March 8. My angel got back safe on the evening of the 5th. Mario and his assistant Sue are behaving badly, trying to get him to pay for all sorts of things they had agreed to pay for; so letters have to be written. Nick Wilder has been helping us with his advice. That wretched pair are both dishonest and incompetent. They didn’t get Don a single notice from any critic and they didn’t sell a single one of his pictures. As Nick says, Mario’s treatment of the show was as a social, not an artistic event. As long as there was a big crowd at the opening and Don got interviewed on T.V., he felt that was all Don could possibly expect or want.
It is pouring down rain, in violent storms. I am pounding away at the manuscript of Wanderings, which, in this first draft, means chiefly copying out letters and diary extracts; I’m just getting the outline of the narrative, not yet writing the narrative itself. My chief concern is that it will be so awfully long. I fear those two volumes.
Nick Wilder told us that, a week ago, he had a dream. In the dream he felt wonderful and he knew this was because he had given up smoking altogether. Up to that time, Nick had been smoking three packs a day; but, since the dream, he says he has not only stopped smoking but has absolutely no desire to do so. If this continues, it will be next door to a miracle. I see it as a sudden intervention by the Deep Will. It gets impatient and tells Nick to cut it out. This makes sense, because Nick does have heart trouble and may very well be in danger of losing his life. Nick goes right on drinking, however. He said he’d been drunk every night this week. He is a really lovable character.
March 14. Nick Wilder is still off smoking—or was, at any rate, when last heard from on the evening of the 12th, when we went to the opening of Joe Goode’s show at the Wilder Gallery. Joe’s new work is called Vandalism. The pictures are torn in places; the effect is a bit like that of posters which have been exposed to the weather. I like them better than his earlier work.
Afterwards, there was a party at Ceeje’s; the upstairs restaurant where Don had his after-opening party on July 12, last year. Joe Goode has another girlfriend now. Mary Agnes appeared briefly, just to show that she didn’t mind, but she did. We sat with Billy Bengston and Penny and Robin and Jessie French. Billy gave me a very beautiful rose pink silk scarf he was wearing, and then announced he was going to get drunk, and did, and passed out. It was understood that we were no longer mad at Robin—for having deserted us as an agent without warning us in advance—and Robin has begun to talk vaguely about hiring us for some job at Paramount.
Last night we saw Swami, briefly. He complained that his pulse was too rapid but admitted that the doctor hadn’t been able to find anything particularly wrong with him. Almost for the first time, he asked us to leave after only a few minutes, saying that people tired him. I could see that it was a strain on him, just trying to attend to what we said. When Don had said something and then I said something, his head jerked around painfully, like an old animal which is being teased by two people competing for its attention.
Ananda and some of the other nuns take the attitude that this is the beginning of the end; Swami isn’t gaining any ground, as they put it. Ananda said, “He’s failing.” But Chetanananda—who really cares about Swami, I feel—I mean, really values him in a way that the nuns, with their cunty “oh, he’s just a cute little boy, inside” attitude, never never could—said, “Swamiji is becoming more and more indrawn.” In other words, Chetanananda sees Swami as preparing himself spiritually for his own mahasamadhi, not just passively “failing” physically. Chetanananda answered the questions at the reading, last night. I felt that we were consolidating our relationship; we get along together far more easily than I do with Asaktananda. This morning, on the phone, Chetanananda said to me, with bursts of giggles, “We feel that you belong to us, Chris—you are our very own!”
I talked to Bob Adjemian, who enthused about their last Shiva Ratri, at which the worship had been broken up into a number of small groups in different parts of the temple, instead of taking place in the shrine only. A few people brought their own lingas,146 as well as bells to ring and other implements for worship. Bob told with some satisfaction that the bells used by Jim Gates and himself had made an ugly noise and had annoyed many of the nuns. I sensed that this was one of those occasions on which the monks had asserted themselves. At the Hollywood Center, the monks are always having to do this because, as latecomers, they are second-class citizens. Nun hating is one of the great dangers there for the young male aspirant. And yet, I envied Bob’s utter involvement in this scene. However parochial they may appear to be, they are all going somewhere or trying to.
Abedha volunteered to drive me home, because the devotees from Venice hadn’t shown up for the reading, knowing that Swami wouldn’t attend it. We talked about his approaching sannyas—he has been there twelve years. Abedha astounded me by saying that he wanted “more than anything” to become a swami, “because then I’ll know that they really accept me, they don’t want to throw me out.” He said that he had no idea what the others thought of him. I got a frightening glimpse into his utter self-seclusion. I’d always known that he had had black moods, but this confession was so odd and shocking. Did it somehow refer to his Jewishness? As for Abedha, I could tell that our conversation had done him good. And I’m not really worried about him. I feel fairly sure that he’ll make it.
Chiefly because of Don, but also because of the work ahead of me and of the health and strength I still feel, I am marvellously happy. I don’t think I have ever been so conscious of happiness as I am now. That’s because I’m aware that my happiness is threatened on every side. I mean, from the material angle, by all the approaching weaknesses of old age. But is it really threatened? How strong is the foundation of love and faith beneath it? That’s what I’m going to find out, one day soon.
