The Sixties

by Christopher Isherwood

  Must reread Strindberg on this subject, and read his Confessions of a Fool. Have just finished Camus’ The Stranger, which irritates me merely; Camus is such a dreary mind. Am enjoying The Charterhouse of Parma.

  May 18. The building inspector came this morning and met Mr. Haslam our contractor here, and it really looks as if the balcony and even the studio may be started before too long. Don was inclined to be sad about his birthday—he was mad at me last night because I hadn’t told Jo and Ben, with whom we were having supper. But he cheered up a bit when I gave him a shirt, a tie and the kind of English oatmeal biscuit he likes. Now he has gone off to draw Dorothy Parker again and to have supper with his folks. We are supposed to meet for a movie later.

  I feel rather wretched about him, and yet I know there’s almost nothing I can do. This is a period without glamor. He blames me because his birthday isn’t marvellous, and I would blame him under the same circumstances.

  Two more pairs of linked events, except that one of them was a triplet—Don spilt his drawing ink on three different occasions during the last week; and two unlikely people have given me offbeat religious works to read—Arlene Drummond our new maid gave me Deep Meditation; A Very Simple System from the Ancient Vedic Culture of India Ideally Suited to the Tempo of Modern Times; Transcript of a Talk and Questions and Answers by the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi and Mr. Haslam gave me The Book of Mormon!

  Yesterday, at our creative writing seminar, I tried reading bits of the Mexican version of Down There on a Visit. It seemed miserably poor and thin. I don’t know how I am going to make it sound interesting enough for the writers’ conference.

  May 24. Another pair of events: yesterday, I got two film offers—from Zachary Scottfn321 to do a film about the life of Lafcadio Hearn or based on one of his Japanese ghost stories, and from a man named Julian Lesser,fn322 to write and speak a narration for a documentary on the life of Gauguin. The latter tempts me more than the former.

  Yesterday, I went to see Gerald in a small hospital on La Brea. He has had an operation for hernia, not serious. Of course he knew all about Hearn, how he had lived in a sewer (where?) and how he had become disgusted with Japan after the Japanese cut his professor’s salary in half because he had become a Japanese citizen.fn323 Gerald has a low opinion of Hearn’s ghost stories because they have no cosmology. He was in the highest spirits and only winced in pain when he coughed and it hurt something “down in the plumbing.” He expected to get out today or tomorrow.

  Up at Vedanta Place, Prema remarked that he wished things could go on just as they are now for years, because everything was very harmonious: Swami well and Prema is enjoying what he is doing now. Maybe this was an important confession psychologically, because I fancy Prema has been very restless until recently—yearning to get away or become a swami or something. Anyhow, “harmonious” isn’t quite the word I would have chosen, for mad Marlenefn324 has been sending more anonymous letters with torn-up photos of Ramakrishna or Swami in them, and the question “Is the farce still going on?” And Tito [Renaldo] lowers and glooms, and the other day at breakfast jumped up exclaiming that if somebody didn’t stop hexing him he would pack and leave!

  May 25. Am writing this after an evening of reading through the test papers and trying to grade my students—what dull work! Only Janvier and [Glenn] Porter stand out so far—Janvier because he is sincerely interested, Porter because he is simpatico-crazy. Now I’m going down for a late supper at Ted’s [Grill] with Don, who has been drawing with Jack Jones.

  Don had a very good synchronicity this morning—two actresses, both in films, Jane Fonda and Eileen Heckart, want to be drawn.

  Yesterday afternoon, at L.A. State, I had to have tea with Dr. Vida Marković,fn325 who is head of the department of English at the University of Belgrade. She had especially asked to see me, because she so much admires The World in the Evening! And certainly she seemed to know it much better than I do. What she particularly admired was the character of Elizabeth Rydal and her psychology when dying. She seemed very bright about other British writers, which was reassuring. A very handsome, strong but not mannish woman, with a wide humane forehead. You felt she could have run the Yugoslav underground single-handed. She wore a filmy summer dress which seemed too insubstantial for her. She was accompanied by a young man from the State Department with a ruddy face and a moustache. I don’t know if he was a cop. Elizabeth Sewellfn326—as well as Shroyer, Coulette, Jean Maloneyfn327 and a Dr. Collins—also took part in the meeting. I do like and really admire Sewell. She has a bright dry British intelligence which goes with her non-nonsense face and humped back. We chattered away, disposing of Snow and [Lawrence] Durrell, and paying tribute to Compton-Burnett. Once I caught the eye of the State Department man and he winked at me.

