The Sixties

by Christopher Isherwood

  Last Wednesday, Swami remarked quite casually that he is seventy. It came as a big shock to me; somehow, I’d been playing around with the idea of his being only 68–69. He looks marvellous, however. I can quite clearly remember a similar shock, at the end of the thirties when I realized that M. was seventy. And look how much longer she lived! May it be a good omen!

  Yesterday, while Dr. Stevens the dentist was drilling, I experimented with the music you can listen to through headphones. There is also a kind of jarring noise which masks the noise of the drill and has been found to be partially anesthetic in its effect. You can control the volume of the music and switch on the noise yourself. I found that, by bringing in the music (which was “light classical”) very loud at certain moments, I could create the atmosphere of a silent-movie love scene which was so absurd in relation to the drilling that it made the drilling itself absurd. It also turned the down-looking faces of Dr. Stevens and his cute nurse into a pair of medical lovers from a television serial. This game amused me so much that I was laughing all the time—with my eyes only, of course, because my mouth was full of instruments. I tried to begin to explain how I felt to Stevens and the nurse, but realized they just weren’t going to understand. Stevens is backing two of my upper jaw incisors with gold; otherwise, he says, they will grind themselves down and crack up.

  Have just been out on the deck to watch the sunset. This evening, the sun is already setting almost “offstage,” at the landward end of the headland. All summer, it will go down behind the mountains.

  April 1 [Monday]. We went off the wagon after a week. Never mind, it was valuable while it lasted, and I think has made us both a bit more aware of the messiness of alcohol.

  Don has decided not to have the show at Phoenix. He is still in a terrible state about his work, but keeps right on after it. He’ll never show me anything.

  This morning he left for San Francisco, planning to stay with Stanley Miron and pick up his drawings from Stanford tomorrow. I’m planning to leave for San Francisco a week from next Friday, the 12th.

  Meanwhile I plug on at Ramakrishna and hope to finish the eighteenth chapter before I leave. After this will be a chapter on M.’s Gospelfn449 and Ramakrishna’s teachings. A chapter called “The Last Year,” which I hope will cover everything till the death. And a final chapter about the doings of Vivekananda, the founding of the Mission and Math, and what (very briefly) has happened since, down to the present day.

  The novelette is at page 41. I know I am off on a digression about Huxley’s After Many a Summer, but that doesn’t matter. I’ll just keep writing until I write myself out of it again. My target is to reach page 50 before I leave; but this isn’t so important as I mean to take the manuscript with me and work on it up there, at least enough to keep the pot simmering.

  April 7. Have finished the eighteenth chapter of Ramakrishna, ma longue et lourde tâche.fn450 As for getting to page 50 of the novelette, I’m not going to sweat for that, just see if it happens or not. Right now, I have five more pages to go.

  And five more days to go, here. Don and I are sort of quietly waiting it out, until I can leave. I don’t know all that’s happening to him and maybe I shan’t find out until much later, if at all. Don brought back the bed to his studio, yesterday. He doesn’t appear to be seeing Bill. I am miserable about all of this, but not very. I am resting from being miserable. I wish I didn’t have to go away and yet I know it will be good for me. I need a thorough change of scene and spirits. I have been in this house too long.

  Yesterday afternoon, we went up the coast to see Renate Druks and Ronnie Knox. Anaïs Nin and Rupert Pole were there; a pair of November-May couples, to which Don and I made a third. Rupert lectured us interestingly about the different kinds of chaparral on the hillside above the house. Sumac grows back quickest after a fire; it grows from its roots, which seldom get burned. The forestry people plant mustard after a fire to hold the hillside together. Then there’s sage, and pea vine and yucca and Indian paintbrush. These plants have to do with very little water, so they cover their shoots with wax to hold in what they get for as long as possible. But this wax is highly inflammable; when there is a fire, it makes it burn all the more easily.

  We took Cecil Beaton to dinner, at Sinbad’s. I do like the people there. They always seem to be celebrating each other’s birthdays. Last night, they brought in a huge banner congratulating the bartender, “Happy birthday, dear Okie.” Cecil told us how much he likes and respects George Cukor. He feels Ivan Moffat is making a fearful mistake by remaining in England and abandoning his Hollywood career. Princess Margaret is a little bitch, he says, amusing but utterly unreliable, and Jonesfn451 is just an operator. Ivan is putting too much trust in British Society, Cecil says, and it will let him down.

