That afternoon we went over to Brooklyn and saw Paul Cadmus and his friend Jon Andersson. They were both very nice to us, but Don doesn’t really like Paul, he finds him cagey and sarcastic and full of bitterness. Paul looked healthy. He had an unbecomingly long hairdo; it’s all white now.
Then we saw Follies105 which was ghastly, although Don liked it a little bit more than I did, and suddenly the birthday was a failure, because I hadn’t arranged a birthday supper to top it off. We hurriedly tried to call people and couldn’t get anyone. It was my fault, of course, but Don’s birthdays are always tricky, because he will not say beforehand what he wants or doesn’t want to do, and he doesn’t like it if I tell people in advance. I had been dreading this birthday for several weeks, and I was thankful when it was over. We came back gloomily to eat at home—soup out of a can—this was my punishment. When we got back to the house we found the tenants in a state of fury because, as they claimed, the new owner—who wants to get them all out of the building because their rents are fixed—had sent two men to tear down the door which protects the staircase, thereby exposing them to burglars. They had already sent for the police and were planning legal action. We were a bit worried, wondering if we’d be harassed with stink- or firebombs or beatings-up as the representatives of Maurice Grosser!
May 19. We saw Brian Bedford in The School for Wives. He was better than either of us had ever seen him before. As Don said, it was so wise of him to switch from romantic leads to a character part. With his Tony Award, he is very much Mr. Bedford, and the matinee audience—largely school kids—ate him up, whistling and stamping. Brian received us afterwards in his dressing room, wearing a very short robe and repeatedly rearranging his bare legs; very friendly and gracious, but he showed no further enthusiasm for A Meeting by the River, not to mention the film of A Single Man. . . . In the evening we had supper with Elaine de Kooning,106 Joe LeSueur and his friend Alan Martel. I like her, hadn’t met her before, and it seems she dug me. The utter silence of Alan Martel gradually becomes infuriating and aggressive. I had fantasies of wiring his chair and giving him an electric shock. And, altogether,
why why why does one spend such evenings? In this case the answer was that we met because Don wants Elaine to arrange a sitting for him with de Kooning. Which is quite sufficient, as far as I’m concerned—except that nothing was arranged. When we got back home, we found that there had been a small fire in the house next door. Needless to say, the thought occurred that this might be another broad hint from the new landlord that we should all move out.
May 20. Judge Isaacs, a friend of Virgil Thomson, who is a specialist in housing disputes, assured me on the phone that there was nothing to worry about; he had talked to the new landlord who had convinced him that he was not a crook and had not had the door removed for malicious reasons, but because a large piece of furniture had to be carried upstairs! (This doesn’t explain, however, why the corresponding door in the other part of the building was also removed at the same time—or so the other tenants told us!)
I spent the rest of the day running around seeing this person and that. (My disinclination to record any more of this dreary and tiresome visit is now so strong that I’ll only mention two or three more items.) In the morning I went to see Pavitrananda. We spent about an hour together, of which I found the first three-quarters extraordinarily trying. I felt like someone who understands the language of the birds, but not well. Pavitrananda’s weird vowels and speech rhythms seem at first utterly nonhuman but, if you strain your concentration to the utmost, you find you can just make out what he’s talking about. However, shortly before I left, we began to communicate, mentally rather than verbally. Once again, the wonderfulness began to shine forth from him, as I have seen it shining many times before. This old silver-haired scarecrow was shining and saying joyfully, his eyes full of tears, “Repeat the name of the Lord, that’s all that matters,” and I was filled with joy and bowed down before him without any taint of politeness and then went out and wandered about Central Park feeling elated.
Claire Bloom wasn’t up to Hedda Gabler; she seemed merely vulgar.107 We saw good old Myrna Loy afterwards.
May 21. Just before having lunch with Virgil Thomson (who I’m slowly becoming quite fond of ) I met Clinton Kimbrough in the lobby of the Chelsea Hotel. He was just off to England with the girl he is going to marry. He had a bit of a beard and looked tired but pleased with himself and his life. I was glad to see him. I have always rather liked him, or at any rate wished him well.
