Christopher Isherwood Diaries Volume 1

by Christopher Isherwood

  February 1. Last night we had supper with Renée Zinnemann and took her to see Tiger at the Gates.111 This was a great success—partly because Tiger was, or seemed, much better than in New York—Robert Ryan superior to Redgrave, and perhaps in New York we were drunk?—partly because Renée was lively and such fun.

  She told us that Peggy and Bill Kiskadden embarrassed her the other evening by quarrelling savagely in her presence. Peggy said she was going east to see her mother. Bill retorted that he was only being told this for the first time in the presence of a guest. Peggy said well, it would be nice for him to come home early and be with little Bill. Bill said it wouldn’t always be convenient for him to come home early. Peggy said he didn’t love his son, etc. etc.

  I can’t help being pleased to hear this—and yet I know it’s evil to be pleased and that the evil will rebound on me. It is truly appalling, how resentful I’ve become. Do I use up all my affection on Don and Swami? Swami is the only person against whom I never feel resentful.

  A strange mood of nostalgia this morning for England—a kind of Mortmere country village with a churchyard, dark overgrown tombs, a study where you could read the classics in mouldy leather volumes. It would be easier to die in such a place, I thought.

  February 4. I’m getting to the point where I must get restarted on my novel.

  I have such a desire to do this, and yet I cannot hit the right note. I must absolutely start soon.

  Rod Owens to lunch with me at the studio. His nerves are terrible. He dulls them with Miltown. He feels horrible even if he has to drive a short distance. He only feels safe at home. He has cheered himself up a little, lately, by having a love affair. But he worries because his life is going by. He looks big and gross and sleepy.

  I feel a curiously strong affection for him. Is it partly for mysterious astrological reasons? We were born on the same day.

  Rod and Hayden think that Caskey is going crazy. He has left his friend in Texas and now no one knows where he is. Rod described how, after a big argument they had with him up at the house, he took all of his pictures out of it and stacked them in the garden in the rain. It is really heartbreaking. How sad that all that part of my life had to end in unkindness and sulks, miserable though it certainly was!

  February 6. I have been getting letters from Bill Stroud, abusing Gerald. One of these arrived yesterday with a Santa Monica postmark. So I alerted Gerald and Michael Barrie, and we all half expected to be visited by a madman with an axe. Now examining the envelope very closely, I realize that I sent out a false alarm. The Santa Monica post office must have stamped the letter merely because the St. Louis post office had done it so badly—nearly missing the letter altogether.

  This morning I drove downtown and bought a cabochon star ruby for Don for the fourth anniversary, on the 14th.112

  A tiresome tight headache around the temples—the kind Peschelt says is due to atomic fallout affecting the liver.

  Finished a big swatch of script in the rough today. Now I can take it easy, rewriting.

  But I still long to get on with my novel!

  February 7. This morning I had my eyes tested, and at noon I had an electrocardiograph, both normal. That is, my eyes are little if any worse.

  Valentine cards are in the shops. I wanted one to give Don with his ruby, and found another, of Beethoven scowling with red glass eyes captioned: “What the hell are you so mad about?” I put this up on the bulletin board in my office to remind me. My resentments are becoming chronic. I detect a growing rejection-hate against women which is truly disconcerting in its proportions.

  As much as anybody has a right and a reason to be happy in our present world, I have a right and a reason. And a duty—even if it were only for Don’s sake. Very well, I’ll make a big try.

  February 11. Struggles, yesterday, to restart my novel. I now believe I know what’s wrong. It oughtn’t to begin with the dream telegram. Too tricky.

  Don and I walked on the beach. Wonderful pale blue Japanese silhouette-mountains—not a house visible along the Topanga-Malibu shore. In the evening Don did some homework on a process called (I think) monoprinting. He made a mess over the floor and had to clean the tiles. Our life together is a whole world in miniature—despair, reassurance, snugness, triumph—all under the microscope. Such a tiny world—and yet—what else does life offer? I don’t think two people could possibly be happier together.

