Liberation (103 page)

This morning, just after I'd gotten out of bed, having had a long sweet sleep with my darling, and was entering the bathroom, the Firebird swooped down and whispered into my ear that the key to the construction of my new book is this house. Just as John van Druten, in
The Widening Circle
, used the ranch as the setting for all his thoughts and memories, so I shall use this house. The house will be the image of me, the old man, in constant danger of collapse. This won't be played up—unless of course, the house does actually collapse while I'm working on the book, as the result of a fire or an earthquake or a flood—in which case it might provide an amusing symbolic climax (but let's not even think such a thought!). That's really all I have to say, right now, but I do see that the fact that I lived in this Canyon, in various houses, right from the beginning of my Californian life, will help me to relate this book to almost any of the memories of people I may want to put into it. Also—as Don pointed out when I told him about this at breakfast—there are objects in the house, pictures, etc., which will serve as promptings to memories which aren't directly connected with the Canyon.

 

July 22.
Today, I've made up my mind to break the ice by putting down some thoughts about the outline of my new book. At present, it seems to me that its narrative span, pulled out thin like elastic,
could
extend right from the beginning to the present moment of my American life, just as
My Guru and His Disciple
does. But this is really a question of how much usable material I find I actually have. I must remember that I originally supposed that
Christopher and His Kind
would include my first years in the States!

Well, anyhow. . . . Let's suppose that I begin in the narrative present—the
now
of writing this book—with myself standing on the deck of this house and looking out over the Canyon at the various buildings I have lived in, here, which are actually (more or less) visible—Amalfi Drive, Denny's apartment on Entrada, the Viertels' former house on Mabery, 333 East Rustic Road (and 322 opposite, which was Michael Barrie's, but we stayed there too, and Gerald Heard lived and died there), and then the two houses Don and I had before this one, the rented house on Mesa and the house we bought on Sycamore.

The Amalfi Drive section would include a description of how I left with Vernon for California—after, maybe, some impressions of our life in New York, including some memories of Lincoln Kirstein, unless it seems advisable not to offend him by mentioning him. Also, our first home in Hollywood, the apartment on Franklin, where we were visited by Chris Wood and Gerald. Then, getting to Amalfi, there would be a natural place to describe the Huxleys' house, higher up that same street. And all the people who came there, Bertrand Russell, Anita Loos, Cukor, etc.

And that would lead to Mabery and a description of the household there, the Viertels and all their film friends—which would lead to my first film jobs and life in the studios.

Awkward gaps after this, because of my increasing involvement with the Vedanta Center, and my work with the Quakers in the East. Here is where big problems of narrative technique must be solved, so I somehow avoid constant references to
My Guru and His Disciple
. I have to bridge over to meeting Caskey and occupying Denny's apartment and then the Viertels' garage and then 333 East Rustic, with its hauntings, and drunken hospitality. (I suppose our stay in Laguna must be touched on too.)

Then I meet Don and we move into the Mesa house and the Sycamore house. And finally into this house. And then this house itself can be described. How far we go on from that point is anybody's guess.

Well, as usual, I come to the same old conclusion: I shall only find answers by starting a more or less slapdash rough draft of the book.

 

July 28.
I tried to make a start on the book but suddenly lost confidence. Isn't this approach via the various houses I've lived in a bit too formalistic? And yet, even as I write this, I do see that it's at least a method of starting, and that's worth a lot. It's unlikely that I'll get any deeper insights until I pressure myself by writing something.

A mad letter from Caskey, full of aggression. Maybe he's mad at me because I haven't answered his letters. He demands the pre-Columbian figure back; I'd always regarded this [as] part of my share in the division of property when we parted.
⁹⁹
He also wants some Greek photographs of his back and so far I can't find them. He also makes threats about a book he says he's writing. If I don't show myself “sympathetic” to his book, he will show me up as a freak. He also claims to have amazed John Lehmann by telling him how sexually “naive” I was when Billy met me. This disturbs me just a little bit because it is so obviously a version of the truth twisted to suit Billy, and now he believes it.

