Krishna has now been operated on, for enlarged prostate and/ or stones in the bladder. We haven’t heard the results and the prognosis yet.
Larry Holt is just home from St. Vincent’s Hospital and in his case the prognosis seems negative. They found a whole lot more cancer in his intestine.
On the 22nd, I went to Malibu to see Swami at his holiday beach-house retreat, and told him how I felt about Krishna. We also talked about the ultimatum from the Belur Math—chiefly inspired by Gambhirananda, no doubt—that they won’t send us another swami until we accept the Math’s old-fashioned monastic setup, in which the monks and nuns would be almost totally separated and the nuns would probably have to move out of their just-built convent (what poetic justice!) and give it to the monks, and would also not be allowed to meditate with the monks in the temple and would have to have a shrine of their own, and live in what is now the monastery. Swami seems to take all this relatively calmly. Maybe because he guesses that it won’t happen, maybe because he is sick of having the nuns fussing over him and bossing him. However, he remarked to me, almost playfully, that it was such a pity I wasn’t a monk, because I would have been able to help out with lectures. So I said, “Perhaps in my next lifetime.” “What do you mean—next lifetime?” he exclaimed indignantly. “You will not be reborn! You will go straight to the Ramakrishna loka!” “Well, Swami,” I said, “if I do, I’ll be sitting right at the back.”
I had almost forgotten this conversation when, yesterday, Swami phoned me and said—starting in the midst of the previous conversation as he often does: “In God’s eye it is all the same.” He then went on to assure me that, in God’s eye, there is absolutely no difference between me and Krishna and himself. What I find so adorable about Swami—one of the many things—is that he keeps going over and over something which has been said, days or weeks before, and then suddenly feels he must talk about it. It gives me such a sense that he is watching over us. I can say “us” now, because I really do feel that he accepts the relationship of Don and myself absolutely and loves us as a pair.
My seventy-first birthday was passed quietly and sweetly alone with my darling. There was even one of those little spats which are a feature of the tension of loving each other—but it was forgotten in the bliss of eating Kitty’s homemade kedgeree in bed, watching T.V.
September 26. All right, now we’re going to get this record restarted, despite all internal opposition.
Jonathan Fryer, my biographer-to-be, left Los Angeles this morning. A big pudgy boy, slightly pretty and slightly feminine with a moustache. He describes himself as bisexual, has B.O., a rather charming smile and a very low, almost inaudible voice which may have something to do with the fact that he is subject to a mild form of epilepsy. (He becomes altogether unable to speak just before the fit starts.) Other points of interest are that he is illegitimate, with parents who adopted him; has never met his mother. That he doesn’t get along with his foster parents and doesn’t want to live in England, so he is about to become a Belgian citizen; he already lives in Brussels. That he speaks Chinese, Japanese, Spanish, French, Italian, Russian (I think) and that he has just published his first book, nonfiction, about the Great Wall of China. The Book Society in England has recommended it. That he has been in Hong Kong, where he studied at the University and became a Taoist, and in Vietnam, where he became a Quaker. . . . Don began by not altogether trusting him and I wasn’t sure, either. We ended by rather liking and respecting him, and we both kissed him when saying goodbye.
On the 23rd, Jim Gates left the monastery and went to stay with Peter Hirschfeld, the ex-monk, who is now married to Deepti, the ex-nun. Jim kept talking to us about his unfitness for being a monk and about his lust. I never really took this seriously but it now appears that he meant it quite literally. He was terribly bothered because he found Larry attractive and also Peter Hirschfeld and also a young Belgian who has been around the center lately. No sooner had he settled into the Hirschfelds’ apartment than he went out to a neighborhood bar, The Rusty Nail—ironically enough, the Hirschfelds live on Hayworth, just south of Santa Monica Boulevard, right around the corner from the sex section. Jim found The Rusty Nail absolutely delightful, not one bit sordid, and he went off with a guy who propositioned him. The guy wanted to be tied up and beaten and Jim obliged, and Jim even enjoyed that, although it isn’t his thing and the guy didn’t particularly attract him.