  On Saturday, we had supper with Speed. He lectured Don on the necessity of associating with your superiors. He was at his best. He seemed honest, decent, humble, compassionate, vitally curious and very strong. Yes—there’s a wonderful person inside Speed. I only hope it will one day permanently dominate the other personae—the skipping spiteful niggery indiscreet gossip mongers.

  How dull the Satyricon113 is! Am rereading it by sheer determination.

  February 12. I’m badly scared. This morning, while shaving, I noticed a bump on the side of my belly. I showed it to Dr. Lewis when I went for my shot, and he thinks I should have it cut out at once. True, he says it’s probably nothing—and the operation should be very slight. But all the same, the possibility of cancer exists.

  I shall go through all manner of attitudes toward this emergency, no doubt. Right now, I’m shaking. Perhaps—even if the news is bad—I’ll feel better when I know something for certain. The great fear of death at present is its approach. And the agony of leaving Don. That’s too painful to think about, even.

  At five I’m going to see the surgeon, Dr. Lichtenstein.

  I’ve finished another batch of pages. Marian is typing them. So I’ve been lying on the sofa, thinking about myself (which is the worst thing I could do) and sweating in this sudden incredible heat wave.

  February 13. Last night, I saw the surgeon, Dr. Lichtenstein, who says yes it’s a tumor and must come out but he doesn’t think it’s serious. This morning I saw Sellars, and he was almost positive that it isn’t cancer. Still—the whole thing is scary and horrid and I do wish it was over.

  Last night, I gave the ruby to Don because I couldn’t wait until just before going into hospital. He was delighted, and that made me cry. At a time like this, it is horribly painful to have someone you love and who loves you. The terrible vulnerability you feel—for both of you.

  February 14. Talked to Swami, last night. He says he isn’t afraid of dying now at all—though of course he would prefer to avoid pain. This life seems to him “all shadows.” He was very convincing, and I believed in his belief—but there is one problem he doesn’t have and I can’t explain to him—the pain of separation from those who aren’t in “the gang.” What if Don were excluded from the Ramakrishna loka? But, of course, such questions can’t be asked except in terms of our present life and its appearances.

  This morning I tried to explain to Don why I prefer to face the possible worst now (or try to; one can’t, properly, till one is certain) rather than “refusing to dwell on the negative side,” as many advise. But he doesn’t see this; it shocks him. I guess it is a profound difference in temperament.

  Am writing this in the office at Twentieth Century, waiting until it’s time to go and see Jessie Marmorston. Yes, I am anxious and tense—I won’t pretend I’m not—but I must say I would still rather have gone through this anxiety than dulled it with happy drugs. Whatever there is to be learned from this experience, you aren’t going to learn it in the midst of a Miltown daze.

  February 15. Well, here I am—just about seventy-two hours since Dr. Lewis found the tumor, and it’s out and I’m sitting dressed in my room, waiting to go home as soon as Don calls to pick me up.

  The tumor was between the size of a dime and a nickel, but rounded like an eggplant. White—pinkish with blood. I had a local anesthetic, something like Novocain. When they’d cut it out, the pathologist came in and looked at it, to be sure it wasn’t malignant. My only discomfort is that my belt presses against the dressing.

  But now, let this be a lesson. Let me not forget what I felt—an
d let it make a difference. Let me think of myself as a reprieved person—with the obligations of the reprieved.

  The man in the other bed in my room, Mr. Graw. He had an operation on his ear, and it was pretty successful—but he couldn’t help blasting with the TV set, because he didn’t hear well. Amazing how you can relax toward these things, if you don’t immediately stiffen with resentment. Mr. Graw is an accountant at Las Vegas. He wants to have a plastic valve made for his heart. He really seems to like operations. He read in the newspaper about a woman who has a ping-pong ball in her heart, and it makes a noise like an alarm clock. Of such are the servants of science.

  February 17. Am really quite shaken up because I got mad at the kids next door for jumping in our geraniums while playing hide-and-seek. This is the first time I lost my temper or got at all excited since the sedation I got for the operation. How nasty this kind of anger is! Old maidish.

