Christopher Isherwood Diaries Volume 1

by Christopher Isherwood

  I have no idea “where I am.” Have I made progress during these three months, or haven’t I? To a certain degree, I do feel yes, I have. Just being with Swami has given me a much clearer idea of what the spiritual life ought to mean. How infinitely difficult and yet how utterly simple it is! Want God? All right, go ahead and dig him out, like a terrier.

  The worship is very helpful. I did it again today—for about the eighteenth time. Nearly always, I at least manage to get a great sense of responsibility. Here am I, with all my karma upon me, presenting myself before the unthinkable majesty of God’s throne. “I’m sorry, Sir. I was the only one they could find to send.” Offering the prayers and mudras, the flowers and lights and incense, I am the representative of everybody I have ever known, and of all my human brothers and sisters, and of the millions of the dead. I do this for Vernon’s sake, for Heinz, for the girl who used to keep the kiosk at Freshwater Bay,156 for my mother, for an old lady who once asked me the time in Amsterdam, for the Huxleys’ toy pomeranian, for Letts, Siamese, Bantus, Swiss, Esquimoes, for all those imprisoned in all the hells.

  George is making a quite new sort of hooting noise through the wall, which is extraordinarily disturbing. It reminds me that, some weeks ago, Web and I were wakened in the dead of night by a mysterious thudding. I had no doubt of what it was—distant anti-aircraft fire; we’ve had a couple of alarms already. Web was excited but a little scared. I tried to reassure him. It could only be a nuisance raid, a few planes from a Jap carrier which had somehow sneaked past the patrols in a fog. The chances of our being hit were microscopic, etc. etc. And then—we both realized it was George’s typewriter!

  At the lecture, Swami dealt with the passage in Patanjali which describes the psychic powers and how to acquire them. As usual, he was very severe against clairvoyants.157 But the mad fortune-teller, with her corpse-white skin and strange black bedraggled hair, didn’t seem offended: she kept smiling in all directions at the gremlins and spirits which she sees floating around her.

  Webster is busy, as usual, studying his bible—Kidder-Parker’s manual on construction. The text for the day is chapter 21, article 7: “For workshops on cheap, level land, and especially for buildings in which the stock is heavy, one-story buildings have proved to be more economical than higher buildings, in cost of floor area, supervision, moving stock in process of manufacture and repairs to machinery, much of which can be run at greater speeds than when it is in high buildings.”158

  May 7. Drove down to visit the Huxleys at Llano, with Swami, George, Hayne, Sudhira and a woman named Mrs. Maury. Sudhira had a special interest in coming to Llano, because her father and mother were members of the original colony, and she herself spent some time here, as a child.

  We all walked out to the little abandoned cemetery, where some of the colonists are buried. Aldous says that the Los Angeles morticians are actually agitating to force their descendants to pay for the removal and reburial of the remains in an official graveyard. Lulu, the toy pomeranian, came with us, plunging fearlessly through the undergrowth and continually disappearing. It is the perfect dog for Aldous. He cheers it on, waving his arms and crying, “Luloo! Luloo!” Maria is greatly worried, because of the plague of rattlesnakes this year: she’s sure Aldous will nearsightedly tread on one of them.

  The others drove home. I’m staying the night, returning by bus tomorrow. Maria has explained to me that I must use a candle if I want to read, because the power plant in “Gerald’s Tomb” makes a noise like a motorcycle if it is switched on, and wakes both of them up.

  May 13. Six years ago today since Heinz was arrested by the Gestapo. He’s dead, probably. I imagine they forced him to join the army. I wonder if I shall ever know what became of him.

  Yesterday, I had lunch with Tennessee Williams, the writer. He’s a strange boy, small, plump and muscular, with a slight cast in one eye; full of amused malice. He has a job with Metro. He wanted to buy an autoglide to ride to work on. I tried to dissuade him, but he insisted. We went to a dealer’s, and he selected a very junky old machine which is obviously going to give trouble.159

  May 14. Drove down to Santa Monica for lunch with the Viertels, in Salka’s car; she picked me up in Beverly Hills. She says she has always believed in God and prayed to Him. She can’t even imagine what it would be like, not to have faith. “Do you really pray to God,” she asked, “the way I do?” And she said, “Doubt is just fear—that’s all it is.”

