Just at first, I felt a slight pleasurable excitement, because I shall have another five weeks alone, and being alone is always a challenge. But already there is the aching realization that I won’t see Don for another five weeks; and that is a most awful long time. Without him, I’m not complete.
On November 1, I woke up with a hangover and was cross with myself and vowed to cut out drinking until Don returned. I have done so and already my face looks a whole lot thinner, though my weight hasn’t dropped. But now that Don isn’t returning, I fall back on a codicil to my vow, which was that, if Don didn’t return, I’d stop drinking up to Thanksgiving.
Last night, a dream which is obviously related to the dream I describe in my entry for May 26, this year. I (maybe Don too) was in a theater, in an upper balcony, quite high. And Laurence Harvey was balancing on a ledge in front of us. After a while, he tried to climb back into the balcony and he slipped and fell. I was so horrified that I looked away. When I looked again, I saw that Harvey had somehow been caught by a man (Jimmy Woolf ?) who was sitting on some kind of protrusion from the wall; perhaps a lamp fixture. Anyhow, it was obvious that this person hadn’t got a secure hold on Harvey and that Harvey was just about to fall. Also, it was evident that Harvey knew this. Knowing that he had only a moment to live, he kissed the man who was holding him, on the mouth. Then he fell. I saw him lie on the floor of the theater, presumably dead.
As in the former dream—there was a delayed moment, a death-moment, before the actual death; and there was heroism of the same kind—a gallant gesture in the presence of death.
I think I have about two more weeks’ work to do on The Sailor from Gibraltar.
November 23. Swami, when I saw him last (on the 18th), told us: “Think about death—and you’ll know what to pray for.”
Saw the Stravinskys on the 19th. Igor has an abscess on top of his rupture, so he couldn’t wear his rupture belt and had to come down to supper holding on to his side. Later, after he had gone up to bed, I went to say goodbye to him, as they are leaving for New York, Boston, etc. He lay there with his icons beside him, reading a book by Alexander Werth on Russia during World War II.604 He said, “What is the use of the Germans and the Russians?” Meaning, as he then explained, that, as you read a book of this kind, the whole concept of nationalism seems to become meaningless.
Am now in my eighth week of work on The Sailor from Gibraltar. I still hope I can finish at the end of it, despite Thanksgiving. But Tony still has to tell me what he thinks of the first draft. I am to talk about this with him tomorrow at the airport, where he is shooting. The Loved One is also nearly finished.
Since November 1, I have stuck to my non-drinking resolution. I guess I can hold out, now, until Thanksgiving. But it has been tough. Everybody I meet on any evening—except the people at Vedanta Place—urges me to drink or very faintly suggests reproach because I let him or her drink alone.
I can sense that Don is likely to return at almost any minute. I talked to him again yesterday. I miss him, and yet I don’t want him coming back in a defeated, frustrated state; that only leads to fights. If he does come back, he will be defeated, because that will mean the New York City Ballet project has failed to materialize.
Stephen Spender spent the night of the 20th here. He is coming back for Thanksgiving. He is in the midst of a lecture tour. His energy and complete uncomplaining acceptance of his chores are really admirable. Natasha has had an operation for breast cancer; it will be years before they are certain there won’t be a recurrence. Stephen is taking her to North Africa after New Year’s. I feel that he accepts all this as a punishment for his sex activities. Now he has got to stay close to her all of the time. He let drop something about their discussing “If this is all my fault or not.” I couldn’t help remembering Cyril Connolly’s remark in The Unquiet Grave: “The true index of a man’s character is the health of his wife.”
Stephen is still very handsome, with his florid face and wool-white hair, but the middle of him is a suitcase coming unpacked. He hates Wystan, and says Wystan is one of the most famous people in the world. (This after I had remarked that Wystan’s stock seemed to me to be very low. I[t] occurred to me that I think this because I am rooting for Wystan; and that Stephen thinks what he thinks because he is rooting against him.) Stephen says that Americans always seem to have a clock on their heads from which you can read your exact degree of success at that particular moment. Here again, I felt that Stephen was imputing something from his own character. Stephen’s vice is ambition. Mine is vanity. Stephen would never bother about his personal appearance, I imagine. I bother very little about whether or not I have succeeded; maybe because I feel that I have, according to my rules. What I am concerned about is whether or not other people recognize the fact of my success. And this concern arises from vanity, not ambition.
