One of the Riverside students, Ken Day, invited me to have supper with him and his girlfriend before going to see him play Tom in The Glass Menagerie. The two of them live together in a charming little wooden house. Ken said, “I had to go and see her mother and tell her that we weren’t going to get married, because that’s not my nature.” I think it was the girlfriend’s nature, though. She said nothing, and meekly served a delicious dish of fried chicken.
Ken was excellent in the play, he is very Irish. He is also possibly the most talented writer on campus, though I can’t be sure how much his screwball style is meant to mean and how much it is meant to shock the audience.
When I told Ronnie Knox about Ken’s remark about his nature, Ronnie was delighted. I think this is because Ronnie himself has designs on a teenage girl he met on the beach. He asked her, “Would you be ready to live in sin?” She asked, “With a boy or a girl?” and he isn’t sure if she meant this literally or is just dumb-innocent. The girl’s mother has said she must see Ronnie before the girl may go out with him.
Ronnie is thirty-one. He says of himself. “I’m still a boy, really,” but he also admits that there’s less of the “tiger” in him than there used to be. I suppose most people would see him as a tragic figure, the ex-star, destined to end badly. But I’m not so sure. I hope a sort of fool’s luck will pull him through.
Ronnie’s stories of football are of course all about his exploits, but somehow he doesn’t seem self-centered in a stultifying way. Even Renate says how wonderful he was when her son killed himself. He’s certainly irresponsible and a bit mad, but at moments he seems surprisingly strong and gentle. When he speaks to people on the street, you see how utterly he charms them. As for his writings, I’m not sure I showed him how to lay out this novel and the idea is really good and workable, and he has a lot of real humor—but he seems so undisciplined, his dialogue scenes are all over the place. A couple of times he has got me to read his stories aloud to him. When I did this he laughed wildly—either at his own jokes or my reading and funny accent.
May 31. Yesterday I finished the third draft of A Meeting by the River. It’s more than twenty pages longer than the second draft and there’s no question that it’s much better constructed, as a piece of artifice I’m quite proud of it, but I still have an uneasy feeling about the writing, I fear it is flat and thin. And now I have got to show it to Swami, which makes me squirm inside. I hate the thought of him reading the parts about Tom—but why should I, actually? I’m not ashamed of them, I would never apologize for them artistically or morally, they are absolutely right for the book, I know. Furthermore, Swami has praised me for being myself, making no pretences about the way I live my life. Just the same, I squirm. Am going to take him the manuscript tomorrow.
Swami is very well, it seems, but he is very sad because of Sarada, who has now definitely told him that she doesn’t want to return to the convent and that he can tell Belur Math to take her name off the roll of nuns. This he has done already.
Now I am confronted by this new job offer, Morris West’s The Shoes of the Fisherman. At first glance the book seems corny beyond belief but I would like to do the job if I can possibly see how to, not so much for the money as for the sake of having something to occupy me—otherwise one feels so empty-handed after finishing a novel.
Riverside leaves very happy memories on the whole, and I plan to go back there next year. My favorite students—Ken Day with his prematurely wrinkled sweet Irish eyes, beautiful puzzled-looking Bob Edwards the blond rugby footballer who always seems to be in tears because his contact lenses bother him, carrot-haired Mickey Kraft the politician in his suede boots, Jeff Morehead the Salinger Kid with his spectacles and soft blurry face and gangling charm, Larry Johns the golfer with his tangled golden curls and creamy skin and long Jewish nose and sly smile. All of these have talent, to some degree. Bob’s poetry is strangely aggressive, often directed against fat women in capri pants, Mickey will make a very intelligent political journalist, Jeff wrote a really moving and nostalgic little story about fishing, Larry writes strangely powerful nonsense verse. And there’s a boy named Christopher MacDermott(?) who works in the steel mill at Fontana and who showed me one story which I thought really really good—but I hardly know him at all.
More about Riverside later, if I get around to it.