  Am reading Calder Willingham’s Eternal Fire with real joy. What a delightful book! Also The Waves. Ramming my way through this. It is just as nothing to me as it was before; the greatest wasted idea in the history of literature. But I would rather be bored by Woolf than by anyone else.

  More from Rupert Pole: when the chaparral is virgin and has never been burned, it grows to a height of about twenty feet. This is known as “elfin forest.” But this kind of growth is very rare, and only found in the canyon bottoms. Even before the area became populated, with the resulting fire hazard, there were fires caused by lightning. There is no elfin forest to be found anywhere in the Angeles National Forest.

  April 14. Arrived here (2424 Jones Street, San Francisco) in the Volkswagen on the afternoon of the 12th. The drive was quite beautiful—through the Grapevine Pass, and via Bakersfield and Fresno and Oakland—a fine day, not too warm, with the Sierras ribbed with snow beyond the farmlands. It was 403 miles door to door, and it took me from 7:45 a.m. to 3:20 p.m. The Volkswagen went like a charm at a steady seventy-five when called on, and Bill Brown’s directions were so exact that I didn’t make one single mistake.

  This house is intimidatingly moderne and grand, but still and all wonderful to be in by oneself, especially during the day. At night it is unhomely and creaky; it may well be mildly haunted. I shall perhaps describe it later. But at present I am concerned with my psychological convalescence. Oh, I did so need to be alone! Now I am resolved to get on with my work, I mean my own work; and to exercise—I am hatefully fat. (I just bought the Royal Canadian Air Force book, which will be good because it doesn’t require any equipment. I’m really shocked to find how out of breath I get. These hills are really a workout, after car riding in Los Angeles.) Oh yes, I am happy to be here.… As for my duties at Berkeley, Schorer, whom I talked to on the phone this morning, was vague and uneasily breezy. He obviously hasn’t arranged anything, and probably won’t.fn452

  April 26. I have refrained almost superstitiously from writing in this book. I didn’t want to break the spell of contentment. I have so liked being here—getting up before seven, making japa on the roof, doing the Air Force exercises (without missing one day, so far), shaving, fixing my daily fish cakes and coffee, and then getting to work, with walks in the town and sunbathing a few times, otherwise it has been rainy. I am keeping along with my novel and the Ramakrishna book and reading—Eternal Fire, A Clockwork Orange,fn453 The Waves, Salt,fn454 and an anthology of contemporary American poetry. My only failing has been drinking much too much and smoking ditto. Otherwise I should have lost more weight and be in better shape than I am; but just the same I manage to get up and down those hills. I like this house, mainly because the carpets are so thick and there is radiant heat under the floor when you walk barefoot and the kitchen is so big and clean and modern. The big daubs by Mason and Frankfn455 do not grow upon one; and by and large the house is imaginary, a decorator’s exhibit in a Modern Living show. Never mind.

  Am starting to think a lot about Don, miss him, wish he’d write. But I won’t pester him. Why does he seem unique, irreplaceable? Because I’ve trained him to be, and myself to believe that he is? Yes, partly. But saying that proves nothing; the deed is done a
nd the feelings I feel are perfectly genuine.

  I shan’t be going back for another twenty days or so. I won’t make any resolutions yet about all of that. We’ll see. At least I have proved to myself that I can still live alone and function. In some respects, I have never felt so truly on the beam. Only I should pray more. Pray for Don, for myself, for all of us, and for Ramakrishna’s help now and in the hour of death.

  May 3. Don wrote a couple of days ago, saying that he is “going through an awful time.… Something is terribly wrong and not only do I not know what to do about it, I don’t even know what it is that is wrong, or why. Fits of doubt and gloom keep descending. I try to fight them off but I seem to have fewer and fewer weapons.” He ends, “I don’t want you to worry about me. I must do this alone. I must get through by myself. And I try hard to love you instead of just needing you.”

  Well, of course I am terribly worried. I am even losing my confidence that this will end all right—though I wrote him a reassuring letter.