I now feel that, according to my rules, A Single Man is a masterpiece; that is to say, it achieves exactly what I wanted it to achieve. I keep dipping into it and always I feel yes, that is exactly the effect I was trying for.
1965
January 1. Last night, I dreamt about an atomic war, a dream I almost never have. Was worried rather than terrified. Things kind of straightened themselves out at the end.
Last night, Don and I went to a party at the Lederers’. The guests seemed to be nearly all oldish. Many encounters with the long forgotten and long avoided. Everyone looked older, except mad Mrs. [Bronislau] Kaper. She looked just the same as always; like a powder puff which has been used so often it’s getting bald.
Bill Inge drank a glass of champagne, without going into an alcoholic tailspin. He danced a lot and was merry. I drank lots of champagne; nothing else. I am quite off hard liquor, at present. Haven’t been really drunk since Thanksgiving.
Today we walked on the beach and lay in the weak sun. Beautiful and clear for the first time after all the rain.
Have been trying to sort out the articles for Exhumations, getting them into order.
David Selznick told me he did not vote for Goldwater; thinks he’s hopeless as head of the party. He thinks the Republicans are licked for years to come. He thinks Johnson will be one of the great presidents; but that he would not have been if Kennedy hadn’t come first and been assassinated. He thinks there is a period of prosperity ahead; that “The Great Society” will be realized.
January 7. Don flew back to New York yesterday—presumably for at least two months, probably four or five. Before he left, I told him that this short time together has been the best I have ever had with him. He said, “Lately I’ve been thinking that the Animals haven’t seen anything yet; they still haven’t had their golden age.” I said, “They’d better hurry.”
Last Sunday, the 3rd, we had lunch at the Selznicks’. David believes in a new Republican hopeful, John Lindsay.605 He told a story about Sam Goldwyn explaining why he had voted for Murphy as against Salinger for Californian senator. “This man Preminger, he doesn’t have a platform. All he keeps saying is, how well he knew Kennedy. Hell, I knew Kennedy—a whole lot better than he did. . . . That was before the assassination, of course.”606
This morning, I really got started on the bits of commentary for Exhumations.
A vile reactionary pamphlet called What Kind of a Country Are You Leaving Me? was sent by Coast Federal Savings. A photo of a cute little boy is on the cover. He is supposed to be speaking: “It’s no use pretending you don’t see me. . . . I’m not very smart yet, but I’m smart enough to see what you are doing to the country in which I must grow up and support my family. . . . What makes you think it would be ‘bad’ for me to have to make my way in competition with others? Where did you get the cockeyed idea that the man who earns twice as much should be taxed four times as much? (I know where you got it: right out of Marx.) Where did you get this idea that government can take care of everybody? I don’t quite know what you mean by the word ‘conservative,’ but if it means what I think it means, that’s me! Aren’t you ashamed!!!”
So I went into their office and told them that I was drawing out our deposit, because I didn’t choose to be dictated to politically by people I was doing business with. The young clerk I spoke to was obviously pleased by my attitude.
These savings associations are having New Year’s open-house parties. Lots of old folks are sitting around in their offices, enjoying free coffee and cookies and collecting free ballpoint pens, calendars and toy balloons for the kids.
February 7. Got back from New York yesterday. I was there seeing Don from January 26 onward.
Now, at least, I have plenty to occupy me. This afternoon I have to give a talk to the people at One magazine, “A Writer and a Minority.” And on Tuesday I have to start at UCLA, and on Wednesday I have to give a public lecture there, etc., etc.
