The Digested Twenty-first Century (22 page)

Good tidings! I managed to sell my first novel for £2/2/6d and several American magazines have asked me to write for them. Only trouble is that they don’t want my usual public-schooly stories, so I’m fresh out of plots. Any ideas? Dear old Jeames of Jermyn Street has made me the most spiffing pair of cream golfing bags. You really should see me. Quite the man about town, I’m told. Toodle-ooo for now.

Would you believe it? I’ve just happened to arrive back in New York at the very moment the war in Europe has started! I suppose I could go home, but it seems rather unnecessary as from what I’ve heard the Kaiser will come to his senses soon and all the nastiness will be over by Christmas. In any case I’ve been struggling with the Psmith story, so I should probably wait till that is finished before doing anything rash.

The restaurants in New York are quite magnificent and I’ve met this charming actress called Ethel with whom I’m smitten. Ethel has quite the sweetest daughter, Leonora, so I suspect I shall be staying out here for a little while longer, especially as I have to write another 15 novels by the end of next year. I hear that London has been hit by something called Zeppelins. They don’t sound very terrifying to me. More like the name of a popular beat combo!

Now the war is over, it just so happens that we might be back in Blighty for a while. I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed the cricket; it’s been deuced difficult to get any of the Dulwich scorers at all. Though I did hear we drew with Harrow. I’m sorry you are having so much trouble getting your books published. The last effort sent me was quite brilliant, apart from the plot and the characterisation. I’ve come up with a splendid idea for a series of stories about a gentleman and his manservant. Everyone frightfully excited and I dashed off the first 30,000 words before brekkers this morning. Must go. Some frightful do at the Waldorf to attend.

Here I am in Los Angeles being paid $30,000 to do next to nothing and still I’m finding life rather dull. How I wish I was back watching Dulwich as I hear we’ve got a demon offie this term. But since my new play is opening on Broadway and I also have nine Jeeves books coming out, I don’t think I will make it back. But do give my love to Binky and don’t worry about the Nazis. All this talk about war is just fooey. Much more pressing is how on earth I’m to pay my $100,000 tax bill. How does the government expect a man to live?

Well, I have to confess the war rather took me surprise, but I can confidently predict it will all turn out to be a lot of fuss about
nothing. It is damned inconvenient, though, as there isn’t a decent bottle of claret to be had in Le Touquet.

I’m sorry not to have been in touch for a while, but there’s been this awful confusion. Some awfully nice Nazi asked me to do a radio show so I thought I’d keep everyone’s spirits up by making a few jolly remarks about the food in Germany and now I hear everyone back home thinks I’m a collaborator. Nothing could be further from the truth. I’m having a perfectly miserable time in the Hotel Adlon in Berlin. It’s almost impossible to write more than 20,000 words at a time before the air raid warning goes off. Can’t the RAF give a man a little peace?

It’s wonderful to be back in New York. The Americans are so much more forgiving about my Nazi misunderstandings, though their magazines are refusing to run any more of my stories. They say they are too Edwardian. I ask you! But at least the hoi polloi are still dipping into their pockets for Jeeves. I’m sorry you are still having trouble getting published yourself. Your last 37 rejected manuscripts were triumphs ahead of their time. Talking of which, have you read the new Kingsley Amis and Evelyn Waugh? Insufferably boring, though I’ve written to both to say how much I admire them. The critics say they are the future: if so, it’s a future of which I want no part.

Everything going marvellously well here apart from Snorks, Bill and Denis all dying and Dulwich losing a close run chase against Charterhouse. Next we will be playing grammar schools! Still, chin up and all that.

Much love, Plum

Digested read, digested:
Don’t mention the wars.

Dear Bernard-Henri Levy, We have
rien
in common except that we are both rather contemptible individuals. A specialist in farcical stunts, you dishonour even the white shirts you always wear unbuttoned to the waist. You are an intimate of the powerful, you wallow in immense wealth and are a philosopher without an original idea. Moi? I’m just a redneck. A nihilist. An unremarkable author with no style. These, then, are the terms of the debate.