  Yesterday evening, Don and I had supper with Bill Roerick. Tom Coleyfn328 is recovering from a nervous breakdown, during which he would wake up in the night to see a man in the room—a man in an old yellow cloak or wrapper, who had no face, or rather a skull with skin stretched over it. Don was sure that all this was a mechanism to get rid of Bill and stop living with him. Tom is now down near La Jolla. Bill was a bit saintly about it all. However, he indulged in a little bitchery of Bob Buckingham, whom he accused of putting on airs and acting artistic—in other words, forgetting his place. Bob’s son Robin is dying of a kidney disease. There is nothing to be done for it.

  May 27. A detail I forgot to add to the last entry—this specimen of academic market-jargon: “Last February I wrote inviting you to speak at the University of California at Berkeley in August and you indicated an inability to accept at the fee we then could offer.… etc. etc.” In brief, having tried to jew me down to some ridiculous and impudent offer of theirs, they now, with anal squeals, agree to pay my fee. So I shall go up there on August 30.

  More grading all yesterday. It’s the dullest work. Not even many amusing mistakes.

  I also forgot to record a talk I had on Thursday last with Richard Naylor, who is perhaps the brightest of my creative writing group. He was much worried about the feeling of not belonging to The Others. If he became a writer wouldn’t that cut him off from them? On the other hand, he has this uneasy feeling that writing is his dharma—he didn’t use that word—and that he ought to force himself to work. I developed a theory—I don’t know if I really believe in it—that one should abandon oneself to the will of Art in the same sense in which one speaks of abandonment to the will of God. No doubt this is a very dangerous doctrine for the merely lazy. And yet perhaps it would reduce the would-be writers if they would wait for “the call” instead of rushing in to mess up a lot of paper.

  Yesterday evening, a party at Jack Larson-Jim Bridges’ house. The usual complaint, too many people eating awkwardly on laps, and Roma wine served, a headache in every glass. John Kerr’sfn329 drunken smile, respectful in the presence of Culture (me); Romney Tree’s anxious smile which seems to advertise, but without much confidence, her way of life.fn330 Betty Andrews insisting that we all come and see her in some gruesome play about Henry VIII. A plump dyke brusquely objecting because Don said the fight between the cats during the credit titles of Walk on the Wild Side was cruel, and Don disgusted with himself later because he had made a silly crack about dykes in general with particular reference to Barbara Stanwyck.…fn331 Oh, why record any of this? The thing to remember is that Jack and Jim are really very sweet and likable, and if you don’t like catchall parties, well, why go?

  May 29. Yesterday I had supper with Tom Wright. Gavin was there and told me, to my horror, that Paul Kennedy may be dying of cancer of the lung. However, I called Barbara Morrow today and she says the tests are negative so far, though they are still not certain it may not be bone cancer.

  Today I sort of wound up my duties at L.A. State, including telling Byron Guyer that I am definitely not coming back there in the fall. It was rather sad to say goodbye to some of the students, although I know them so little—sassy David Smith, handsome melodramatic Nick Ba
rod, silly mystic Glenn Porter, grinning fattycat Charles Rossman. A long talk today to Richard Pietrowicz about his surprisingly good fragment of a Roman novel. He says his parents are illiterate and cannot imagine why anyone should want to write. He has no money and has got to go into the army shortly. Should he risk everything on writing this summer and trying to get the novel finished? Yes, I said—which was what he hoped I’d say.

  Bill Roerick came by yesterday at his own suggestion for a drink, with a young man named Carson who had been somehow connected with the Judith Anderson show. Roerick full of vanity, talking about how he had never thought himself good-looking even when young, etc. etc. However, he told a very funny story about the British government being bankrupt after the last war, so a Mr. Cohen, a troubleshooter from America, is called in. Mr. Cohen asks to see King George all alone. He says, “You’ve still got Australia and Canada, haven’t you? Vell—here’s vat you do—put them in your vife’s name.”