March 28. All this time I have been plodding along. Wanderings, as of yesterday, is on its 149th page; I have now reached the period just after Heinz’s arrest in 1937. So it looks like I shall reach page 210 by the time we sail for the States. That would be about seventy thousand words. Of course a lot of that would be cut. But, even if it’s cut to fifty thousand, I would need at least another hundred thousand for the rest of the book. Can it possibly be done in one volume?
What I’m writing now is entirely worthless, except as notes, quotes, reminders. It’s the kind of writing I always do when I’m driving against a great stolid mound of tamas. Rewriting now seems infinitely attractive but I won’t let myself begin until the first draft—I mean, up to our sailing for the States—is finished. I have firmly abstained from rereading the first chapter, the only one which is more or less as it should be.
Also, I keep on with the reconstructed diary; am now nearing the end of 1950. A dreary period. But I would like to record the winter of 1951–1952, even if I go no further.
Also, I’m slowly writing some stuff for the expanded Essentials of Vedanta,147 as requested by Anandaprana. The only interesting aspect of this task is that I am reading all sorts of forgotten or hitherto unknown passages in Vivekananda’s Collected Works. His thoughts about the importance of dwelling on the prospect of death. His image of the cab horse which says that human beings must be very immoral because they are not whipped regularly. He is so marvellous.
My angel is sick. He has severe muscle pains probably caused by some strain at the gym. And he has broken another tooth, which Kurtzman is seeing to right now. And we are supposed to go out tonight to a party at Nick Dunne’s148 to see Marguerite [Lamkin], who [has] just arrived from England. (No, I’ve just realized that that’s tomorrow, thank God.)
As for me, I’ve got an almost complete upper plate, anchored to the back teeth. It is very light and rocks when I eat[,] like a house in an earthquake[,] and may also have a tendency to stink if it isn’t kept clean, but Don says it looks much better than my former collection of odd fangs. Toward the end, two of them began to project forward, like Dracula’s.
Swami was very much better, when I saw him last
night. Last Sunday, the 24th, he even gave a lecture and didn’t collapse afterwards. But he complains of not being able to sleep.
James Ivory and Ismail Merchant are coming here on April 6. Ismail told me this on the phone from New York this morning. Ismail says he has talked to Calley at Warner Brothers and that he and Ivory will in any case do something about getting Meeting by the River produced and directed. Ismail says he likes the script. Ivory so far has only read the play; according to Ismail, he likes it very much. Meanwhile, Jim Bridges is apparently all set to go ahead on White Hunter. He called me on the 18th. I told him we considered his letter from Switzerland a “Dear John.” He denied this, hotly but unconvincingly. He said he would come down to see us and discuss the whole thing. He hasn’t been down and we have heard nothing from him or Jack either. They are at the top of the shit list.
On March 23 we had supper with Jo Lathwood. Paul Wonner and Margit Fellegi149 were there. Bill Brown leaves for San Francisco soon, to find them yet another new home. Paul is staying on here to teach, for a while. Poor old Margit keeps having pains from her cancer (or whatever it is) but she tries so hard to be bright. Jo was telling a story about a visit she recently paid to Palm Springs. She arrived by plane and there were three paraplegics on board, also getting off there—“three cripples in wheelchairs!” Jo exclaimed, her face screwing up with aversion, “Why do they send them there?” Margit answered soothingly: “Perhaps they want to live a little longer.”
Of course, I realize that Jo’s aversion is every bit as touching as Margit’s compassion. Jo is scared of death and just as conscious of its nearness as Margit is, so she doesn’t want to be reminded of it. Margit tries to ignore the signs of her own death, but she isn’t really scared. That’s the only difference between them.
April 14. I’m determined to write something today because it’s Easter Sunday and I’ve written nothing in ages. I celebrated the day by finishing the first draft of part one of Wanderings, up to our arrival in New York in January 1939. It ends on page 201, a bit less than I’d expected. Shan’t read through it for a day or two.
Don is in New York, packing up the show. He’s due to return tomorrow night. I won’t report on his doings until he’s back.
Before he left, he went (after consulting me) and made a scene with Jack and Jim about Jim’s failure to reveal his plans to us; his decision to do White Hunter before Meeting. This had a good effect. Not that it made him change his mind but it put him in a bad strategic position. Jack was obliged to side with us and agree that Jim is cowardly and cagey. Of course it’s by no means certain that they will be able to get White Hunter cast and started. What does seem certain is that Calley will have no part of Ivory–Merchant. He doesn’t have a deal with them and isn’t about to. This he told me himself, on the phone, a few days ago. Am going to see Merchant tonight. Ivory is in San Francisco. He told me definitely, on the phone from New York, that he is prepared to direct Meeting, although he doesn’t altogether like our present script.
A horrible shock: my income taxes came to over thirteen thousand dollars. This was the result of getting the money which was in dispute with Gert Macy, all in one lump!