What does seem absolutely fascinating to me, and to Don, is that Jim, who was always just a bit too holy to be true, is now reacting in what must surely be regarded as an absolutely sincere no-shit manner, instead of moaning that he’s a sinner, as one might have expected. With the result that he seems far more spiritually “advanced” than he did while he was a monk.
Swami, of course, was terribly upset, so were Krishnananda, Chetanananda and Asaktananda, who heard of it somehow and phoned Jim, begging him to go back to the monastery. Incidentally, Jim said that he feels Krishna is very different since his illness. “He’s letting it all come out.” He talked to Jim at length, very seriously. And he allowed Jim to take the dust of his feet, when they said goodbye. Nobody has ever done this before, except by some trick or other.
October 5. Since I last wrote, I’ve been struggling doggedly on with chapter 12 of my book. Today, I don’t exactly know why, I seem to be aware of the first signs of that breakthrough which nearly always comes when a book approaches its end. But I do work much more slowly nowadays and my mind isn’t as sharp, except for a very short period in the morning, usually during meditation. My meditation consists chiefly of worldly thoughts, not sexual, not of hatred against anyone, just of trivial chores. But I think I maybe make more japam each day than I used to. I keep reminding myself whenever I can of my approaching death and calling upon Mother to show me that she is with me and to be with me in that hour. I would say, in general, that this is certainly one of the happiest times of my life. I suppose more people than one would suppose have the experience of happiness in old age and also the experience of happiness with another human being, but I can’t say that I know many such people. I wouldn’t say that I am enormously confidential with Don, that we talk everything over all the time—no, it isn’t like that. But we are continually exposed to each other; we are no longer entirely separate people; and I do suspect that we communicate deeply during sleep.
Jonathan Fryer went away somewhere but returned here and we discovered that he had been staying with Bill Scobie or rather with Tony Sarver, in his spare bedroom. Jonathan called Bill in the first place because he had got the clap and wanted to know where there was a free clinic. Then he called me because he wanted to contact John Rechy. And then he called Don apparently to interview him. So Don said okay, and I’ll do another drawing of you. But when Jonathan came, he didn’t ask Don any questions at all. Well, at any rate, Don’s drawing was brilliant. He does seem a strange secretive creature, though. Scobie simply calls it being shy. As for me, my distrust isn’t absolutely dispelled.
October 23. Am getting into an unhealthily manic state about my book, just because it goes so slowly. I worry about it all the time, especially during morning meditation. I tell myself that it is dull and that my mind has lost its edge. And that—least valid excuse of all for worrying—I may suddenly get sick and never finish it. Now I must absolutely pull myself together and resolve to plug on calmly, set no deadlines, let the work take its own time—without regard for my anxieties, or the demands of the publishers (who aren’t as yet making any demands), or the progress of the books by Messrs. Finney13 and Fryer (who have both promised to wait for me).
After all, I’m not doing so badly. Have just begun chapter 13, and there are only two more after that. True, there are inserts to be written into the earlier chapters, but not so many.
The day before yesterday, I went to a question-and-answer session at Cal. State University, Long Beach.14 It was part of their Gay Pride Week. Bill Scobie and Tony Sarver came with us; Bill is to use it in a profile of me
for The Advocate. I was quite okay, I think. But what mattered much more to me, Don was drawn into the discussion by a would-be provocative question about our domestic life and he answered so clearly and sensibly and amusingly, explaining how, in the early years, he was struggling against his image as “Mrs. Isherwood.” I can see that he could become a really good speaker, if he had to.