  Tom is preparing to leave on another trip to Mexico and Guatemala. If this is a success, he thinks he may settle down there for a year or so. He is absolutely caught up in the mystique of Mayan ruins. But, at the same time, he knows all about the stock market, which took a huge dip yesterday but recovered strongly today. Gavin, also, was worried about the market. And to think that never, in my whole life, have I had anything to do with it!

  May 31. A beautiful day, after the wretched one yesterday for the Memorial Day holiday. Antisocial as I am, I can’t help being rather glad about this. Anyhow I am in a bad mood because I have a foul cold. It won’t be better for several days I fear.

  Charming David Rubin appeared at the door this morning, having hitched a ride all the way from Covina or wherever he lives, to bring his term paper—and now I find half of it is missing! This afternoon I plan to get the car serviced, read the rest of Gavin’s novel, visit Paul in hospital and decide whether or not to buy Simone de Beauvoir’s autobiography (volume 2) which sounds interesting. I am not going to the college this week again but I shall go next week and pick up the rest of the papers and grade them and turn them in. And that will be that.

  The Englishwoman has been crawling along. Now I must fetch a whip to her. And I must get chapter 14 of the Ramakrishna book done before next Wednesday.

  Talked to Bruce Zortman yesterday. Charles [Laughton] remains in New York, mysteriously involved. Bruce thinks it isn’t really his health but some dreary blackmailish business, but he was so very vague that I couldn’t quite understand what he meant.

  June 2. The day before yesterday I went to see Paul and found him very depressed, with charley-horse pains in his legs. He said, “I’m twenty-eight and all I’ve got to show for it is a shadow on my lung and an enlarged liver.” It was so sad to see him, all alone in the hospital—the Temple, which, I must say, is one of the nicest, perched on the top of a hill—and hiding a dreadful anxiety: what is the matter with him? The doctor admits that he doesn’t know. Yesterday, on the phone, Paul told me that they have discovered something in his bone marrow which “ought not to be there.”

  As for me, Dr. Allen discovered a cyst in my ear. He didn’t seem alarmed about it though, just said he’d look at it again in a month’s time.

  Another pair of events: two checks Don received within a couple of days, from Count Rasponi and from Dorothy McGuire,fn332 had a discrepancy between the sum expressed in words and the sum expressed in figures.

  Read Gavin’s novel the day before yesterday. I don’t like it. It’s false. Just a piece of gingerbread, which wouldn’t matter, except that it takes itself seriously. Of course I couldn’t possibly tell him this. Luckily, I hit on some criticisms of the ending with which he entirely agreed.

  Don and I went to a party at Gavin’s last night. Jane Fonda was there with her phoney Greek boyfriend,fn333 and old Barbette, whom I liked, and Dorothy Parker with Alan. I’m afraid Dorothy really is a dead loss to us all; something has been permanently smashed and there’s no use hoping it will ever work again.

  After the party, drunk, Don told me he wants me to go away to San Francisco and leave him alone all summer. He still wants it this morning, though less aggressively. I wish he would go away. If I do, I know I won’t be able to work and I shall just waste several months. Still, I must seriously consider it, because I realize that his reasons for wanting to be alone are serious, however selfish he may be in seeking this solution.

  Don also said this morning that he would like to have a mantram and he wished Swami would give him one. Swami, of course, would like nothing better than to initiate him—and get him into Trabuco for that matter—but only after he has attended several months of lectures and classes. It’s the first time Don ever said this.

  June 5. In the late afternoon of the 2nd, after I made my last entry, Elsa called from New York to tell me that Charles was going into hospital next day to have one of his kidneys removed. Today, Michael Barrie told me that the radio news says quite definitely it’s cancer; Elsa wasn’t specific about this. But she did say that Charles is terrified and that he is quite unprepared to die. He doesn’t want to come back here; he talks of going to Europe. He wants to discuss things with a Zen Buddhist. He dismisses Vedanta, saying that it’s “Indian.” Elsa told me all this with perhaps just a faint tone of “you see, he doesn’t need you, he needs me” and she said that she felt she had become very strong. She is still slightly resentful because Charles loves seeing Terry, who has settled in New York now, it seems.

