Liberation (39 page)

Meanwhile, we have met Boris Sagal, who is supposed to be going to direct “Dr. Frankenstein.” If they do it. This isn't certain yet. First a budget has to be worked out and the studio has to see if it can find some available stars. We shall be hearing more about this fairly soon. If they do make the picture (either as T.V. or theater movie or both) it will definitely be in England and probably start in February.

Sagal looks a bit like Jerry Lawrence. He is very pleasant, even charming, but he is definitely a second-string workhorse type of director; the type which is called in when costs have to be cut and the show gotten on the road. Meanwhile, Jim Bridges wistfully wants to direct “Frankenstein” himself. He definitely turned this idea down earlier, when we suggested it. Now, his own projects have fallen through for the time being, so he wants to get something started. Admittedly, Jim has far more imagination than Sagal and would probably be better with the actors. Sagal might be better on practical production details and he is accustomed to work in England. Don is very much against him, and I am hardly thrilled. But I doubt if we could persuade Universal to hire Jim, anyway.

A rather touching letter from Peter Schlesinger. He makes it clear that he and David
did
discuss their difficulties before parting. There is somebody else Peter is involved with, but they aren't living together and David and Peter are still meeting and going to parties, etc. Peter is living at his studio. He says, “I've never lived by myself so it's quite exciting. I read again at night in bed. Little things like that I could no longer do, we led a very busy social life and lots of smoking which also gets me down. . . . Basically though I still and always will love David. . . .” From David himself we haven't heard anything.

 

October 27.
Just after Don and I had left the gym, two days ago, we saw a small man who looked a bit crazy and who limped. His hands were covered in small bags of cellophane; he was wearing them like gloves. They were very red, so they may have been burnt and therefore sensitive. But the thought struck me that maybe he had a neurotic fear of contamination. This naturally made me think of Dr. Polidori in our Frankenstein script, I said to Don: “Suppose we have an epilogue at the end of the picture? Mary has just finished telling her story and they are all about to begin the picnic. Polidori is there too; he has forgiven them. . . . Some of the picnic food is sticky, so Mary says, “Dr. Polidori, I fear you will have to take off those elegant gloves of yours, you'll spoil them, otherwise.” And Polidori does so. They all watch him—they are still under the spell of the story and half expect to see that his hands really
are
crippled. Polidori realizes what they are thinking. When the gloves are off, he holds up his hands to show them that they are perfectly formed. He smiles. The others all laugh. End of picture.”

Now—here's the synchronicity:

Immediately after seeing the man with the cellophane bags, we went on to Columbia Studios, where they were showing
The Shooting
, a Western made by Monte Hellman, who directed
Two-Lane Blacktop.
(It's one of the best Westerns I've ever seen.) In it, Jack Nicholson plays a hired gunman
who wears gloves all the time
; it is said of him that he never takes them off, “even with a woman.” At the end, he and Warren Oates have a fight. Oates wants to put Nicholson out of action as a gunman, so
he cripples Nicholson's hand
by beating on it with a rock!

John Lehmann and a nice friend of his came to stay with us for the night of the 23rd. The friend's name is Douglas Stoker. He's a Scot from Glasgow, around thirty, big, homely, with thick glasses, rather attractive.
¹⁴¹
John is teaching down at San Diego again. We had been dreading his visit and indeed, he was as inconsiderate as ever, allowing us to wait on him hand and foot, leaving cigarette ash all over the floors and messing up everything he touched. But it's so marvellous now that he's gone—that makes the visit almost worthwhile. And “friendship never ends”; even Don admits to having become fond of him, a little.

John brought with him a review of
Kathleen and Frank
by C.P. Snow, in
The Financial Times
(October 21), beginning, “This is far and away his best work since the early Berlin novels.” (I wonder, though, if Snow has actually read anything in between!)

As so often happens, the best came first. Since then I've been sent several others, in which the reviewer spends most of his time making the book sound dull. You could dig quotes out of them for a blurb, but that's all. Roy Fuller is the most favorable, in
The Listener
. Stephen Spender writes one of his half-assed bitchy lukewarm putdowns, in
The Sunday Telegraph
. I must own, I do resent that. Why did he have to review the book at all? It is sheer aggression and envy; he is sick with it—far sicker than he knows.

