It’s not just you who’s going on a journey. I’m also about to go – through a very lonely region of the spirit.
“Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch’entrate”: “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.” But at some point (“on the other side of the water, bright and happy” as your ouma would say) I’ll reach the light, and find you.
I hail everything about you. And I’m not embarrassed that I have tears in my eyes.
I’ll write to you in London.
The heart, the heart remains.
With love,
André.
Grahamstown
Tuesday morning, 24 March 1964
Dearest Cocoon,
In forty minutes’ time the plane will land, empty. Today the world is all absence, all illusion:
Suffering alone exists, none who suffer;
The deed there is, but no doer thereof;
Nirvana is, but no one seeking it;
The Path there is, but none who travel it.
(the words of the Buddha)
But there’s a melancholy in me as from the vine: yearning, longing, love – but clear, not murky.
Forgive me the chaos of my other letter. I don’t even know if this one will arrive in time. Falling leaves …
Autumn is on its way. Our season. Our burning, bright April.
And Easter. I shall go to Mass on Friday.
And perhaps it had to turn out thus that you, like Nicolette, would leave. Because you, too, cannot be possessed. Ingrid, Ingrid, Ingrid: You who slept in the crook of my arm. You who, at times, were mine only. You who read poetry in that lovely voice of yours. Who, with your finger, twirled your little curl. Who could laugh so sweetly, so wickedly. You of the morning sun, of the luminous dark. The conversations of our bodies. The fulfilment, always. You, so bright, so dark. So true to me and such a little whore. You who console me, drive me crazy.
I cannot live without you.
I love you.
There is an indestructibility in our love.
Rock to and fro on your ship, and sleep; lie in the sun; play. And write poems – send them all to me.
Long for me, sometimes. Love me.
Ingrid, Cocoon, I say goodbye to you, fair child, and I believe.
André.
Thursday, 26 March 1964
GOODBYE MY DARLING LONG LIVE SPAIN = COCOON
Grahamstown
Tuesday, 6 April 1964
Little thing of love,
Over the past few days I’ve inevitably dreamt a lot about how perfect it would’ve been had you carried out your initial plan and departed only on 17 April – and then hidden away out here for those six days with me. For a while I was so whole, so sadly happy; the ongoing sense of longing was no emptiness, but a fulfilment – a yearning for paradise before the Evil that one must experience if one is to maintain spiritual equilibrium. Everything was so nicely rounded off. And I was once again able to enjoy my ritual of eating alone – nine at night, Anton in bed, the house quiet, with a can of those thin little asparagus (like little cat-peepees) that we ate at Chris’s place. Remember, remember.
I listen to your voice on the tape, and every time, afterwards, I say a small prayer:
“Yesterday I was poor, but now I am wealthy.”
I lie on my back in the quiet and remember and miss you; every moment is a little candle that burns in the pit of memory.
Yesterday we went to a farm, me and my little boy, who could marvel at piglets and dogs and cows; there were geese, a cat with kittens, a hen with chicks – the “wonder-filled eyes of a child”!
The only disturbance in this entire period was on Saturday when Estelle phoned to arrange for her return (tomorrow); just bare no-nonsense talk, and hearing her voice brought on such a sudden sense of unrest, such a feeling of entrapment, that it took quite a while for me to feel quiet and whole again.
Darling, Cocoon, I’m making tremendous progress with the novella’s “conceptual work”. It’s now going to be called – definitely, I think: Elders Mooiweer en Warm [Elsewhere Fair and Warm]. I probably won’t be able to start writing any time soon, but the child is starting to come alive, and it’s kicking.
I’m sending along Maish [Levin]’s Sunday Times report (quite sedate, for a change!) with its characteristic jargon – and its presumptuous lie about Collins, etc.! Further than this, I know nothing. If they approve the book, only the complainant is notified, confidentially, and nothing further is said. Quite apart from the scandalousness of it all, it’s also plainly impolite!
May I tell you how much I love you and how very much I long for you? How my days are white gulls that travel with you and, at night, come to rest with folded wings on your little breast?
Are you at rest? Are you whole? Being good? Living poetically? Resting? Writing poems? Is the sun changing you into a little fairy that dances with dainty feet across the waves? Do you dream about us at night? Do you stare at the phosphorus bouncing off the waves? At flying fish skimming across the water? Are you walking with those little feet of yours through the streets of Las Palmas; are you being conned on the streets by a thug? At night, do you drink Martinis? Twirl your little curl around your finger? Are you having a good time, hey? I’m sending a little kiss for my little chick.
Write a lot; live full of light; continue loving me.
Always yours, darling, Cocoon, with love,
André.