  She is going to England, possibly, in the near future, to write a movie version of Shaw’s St. Joan, for Garbo. Berthold is working on a play, with an American writer. It was lovely, seeing them again.

  After lunch, Garbo came in. She and Tommy Viertel and I walked along the shore, right to the pier. The sun was brilliant, with a strong wind—the palms waving all along the cliff, and the ocean dazzling with light and foam. The air was full of spray and falling light; it was beautiful beyond all words; the afternoon had an edge of extra keen, almost intolerable sensation on all its sights and sounds and smells. Seeing a human body in the far distance, you wanted to seize it in your arms and devour it—not for itself, but as a palpable fragment of the whole scene, of the wildness of the wind and foam, of the entire, unseizable mystery and delight of the moment. I glimpsed something, for an instant, of the reality behind sex. Something which we reach out towards, as we take the human body in our arms. It is what we really want, and it eludes us in the very act of possession.

  Garbo chattered away. She was nice. I liked her better than ever before. She’s much interested in Vedanta, and says she’ll come and visit us. Later, she drove me back to Beverly Hills, shooting all the stop lights. But the afternoon was more memorable than she was.

  May 15. The first lesson I have got to learn is submission. As Amiya says, it’s the little things which are hard to take. No good making up all sorts of excellent and perfectly valid reasons why I should no longer be deprived of my room by Hayne, or annoyed by George’s chanting, Web’s alarm clock, Asit’s radio, Aparna’s beads. (Aparna was a schoolmistress who lived next door and came in fairly regularly. She had a trick of rattling her rosary very loud while she was telling it.) Stop cackling about rights and justice. Sure, you’re entitled to them if you insist. But you’re an idiot if you do insist. This is infinitely more important.

  This morning, for the first time, I did the ritual through without looking at the book of instructions. Got through the newly learned part—the external worship—pretty well, although I forgot the bang mudra over the food; but a whole chunk of the purification ceremony slipped right out of my mind. I missed the prayer for the liberation of earthbound spirits and all the precautions against psychic obstacles. I’ve never forgotten them before.

  After lunch, I finished reading Leave Her to Heaven, Johnny [van Druten]’s unsuccessful play, which I rather like. Most of the afternoon, I tried to get started with my novelette about Viertel and Gaumont-British, which I shall call Prater Violet: after three quite promising pages, I’m stuck. Web and I went down to Hollywood Boulevard to take the copies of the May-June issue of the magazine to the London and Hollywood Bookshops. Then Amiya made me a cup of tea and we let off steam together over the horrors of American food—mint jelly and mayonnaise on fruit salad. Yogini is the worst offender: her mixtures would shock the witches in Macbeth. Sarada came by, overheard us, and laughed.

  In the evening, after supper, Swami described how Premananda hated business meetings and used to try to avoid them by going into the shrine. So one of the other swamis went in and picked him up as he sat meditating, and carried him down to the courtyard and threw him into the air. And then all the swamis suddenly began to dance, making a circle around Brahmananda, who sang, improvising the words, calling on all the people of the earth to come and share the joy of knowing God.

  I asked, if Vivekananda had already experienced the highest samadhi, why did he have any more doubts. Swami explained that Ramakrishna wished him to have doubts. He deliberately “locked the door a
nd kept the key,” in order that Vivekananda should return to ignorance. Vivekananda had to doubt, for our sake. Otherwise we should say to ourselves, “It was all very well for him to believe: he was simply hypnotized by Ramakrishna’s personality.” But Vivekananda did our doubting for us. Like Thomas in the Christian gospel, Mr. Hayne added.

  May 16. Peggy came down to the lecture and drove me up to lunch at Alto Cedro. Another crisis is on at Laguna. Paul Sorel threatens all kinds of scandal because his money is cut short: he’s reckless enough to invent any lie—particularly about Trabuco—and stick to it. Chris has run away somewhere, hoping Paul will eventually get tired and leave. Hearing about this was probably what gave me a sore throat.

  On to tea with the Beesleys. I go there a lot, sometimes on my bicycle. They are always restful, always kind, always pleased to see me. Their house is a haven of peace, after the tumults of monastic life.