The Exhumations manuscript is with Methuen, and Don will deliver it to Curtis Brown for Simon and Schuster, as soon as he has read it.
New York was as dirty, cold and brutish as usual; but the visit was a success, as far as relations with Don were concerned. Not that we didn’t quarrel a bit—if we hadn’t, it would only have meant that we were on our party behavior. There is still the old problem of our seeing other people together. But I do feel that the whole thing between us has strengthened and changed out of all recognition, since this time two years ago.
Our chief grounds for dispute: the ballet, Tennessee Williams. Don is now an ardent ballet lover, and why the hell shouldn’t he be? But I am going through a phase of being bored by it, and so I resented having to go there—the evening I arrived, because I was tired; the evening they did Harlequinade with Rouben Ter-Arutunian’s set,607 because I honestly thought it dull and uninspired. Don said, “Don’t be so pleased that you don’t like it.”
The ballet is now more than ever Lincoln Kirstein’s kingdom. After all these frantic intrigues, he has captured the golden State Theater for his very own,608 and he has megalomaniac schemes to make it the most famous theater in the world. The two giant Nadelman groups in the foyer are his declaration of war.609 In due course, he will have Watusi ushers, and the New York Park Department will supply him with orchids twice a week. A special cat house will be built at the zoo in which his collection of cat statuettes and paintings will be housed, as well as a live collection of domestic cats.
George Balanchine is about to retire, and Jacques d’Amboise610 is in disgrace, because he wants to quit the ballet for several months to earn more money in some musical show in Florida. The conductor is in disgrace, too. But Lincoln will find replacements for all of them. Don is to have a special exhibition of his drawings at Stratford611 this summer and at the ballet next winter.
Lincoln gets up at four every morning. Before lunch, his day is well on toward its end, so he starts to drink. The only trouble is, he stays up nearly as late as everybody else. He announces that this is the Age of Peter Rabbit—pornography is out. He is sick of the ballet and wants to become a great librettist and to write plays like Shaw. He now speaks of himself as a millionaire; once he said he has three million, another time it was fourteen million. He is lavish with his promises, and I dare say he often does pay off. Don is supposed to get twenty-five hundred for the Stratford drawings; so far he has been given five hundred. Lincoln says that Don will be the Sargent of our time, and that he shouldn’t be bohemian but dress stylishly and live in extreme elegance. That was why he advised Don to take this two hundred dollar apartment, and it must be said in Lincoln’s favor that he did offer to pay the rent. But Don refused, and camps out there in squalor and depression.
Tennessee says he hasn’t had sex, or indeed an ejaculation, since last May. He still talks incessantly of Frank [Merlo]. He seems to think of himself as a failure; he has had two flops, he says, but he really only means the two unsuccessful productions of Milk Train.612 He says that the cancer changed Frank’s whole personality; he became very aggressive. He said to Tennessee, “You bore me.” He is worried because he has a theory that if two people live together and one of them gets cancer the other gets it too. I asked him if he ever dreams of Frank. He said, “I don’t dare to.”
Don felt that Tennessee was disregarding him and slighting him; he was very angry about this. He felt the same about Monty Clift. And of course Monty was rude, though the hostility may have been subconscious. When Don came in, he said, “You weren’t invited,” and when Don left, he said, “Goodbye shitface.” Clift certainly is, even at his best, a dismal kind of degenerate, with a degenerate’s ugly unfunny aggressive attempts at humor.
Running around New York fairly martyred my feet. Every day, I had to put foot powder on them. One day, after I had very carefully dusted on the powder and put on my socks and shoes, I realized that I had absentmindedly been using Babbo, which I had taken out of the closet to clean the bathroom floor with!
