring his body because he loathed it so. There’s no touch of healthy sperm anywhere in the book, and as for all that talk of the men degrading him by talking about their wives, illnessess, food etc., well Pfui to him. He seemed to be nothing but a tedious adolescent applying the thumbscrews of denial and torture to himself. Yes, a sort of nasty child. There’s not one healthy straightforward emotion or conviction in the whole thing. Yet the thing is epic somehow. Poor little fellow.

  Sometime when you have the money you might buy Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer, pub. at 50 francs by the Obelisk Press. 338 Rue St.-Honoré. Paris. This is the book for our generation. Of course it may shake you a bit on the physical side, because you don’t really know every inch of physical passion, and your experience in the world of the body is limited as yet. But when you do manage to explore this exquisite dimension of sense you will find your experience bearing out all he has to say, and the book will really grow on to you. In the meantime read it for what you can get out of it, and really salt yourself to it. Keep it on the shelf. As we grow we’ll realise more and more what it’s about. I am convinced that it’s the greatest thing written in our lifetimes. Roughly it’s idea is this. Where all the other people like Joyce and Lewis got stuck in the morass and dirt of modern life, Miller comes out on the other side with a grin, whole, hard and undamaged. He’s the first man really to cross the modern bog safely. The rest—all those tedious Ulysses and Chatterlies got stuck and choked up to the eyes: or else, like R. Aldington, stayed on safe romantic ground and spent their time moaning about the bog without ever going near it. For your own sake you must understand the book. It’s a manifesto. A world, says Miller, in which there must be no hope, but no despair. There is the different angle. Everyone else has been only too successful painting the despair, but no one has rejected it, and really jumped headlong into the dirt with guts. For Godsake Alan read this book. Get someone to bring it back from Paris for you. Even if you don’t like it the first edition value is going to be enormous. Even George dimly likes it!…