Altogether, I feel disappointed. I have to admit to myself that I had expected this book to be a real instant success—in England that is, not here. If they don't like this they will never like anything I've written. Well, fuck them. It's their loss.

 

October 29.
Cold, windy, beautiful weather. Yesterday we ran on the beach. I feel very well but my weight is mysteriously up to nearly 150.

Yesterday we got a letter from David Hockney. He is coming here on November 8, travelling with Mark Lancaster, on his way to Japan and around the world. He writes, “I must admit that I am very unhappy, more unhappy than at any time in my life, and I know Peter is not happy . . . our situation seems to have deteriorated to a point where we can hardly even be friends, so I thought it a good moment to go away. I am taking Mark Lancaster . . . I just couldn't travel to Japan alone as I'm sure I would finish up just talking to myself, and go mad.” We have written inviting both of them to stay.

Have just called Vedanta Place and heard that Swami has had a virus infection but is better now. I am getting seriously worried about him. There's a horrible feeling, this time, that he won't be able to regain his strength and just keep slipping slowly downward.

I saw him for five minutes (all that was allowed) the day before yesterday, in the late afternoon. He had come down from Santa Barbara to see the doctor and was sitting up in a chair in his room. He had been told not to sit with his legs crossed as that interferes with the circulation—what do
they
know about Bengali circulation, I couldn't help thinking. Anyhow, his feet in their blue socks were down on the carpet, so I could touch them with my forehead as I prostrated. He was pleased to see me but seemed very quiet, withdrawn and deserted. I asked him if he had had any spiritual experiences and he said no—rather forlornly. “You see, Chris, I couldn't eat anything. When you don't eat, you can't think. I realized for the first time what it means in the scriptures when it says, the food is Brahman.” He also told me that there were “grey waves” before his eyes when he looked at anything (this is apparently due to his cataract).

Later: a card arrived by this morning's post, postmarked Paris, saying that David will arrive about 5 p.m. on November 8. “Peter and I are sorting it out O.K. but I would still love to discuss things with you if possible.”

 

November 11.
David arrived here on the 8th and left on the evening of the 9th, for San Francisco, where he was to join Mark Lancaster and then take off for Japan, via Honolulu. The rest of their tour is Hong Kong, Bali, Bangkok, Rangoon, Calcutta, Delhi, Afghanistan (Kabul), Istanbul, Rome, London.

David has lost a lot of weight and is really slim. He seemed quite cheerful and as full of energy as ever. He was sad that Peter wasn't with him on the trip; just before he took off he had asked Peter again to come along and Peter had refused, saying that he must stay in London and attend the Slade regularly, or he won't get his degree. David admitted that he had been lecturing Peter on sloth, telling him that he must work much harder; so David could hardly give Peter an argument about this.

David told us in detail about his scenes with Peter last summer, and his own despairs and tears. But, underneath, Don and I both sensed a bland assurance that all would turn out the way David wanted it; we don't think he understands, even now, what the fuss Peter made was all about. The Swedish boy, Eric(?),
¹⁴²
is really no threat, it seems; he is merely a mischief-maker and a situation queen. David says Peter isn't in love with him. According to David, Peter merely has to work hard; then he'll make it as an artist and all will be well. Meanwhile, Peter lives in his uncomfortable studio, where there is no bath. David's beautiful enlarged flat is only a short walk away; a permanent temptation. David has suggested that Peter shall live there while he's away, and we could see that David was expecting that Peter wouldn't want to move out again by the time he returned. So all would be back to position A.

I sound hostile, writing about this, but I'm not. Yes, David is a bit thick-skinned. He has spoilt Peter rotten and given him champagne tastes and then made fun of his extravagance. He tells stories about Peter in public which aren't always in the best of taste; one hears the note of North Country ruthlessness. Oh yes, indeed, David is a monster in the making; before long he will be full grown. But I love him and Don loves him and he is lovable, truly lovable and wonderful and kind and generous and full of life.