Jim Gates has now got a job looking after Rudolf Sieber, Marlene Dietrich’s husband, who has had a stroke.15 It is very hard work, all around the clock, but he is to get fifty dollars a day. He wants to save this and go to Europe and India with Toby Pollock, one of the Vedanta congregation, and two of his friends. In the meanwhile, poor Jim, with beginner’s unluck, has got clap—or anyhow a discharge from his penis and a sore spot in his throat. He is to see a doctor as soon as he has a day off. I had to cross-examine him about his symptoms—in order to be able to reassure him— and he told me that he has fucked and been fucked, several times. He certainly didn’t waste any time, after leaving the monastery, getting into the thick of the action!
November 14. Today I finished what was originally chapter 13. I had to break it into two chapters because the new draft of it was becoming so long—forty-two pages instead of twenty-six. But that’s all to the good. So now there will be sixteen chapters in the book instead of fifteen. I do feel I am really getting someplace at last, because this next chapter, about the China journey, has a much more clearly defined form and the material will arrange itself, I hope, more easily.
Also, I will try hard to make more entries in this book. Diary writing always seems to give me a perspective on my work; it’s a form of meditation. But one’s always mysteriously unwilling to meditate, in any fashion.
Have just finished Tennessee’s Memoirs. A lot of it is silly and/or sloppy but he impresses me greatly. He seems so nobly vulnerable. It’s strange how this career seems a failure story, despite his extraordinary triumphs. I do think he is brutally underrated, nowadays. Even if you maintain that he has only written, say, six really good plays, is that so little? Who, now living, has done better?
November 27. Happy Thanksgiving—I hope. We are going to a party given by Truman Capote, always a dubious proposition because he knows so many awful people. But, with us, he is very sweet and warm; even more so, nowadays.
Poor old Larry Holt is in hospital again, because he kept falling down in his apartment and hurting himself. I begin to think he can’t last much longer. He said, “My painkiller pills are pacifists— they don’t want to kill the pain.”
Belur Math has at last promised to send over a swami. I think his name is Swahnanda.16 But he is only to come for ten years. Then another swami will replace him. Swami is furious about this.
Jim Gates is still nursing Rudolf Sieber but thinks he will probably quit soon. Peter Schneider gossiped to a woman member of the Vedanta congregation about the awful haunts of vice which Jim is frequenting. So now everyone at Vedanta Place knows. Jim wasn’t mad at Peter. He said he was glad that it was all out in the open.
Peter Pears has been over here. He gave a concert at Schoenberg Hall on the 20th which we went to. We also had him to lunch. He seemed just the same as ever, only rather magnificently older looking. Don said he liked Peter better than anyone he’s met for a long long time. And I was so happy to be able to end this apparent feud. I only say “apparent” because Peter maintained that there never was any bad feeling on Ben’s part against me, only against Wystan. But Ben did refuse to see me, when I wanted to introduce Don to him in England. I think Peter was just covering up for Ben.
We also much admired the harp playing of Osian Ellis, Peter’s co-performer at the concert. Ellis was obliged to stay with two queens at Marina del Rey because he was using a harp which belonged to one of them. He didn’t like them and longed to escape, but couldn’t. Don said, “Home is where the harp is.” Also at the concert was Leslie Wal[l]work, about whom Don said, “He knows the facts about everything and the truth about nothing.”
Next week, he leaves for Seattle, to be there for the opening of his show.17 I’m staying here.
Am at least halfway through the second draft of chapter 15. One more to go, after that. I suppose it’s still possible that I might get the final draft more or less finished by March.
December 15. Dialogue between the Animals, late at night, both of them rather drunk, tearful.
Dub: I can’t bear to think that I must leave you.
Kitty: Neither can I—that’s what makes it so exciting . . . But if we could ever be parted, we should never have met.
I don’t exactly know what Kitty meant. But one thing I do feel, very strongly. This was no shit. At times like this, I get quite a spooky sense of his spiritual insight.
It now looks like I shall finish the second draft of the book before Christmas.