RMS Windsor Castle
Nearing the Equator
My dearest André,
Sail, sail, sail – it’s late, and I was already up in my clean little bunk bed – but for a very long time I’ve been wanting to communicate; even if it can only be posted from Madeira; and then came here to the dance hall. Dear man, thank you very much for the really beautiful flowers – proteas and heather – that you sent me. Apparently there was a picture in the paper. The press took some photographs on my departure from Cape Town. Ag child, there are so many new and lovely things – the night here, the enchanting damp blanket of the equator: the strange life at sea, the anticipation of the big adventure on the other side – and all of you, and you, whom I left behind. Your letters I received, your dear letters, parts of which still upset me. Of course. I thought about us a lot, and your distress, the “metaphysical anguish” about me – and, as we say here on the ship, “I do not know about life any more.” All I want to say in connection with Jack is that my relationship with him is, after all, a genuine relationship. Maybe it’s correct to say that the “evil cycle” will be broken overseas – I already feel so distant – I also feel lonely and cheerful – cheerful as I suppose one is on a boat – continually half-drunk from the motion of the ship and the sultry weather.
I went off to the library – where it’s peaceful – alone thank god for the first time – because there are three women in my cabin and people constantly milling about. What are you doing? Do you hear me? Do you see me? What happened to the daisies? Have become wordless these days – of course you know that all too well – read Tolstoy – chat to Laurens van der Post – and try to take everything in and experience and wait for a revelation. I sometimes think – wrongly – about the return to South Africa, in a year – which in the circumstances would be a kind of suicide – and yet I have to return, to Simone. Maybe the trip will change everything, and perhaps you will come to me.
There is so terribly much to learn, and so much depends on the success of the trip – languages, people, works of art, and “to know about life”. And the latter is the most important, and “give rest to the innocent”. I don’t sometimes miss you – I am very aware of you – and god, now what – maybe – could have been. Laurens’s laugh, which is just like yours, the face or gesture of some or other young man on board. But I feel as if I am on my way somewhere – to a better insight, a bigger love (general). How do all these words sound at this late hour while all the old people are sleeping (practically the whole ship is comprised of old people). Just words, but among them a few that say I miss you,
I miss your voice and your nearness – forgive and forget the other things – the only thing that matters is being together. And if that cannot be – then all the gods who separated us will surely find a way for us to go forwards into another life that can be precious.
My André, tender heart, I salute you and bless you, remain good and compassionate, and teach me to be like that. My study year will be genuine study – but, I already know, different to what I expected, and a lot more meaningful. Remember, like me, the “rose-garden which is ours and ours only”.
Good night, dear prince – love,
Your Cocoon.
RMS Windsor Castle
My dearest Prince,
It’s one o’clock, but I don’t want to sleep. I want to go and walk out there in that damp blanket – but then I wouldn’t be able to speak to you on paper. Listen, I don’t want you ever to doubt what you meant to me – and still mean – and will mean in the future. You made me so much richer – nothing will ever be the same, praise god! And if you think you dare – give me a chance – a true chance – to love you. Here, on the ship, I can tell no one – because how would they know – “No you don’t understand, Levi / Nobody understands / How the sight of his face moves me / The touch of his hands”.
I sometimes think that faith is bigger – and you must keep believing in me – it’s perhaps unrealistic to ask that – since I didn’t prove that last “act of faith” to you when I was still in Cape Town. There were so many factors, darling, and one was precisely this: that I didn’t believe any more. We’ll have to start again, if you can, and defend, love and hold! André, I did not take the broken engagement well. We both know that, and we are afraid to say it – we are so scared of hurting one another in this way – but we both sinned against one another terribly in our lack of faith – it mustn’t happen again.
And yet you are so precious in my painful memory. And I feel that I failed you with the Grahamstown thing – “if I could only see now your dear face again” – you see, I have degenerated among the English – but – and this you must believe – for you, for me, for everyone around us. My little treasure, it’s a lost world this, and we two lost little people who can only seek shelter in one another. “Come to my breast …”
I’m just nattering on in a desperate attempt to bring you inside here – to this neat library – I’m so happy among the books and with writing, where I belong. But it’s one-thirty and I should also be sleeping peacefully. These equator nights are far too warm and entrancing – God, a small cabin with you – Mr and Mrs André Brink – that’s not a reproach – but a longing. But I’m alive, child, I’m alive – and just by living a person never perishes – tonight I truly hate the little bed I have to creep into so quietly and lie there until daybreak when raucous wonderful life breaks out around me: listen, my darling, I am not sad – but rather a “sadness at the source of (my) valiant joy”. There are so many possibilities and so many Everests. Write to me, see me and remain your darling self. Let me know about Spain. Everything. And things at home. Monkey. And don’t be afraid to “hurt” me. The only thing that hurts me and makes me afraid is uncertainty. Sleep with your papie, sleep with the whore.
Love, darling,
Cocoon.
PS: I must see the proofs of Orgie. It’s urgent. And very important. I’ll send them back immediately.
PPS: My body speaks to you in hope, faith and love. Till then.
Grahamstown
Friday, 10 April 1964
My bright child,
Thank you for your two equatorial letters from Los Palmas, so serene and full of the entrancing detachment of life at sea, an “island of repose” that came at just the right time for you, away from the world of involvements, and allowing you to see everything “from afar behind glass, as if before a god”. My own heart hopes and yearns for the same, and needs it, like “a consummation / Devoutly to be wished”.