  I have suggested that I shall stay on here in the city for a while, so he can have more time alone. But I can’t honestly say I hope he agrees to this, because Frank Hamilton now says he is coming back on the 20th, which means I should have to ask Ben Underhill or someone to let me stay with them.

  Aside from this, and a sore on the roof of my mouth, all is joy.

  A long, not unboring but nevertheless sweetly peaceful day with Bill Whitman. Only, when we walked in Golden Gate Park, I was suddenly blue, overcome by memories of Vernon [Old], of Caskey, of Don. The past came crowding in, as if this had been some certified breeding ground for nostalgia, like the Tuileries. It was only tiresome when he asked me questions about Flaubert.fn456

  I am behind with my novelette, but making progress.

  Gavin Arthur’sfn457 story about Wilde. He had boasted that there was no subject he couldn’t be witty about. Some clubmen challenged him on this suggesting the Queen. Wilde picked up a glass of wine, said, “The Queen, God bless her, is never a subject,” drank and broke the glass.

  May 10 [Friday]. Well, I got a bad back. It’s a bit better now. Stanley Miron says it’s due to a virus, not an injury. The back was the beginning of a truly great Blue Period. On Monday I talked to Don long-distance and he said hesitantly that he would like me to stay on up here. But he arranged to come up for his birthday. I was sad as hell and drank far too much. Gave a very successful last lecture on Wednesday, feeling like death, but drank lots more at lunch with some friends of Ben Underhill, whom we had cultivated in order [that] they should buy Jim Charlton’s Japanese prints. (They didn’t.) And then the news that Larry Paxton died of diabetes on Tuesday morning because some Christian Science woman persuaded him he should drop the insulin.fn458

  So today the funeral. The family asked me to speak, although I didn’t really know him that well. It was ghastly. The corpse transformed into a well-dressed made-up wax doll, lying in an open casket. The ex-show-biz mother drunk I think and seeming not to know what was taking place. The very sweet teenage half-brother, Ken; a big football boy but innocent like a child. He put his arm around me and held me all through the service, and kept stroking my hand. I don’t think he had the very faintest suspicion that anyone might think this strange. I responded of course; and I think he was actually getting some sort of support by treating me protectively. But very few American boys would dare behave like this. What with a backlog of hangovers and the general feeling of upset, my voice came out raw and strange and of course I couldn’t help noticing that this was theatrically effective. Well, why not? I spoke poorly, though, and Donne’s “Death be not proud” wasn’t really such a good piece to read; when old Mr. McKenzie suggested it over at the college I thought it would be marvellous. When I’d finished speaking I was trembling all over, and Ken squeezed me tighter than ever. There was a long draggy service by an old minister who read as badly as they always seem to; and then the awful procession past the corpse. Larry’s Greek friend burst out into kind of gasps of despair and fury; he struck the coffin with his fist. Larry’s aunt began a kind of protest and had to be dragged away by the others. When it was over, I pointed to the coffin and said to Ken, “That’s not Larry, you know,” and he said, “I know it isn’t.” These were practically the only words we exchanged, and it is very unlikely that we shall ever meet again.

  The tomato juice which Larry and I bought together when he came to this house, ten days before he died, is still in the icebox. And I have the funny photograph Ken Wagner took of the two of us, wearing derby hats.

  Today, I hear that Frank Hamilton is returning on the 15th, bother him. This means moving to Ben Underhill’s, then going to the motel with Don, then moving back to Ben’s.

  May 18. If I am going to make entries during this period I have got to be extremely factual. Otherwise this will be a sickly tale of Self.

  I drove down back home on the 15th, because Don said he didn’t want to come up to San Francisco after all; since we didn’t have the Wells-Hamilton house.

  On the 16th, they put up a new and higher (by five feet) telephone pole outside the house and this cuts right into the ocean view. First reaction to this: a sick rage on the verge of tears and a sense that life in the Canyon is nearly finished. Called the telephone people; nothing to be done. But Don wants me to go on trying; find out, for example, if the poles could be moved and rearranged.

  Yesterday, I rushed downtown to Kazanjian’s and bought him a ring with an Australian sapphire, dark blue. This morning at breakfast he shed tears, said he couldn’t accept it. Our relationship is impossible for him. I am too possessive. He can’t face the idea of having me around another ten years or more, using up his life.