The debate,
cher
Michel Houellebecq? There are three approaches. 1. You’ve said it all. We are both morons. I agree that is the most likely, but then we have no
livre
and we generate little publicity.2. You are a moron, but I am a genius. This, I must admit, I also quite
aime
. 3. We are both geniuses and we debate why we are so misunderstood and hated. This one is more tendentious, I think, but for the purposes of mutual masturbation and knocking out a
livre
, it has, as they say,
plus de jambes
.

Dear Bernard-Henri, it is time that I quote Baudelaire, Schopenhauer and Musset to establish my credentials as an
intellectuel
. I think you must enjoy the hatred: why else would you Google yourself
vingt fois par jour?
For
moi-même
, my desire to be hated masks a desire to be loved. I want people to desire me for my self-disgust. Perhaps.

Cher
Michel, Yet again you misunderstand me. I do not Google myself out of self-hatred, but out of
amour propre
. I can assure you that
nothing can dent my preening narcissism and self-regard. Those that do hate me do so purely because I am Jewish and drop
mort
gorgeous.
Toujours les petits gens
want to bring down the colossus who has it
tout. Regardez mon bon ami
Dominique Strauss-Kahn. Is it his fault that
chaque femme
who comes near
lui
gets all moist? It’s a cross he and I have to bear. And while I’m about it, I can also quote philosophers and
artistes
. Cocteau, Sartre and Botul. So there!

Dear B-H, I must confess I have never read Botul and cannot access my library as I am now living in Ireland. I can’t say the
pays
has much to recommend it as the inhabitants are
trop
dense to
parler Français
but at least the taxes are minimal and my hard-earned cash doesn’t get spent on Muslim illegal immigrants. Shall we now be a little more daring in our exchange and enter the arena of the confessional? Let me
commencer
by saying how much I hate my
père et mère
. Along with everyone else.

Mon cher
Michel, the confessional is not my style. Oui, I write a daily diary of 10,000
mots
, but that is for
moi seul
and is the bare minimum required to record my breathtaking insights. I hate the fact that people jump to conclusions about me, based on what I write. They call me a disaster tourist. A fraud. How dare they? Even Jesus was treated better than me. But let me get one
chose
straight. My own
père et mère
were
parfait
. For only from perfection can come perfection, as Spinoza and Hegel might have said if they had been as clever as me.

Dear B-H, We have more in common than I thought. We are both
horriblement
misunderstood by a
monde
that refuses to accept our own estimation of our talent, and I see now that I, too,
have Christ-like qualities in the suffering I endure for portraying the world as it is and not how people would like it to be. Not that I believe in anything but my
oeuvre
. As for your onanism, I am not sure I quite understand your position.

Michel
mon cher
, it is monadism,
pas
onanism! Though I admit it’s a
facile
mistake to make. Try to think of my faith as Judaism but with no god and
moi
at the centre of the
univers
. And
quel univers!
While ordinary
gens
were born to work in
magasins
and places
comme ça
, I was born to write and make love
avec mon coq enorme
. That
est ma vie
. As I said to
mes amis Nicolas et Carla
the
autre jour
, I write for 12 hours
et puis
I pleasure women for 12 hours.

Dear B-H, sex is immensely disappointing for me as on the few occasions I manage an erection I always suffer premature ejaculation. So that just leaves writing. I know that whatever I write will be canonical, but I am unsure what to write next. Perhaps
poésie?
My biggest fear is that the pack will win and I will die unloved and unregarded.

Mon cher
Michel, the pack will never win and our names will live on with Kant, Nietzsche and Camus as the greatest
penseurs
of our generation. It does not matter what you or I write next. It is
assez
to know that whatever we do it will be brilliant and far too good for the little minds who will tear it to pieces. You
et moi
, we will live for
jamais!

Digested read, digested:
Pensant
in the wind.