Jack Larson admitted to Don and me that it was he who advised Jim not to direct Meeting until after he’d done White Hunter. I don’t blame him, really. But the fact remains that they could have told us much sooner.
Now we really don’t want Jim to direct the picture anyhow.
The ground at Vedanta Place has now been cleared for the building of the new convent. It is rough, of course, and there are trenches in it; no more than that. But Swami seems to regard it as a potential deathtrap, a kind of miniature Grand Canyon. He phoned me specially on the 10th, when I was coming up there to read, to warn me to approach his room through the kitchen. “Oh, I’m so glad I caught you!” he exclaimed. I only saw him for about ten minutes. He seemed much better. After describing his new diet in the most minute detail, he suddenly began talking about Rama.150 The whole room was filled with his joy. Tears of joy ran down my cheeks. I forget everything he said. I came out into the kitchen and Krishna was there. All I could say was, “Oh, I’m so glad to see you!” But Krishna understood instantly. We beamed at each other in delight.
Ed Wilson, Jan van Adlmann’s friend,151 came with him to dinner here on March 21—I forgot to record this—and told us that the fossil shell we use to stop the door belongs to the Topanga formation from the middle Miocene and is about twenty-five million years old! I believe Charles Laughton told us something like this too, but Ed is a professional geologist. The shell was there when we bought the house and it was being used for a doorstop then. We are still using it as one, since hearing what Ed said. It seems sort of silly not to.
On April 11, I had supper with Bill Roerick, who is here playing in The Waltz of the Toreadors. He really is a vain old goose. I hadn’t realized how much his looks—his past looks—still mean to him; and this is all the more surprising because I think he is very modest about his acting. He told me that he and Tyrone Power used to be regarded as “the two great beauties.” He also told me that Joe Ackerley had told him he was so like Forster, which sounds so incredible that I wonder if Joe wasn’t making fun of him. Bill also quoted from his own sayings: “Concentration is falling in love with the present moment. There are so many pretty little moments in life which I simply can’t resist.” And Bill added: “After I’d said that, I thought it was so good that I memorized it.”
April 23. This is a real exotic situation. I am sitting in a stylish green-pink-white room at the Saint Louis Hotel, Bienville Street, New Orleans, at 10 a.m. having just breakfasted on bits of cheese, lettuce, apple and two glasses of Saint Louis Beaujolais. The reason why I had the wine and snacks was that the manager sent them up, to greet me on arrival. Also, I remembered how Jay Laval used to recommend wine with breakfast and I am in a piss-elegant mood which wine seems to suit.
This hotel, into which I was booked by Philip Dynia on behalf of Loyola University,152 is a quite beautiful old mansion with an interior courtyard, complete with fountain. It has rather chilly air-conditioning. The weather here is steamy and Gulf-coastish; yesterday, when I arrived we had a tropical rainstorm. Today is beautiful and I shall wear my white suit.
Last night, in my green corduroy153 with red socks (which were remarked on by someone in the audience during question time) I gave a reading from Goodbye to Berlin, A Single Man, Lions and Shadows and Kathleen and Frank, which was followed by questions. I was pretty good but I did show off outrageously, even for old prancing Dobbin, and made a gay lib declaration which brought them to their feet, clapping. The audience was too small, though. Afterwards, Philip Dynia and his exceedingly cute and flirty friend, Patrick Dunne, a plump little blond, gave a party in their atmospheric slum-elegant apartment in the Quarter. (Patrick deliberately has part of the ceiling paper hanging down in tatters.154) Philip Dynia, who teaches political science, is an anxious, quite sympathetic young man with an Afro hairdo. I think he was humiliated by the poor turnout and by the fact that he parted with so much money for it; two thousand dollars for my fee, plus plane fare, plus the bill at this hotel, forty dollars a night. Never mind, a paid Dobbin will always prance his best, even for a dozen faggots.
Other luxuries of this hotel: a light which shows you you have a message waiting for you at the desk, if you come back and forget to ask for messages; a mint left on your pillow with a note, “We at the Saint Louis wish you a very good night.”
There is an attractive view from my window, looking down the street. The Quarter is much bigger and more beautiful than I’d remembered it. Last night, they were having a party on one of the balconies opposite. Every house has balconies, nearly. The streets seem strangely quiet at night.
Before I get up, I’ll just note briefly that I spoke at the Cal. State University Honors Convocation, on April 19. I used to regard the place as a rough and ready teach-factory. But on this occasion it put on the dog, ludicrously. I had to wear a gow
n and mortarboard along with the others and walk in a procession beside the President, John Greenlee. And someone ahead of us carried a silver mace! The ceremony was held in the gym in front of a huge captive audience. I was allowed to take my mortarboard off before speaking; it was balancing uneasily on my head. I gave a twenty-minute version of the “Last Lecture” I gave in Santa Barbara, back in the early sixties.155 But this time it included a gay lib statement. It was very well received, though it probably shocked Fred Shroyer, my sponsor.
Now to get up. I’m to talk at a class this morning. I’m rather on their hands, but they urged me to stay this extra day. I leave tomorrow morning.
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