  I said I absolutely agree with him. If it won’t work, it must stop. Now he has gone out. (Tonight we have a birthday party, with Bill Brown, Paul Wonner, Cecil Beaton; and Dorothy Miller, just back from San Francisco, cooking.) I cried a bit. Then drank coffee, felt a lot better, and began figuring. Don should start by getting a studio away from this place, where he can stay whenever he wants to. Also, he should go to a psychiatrist. (This is his idea.) And we must start thinking about selling this house.

  Today, I have done some work on the novelette; the first in a week. I must keep hard at it from now on in.

  June 2. Diary keeping at this time seems definitely counterindicated. (Though maybe I’ll want to make a couple of entries in the calm of Trabuco, where I am going with Swami and Prema tonight, until the 5th.) But I will just record that things keep on. Part of Don wants to run me right off the range and wreck our home beyond repair; part wants to keep on and see how things work out. There have been moments of warmth, especially following the appearance of Henry Kraft on the scene, because this time I behaved better. And there have been relapses—such as this morning, following Elsa Laughton’s coming to supper last night. Don says she is absolutely evil. She and Cecil Beaton nearly got into a fight over Isadora Duncan. But all I see is a miserable stupid half-crazy uneducated old bag, who can’t help bitching.

  I have now reached page 77 of the second draft of the novelette, bringing it up to the beginning of the big scene with Charlotte. I do so want to get all this work squared away before I face a complete break with Don—if there has got to be a break. But of course this is the voice of my personal convenience speaking, so he hates it.

  Oh shit, I am so weary of all this!

  June 6. Back from Trabuco yesterday. When I returned, Henry Kraft was at supper with Don. The scene worked out as well as could be expected, so today all is fine again. Don says he can’t make his case against me stick. He asks forgiveness. I forgive (no shit) and so we go on. At least I have done a lot of work today: Ramakrishna book, plus article on Brahmananda (the latest chore wished on me), plus the novelette, plus letters, plus gym.

  Now I’ll rattle off some notes I made at Trabuco.

  (June 3.) Walk with Prema, under overcast skies; right down to the gate, then back and down the hill in front of the monastery, al
ong the edge of the ravine; fallen trees (from some terrific wind?) and indignant but very timid young bulls. Prema horrified when he found that Usha is to get sannyas this summer (before him!). Swami had told no one of this until it was passed by the Belur Math. Prema thinks this was Swami’s final test of him (which I don’t believe). Also that Swami knows Usha is the strongest person there; in an emergency she would take over. (This sounds as grim as preparations for the functioning of the cabinet after the president is dead, in a rocket war.) Poor Prema is so sick with hate that he feels he’d like to stay on in India and maybe not come back here. At the same time, he said he was regretting our conversation. But he couldn’t stop. At present, he says, Santa Barbara is run by Prabha, and she is southern and regards Ramakrishna as a nigger who ought to be kept in the background, not featured. That’s why they don’t have a statue in the shrine up there, as Swami had planned. Prabha feels that the community is against the Ramakrishna cult and she points in evidence to the acts of aggression committed from time to time. The latest, some kind of a sex doll; Swami was vague. It was left on the doorstep.

  Light rain falling. The frogs in the lily pond in front of Swamiji’s statue. The noisy blackbirds. The dog got skunk secretion all over him and lay outside the shrine and you could smell him.

  Watching Swami, bald-headed at the back, huddled before the shrine, I thought, He’s been doing this all his life, he isn’t kidding. Such a tired old sense that life is routine; and yet I could pray to Ramakrishna for devotion, for help at the hour of death, and for Don, all with really quite considerable faith. I felt that I was sort of storing up something which could become apparent later, back here, at home.

  Reading Coward’s Present Indicative, Cocteau’s The Imposter (recommended by Larry Paxton, and with the photo of the two of us inside it and some Ruskin. My quotation of the Buxton quotation was wrong and better. It’s: “… in order that every fool in Buxton could be in Bakewell in half an hour.”fn459 Also the Tolstoy quotation: “Why do prostitutes and madmen all smoke?”fn460)