The amazing courage of Allan Carter (Michael Sean, Shawn?) lying there in Santa Monica Hospital after the car wreck. He still can’t move one leg at all, but he jokes and chatters away. No hero could behave better.fn594
Ever since April 6 I have been going to Dr. Paul Macklin, a chiropractor in Santa Monica who was recommended by Jo Masselink and Bill Brown. I think he has done something for my chronically stiff neck, though nothing whatever for my thumbs. Am also on a nonfat diet for Dr. Allen, which is getting to be a bore. He found that my cholesterol count was up too high, though not much.
June 4. Yesterday, Swami rang me up to say that he’d finished reading my novel, and that, “As I finished reading the last scene there were two tears running down my cheeks.” What an angel he is! He was obviously every bit as relieved as I was that he didn’t have to say it would offend Belur Math. In fact, he went so far as [to] suggest that it ought to be sold at the Vedanta Center bookshop! I doubt if he really quite meant this, however. He did also say that there could be no question that the monastery in the novel is Belur Math, because there is no other monastery like that on that part of the Ganges.
So now I can relax and just let some time pass before rereading the manuscript for final changes. I can’t help feeling that the slang used by the brothers could be improved. Also, Don is reading it right now and I await his verdict.
Dr. Macklin told me yesterday that my arthritis, such as it is, is incurable but can be prevented from becoming worse. He also told me arthritis is said to be often caused by aggression!
Have decided to give The Shoes of the Fisherman a try, if George Englund wants me.fn595 I’ll probably see him in a couple of days.
June 26. On the 23rd I mailed a typescript of A Meeting by the River to Vidya in Gretz. After reading it, Don said he thought Oliver is too sympathetic toward Tom in the big scene. Also he didn’t like Oliver identifying with Patrick on the rock and Tom turning into Penny. I decided to leave the first passage as it is, for the present; but I see that he is absolutely right about the second and I’ve already changed it. Also I slightly rewrote the passage in the last section, where Oliver says he feels that sannyas is an entering into freedom. (This was a remark made by Vidya.) I think I’ve now taken the sentimentality out of it.
Gavin has read the novel. He says it is “extraordinary” but I don’t feel that he really likes it very much. Now Don Howard and Jack Larson are reading the two available copies. They were both to supper with us last night, along with Jim and Clint and Gavin and David Hockney, who has just returned here, to teach for a few weeks at UCLA.
Latest worry, a mysterious rupture of a blood vessel on the nose side of my left eye; it happened during the night, two nights ago. Don reminds me that the same thing happened about twelve years ago, only worse, and that it went away again soon.
This afternoon I visited Michael Sean at the hospital. He now has the neck brace off and he really does seem to be getting much better. The bang on the back of his head is a relatively undramatic pink healthy-looking scar. He has some small scars on his belly, from shooting one of the most dangerous beaches on Oahu and getting torn by the lava. In fact, what with his surfing and skiing and tobogganing, not to mention the crazy risks he took whizzing down our hill on his skateboard, that auto accident was long overdue! All the times Don and I have visited him, he has never once shown the least weakness, never stopped joking and laughing—although there were certainly times at the beginning when he was badly scared; the surgeons were frankly pessimistic. The only thing I dislike about him is his compulsive and almost sadomasochistic flattery. There are always other visitors present and he invariably tells th
em what great guys we are, what true friends, what geniuses, etc. etc. I can’t shut him up by telling him (as I shall some day in private) how I have been moved by his courage—because, when I do say that, I shall mean it. The things he says he doesn’t really mean. Oh yes, he means them up to a point but, because he says them in public, they are cheapened and devaluated, like advertisements.
A sign of the times: Lee Heflin saw a young man, bearded and with long hair, who goes around wearing a crown of ivy and roses. And there was that boy at Riverside who had a sweater inscribed, Jesus is Boss. He also wore a button: Draft beer not people.