In the afternoon, Don and I went to see Truman Capote in his apartment in one of the buildings on the United Nations Plaza. He has almost the only tolerable view in New York, because he looks down the river, instead of across it to that junkyard, Brooklyn. You see lots of barges heading seaward, making white wakes in the grey water, and the park is below you, bright green, and then the U.N. building in profile, looking so slender that you can hardly believe it’s packed from top to bottom with diplomats, and to your right is lower Manhattan with the chief skyscrapers in the foreground, including the two towers which are to become higher than the Empire State.
Truman looked bulky and unhealthy and seemed somewhat listless and sad. A wise little old child who has stayed indoors too long, with his toys, collections of glass paperweights, jeweled boxes and other treasures, including a marvellous ivory (Chinese?) banana, half peeled. Of this, he remarked that some people who saw it were completely fooled and went away saying that Truman was a slob, to leave fruit lying around in that condition.
He is probably worried about his novel which he says he can’t finish; he already has seven hundred pages of it. Also, his life must be full of anxiety—though that’s something one can never be sure of, with another person. He is now forty-seven, so when I first met him he must have been twenty-three. There was a photograph in the apartment taken about that time, with the Paleys[,] and he looks so cute and sexy in it, an impudent little blond with a smooth sturdy body, wearing nothing but a check cap on the back of his head and a pair of white shorts.108
He told us that Cecil Beaton has written an indiscreet show-off book about his relations with Garbo, including their fucking.109 Truman thinks it will do Cecil a lot of harm.
I have asked Simon and Schuster to send Truman a set of proofs of Kathleen and Frank. I begged him to write me his opinion of it, no matter what.
In the evening we had supper with Vera, Bob and Ed Allen. Bob and Ed were busy unpacking boxes of books which had just arrived. It seems unwise to do all this work when they may be leaving the apartment so soon, but I could feel that the excitement of unpacking had cheered them all up, even Vera; it was their first project since Igor’s death. Bob kept remarking that they had far more books than they could possibly find room for and that they would have to get rid of a lot of them. “So help yourself,” he added. But when I noticed and asked for a novel by Ford Madox Ford, The Fifth Queen (?),110 Bob said that Stravinsky had liked it, or Madam had liked it, implying that it was a bit sacred. He and Vera pressed me to take it, nevertheless, but I took the hint instead and left the book lying on the table.
Our flight back to Los Angeles next morning was our first on a 747. We were both nervous at takeoff and held hands, but the huge thing got itself off the ground without apparent trouble. There were lots of empty seats. The hostesses tried to be arch and were merely rude; the food called itself “gourmet” and was merely lukewarm.
We got back to find that Jim Gates had washed his own bed sheets and had not taken the car to work that morning (although I’d told him he could) because he figured we’d be needing it as soon as we arrived. He had also packed his bags and had Peter move them back to the house in Venice. Even Don, who continues to suspect all Jim’s motives and actions, has to admit that this was thoughtful.)
June 3. Yesterday we finished nearly twenty-one pages of the “Frankenstein” teleplay. It is a ghastly chore, we are going so slowly; at this rate we shan’t finish before the middle of September.
Don is upset because he feels he is a drag on me. Actually he is and he isn’t. He is a drag when he’s typing because he simply cannot sit quiet and work something out, it drives him up the wall. And yet without him I wouldn’t work on the fucking thing at all. And he does very often have good and even brilliant ideas. Oh I wish to Christ we had never started it. But then we have to earn money somehow.
Swami told me Pavitrananda wrote him about my visit and said I had such great humility! This really does amaze me. When Swami says such things I feel I know why—it’s because he subconsciously expects all western “intellectuals” to be overtly arrogant. But how could I have conveyed humility to Pavitrananda? Because I took the dust of his feet? Surely not. Don’t these two dear saints realize that it is the very height of pride for the proud man to have a few people before whom he humbles himself—as much as to say, behold, even I, in all my greatness, am bowing down!? That is exactly what T.E. Lawrence used to do.