Wrote three sentences of
Kathleen & Frank
. Totally exhausted. Sent Gore a thank-you letter for having us to dinner which was not even acknowledged. Don the Angel says that’s the height of bad manners. Saw Swami and meditated very badly. Arrived in London. It’s terribly cold, and my temper was not improved by being taken to see a terribly pedestrian performance of Hadrian VII. Wrote four sentences of
Kathleen & Frank
before getting a near-fatal nosebleed. Still freezing cold, so went to Strand Sauna where two men exposed rather ordinary cocks. Weighed myself. 150 pounds. I am extraordinarily obese.

Journeyed to St Tropez and New York where we dined with Morgan, Wystan, Stephen Spender and a host of young men dressed in way-out clothes. My weight has dropped to 149 pounds, and I have a small bump on my hand from where I slipped on Santa Monica Boulevard. This can only mean I have cancer. Poor Don. I do hope he will manage without me.

Dodie Smith has asked me to read her latest book. It is cuntily pitiful, but I shall have to be polite about it. Was just settling down to write another sentence of
Kathleen & Frank
when I was interrupted by the extreme shortness of Michael York’s shorts. My weight has ballooned to 151. Went to the opening of Don’s exhibition of portraits of famous people he has met through living with me. I think they are brilliant, but everyone else is very bitchy about them. Crossed out a sentence of
Kathleen & Frank
. Sometimes I feel as if I am going backwards.

Worked with Don on a screenplay of
Frankenstein
. The studio says the title is very promising. Dinner with Anita Loos and
Truman Capote, before going on to several film premieres, none of which was better than mediocre. The mood in Hollywood is still against homosexuals. Why can’t the Jews be more tolerant? I have a twinge in my upper buttock. Unquestionably, it is fatal.

Eventually got round to reading
Travels with My Aunt
and surprised myself by staying awake. More than can be said for Claire Bloom in
Hedda
. She’s really not up to it. Went to see Swami to discuss my meditation but he had died.
Kathleen & Frank
finally published and sold 172 copies, while the play I let Don write with me has had six performances in a bus shelter. That’s a success, I suppose. Not that I care because I have a spot on my neck which is almost certainly cancerous. Tried to read Philip Roth but gave up as he is too Jewish.

Larry phoned me to say Wystan had died, but seemed oddly perturbed I wanted to talk more about my headache. Angel agreed Larry has no sense of time or place. Ed says he loves our version of
Frankenstein
, but could we do a screenplay about a mummy instead. Read Byron and Wordsworth for inspiration before having several lunches with Tennessee to discuss how boring
Urban Cowboy
is. Rushed to hospital with rectal bleeding. Turned out I had just eaten beetroot. My weight is 149 and a half pounds.

Have just written a book about Swami which no one likes. I feel I should trawl through my diaries for another autobiographical novel, but I really can’t be bothered as I feel a bit dizzy. Kathleen asked me to say a few words at Ken Tynan’s funeral. So I got up and said: ‘A few words’ and sat down again. Don has another exhibition of portraits of famous people he met through me. Why is it only me who thinks he’s a genius? I have a lump that is definitely cancerous. I lie down and wait to die. The biopsy reveals it is benign. But fuck it. I’m
78 so I’m going to lie down and wait to die. I’m waiting. I’m still waiting…

Isherwood died four years after writing his final entry
.

Digested read, digested:
Goodbye to LA.

Having been fortunate enough to write hagiographies of both the Queen and the Queen Mother, I was honoured to be asked to edit this collection of the Queen Mother’s letters, which reveal her as one of the most important letter writers of the twentieth century.

A Palace Somewhere, 1914–2001:

Dear Medusa, Mama, the Queen, Bertie and Assorted Crawlers, Mama tells me there is a war going on. It sounds too, too terrible. So many balls have been cancelled. Last night Glamis Castle caught
fire
and one of the staff got a bit burned trying to put it out. I now know what our men must have gone through at the Somme.

Thank God the war is over. There have been so many
parties
this summer that I feel I have scarcely spent an evening at home. Bertie keeps sending me flowers and has proposed at least
twice
, but I do rather think I can do better.