 

July 29.
Am depressed, not exactly about Caskey but in general. It's so sad about Tony Sarver having cancer and (almost certainly) requiring [a] colostomy[.] It was also sad seeing Anita Loos so much older and deafer, at lunch with her niece Mary, the day before yesterday. However I think the climate of my depression was created by too much drinking, especially wine drinking which is so lowering and acid.

Now I'm waiting for some German journalist to arrive, Adalbert Reif (or Adelbert; I see from the German dictionary that it can be either).

They left a couple of hours ago and I've forgotten already if it was Adal or Adel.
¹⁰⁰
Anyhow, their visit was quite enjoyable because they have an adorable blond baby which slept fatly, and quite worthwhile because they want to do something about publishing more of my books in German.

Have just finished reading Stephen's play
The Corporal
, a revised and much (too much) expanded version of his
Trial of a Judge.
¹⁰¹
I can see that parts of it would play, but the tragedy seems weary and empty and formalistic—I mean, the characters are idea mouthpieces first and characters second, or not at all. However, I find plays extraordinarily hard to judge. I must try reading it again.

August 7. The Corporal
is better on second reading, but it will have to be cut drastically. Otherwise I've accomplished nothing but a few letters answered. I know I should make some kind of a start with my new book, but I drift, excusing myself that I can't think of a proper opening. Well, at least let's try. For instance—

How would it be to open with a diary passage? Not faked (well, not very much faked) about the happenings of this particular day, now, in August 1979? The passage would begin factually, with details of some happening, and then reveal that I have this underlying feeling of guilty compulsion to get my book of memories started. . . . No, no, that's nothing. Or rather, it's that cliché battle cry of tired authors: I don't want to write but, by jingo, if I do—

Today I must send off a letter telling Mr. Sidebotham that my share of the money willed to Richard through the Trevor Will Trust
¹⁰²
is to go to the Bradleys. That's because I just heard from Tom Isherwood that he wants to keep the whole of his share. Fuck Tom, but I can see no way out of this.

 

August 15.
On August 8, Anita and Mary Loos came to dinner with us, accompanied by Mary's so-called beau, a decorator named Dewey Spriegel. They arrived late, Dewey complaining that they couldn't find the house (actually, Mary lives within sight of us). Dewey said to Don—whom he already met at lunch at Mary's house: “I hear you're an artist. Why can't you repaint the number on your mailbox? It's illegible.” This doesn't sound all that bad, written down. But it was, the way he said it, one of the most insulting things I have heard anyone say to anyone, unprovoked, sober and at the beginning of a party. Later he was publicly rude to Mary, at table.

On August 10, an English journalist named Ian Brodie, who works for the London
Telegraph
, called to tell me that Stephen Spender has cancer—implying that it was terminal. He then went on immediately to ask me to make a statement for his newspaper about Stephen's achievements and place in the literary world.

Shock followed by incredulity gave way to rage. I told him to tell his editor that I'd said his behavior was disgusting: “You're just telling me this for your own commercial reasons.” “
Commerical
is hardly the word I would have used,” he said, primly. I slammed down the phone. Then I got through to Patrick Woodcock, who had heard nothing. As far as he knew Stephen was well and on Corfu. Patrick, equally indignant, said he knew several people on the
Telegraph
and would make enquiries. Since then, I haven't heard any more from anyone. I don't believe the story, and yet I find it hard to imagine that a big newspaper wouldn't have double-checked on its facts.

An invitation: Juleen Compton's and Rod Steiger's All White Party. Une Après Midi Dans La Jardin. Quiche and champagne.
¹⁰³

 

August 28.
Well, at least my birthday's over. The most heartless part of it were the gifts of flowers, ordered by telephone or telegram long-distance—a dress rehearsal for a funeral which—if I'm lucky and make it to UCLA dissecting room—will never take place. But quite aside from birthday blues, I do feel seriously perturbed and undermined by all this mail. I am now hopelessly in the red, or should I say read, as regards answering it. I think I owe more than I did when I started writing letters again after the long gap early this year.