On the 18th we had the customary Father’s Day lunch at Vedanta Place and this time the boys, directed by Jimmy Barnett, put on a musical show consisting of Vedantically-revamped lyrics from My Fair Lady.fn596 It was rather shocking, how slickly they went through their hoofer routines—linking arms, stepping forward to the mike with arms out-stretched, sidestepping, singing with legs planted firmly apart in the Al Jolson stance, etc. etc. Only the very stupid or pure in heart can listen to this kind of thing without squirming. I squirmed—all the more so because one of the songs was directed at me!
Some specimens:
Lectures and pujas, receptions for swamis,
Wednesday-night-living-room questions for Swami,
Saturday Ram Nam where everyone sings,
These are a few of our favorite things …
Now the clock strikes, time for vespers!
There’s no time to spare,
When you’re in Vedanta your life is complete
With favorite things to share …
I came to the hills and I found Vedanta
I know I am safe, never more to roam.
My life has been blessed with the sound of Brahman
Now at last I’m home …
Aow, Mistafah Christafah Ishtafah,
Blimey, he’s a blinking limey and a real fine bloke.
We call ’im Mistafah Christafah Ishtafah
Oh how I wish I were like ’im.
Now in his Harris tweed and denims
And his shock of bloomin’ hair,
Every Wednesday night in livin’ room
He’s in his easy chair,
And when his voice rings out melodious,
What music fills the air!
Now he’s a chappie mild and mannered
With a proper savoir faire
With his bushy-browed expressions
He will soon your heart ensnare.
And when he starts in tellin’ stories, chum
He’s quite beyond compare!
That’s Christafah, our Christafah,
You’ll never find another like him anywhere.
I squirmed, but I was touched of course and pleased. It is a family, even though I know so few of my relatives and can’t honestly take much interest in them. Some woman came up to me afterwards and well-meaningly cooed, “Now you know how much we all love you!” Well, perhaps I am mildly liked—as an institution rather than a person—and that’s quite sufficient.
I have always been and am now more than ever alien from the society as such. Only Swami’s loyalty has forced them to accept me—for of course there must be all manner of lurid (and fairly accurate) rumors about my life. And then there are those dreadful novels of mine for the faithful to gag on. The fact that I’ve written a life of Ramakrishna and translated the Gita must only make my novels the less excusable in their eyes. It really is a very strange and comic situation—but I’m so accustomed to it that I seldom think about it.
Still this utter dryness when I sit down to meditate. I ought to mind about it, I know. But, if I minded, that in itself would mean that I wasn’t dry.
Happiness with Don, by and large, since his return. And good health with even a slight loss in weight, down to just a speck under 150. Dr. Macklin really does seem to have made my neck much better, but my right thumb and left big toe are as bad as ever, most of the time.
Am still waiting to hear from George Englund about The Shoes of the Fisherman. Robin French thinks the job is definitely on. I don’t really want to do it, but I do want to do something, and it’s always nice to be earning.
July 5. Well, today I have just been told by Robin that the Fisherman job isn’t on, because they have unwillingly got to let Morris West write a draft script, otherwise he won’t let them renew the rights. Now that I can’t have it, I’m disappointed, of course. Especially as I have nothing to do.
Never mind, cheer up, the gruesome Fourth of July holiday is over. As always I felt the terrible oppression of the crowding Folk, pressing in on our lives. Every year there are millions more of them.
Ben Masselink says that a whole gang of teenagers have occupied one of the apartments across the street from them. They play the radio at unearthly hours and shout at people on the street through a loudspeaker. “Will the boy with the blue surf board please come up?” etc.
Latest inscriptions in the tunnel to the beach and on the wall: Overby can leap, also. Overby is alive. All is Overby.
This is a time of great happiness with Don. Yesterday evening, as we were having dinner at Ted’s while the fireworks exploded outside—we found we simply couldn’t be bothered to watch them—we began trying to think of marriages which we found “moving.” After long efforts, we thought of four—the Masselinks, Michael Wilding and Margaret Leighton, the Stravinskys, Jimmy and Tania Stern. We couldn’t think of any pairs of men!