The party Allan Carr (an agent)18 and John O’Shea (Truman’s friend) gave for Truman at the Lincoln Heights Jail. We were finger printed and mug-shotted on arrival. The jail isn’t used any more and is quite clean. You had to go into the cells to pee. It was all subtly in bad taste—the young actors dressed up as cops and inmates. You were very conscious of the bars in the background, everywhere. O’Shea wanted to have a fake electric chair, but Truman vetoed this as going too far. He was probably the only person present who has witnessed a real execution. How I hated it all. We left early, after having been dumped down at a place-carded table with bores.
Tennessee, whom we spent the afternoon with yesterday, was quite admirable. Such a dynamo of energy. He was here for a production of The Night of the Iguana. He shot off to San Francisco to see one of his new plays which is in rehearsal; then he goes to Vienna to see the opening of another.
December 31. This is just to round off the year—a very poor diary year and a hard but slow work year. I finished the second draft of the last four chapters of Wanderings on the 19th; which means that I still have a great deal of revision to do. There’s no question—the existence of Fryer and Finney and the prodding knowledge that they are getting along much quicker with their books is a depressing rather than a stimulating influence upon me. I get the jitters, think “I’ll never finish” and give way to anxious sloth.
When we last went to see Swami, on the 26th, to bring him a crystal drinking glass for his birthday, he amazed us by at once peering at Don (his sight is now very poor) and saying, “There’s something different.” He had noticed what the vast majority of people have entirely failed to notice—including Don’s parents—that Don has cut his moustache off. I still think it’s a great improvement and makes him look younger.
Which reminds me of a remark of Don’s which made me laugh a lot—and which could have been said by no one else I know. He had been to see the very bad film Fanny (with Leslie Caron and Horst Buchholz). When he got back he told me: “I sat through it out of sheer morbidity.”
Am now reading the fourth volume of Byron’s letters. I really cannot say why I keep on at them. I hardly remember anything I have read—any phrase or any fact—but I somehow like to breathe in his ambiance. Particularly while I am shitting.
Jim Gates tells me that a copy of The Advocate with Bill Scobie’s piece about me talking at Long Beach19 has fallen into the hands of the nuns and that Abhaya, in particular, was terribly shocked. What she so much deplored was that I had talked about Swami and Vedanta. And one of the reasons she deplored it was that she was afraid all the queers would now start coming to the temple! As if they hadn’t started thirty years ago! I felt very self-righteous about all of this and quite prepared to defend my position—in the temple itself, if necessary. But Abhaya, when we actually met her next, on Swami’s birthday, couldn’t have been friendlier. What hypocrites they are, even the better ones.
Jim is still looking after Rudolf Sieber, but now he shares the work with another ex-monk, Clark(?)20 and only does three days at a time. This gives him a lot more opportunity to go to The Rusty Nail and make new contacts. He still seems very happy about this and not in
the least repentant. He looks much more cheerful and healthier and is free with hugs of affection, but he has grown a straggly moustache which doesn’t suit him.
At the end of last year, I wrote about my great happiness with Don and my consistently poor standard of meditation. Both of these have continued throughout 1975. I ought to be more concerned about the meditation, I suppose; and yet I do keep at it and I ask Mother every day for more devotion and at least some sense of her presence. I do feel, I think, quite sincerely that she is my “refuge.” And I suppose this is good, since it is balanced by the quite other sort of “refuge” I find in Don. What I am trying to say is that it is doubtless easier to feel that God is the only refuge when you don’t have any human being to love and be loved by. But I do. And yet I can still say that even our relationship is within the refuge of Mother. More and more I see that it would be unthinkable to have such a relationship unless the other partner in it shared this belief.
Day-to-Day Diary, January 1–July 31, 1976
[Isherwood spent the first part of 1976 finishing Christopher and His Kind, and he gave up writing in his diary for seven months. Printed below are the entries from his day-to-day pocket diaries for this period.]
January 1. 154.1 We went to parties at Billy Al Bengston’s and Tony and Jean Santoro’s. Ted Pebworth and Claude Summers came to see us. (Claude had just read a paper on A Single Man at the MLA convention in San Francisco.) Don and I ate at home.