And I'm stuck in preparations for beginning my next book. It really is clearer to me than ever that I have no “plot” for it. The best I can come up with is still the idea of a memoir based on my various dwelling places in the Canyon, which is so Proustian and sentimental.

Just heard from Stephen, very touched because he had discovered from Patrick Woodcock about the call from the
Telegraph
and my reactions to it. He is perfectly all right and full of his play.

Encouraging: both Prema and Claude Summers have written very encouragingly about
My Guru
. Prema came up with only one factual mistake, which can be easily and briefly corrected—when you beg for alms after becoming a swami, you get given the alms in a gerua napkin, not in the fold of your own robe. (Since I actually witnessed this, and wrote about it in my diary at the time, this shows how unobservant I was—and still am.)

 

September 17.
Still this heat, which takes all the zing out of life; just when I feel so anxious to get going. Since Jack Woody produced this project of a picture book of Don's drawings accompanied by some sort of text by me, I have resolved to keep a detailed daily diary for the month of October. It's a crazy project because it will surely be almost impossible to relate the text to the drawings. Don has a sort of mystic faith that the drawings and text will do this of themselves—and who shall say he's wrong?

The evening in San Francisco, when I gave “readings and conversation” to raise funds for Gay Advocates, was an extraordinary experience. In a way it is almost more difficult to cope with an audience which has made up its mind to adore you than with one which says “you show us.” Amidst the cheers and standing ovations, I felt somehow like a conductor conducting a piece of music which isn't his composition. I don't mean that I was consciously trying to say only things I thought they'd like to hear. But I
was
trying to be one of them, whether in agreement or in disagreement. I felt that I was a member of the tribe; the fact that I was addressing it was hugely exciting and joyful but still only of secondary importance.

Well, anyhow, the show was nearly sold out. And the posters announcing it
¹⁰⁴
—the ones that were left over, signed by Don and me—were all sold.

San Francisco seemed utterly delightful, especially after the smog down here, such refreshing sea-clean air. And all the little old houses looked so charming. Don and I agreed that it is the most beautiful city anywhere.

 

September 18.
In the midst of a slightly drunken argument last night, Don came out with a line which I thought was so marvellous I wrote it down immediately: “What do you think
I
am—some tawdry little
recipient
?” And now I simply cannot remember what the argument was about.

Yesterday, we were visited by two young men, one English, one Irish—Christopher Corr and Eamonn Leddy—Christopher a young artist who has a scholarship from the Royal Academy of Art to draw landscapes, etc., here in the States,
¹⁰⁵
Eamonn his friend, probably lover, describes himself as a mathematician, twenty-four, one year older than Christopher. Both have metal spectacles and perfect pink skins and white teeth and are blondish. If the angels who visited Sodom had worn modern dress, that's exactly how I imagine they would look.

Today another near-angel, Stuart Timmons,
¹⁰⁶
arrived to be drawn and painted by Don; dressed to be undressed—very short cutoffs which showed all of his scarred, slightly disfigured yet extra ordinarily sexy legs. Later he told me that he had lied to Don, saying that he had posed for art classes in the nude. When Don suggested a nude pose he was embarrassed but did it anyway. He is a curly-haired blond with a kiss-pouting mouth, determined to reactivate his gay sex life this fall—on principle, one supposes; he is a deadly serious gay-political boy, determined to show solidarity with the tribe.

 

September 19.
The anniversary of Caskey's and my departure for South America, thirty-two years ago. Which reminds me that I haven't yet heard from Caskey since I sent him a half- reconciliatory letter enclosing the chapter which refers to him in
My Guru
. It will be very tiresome if he takes me up on my offer to cut him right out of the book!