There has been a big pot fuss at Vedanta Place, because of the goings-on of Charlie Mitchell, who runs this so-called First Liberty Church. Charlie and all his disciples are now forgiven, more or less.111 I do wish however that Swami had made it a little bit clearer that what he is really condemning is the elevating of pot into being a sacrament and an adjunct to meditation. That Charlie Mitchell should set himself up as a guru is almost incredible, anyhow [. . .].
An infuriating David Susskind program on T.V. on the 29th: “What It Means To Be a Homosexual.” What David Susskind meant was that he confronted four functioning homosexuals with four who had been “cured” by Eli Siegel’s Aesthetic Realism112—which teaches, apparently, that you can’t be a satisfied homosexual because aesthetics require true opposites (in this case, a man and a woman) and queers are not opposite. What humanly emerged from the show was that the four uncured cases seemed surprisingly “wholesome” and “healthy,” while the four cured ones had the twisted malicious faces which are supposed to belong to Boys-in-the-Band-type faggots.113 Also, the cured ones were desperately eager to convert the uncured, but not vice versa.
Clement Scott Gilbert is in town, but we haven’t seen him yet. And we haven’t succeeded in talking to Jennifer since her dramatic marriage to Norton Simon (May 30). A suggested telegram to her: “Sister, can you spare a dime?”
June 16. Chetanananda, the new assistant, finally arrived on the 11th and I met him last night. It turns out that we had previously met at Belur Math, the last time I was there. He is thirty-four and looks younger—quite cute looking, with big dark eyes which he opens wide; he is flirty in that Asian way, shows his beautiful white teeth in endless smiles, poses his face sideways on his hands. He can also maybe be malicious or teasing. He is tall, slim, fairly well built. He wears his hair cut close. He makes mistakes in English but speaks fluently, without hesitation.
This is only a first impression, but I fear Asaktananda may become jealous of him, because he is more at ease socially than Asaktananda. Asaktananda seemed silent and a bit sulky when we were together.
Don and I are still toiling at “Frankenstein,” just approaching the making of the Creature.
An offer from the BBC to do a radio play of A Single Man. Also, a young actor named Michael Brandon114 wants to do it as a film. Jim Bridges knows him. The question is, does he have any money and can we get a director we want?
We have seen Clement Scott Gilbert, but there seems no prospect of our getting Meeting by the River done. Grete Mosheim115 showed up out of nowhere—such a sparkling, pretty old thing still—and I gave her a copy of the play for possible production in Germany; but not a word from her, yet.
And I am still waiting for the British proofs of Kathleen and Frank. It is sort of a waiting time.
July 13. Just an entry to restart, after this long gap. The British and U.S. proofs of Kathleen and Frank are all corrected and returned. No word from Clement Scott Gilbert or from Grete Mosheim about Meeting by the River. Nothing more from Michael Brandon about filming A Single Man.
We have been slogging along on “Frankenstein” and are now only about halfway through. Hunt Stromberg remains in Texas and doesn’t even call us; merely sends messages through his secretary at Universal to say that he likes the teleplay so far!
Truman Capote called, really (I think) enthusiastic about Kathleen and Frank. He says he wants to review it in The New York Times.
I went to see Dr. Ashworth about my hand and he said it must be operated upon; the nodule on the joint is getting bigger. So we have tentatively agreed that it shall be done in September, when Ashworth gets back from his vacation. I’ll have to spend two nights in hospital and have a general anesthetic; which is rather depressing.
Don works and works. Since the end of June we have been going on the beach and in the ocean quite a lot. Also we keep up our vitamins and the gym. I can’t get below 148 but seldom go above 150.
July 26. This is a quiet period, though a happy one on the whole. My one misery is the “Frankenstein” teleplay. I seem to have so little energy for it and it’s the sort of job one should finish in a single night-and-day session powered by coffee and Dexamyl. To make matters worse, Hunt has just sent one of his letters of suggestions, wanting us to stop and rewrite past scenes in accordance with them because, as he puts it, “I am thrilled with what you have done to date—I just want it now to be platinum studded.” His letter also tries to blackmail us into doing this at once by saying that he hasn’t sent the last lot of pages in to the front office at Universal because he is afraid they won’t like them quite as much as they did the first lot. However—unless he raises a real fuss—I am determined to go ahead, at least as far as the costume ball scene.
