Report from the Interior (23 page)

D
ECEMBER
3:
I live alone, rarely emerging from my house. Days pass and I do not speak. When I am forced to say something, my voice seems strange to me, rattling like a machine. I go to class only five times a week. Sit, listen, leave. Return home. Weekends, which are four days long, are the most lonely. Then, if I do go out, it is only after midnight, to get drunk or buy groceries.

I work extremely hard, walled in my hiddenness … the novel is an overwhelming undertaking … Poetry is almost a diversion. Film absorbing. School work something to get done.

I don’t know what is driving me … My mind keener, yet more confused. I often feel that I am about to die. Last night I listened to Beethoven’s 3rd Symphony for the first time in almost 2 years. My body shook, I trembled, and … I cried. I couldn’t understand it. As if I had fallen into the void.

It is a solipsistic life. Friendless, bodyless …

Later:

Something nice happened today. About a week ago I gave Allen a copy of the poems I sent to you. Then I forgot about them, was doing other things. Apparently he put them in his pocket and forgot about them too. Today he called and said that last night he did a double-take when he found them in his pocket. He said he was very impressed, that he had almost called last night at 2 in the morning to tell me. I was rather skeptical—I don’t think they’re that good … But he said, no, no, they’re really good & went on with particulars, and said that I should send them to
Poetry
magazine, because they merit being published. Although I don’t know if I’ll do that, I was flattered by his comments. He said he thought I was really coming along. It’s good to have a little boost like that, especially from him.

D
ECEMBER
5:
It seems that fate is working against us. This is difficult to say, I hope I can, I’ve made myself a bit drunk to be able to face the page. Simply, I won’t be able to come at Christmas. Three reasons, all squeezing in at once to choke me, responsibilities, debts, conflicts. My father, who still controls my bank account until I’m twenty-one, a stupid agreement I consented to years ago, is not going to loosen his fist (my money!), for, as he claims—frivolity. And Norman claims he needs me to launch his campaign—still a nebulous thing—for it must be done soon or not at all.
¹⁵
And my grandmother, who is rapidly fading, a hideous thing to watch, needs the family around. Each person doing his or her share by spending time with her—which is an arduous ordeal … Because the film fell through, my former pretext for going—since a matter of the heart is necessarily negligible, frivolous, according to them—has vanished. I’m stuck—not yet my own man.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I had counted on it so much—had lived for nothing else. I sit and look at your picture and try to recall your voice …

D
ECEMBER
18:
You say that you want to know the details of my life. I will try to tell you …

I have four courses—“Government C.C.”
¹⁶
in which we read people like Marx, Lenin, and Sorel … It meets on Mon. & Wed. from 11–12:15, and I hardly ever go—the class is boring, but the reading fine. Second, on Tuesday, from 3–5, I have a seminar called “Oriental Humanities.” Again, the reading is fine—Middle Eastern & Indian philosophy, religion, & poetry—but the class is boring beyond words. Two teachers are there & both are dunces. Nevertheless, the reading is something I probably wouldn’t have done on my own. Wednesday is better. In addition to the C.C., I have 2 other courses—both in the graduate school. The first, from 2–4, is Art History—“Abstract Painting” with Meyer Schapiro … He’s extraordinarily articulate, intelligent, witty, well read. It’s a big lecture (about 200–250 people)—& I just sit back for 2 hrs. & listen to him speak—a real pleasure. Then, from 4–6, I have the other graduate course, in 20th-century French poetry. The reading, of course, is splendid—but the class unfortunately rather ponderous. I’ve been working hard, though—just completed a 25-page paper on 1 15-line poem by Beckett. It was helpful to look at one small thing with such care … Also, as I may have already told you, I’m doing a series of translations—of Dupin, du Bouchet, Bonnefoy, & Jaccottet—four contemporary poets. I’ll be finished sometime during the vacation, which begins next week … About a month & a half ago, Bonnefoy was here and gave a talk, in French, at La Maison Française, on Baudelaire and Mallarmé. An unlikely looking man—tiny, somewhat scrunched up—but a great poet & fine art critic … I was impressed.