  Beautiful golden yellow Peruvian lilies on the steps of the shrine. Felt so exhausted that I went to bed immediately after vespers. Sudhira brought me bacon sandwiches and hot milk with pepper, and sprayed my throat. Slept well, after feelings of resentment against Asit, George and an unidentified radio because of the noise they were making.

  May 17. Swami, Sister, Amiya, Sarada, Yogini, George, Web, Hayne and I drove up to Peggy’s for tea. Peggy and Sister talked gardens. Web was interested in the heating system and the furnace. “They’ve stolen my idea!” he exclaimed. George took a group snapshot, which no doubt will be out of focus as usual. Yogini suggested that the front door should be painted Chinese red. She loves bright colors. Sarada wanted to see the hut where I used to meditate. She pretended that it was a famous shrine and place of pilgrimage, and took off her shoes before entering. We have a lot of jokes of this kind. Sometimes, when we’re going in to a meal, Sarada and I will spend several minutes bowing to each other in the doorway with folded hands and murmuring, “Not worthy!”

  May 19. The man came round today who exterminates vermin and termites; he calls regularly every few months, Swami being no Buddhist. Sarada had one of her missionary talks with him and excitedly reported that he was much interested in Vedanta. “I’m sure he’s got the makings of a devotee,” she said. George commented dryly: “From ratman to Atman.”

  Today and all night till 7 a.m. tomorrow morning, we have a twenty-four-hour vigil, taking it in turns to chant Ramakrishna’s name in the shrine, an hour at a stretch—because it is the full moon of Buddha’s birthday and because Swami thinks we are getting lazy.

  Hayne is just returning with his girl, Miss Heinen: it’s now pretty obvious that this is [a romance]. The sooner he clears out of here, the better.

  George got a card from his draft board today, classifying him 1-A-H. He was a bit surly because I bossily offered to write a letter for him, appealing for 4-D—at Swami’s suggestion.

  Churchill, over here on one of his flying visits, promises England will help the U.S. reduce Japan to ashes.

  Have just done my stint in the shrine room, chanting “Jaya Sri Ramakrishna!” The first ten or fifteen minutes are the worst, because they are a conscious effort. Then, as Sudhira puts it, “The thing begins to say itself.” You find yourself changing gear, from one inflection to another: “JAYa Sri Ramakrishna!” becomes “Jaya SRI Ramakrisha!” and changes to “Jaya Sri RAMakrishna!”; then back again. Sometimes you begin to rock back and forth, keeping time to the chant. Sometimes you go up and down the scale, almost singing it. Sometimes, you get terrifically loud, and start shouting it. Sudhira, who loves anything emotional, says that it’s best in the middle of the night. Once, she and Asit and Aparna got in the shrine together and made such a noise they could be heard all over the neighborhood. Another time, Madhabi (who isn’t here now, but will return soon) actually stood up and started to dance. The shrine room “feels” quite different while the chanting is going on: the atmosphere seems to become tremendously charged with energy and excitement. It’s something like a jive session.

  May 22. Right now, I’m going through an ebb-tide phase—one of those recurring periods during which, ordinarily, I would oversmoke, lounge around doing nothing, go too often to the movies, run after sex, read crime stories, drink too much, wallow in the newspapers and feel depressed. The problem is not to lose everything I have gained. I must watch myself, or I shall be apt to grab some excuse for leaving Ivar Avenue altogether—such as an order from the draft board. Even CPS camp now presents itself in a furtively attractive aspect, because it would rationalize a return to sexuality. I now think of sex in entirely promiscuous terms: I’ve no desire whatever for any kind of relationship. I don’t know if this is a good sign, or not.

  Reading the life of Vivekananda160—especially the part about his austerities at the Baranagore Math—I ask myself, what were all those agonies and struggles for? There are times when I feel I have absolutely no idea. But then I always think, well, can you tell me what Churchill’s blood-toil-tears-and-sweat are for?161 I don’t know that, either; so the balance is restored. The spiritual life is, at worst, no more unreal than the political.