  But I’m full of resolves—to let this be a lesson, as I said.

  I will try to make more sense of my life—that’s the only way I can put it.

  How strange—I discovered the tumor on the second anniversary of Maria Huxley’s death.

  It is silly to say that my present relations with Don are too good to last—because everything is too something or other to last—but they really do mark a new high record of happiness for me. And yet—isn’t this happiness organically part of what I’ve just been through? Is it possible at all without poignancy?

  It now begins to look as if maybe we won’t go to Tahiti in June, but postpone that trip and wait and go to India in the fall. Reasons—I must go to India now, because of the Ramakrishna book; Don could then get another continuing term at art school; I could perhaps finish another draft of my novel, earn more movie money, make a more complete recovery from the hepatitis—on which Jessie Marmorston blames my tumor.

  The lady at the flower shop, when I was buying daffodils: “Don’t give them too much water. They’re little drunkards. They drink themselves to death.”

  February 21. Lunch today with Jessie Marmorston, who told me that Ken MacKenna of MGM has a cancer which is probably incurable. She asked me all about my early life.

  I really must now get into a recovery frame of mind. As it is, I’m worried about my right hand which is shooting pains right up the arm.

  This is a very strange passage in my life—a kind of knife-edge. On the one hand, these negative fears and clouds of sickness; on the other, the truly idyllic life I’m leading with Don, the keen interest I feel in my novel and even, to a far greater degree than usual, in my movie work. Also—and this is most important of all—I feel a new or renewed relationship to Swami. This has been growing for months. It’s as if he were exposing me to stronger and stronger vibrations of his love—yet, all the while, making almost no personal demand. I saw him last night—still, as he said “floating” a little after an operation he had on a cyst. He was like a small adorable animal with ruffled fur as he sat on his bed telling us about the early days at the monastery. I don’t feel he is altogether a person, any longer. This light seems to flood through him more and more continuously.

  February 24. The night before last, rain fell in torrents, making our bedroom roof leak and even driving some water in through the skylight. Some streets—such as La Cienega—were flooded and cars were afloat and crashing into each other. We are told to expect more tonight.

  Today the muscles of my stomach around the wound are sore, which worries me, rather. I’m so disgustingly fat—really fleshy—round the waist. And I feel weak. I know that I must fight my way out of this condition step by step, or else I’ll get sick again in one way or another.

  I keep on at my novel, revising a page a day, going slow until I’ve built up about thirty to forty pages and thus regained interest and confidence.

  Yesterday Ted was again arrested for shoplifting and I had to guarantee the bail bond. We went to see a lawyer in Beverly Hills, Sheldon Andelson, to arrange this.

  Despite my good resolutions after the operation, I still find myself fussing about the absurdest trifles. I keep looking out the window to be sure the children aren’t jumping on our geranium bed, as they have been.

  February 26. Dick Foote called yesterday to tell me jubilantly that Johnnie and Starcke have split up. It seems that Starcke demanded Johnnie should quit the ranch (and, I suppose, Carter’s influence) for good and put himself unreservedly under Goldsmith’s and Starcke’s metaphysical guidance. Really, it seems that Starcke must be a little bit insane! So Johnnie has legally dissolved the “partnership” between them. Starcke, according to Dick, gets about $100,000! He was splitting Johnnie’s earnings fifty-fifty.

  Johnnie is reported to have said that he feels a great load off his mind, as when Auriol Lee died.

  But it’s sad. I do like Starcke, crazy though he is, and a rogue—so long as he keeps off God. The prospect for poor Johnnie now is pretty dreary, especially as he does not like Dick, I think. He is actually in a worse position than if he’d been left completely alone.

  Saw Dr. Lichtenstein today. He says everything is going well. I was most agreeably surprised by his fee—only $160!

  Speed has read my Jean-Christophe script, all but the ending, and plainly isn’t much impressed by it. He would like a punchy drama in three acts. He recommends my asking for a collaborator, so as to have an ally. I guess he thinks I couldn’t manage to rewrite it alone. I don’t quite know what to do about this.