I am so glad about the light that you bring (even if it turns out to be temporary?), your hope and all your radiant prospects, and the sensible thankfulness with which you formulated everything. That our faith fell short. That we must start anew. Even that “the relationship with Jack is, after all, a genuine relationship”. I am learning that, too, trying to, accepting it as reality, jealous and everything but not smotheringly possessive. Just very much in love love love with you.
I’m living in a purer state of longing for you than ever before. When I was young, my mother kept me good by saying “Don’t break dear Lord Jesus’s heart”. My Cocoon, please become my dear Lord Jesus. So that I must always first ask, in every little act, every day: am I being worthy of your love? Will what I’m doing light up the happiness in your lovely blue eyes – or make your lip twist into a stony expression – or make your little curl fall the wrong way?
Spain. I heard from Koos again. If we can agree about the nature of the book I must write – right now we still differ – “then you can make your arrangements on the assumption that we will give you financial assistance”.
Let us dream.
And let us also be clear-headed. Going to Spain is a more drastic undertaking than going from Pinelands to Green Point, or flying from Cape Town to Grahamstown. It’s not just a holiday; as you know, it’s also a chance to encounter you on an “equal footing”. So: I will be able to let you know at the end of May. (“Be alert and pray. Then hold firm.” Do you remember this old Sunday-school maxim?)
Estelle is back. My six-day rest has been disrupted. It’s upsetting because – after the silence of the past while, before she left – she’s now suddenly very loving towards me. Is it my fate always to hurt people?
I’m working a lot. Next Saturday the university closes for a short vacation. During last year’s autumn break I went to Cape Town and met a diminutive girl with petite little feet, big eyes and pert nipples, and I learnt how to live. This autumn I’m living like an introvert, quietly, in mature longing. And I’m going to try writing the novella. It’s busy finding its form now.
My demonic little angel: you are always with me, like a fairy-tale that is handed down from generation to generation, a story for a long, happy evening, a tale about enchanted trees and laughing leaves, a burning bush, a man and a woman in a garden, without clothes, with an apple, a tale of pomegranates, of sadness and love and joy, of waiting and fulfilment.
Do you sometimes wear Persephone’s little garnet ring?
And between your doves the little cross that protects you against Evil?
I love you.
And I send a gentle caress, with piety and longing, for the lonely, concealed little cocoon in autumn.
Your André.
South Africa House
Trafalgar Square
Saturday, 11 April 1964
My dearest André,
Lo and behold, in London. And where shall I begin? Because on the boat I couldn’t really write so nicely, and to all your questions in the first boat letter I couldn’t find answers – shipboard life, as you know, is indeed “living in the centre of a highly polished saucer” and lots and lots of engagements with people that you’ll never see again and whose names are already forgotten, and then I landed up in the ship’s hospital with a fever, a kind of English flu … did you also sail on an English ship like this …?
With the result that I couldn’t get to the mainland quickly enough – the little I’ve seen of London so far is, of course, enchanting – but oh magtig! landed up among South Africans again, because I’m staying with a South African family (Sheddrin) – don’t know how long, so write to SA House, I’ll send you a telegram when I leave for Holland (where I’ll be staying, I don’t yet know, so you see, confused, confused, confused).
But how are you? Dearest man, I feel so guilty that I haven’t written again, but it’s been a continual bobbing around on the open sea, literally and figuratively and I have no ground under my feet, and here at the Sheddrins’ it’s a madhouse – the dogs and the people and the children and the cats have gone
out for a while and the TV is quiet – but my heart is still hammering from the heart of London, the tubes I just took, and especially the National Gallery, which I visited rather tentatively today and God! that [Leonardo] Da Vinci and the giants. I no longer know whether I can say you, because you are so far away, and sometimes I feel rebellious towards you because you’re so far, and should have been here now with me for a long wet walk through the misty heath. Child!
Went out for dinner last night to a madhouse where they sang old English songs – why must old people always be so ridiculous? But you, my South Africa, if I could just have held your hand and squeezed it under that funny old table and laughed … What are you doing? Thank you for your last boat letter, so unexpected, my precious; and I only got to SA House on Monday – it was of course over the weekend – to fetch your fat letter. One lives in a kind of vacuum without news – and yet I know how you are, and sometimes feel so concerned about you out there on the godforsaken vlaktes of Grahamstown. And how are things with you and Estelle? And with the little one? And the classes? And the writing? And the soul, and the heart …
My André, often in a busy street, right in the middle of a conversation or standing before a dazzling Rembrandt [van Rijn], I fold my hands together and wonder why this year, this huge formative year of space and privilege all alone and how it would have been if and if it’d been different. I don’t want to stay in England. I want my own room. And I don’t see my way clear to facing the wonderful preordained time alone because I want to share it, but with my “populated heart” I meet every revelation with a memory: “The only thing that matters is being together.”
Write soon about what’s happening with your overseas visit, André. Time is short! I have written nothing yet – but things are already starting to happen, after visiting the gallery today even the plainest old lady on the tube looked fresh and full of meaning. But look after your precious self. Know that I’m thinking of you. And stay pure and clean and good and love me and forgive my silences and impulsiveness. Send loving regards to Rob and the rest of them and come here, my little flame in the snow.
Flame in the Snow Page 37