  May 23. Lunch with the Beesleys. Afterwards, we drove up Topanga Canyon and down through the hills to Malibu. Whenever they drive around, there are amused and sympathetic smiles—partly because of their cars, partly because of the dogs. (Folly, after being given a medicine called “Pregnant Mare,” has puppies coming.) Their 1938 Rolls Royce awakens the same nostalgic and slightly contemptuous sentiments in the average American as a covered wagon or a sedan chair. And the little Bantam always gets a laugh. A boy driving a jeep said to us, “And I used to think this was small!” When the three of us and the two dogs are in the Bantam, it looks like a trick—like a model sailing ship in a bottle: how on earth did we ever get inside? When we are in the Rolls, the car appears to belong to the dogs: they sit in the back, like prince and princess, with Dodie as lady-in-waiting, and Alec and myself in front, as chauffeur and footman.

  May 24. Sister was very contrite this morning, because she’d disagreed with Swami yesterday when he denounced present-day patriotism. “Well,” she sighed, “that’s just one more hump I’ll have to get over.” Swami should be the last person to scold anyone for being patriotic: at heart he’s still a flaming Indian nationalist, and gets very heated when British policy is discussed. But I’m never really shocked by his inconsistencies because, fundamentally, he’s so truly humble. He lets the women devotees flatter him and gush about gurus, and he laughs. I am certain that he never thinks of himself as being anything but Brahmananda’s most minor disciple and representative. He refers every problem back to the shrine. I’m even glad that he’s sometimes silly about politics and vain about his youthful appearance. He’s so entirely unimpressive in an immediate, theatrical sense: his great quality is that he never gets in the way of what he stands for, his figure doesn’t block out the light.

  Hayne left early, to escort Miss Heinen to her new job at a bookshop in Westwood Village. Developments are expected any day, now. Swami never fails to get in some nasty crack at marriage when he’s present. This morning, celibacy took another knock. Roger Spencer called in to tell us that he’s getting married to an eighteen-year-old girl. Swami insists that he’ll still end up as a monk, however.

  May 25. Last night, I dreamt I was told by a doctor I had incurable cancer. Misery, horror and dismay—so vivid; a memory, surely, of some former experience? These are the chasms of the ocean of sleep. At such enormous depths, not one ray of light from the surface life can penetrate. Down there in the darkness, I knew no consolation, nothing about God or Ramakrishna, nothing but helpless fear. It’s a long time since I’ve had one of these deep dreams. In them, I’ve experienced almost every emotion—especially fear, pity and rage—with an intensity quite unknown to my waking life. However fantastic the circumstances of the dream may be, the emotion itself is always absolutely valid. I bring it back to the surface consciousness and keep it with me, like an experience. It always teaches me something.

 
; A ridiculous quarrel with Yogini, who said that Honolulu is larger in area than Los Angeles. We both got quite angry. She called the Bureau of Statistics, and proved she was right.

  Asit has brought home some Indian records, and George plays them on his machine: the whole house and garden is full of their wailing. Very irritable and nervous in consequence. I must learn to take these things. Relax towards them. See them as an intelligence test: nothing happens by chance. And what little conditioning I’m being subjected to at present—our overcrowded quarters, Web’s noisiness, etc.—is so very mild. Remember all those millions of boys in camps, in ships, on the battlefields. And I claim to have a vocation, a philosophy of life! Shame. I’ve got to do a hundred times better than this. Vivekananda’s photograph, on my desk, is fixing me with its terrible, reproachful stare. “Run along and do the worship,” it says. “Enough of this nonsense!” Okay, okay, I’m going.

  May 28. Yesterday morning, I went down to the Red Cross center on Western Avenue to donate my pint of blood. An absurd mental fuss about this, simply because the operation took place in semisurgical surroundings. It was far less unpleasant then Sudhira’s B1 shots, which sting like a bee—not to mention Kolisch’s injections, which were like assassinations; he used to come striding into the room and, without pausing to find a suitable spot, stab you with the hypodermic, which he gripped in his fist like a dagger. The blood donors are all treated like heroes—soothed, petted, supported from the operating room into an improvised lounge (furnished by Barker Brothers162) and strengthened with coffee, orangeade and doughnuts. As they leave, they are given a donor’s button, like a decoration for bravery. And, in fact, some of the tired, elderly women I saw there were being brave. For them it was really an ordeal: a few nearly fainted. As I lay on the bed, a lady doctor started to examine my feet. I couldn’t think why, till she explained: “I’m just looking at your beautiful socks. Are they real wool?”