While I was in New York, Lincoln went over to London to see Churchill’s funeral.613 He found that most of the people he met didn’t want to watch it, even. But Lincoln got drunk and wandered around with a bottle of bourbon, weeping. He was one of the few who stood on the pier when the coffin was carried on to the launch on the river. I told him I have composed a last sentence for a Churchill biography: “The great ceremony was over at last, the huge crowds were left behind, and the coffin was carried on to the launch in the presence of one single weeping drunk American millionaire.” Lincoln loved this. Just before I left, I went through the extra poems he has written and made a list, advising him which ones should be included in the new edition of his Rhymes of a PFC.614 He wants to arrange some of the rhymes for a performance by actors on the stage. We are to be partners in this.
February 14. Twelve years since that memorable February which started with the fire in the Hookers’ garage; and then the reunion with Ted and hence the meetings with Don; and then on the 14th the party at Jerry Lawrence’s. And then Ted going crazy, and my trip downtown to get him, and his being committed to Camarillo. . . .615 Don called this morning and I wanted to say something to him about these twelve years, but I couldn’t—that sort of thing is for college presidents. I’ll try to write him something tomorrow. I suppose the real point is that the twelve years in themselves don’t matter. All that matters is what we have now.
However, just to celebrate the occasion, today I started the new novelette about the two brothers who meet in India just as one of them is about to become a monk. I know almost nothing about any of this but I may just as well make a stab at it. Something will emerge—something quite different, probably.
When I spoke at One Institute616, on the 7th, Gerald introduced me by making a speech in which he insinuated that I was going to talk about the Triple Revolution; his latest toy. This was his usual semi-deliberate bitchery, but I got myself out of it. And it was good that he mentioned the whole thing because then Michael sent me the pamphlet and I read it and was able to use it in my lecture on the 10th at UCLA; which was standing room only—in fact, they said they turned two hundred people away!617
Still this wretched chilly weather. We are now being told that the causeway across the bay is to be started in a year’s time. This depresses me out of all measure. And how silly. It seems that I must dread something. Stop me from expecting atom war, and I turn to cancer. Turn my mind off cancer and I fasten on to something like this.
February 22. A heckling letter from [a man], who was in the audience at One Institute when I spoke. He more or less takes the “fire next time” Jimmy Baldwin tone of voice. And all because I cautiously said that I didn’t think the Negro problem was quite the same as the homosexual problem, and that I didn’t think the measures taken by the Negroes were necessarily those which we should take to solve it. So I am accused of fence-sitting. I can’t say that I feel guilty of this, because I do stick my neck out quite far, in my own way. But of course a man like [that] (who, incidentally, is on the police force and claims that he has told them he is homosexual) sees “the struggle” in terms of group action. What is interesting in [his] letter is the statement
that, “This is a war of minorities outside the society of the community, against a minority” (he means the police) “that has been given a certain responsibility as designated servants of the public, who have long ago forgotten that role, to think themselves the master, the public their rightful servant, and fair prey when it suits their purpose.”
Bill Legg, at One Institute, is going to publish this letter in some sort of circular which the institute puts out for its members.
Caskey came and had lunch with me yesterday, at Ted’s [Grill]. He had called to tell me that he had read my novel and that he is leaving the country because he can’t stand it here. He will sell everything and go first to Australia and then Europe. I felt very unwilling to see him and yet it seemed somehow wrong not to, after all these years.
He seemed greatly changed; and not just physically. His jaw is jowly and his eyes are pouchy and terribly tired, and he has a pot. But what I chiefly got was the sense that he had become a much older man. He was so utterly self-obsessed; exclaiming peevishly against America and Palm Spring and the rich. Everybody drinks too much, he said, and he has to drink too, because they all bore him so. He hardly referred to anything in the past, and showed very little interest in what I was doing. He only mentioned Don once, with some conventional praise of his drawing. He spoke with a heavy Irish sententiousness; an Irishman laying down the law in a bar. What made him seem so unyoung was, in a way, his lack of bitchery. When we went into Ted’s, I looked up at the window of our old apartment opposite and it seemed absolutely incredible to think that we ever lived together there, or anywhere else. It wasn’t disagreeable, being with him. Indeed, we could agree, for instance, in loathing Goldwater. And we even laughed quite hard, especially when I told him that Richard has become a Rosicrucian.