I think Don Howard really likes A Meeting by the River. I was so much surprised to hear that he once seriously considered joining an Anglican monastery. Vidya likes it too and has now sent it on to Edward Upward. So far the necessary changes seem to be very few.
July 11. Have just heard from Edward. He likes the novel, or rather he likes the way it’s constructed—that’s what he stresses. Then he says that he’s “uncertain” about Oliver’s “motivation.”
Obviously the reader isn’t meant to accept Patrick’s view that Oliver is becoming a monk in order to escape the ambitiousness which is natural to him but which he knows their mother wouldn’t approve of in him.… On the other hand the reader can’t quite believe that Oliver becomes a monk solely because the social work he’s been doing doesn’t seem “real” enough to him. (It’s to Oliver’s advantage, of course, that the reader can’t believe this.) … Surely such a man becomes converted not only or even mainly because life doesn’t come up to his expectations but because he comes to feel that the horrors of the world and the flesh are too great ever to be removed by any kind of social action, and that such action can only have meaning when it is performed sacramentally? I may be wrong in thinking this is how Oliver felt (particularly after being in the Congo) but if I’m not wrong, couldn’t you add a sentence or two—possibly in Oliver’s second letter to Patrick—which would indicate that Oliver wasn’t insensitive to material horrors and that his becoming a monk was at least partly motivated by them?
I have copied this part of Edward’s letter down because his writing is so tiny and untidy, and I want to be able to study it apart from the rest.
Edward goes on to tell me that Hector Wintle is dead. Now I’m sad that I didn’t see more of him during my visits to England. He was, in later life, a mysteriously happy person—after being such a cheerfully gloomy young man. His happiness was something you felt immediately, and he never tried to describe it or explain it to me. His obituary notice never mentioned his novels—so I’m glad that I did at least speak of him as a writer in Exhumations.fn597 Apparently he had always said he thought a coronary was the best thing to die of, and he died of one, at home in his garden.
July 18. This morning Don was putting something into one of the envelopes in the carton of photographs when an album fell on the floor, open. It was open at the two pictures of Hector Wintle.
Am depressed today. Partly (mostly) because I have what appears to be a cyst on the inside of my lip which Dr. Allen obviously doesn’t like the looks of. He has told me to call h
im if it hasn’t gone away by Friday, and then I fear he’ll want to cut it out.
But also I’m depressed because we got terribly drunk for no reason the night before last, and I have been drunk far too often lately. It’s such a boring vice and I have really no excuse for indulging in it, because it doesn’t do anything for me except bring on black depression.
It now looks like I have a T.V. job, my first, a Christmas Spectacular about how “Silent Night” was composed, in 1818. The good thing about this, aside from the money, is that I think I could work quite harmoniously with Danny Mann.
On the 16th I had quite a long talk alone with Swami, after attending a lunch for Swami Sambuddhananda, from India. I told Swami that Vidya wanted my novel dedicated to him as Vidyatmananda rather than as John Yale. Swami evidently didn’t like this, but said I should do it if Vidya wants it. It seems that Vandanananda brought back a bad report from Gretz; Vidya is said to be throwing his weight around already and making enemies.
Swami said that Maharaj had told him, morality is unimportant if you have devotion to God—“but of course we can’t preach that,” Swami added. I said that that was all very well, but I personally could feel no devotion at all. Swami said, “Anyone who says he has devotion or thinks he has devotion, doesn’t have it.… People come to me every week and talk about their devotion to God, and I don’t believe them.” Also, he told me that, when he was fourteen, one of the swamis said to him, “Do you know what destructive means?” Swami said yes. “And do you know what constructive means?” Swami said yes. “Then be constructive, be constructive, be constructive.” Swami went on to say that we must look on people’s good qualities, not their faults, and I felt, as so often before, that he was saying this to me personally, because he observed my aggressions.
The Sixties Page 53