Next term will be much better … as far as teachers go, quality of courses. I saw me ol’ pal Edward Tayler the other day to ask if I could take an advanced graduate seminar with him—“English Lyric—1500–1650.” Of course, of course, he said, Delighted to have you … We had a very amusing talk in the confines of his office for about half an hour … Another graduate course will be Aesthetics, philosophy, which promises to be good—another, in French, on Flaubert, given by Enid Starkie, the grand old English dame on leave from Cambridge. Also, in undergraduate—Medieval French literature, and then, a course in contemporary music from Beeson, which I very much want to take. Finally, GYM. It will keep me quite busy—but I don’t really mind—in an odd way I enjoy studying, especially old things—medieval, Renaissance …

I am almost always alone. I stay in my apartment a great deal. Three rooms. Small bedroom and bathroom in the back … Next, the kitchen. Coffee, toast—then into the big living room & my desk, to work. Sometimes, late at night, I go to the West End for some Guinness. I occasionally see L., whose company I enjoy. Once in a while, see the girl and her roommate … both former students of Allen’s. Sometimes they feed me, other times we just talk.

Through Allen, I got to meet … Ruby Cohn, who has written a book on Beckett and is a good friend of his. We met, one morning, about 2 weeks ago, & had a nice talk for about 3 hours …

Allen has been consistently kind to me … & helpful—reading things—helping me get the translations published—encouraging me to send out other things. I may be able to make some money doing translations of some plays for a book of avant-garde European drama that is being planned by a friend of his—he’s putting in the word for me …

More seriously … I live in my writing—it consumes my thoughts. I have many ideas, plans going at once—I think about them all in my spare moments, refining, revising, while concentrating on the particular thing I’m working on at the moment …

Despite all my internal confusion, my loneliness, I have somehow, along the way, acquired … confidence in the writing, in my own ability. That is what sustains me now. I’m a dedicated monk—celibate and all.

My grandmother is rapidly declining—She has caught bronchitis & is now in the hospital. On Friday, because a night nurse could not be hired on such short notice, my mother & I stayed up all night beside her bed—My grandmother could not sleep for even a minute—her suffering is endless, constant. She is totally helpless, Lydia—She cannot move at all—her spine is like jelly—She can only moan and cry. It was an awful awful night—the worst I have ever spent—to have to sit helpless beside such helplessness, such suffering. Death was so close. From the window, slow, silent … boats moved along the darkened East River.—I am just now beginning to recover from the sleeplessness & despair of that night. Fortunately, the bronchitis is beginning to clear up. But she doesn’t have many more months to live. When I left the hospital in the gray, early morning light, I felt a very bitter joy to find myself among the living …

Soon, on New Year’s Eve, I’ll be going to a party—haw!—a party given by Allen. It will be the first one for me in a long time. How strange it will be to be in a crowd again. I hope I … don’t go off in a corner & get drunk, which is my usual behavior at such gatherings. Perhaps it will be so crowded that I’ll be unable to reach a corner.

One of the nicest things since I’ve been back is my continued friendship with Peter—through the mail—his letters truly warm my heart. I don’t deserve such a good friend. With utter kindness & self-sacrifice, he took the time to gather my things & send them to me. Real drudgery, which he did with great humor. The things are now at the airport & will be delivered tomorrow. It will be nice to have my typewriter, notebooks, books … Also, I’ll finally be able to change my pants …

J
ANUARY
11, 1968:
My grandmother has died—the funeral was yesterday—Despite the fact that it was expected, I’m still … shaken. The funeral itself was very upsetting—my grandfather has taken it badly & has done much crying … It all saddens me. Yet, it is certainly better that she no longer go through the hideous torture of the disease.
¹⁷
And fortunately, she died quietly, in her sleep—it had been feared that she would choke …

The typing of the translations has been completed (160 pages). At great expense I have made one copy—I might be able to make another for free—if so, I’ll send it to you right away—if not, we’ll have to wait until next month when I’m better supplied with pennies …

If you want a really fine, deep laugh—read
At Swim-Two-Birds,
by Flann O’Brien. Highly recommended.