This morning, the original two sets of page proofs of Kathleen and Frank arrived from Methuen, postmarked June 14! They had been sent surface mail, just as I suspected.
Don has talked to Irving Blum and they have agreed that Don shall prepare a new show—of big drawings, little ink drawings and paintings. And then Irving will come and see if he likes it and is prepared to put it into his gallery.
Am reading Henry James at Home, H. Montgomery Hyde; The Secret Lives of Lawrence of Arabia, Knightley and Simpson; Jung’s Memories, Dreams, Reflections, and the eighth volume of Chekhov stories, The Chorus Girl.
Weight at gym today, only a fraction under 150. And Don’s weight yesterday was 137, a record low! Am slightly worried about this—but he looks well.
July 27. Don’s weight went up a bit yesterday, to 140. Today he has gone to see Ray Unger and Jack Fontan at Ray’s late mother’s house at San Bernardino. He has been reading Proust— all of Swann’s Way and then the opening of Cities of the Plain:116 “Introducing the Men-Women.” Proust’s falseness and his respect for the Establishment both disgust Don; Don really loathes him. I suppose his character will be loathed increasingly by younger generations; in my time we were ready to eat his huge shit-sandwich for the sake of the delicious morsels of truth in the middle. Now I’m beginning to hate him through Don’s eyes.
Last night I had gut-ache and we saw Guys and Dolls, which is interminable, but the songs are still marvellous, some of them. Today I have gotten on with “Frankenstein” in rough, quite a bit, and have been in the ocean, jogging down there. (I met Madge MacDonald, who cried, “You look wonderful—you and I are going to live to a hundred!”) This afternoon, a nice man from The National Observer named Bruce Cook interviewed me. He likes Kerouac and has written a book about him and the other Beats,117 which was a bond of interest. I now make it a point to talk to all interviewers about my queerness. He was just a tiny bit embarrassed, smiling bravely. In the midst of this, Hunt called from Texas, still wanting us to kill off Mrs. Blair the landlady and have the Creature unjustly accused of the crime! He told me that the prefab house he and Dick had put up on their ranch property was burned to the ground only a couple of nights ago! He was wonderfully calm about it. I got him to promise not to show any more pages to Universal for the present. He says he’s coming back to Los Ange
les in two weeks.
July 28. At the gym, Don weighed 141 and I about 149 and ½, which was a drop, considering that I’d had quite a bit of lunch not long before. But, drop or no drop, I’m in a fat gassy state. I feel fat. After the gym, we saw Peter Rabbit—such a miserable pale coy film which has the impudence to say it’s based on the Beatrix Potter stories. Actually it’s based on the Royal Ballet at its most tepid—the boys and girls cavort in animal masks—it’s like a dancing class and I found almost no consolation in knowing that, if I could have pulled off the right animal’s head, I’d have unmasked adorable Wayne Sleep. Don hated it too so we left in the middle, to eat turkey salads at the Beverly Wilshire drugstore with Mike Van Horn. Then Mike (who’d already been to a ballet class) took Don off to dance with him at The Farm. I hope they are having fun, bless their darling hearts. Old Drump is going to bed and to sleep, perchance to snore.
The termite man came to inspect and we have to pay 170 dollars for sprayings.
Cloudy today but I went in the ocean and the water is warm. There is a “red tide,” the worst in many years; it is expected to kill about one hundred tons of fish.
July 29. Lunch with Swami today at Malibu; Pavitrananda and Swahananda (from Berkeley) were there too. Conversation at lunch: how many words had I written, which poets were most admired nowadays—both Pavitrananda and Swahananda came on very literary. Swami was happy because the New American Library has agreed to publish his Sermon on the Mount According to Vedanta.118 But he seemed very tired. He told me he has just heard that Prema (he never calls him Vidya) is being paid by some French devotees to go with them to India and interpret. Swami brought up Vidya’s unfortunate remark again—writing to Swami he said he would see him if the Lord wills. Swami interprets this as a claim by Vidya to know the will of the Lord! But, anyhow, poor Vidya does have a most unfortunate knack of rubbing people the wrong way.