  March 4. Yesterday I drove up to the Sarada Math with Evelyn Hooker and gave a talk on “Who is Ramakrishna?” I thought I was rather dull and flat, but people seemed pleased. The girls, as usual, seemed so sweet and naturally intimate like the right kind of relatives—the kind you forget when you’re not with them but who are always there and whose love you rediscover each time you meet. Sarada was wonderful as always; and I was greatly impressed by Barada, who seemed to have acquired great maturity all of a sudden. She complimented me on my talk, saying that it was “so bold”—and I heard the tone of Sister—a great lady’s courtesy.

  I’m very glad I invited Evelyn to come with me. Not only did the experience interest her, and maybe help her (because I think she got a lot out of talking to Sarada), but also we were able to talk in a relaxed way about Edward.

  She says she is determined not to be an “amputated” person. She is going to make a complete new life for herself. She feels that the homosexual research project will help her do this. She has decided to buy a TV set and put it in the living room, where Edward had always declared he wouldn’t have it. “I hope the shade of Edward won’t rise up and smite me,” she added. (It was a very good sign, I thought, that she could talk like this.)

  There’s a boy who comes to the lectures at Santa Barbara. About ten years old. I think his name’s Jonathan. He has something extraordinary in his smile. Maybe he’s a junior saint. Evelyn noticed it too. And already everybody is kidding him about becoming a monk.

  When I mentioned him to Don, Don exclaimed impatiently: “I hate child prodigies!” I know so exactly why he said this—it’s his horror of competition. And nowadays we have this disgusting cult of the young who are “going places.”

  Nonetheless, a genuine prodigy is fascinating!

  Yesterday evening, after getting back from Santa Barbara, we drove up to Vedanta Place in time to catch the end of vespers and be touched by Swami with the tray of relics. It was Don’s own idea that he should come with me, and I was very happy that he suggested it. (When we went to vespers at the Brahmananda puja on February 1, he wouldn’t be touched by the relics.) Now I feel he has joined the Ramakrishna family.

  Speed and Paul have left for a Perle Mesta party in Philadelphia and the opening of Tennessee’s Orpheus Descending.

  On Saturday night I talked to Johnnie on the phone. He told me, with the air of a president declaring a state of war, that he and Starcke have split up. Dick and Carter were present at the other end; and it was sadder than hell, this feeling of divorce and th
e triumph of the maiden aunts.

  My operation scar is still sore, but I guess it will be for a long while.

  Don fears that Ted may be getting ready to have another attack. He has been laid off from his job and is now in a lively irresponsible mood—the kind which usually means trouble.

  March 9. At the AJC ranch. Don and I drove down here last night.

  A very strong wind this afternoon. Clouds of sunlit dust blowing over the fields. The cotton woods make a noise like rushing water.

  The inevitable private conferences with Carter and Johnnie. Carter told us that the doctor doesn’t expect Johnnie to live more than three to five years—not so much because of his heart as his liver. But I get the impression that Johnnie does want to live, and so he probably will. As for Johnnie he says that he feels only relief at having gotten rid of Starcke. But of course he is suffering; and the saddest thing is that he is basically alone, with Carter and Dick offering him their kindness as a married pair offers shelter to a widower. Carter is insensitive in this respect. He is a good nurse to John—does everything possible for him, rations his cigarettes, arranges his meals, puts him to bed, protects him from disturbance—but he was about to show Johnnie a letter from Dick which arrived today—a letter bubbling with naive good-hearted tactless protectiveness: how we are going to take care of poor Johnnie, etc. Just the very thing to make Johnnie feel completely out in the cold. As far as I am concerned, I feel I would rather be quite alone than in such a threesome, especially remembering what Carter used to be to Johnnie.

  This afternoon, Johnnie showed us old theatrical magazines, with pictures of The Speckled Band, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, etc. etc.

  Joel Goldsmith wrote Johnnie a revolting letter today—which Carter is going to show him—all about God consciousness and material consciousness. D. H. Lawrence used to exclaim against people who had “sex in the head.” Goldsmith has religion in the head. Every word he utters is false.