  As for Paul, he has been vomiting, and now the doctor is taking another sample of marrow and they have also given him a T.B. test.

  Oh, the horror of modern medical death! The hospital has become a sort of earthly purgatory which you have to pass through.

  Don terribly upset, desperate to have a life of his own but not sure how to set about it. I feel I should go away for a while and yet I do not want to, with all this work to be done. Don seems to pin his faith on the building of the studio in the garage, but I am doubtful. Surely it won’t be that simple?

  In the presence of all this suffering, what do I do? Get drunk at the Selznicks’ on Sunday night and incapacitate myself for all of yesterday. So now I have decided to give up drinking altogether for a long while. I am sloppy and fat, despite the gym; and yet everything demands that I should be disciplined and alert. I ought to become more and more of a workhorse; it is the only happiness for me. There is not all that much time left, and I have such an infinity of things to do. Right now, I have fallen way behind and must postpone the finishing of chapter 14 for another week—not to mention getting on with The Englishwoman. Still lots of test papers to grade.

  June 7. The test papers are all graded now, except for four or five which are waiting for me at the department office. I shall go to the college tomorrow, grade them and hand in the rest of the cards, and that will be the end of it.

  Yesterday evening, Don came up with me to Vedanta Place, talked to Swami and told him he wanted a mantram. Swami seems to have been pleased and surprised—as well he might be, after nearly ten years! He told Don how to meditate and said he’d initiate him next December.

  Woke this morning feeling really toxic. My whole gut is sick, and my tongue burns. There are times in the day when I feel so awful that I would gladly go to bed, and yet I perk up, work or go to the gym. I guess this is just being middle-aged.

  Forgot to say that I was disappointed in The Charterhouse of Parma. It is so smart-alecky, and Stendahl has a vulgar show-off mind. No wonder Balzac liked it. Toward the end—as in the Splendeurs et misères des courtisanes—you feel that the author is getting bored.

  Have also finished the two first Claudine books.fn334 There are really first-rate things in them. And however one may be put off by the frequent whiffs of cunt and dirty drawers one must remember that this is artistically right for the subject matter. Colette never gets bored with her story.

  Swami is being threatened by mad Marlene, who is now in San Francisco. So the boys have fixed up a buzzer system,
between his room and the monastery. If Marlene arrives in the middle of the night and starts to smash in Swami’s door, he merely has to flip the switch and the entire monastery is alerted like a fire station. The boys can be over in eighteen seconds!

  June 10. I don’t know if this will pass for a synchronicity: I have been twice “honored.” Just heard that the Mid-Century Book Society has chosen Down There on a Visit as its July selection. Or rather, half of it. The other half being—irony of ironies—Iris Murdoch’s An Unofficial Rose, which I refused to review because I found it absolutely unreadable! Also, tonight, I am to be given an honorary degree or some kind of award, by USC at what they describe as a “banquet,” at a rather tacky French restaurant on La Brea. Kirk Douglas and Laurence Olivier are the other guests of honor, but they are pretty certain not to show up.

  Paul Kennedy says he feels better; but he had some mysterious treatment which knocked him out a couple of days ago. And, when I phoned, the nurse I talked to said it was a shame because “he’s so young”—which sounded bad, to put it mildly. The Laughton mystery deepens; Charles and Elsa are said, by their Eddie,fn335 to be coming home this week, and Charles hasn’t had the operation. Again, this may be good, may mean that it’s too late to operate.

  My grades are all in, and nothing remains but to start “vacation” work—i.e. get the hell on with Ramakrishna and the novel. I have been very bad, not doing any of this today, but Florence Homolka came in and photographed us both. She is a huge blundering but not unsympathetic cow—a poltergeist, Don says. She knocked down a picture, trampled the flower beds, nearly wrecked the table. And she takes pictures so slowly that you can’t hold the pose.