F
EBRUARY
12:
A whole month and not a word … I called your mother to see if anything had happened to you. She said your new address was London
W.
6. The one you gave me was
N.
6. Perhaps this has caused a confusion in the mail rooms.

I have little to say except my 21st birthday came & went with little stir … Never before have I felt so unneeded and unwanted. I live in a vacuum—have nothing to do with anybody—which pains me. I can do nothing but watch others. I need someone.

M
ARCH
2:
Your latest letter … Again, I say to you, don’t worry about
me
. I’m all right, really. Have no doubts about yourself in relation to me. Let us not raise questions about problems we know cannot be answered at this time. Simply try to live as best you can, now, with whatever your life consists of. I think the closest man can come to the feeling of eternity is by living in the present …

I sometimes shudder to realize that I am unfit to be loved by anyone. That, because of what I guess is an inherent idealism, nothing in the world seems good, that my loneliness is a masochistic desire …

All around me I see … pettiness, stupidity, and hypocrisy … As a result, I see myself becoming intolerant—and, so as not to offend anyone, retreating from society. I hate myself for what I feel to be an impatience with others, and yet I can do nothing about it …

And yet at the same time I yearn to love and be loved, knowing that it is impossible … I think, in some profound way, that I have fled from the real. I … spend most of my time either engaged in or thinking about my writing. Characters, situations, words, I have become them—moving into a vague world of shifting … colors, sounds—devoid of words and sense. At the same time I am convinced that
to live
is more important than art …

Soon, however, I’ll be faced with a big decision—the draft … If things remain as they are … I will probably go to Canada. I predict much loneliness for myself—worse than I have ever known.

There is a terrible shyness in me that makes even the most simple social situations difficult—a reluctance to speak, a self-consciousness that compounds my loneliness.

I say these things about myself to let you know—because you seemed to want to know. Probably, however, you’re already aware of all this.—My brooding and melancholy are incurable … And yet, I feel myself, at the center, to be strong—that I won’t ever crack, no matter how bad things might get. In a way, this is what frightens me the most …

I have a job translating a series of essays that will give me money to live on over the summer … must think of a good place to go …

M
ARCH
14:
I think you overestimate my idealism. In essence, I feel the same as you—the differences are a result of circumstances more than anything else. It is difficult to want to carry the world within you, here, in New York, America, when everyone is shouting hate, when the war continues to grow at a maniacal pace, when the only individual alternatives for the future are prison or exile. It is the horrible madness around me (I assure you it is real insanity)—necessarily
within
me too—that makes me despair. I don’t, however, cease to think of people as individuals. That I have never done and will never do. I don’t believe in abstractions. They are the killers, the maimers of the mind …

My life confusing. Revulsion towards school. Sick of books. My mind cluttered. Need the fresh air. Space to clear my mind. Dissipation. Too much drinking. One night so bad I vomited myself to sleep. I murmured, shouted, cried about God. Why does He refuse to manifest Himself? Drunken drivel. I become very witty at times. You’d like that. The border between tragedy and comedy. Sickness unto death. Writing bogged. But still confident. In general it goes well.—A new-found delight in faces. Old women blowing their noses. Watching old men. Today, a baby dog, a pup, so soft I wanted it for myself.—Steaming steel coffee machines. Spittle on the sidewalks. The darkness of the streets at night. The darkness of dreams. Voices merging in crowds. Phrases mingling from different mouths into unconnected absurdities. Faces in class. A word from a radio. My cluttered desk. The disgust with myself for having cut two straight weeks of class. The irony of my having made the dean’s list. The strong desire not to read anymore. To stop listening and begin speaking … to be wed to silence again only at death.

M
ARCH
29:
I have complete confidence in you, despite the tiny rises and falls … you will emerge strong and whole. As for me … I have great difficulty imagining any sort of future for myself, anything at all. Political problems have become so oppressive that such thoughts have become impossible. If confronted with the draft next summer, my decision will be to go to jail—not to Canada.—I can give no rational explanation—merely, that it is the more disdainful action. So, in some peculiar way, I am pressed into thinking immediately about something that really requires much time …