This time, he even praised one of Don's paintings!

Last night, I read at Vedanta Place and saw Swami. They are giving him tests to find out if his almost constant dizziness is due to bad circulation, or what. Swami seemed better than before, but he is very quiet and thin. Krishna and Len (Bhadrananda) both sleep in his room, now; Len because, as a former pharmacist's mate, he is able to take Swami's pulse at intervals during the night; Krishna because he jealously refuses to let anyone sleep in Swami's room unless he himself can sleep there too! Swami complains that this overcrowding makes the room become “smelly.” He told me that he can nearly always go to sleep by feeling that Holy Mother's feet are on his head.

Asaktananda answered questions at the meeting. Attendance has dropped off a lot, now that people know Swami won't be coming. A cunty fat-legged woman heckled Asaktananda, saying that she preferred “the Zen way.” (So very often, it's the references to “woman and gold” in the Gospel which get under their skin.) Asaktananda held his own, but he became a bit sharp toned and schoolmasterish, and suddenly he seemed to be the leader of a tiny aggressive sect, out of step with everybody else, hidden in a corner on the wrong side of the freeway. And I looked at Jim Gates and the other boys and put myself in their place and felt afraid their loyalty would falter and they would soon lose heart under such a leader, and ask themselves in dismay, “Is
this
what I've given my life to?” Asaktananda is admirable, full of courage and conviction—but you don't feel, yet, that he
knows
. Did I always feel that about Swami, that he knew, right from the beginning? I don't remember. I think I did fairly soon. But then Swami could always say, “I have seen The Son of God.”

Elsa Laughton has just discovered that Ned Hoopes(?) has finished a book about Charles, after pretending that he had given up the whole project. It seems that he had kept duplicates of all the interviews which he and Elsa did together. When Elsa first heard this, she was so upset that she took to her bed. Now the question is, can Ned be legally restrained from publishing?
¹⁴³

My latest worry, a small hard pimple inside my mouth. The tooth Dr. Kurtzman pulled out is still sore. My hand is still tender; I think it's getting better, though.

 

November 14.
Very strong wind, nervous making. Hunt Stromberg called this morning, just back from Texas. Talked about how Oliver Reed
¹⁴⁴
is interested in doing “Frankenstein” and Vanessa Redgrave maybe is, but the only cold fact is that Boris Sagal is definitely in, because Universal trusts him not to exceed the budget. Oh yes, and Hunt would now like us to do
Pride and Prejudice
! I called Robin French this morning and asked him to make a last-ditch attempt to interest them in Jim Bridges. But then, I don't know if Jim
really
wants to; I suspect that he might try to wriggle out at the last moment.

We rush about, seeing films; the festival is on. Yesterday, we dashed to Santa Barbara, arriving on campus to find that we had literally only three minutes in which to see a Charles Demuth
¹⁴⁵
show. Then to Bill and Paul—but thanks to Bill's social instinct we had to have supper with dull old Wright Ludington, and I drank wine because I was so bored and now my weight is up to 150 or over, nude. The only satisfactory part of the trip was that I slept nearly all the way home and was simply amazed to find myself back in our carport, after what I'd thought was a brief doze.

The only good news, I'm getting along steadily with my work on the reconstruction of the 1945 journal. Sometimes that's really interesting.

The day before yesterday, we had supper with Robin and Jessie French. Their house is so dark and gloomy and Robin has such an air of resentment, when you see him at home. He appears to spend most of his home time fiddling with gadgets, taking them apart to see how they work—with a sort of sulky listlessness. They have two huge dogs; Robin makes rather a thing about their being dangerous, and he tells, with obvious satisfaction, how he was taken to court by the neighbors because the dogs bark so much in the night.

The young man who wrote
The Andromeda Strain
was there: Michael Crichton. He is six feet seven, fresh faced, obviously very intelligent and a bit arrogant. Jessie told me later she thinks he is Jewish, “You can tell by the way he moves his hands.” (Don says this is the only interesting remark he has ever known Jessie to make!)