[295] 16 AUG
I was petrified when you went out of the window, afraid even to
move over to stop you in case my movement caused you to fall.
[298] 25 AUG
I was aware of being a bore to you but you (it seemed) turned me into
a bore because you dont expect anything any more.
[299, his] Aug 26th
Not sad so much for you as for me with you. It is not just that when
everything is considered important, nothing is; or – fair enough – if I
presume you will be boring then you will.
[301, his] Sept 4th
Oh, Maria thinks I know everybody, can talk to anyone.
[302] 8 SEP
Dont let’s entirely break friendship
please. I’ve seen it (& one hears the
echoes everywhere) – the breakup
between all the writing people I know.
Remember it’s not me (neither is it you),
it’s the country that’s The Enemy. The
spirit of the place is destructive. Let’s
hang on a bit longer.
[303, his] Sept 11th
It was not worthwhile explaining to you that I said, “I do not mean
you” because, earlier, I’d said something which you took to yourself, and I
did not want you to repeat the mistake. But what is the use. Maria waited
for you outside and did not leave until she was assured everyone had left.
I told her you’d probably not mentioned it to me in order not to aggravate
her offence against you. Of course I was wrong to say this.
Plate 1 – ‘Self portrait moment of no lie’ – relates to letter 33.
Plate 2 – ‘Threepence complicated’ – relates to letter 38.
Plate 3 – ‘3 poems within fear’ – relates to letter 53
Plate 4 – ‘John I’ll be with you’ – relates to letter 65
Plate 5 – ‘Elizabeth Thoms Clark ,when love comes down’ – relates to letter 166
Plate 6 – ‘Bulletin on the critical condition’ – relates to letter 173
Plate 7 – ‘February 14th 1966 Nous sommes’ – relates to letter 251
Plate 8 – ‘Bulletin on the critical condition’ – relates to letter 173
[305]
Douglas Bank, Broomhill Gardens, Glasgow W1 1966 on Tuesday
September 13
Dear John,
I was on one of my paranoiac, the man is the enemy, jags – that’s
what it must have been, because I certainly took nothing you said that
(might have) seemed at me to my heart enough to remember it still. I
suppose I imagined an Attitude, but it was paranoia, as I said, the-manis-
the-enemy mood, quite absurd. It went in two days, assaulted by a
reconciliation scene, on telephone, with the man I nearly sent the taxifare
to. I thank my scruples that I did not send money: he had been “ill”
(his words!) after our strange parting. I had not expected that. To have
to apologise in the circumstances mended my hurt pride (if that’s what
it was) considerably. Not to be the One who was dying of it this time
was lovely, and I could fully enjoy it because 2½ weeks “ill” (&, unless I
mistake, getting around all the time) is not too near the grave to make
me feel really ashamed instead of powerful. And to think I wasnt even
trying! Makes me feel, at this date (better late than never) une marginale
femme fatale, which I hardly expected, and it’s great. To play at being a
wicked trifling woman is fun, just this once again, but as a practice, no,
it’s too expensive.137
Oh, Maria! Honestly I thought (until I thought about it again later)
that I had, without fuss of course, said Goodbye. I went away. I had not
thought of Maria waiting at the door! Later, I admit I began to wonder
“should I have gone off like that?” And yet. I could not have faced her with
an implied obligation perhaps to have coffee with me and talk, when we
might have had nothing to say.
It was because I began to recollect the lack of finality when I saw
Maria I could not dare to speak about it.
My time (which is priceless by the way) you cant buy: even if you
were a lot richer than you (comparatively speaking) are.138 My time (even
more than my ‘talent’ these days, alas) has to be given because it cannot
be paid for. I know its value you see. If I decide (having a free choice) to
give my time for the good of someone else then I find I cant take money.
Money is either irrelevant or insufficient exchange for any person’s time
once they are fully aware of its value to themselves.
And dont be hurt that I cannot take money from you. I could not
take it from my own daughter. My myth about money being no rate of
exchange between consenting adults has worked on me I’m afraid – who
would have predicted it? People (among my own most dear ones) do, these
days, such unworthy things for money that I find at the moment that I
want (for the sake of my private balance) to do just one or two worthy
things for no-money, to help me keep my belief in the possible idealism
in the human (I shall call it) soul.
I realise that it would have made it easier for you if you could “pay”
me, but it would be dishonest if I pretended you could. I dont believe in
your talent unless I am willing to do something about it. Take money and
cancel that?
[306, his] Sept 15th
What a lovely long letter. I agree: money is irrelevant, so you can
have some of my surplus.139
I’m delighted you won’t take money. My goodness! more for me.
There should be more like you in the world. It would be a better place. I
can accept your generosity very easily. It’s just that I don’t like you to be
hard up, unnecessarily self-denying, when I – unusually, I admit – have
excess and you are a friend. Since I’m not a saver, excess money is of no
use and I’ld rather it were spent… if not by me then by someone I like. I
know I’m probably undermining the govt’s financial policy but I can’t
help that. You’re worse than a credit squeeze.
[307, his] 24 SEP
Sink then140
[308]
26 Park Circus,
Glasgow C.3.
Dou 0377
Oct. 2nd 1966
Dear Betty,
I met Betty Clark the other day. Delighted to see her, I was reduced
to depression in an hour – less – and the effect would have remained
with me had I not seen Steven Berkoff, laughed and left the Close to read
my Doris Lessing. (Indeed she is a feminist and, in her trilogy, not as
intelligent and unsentimental as in the Golden Notebook or Play with
a Tiger)141 These poor women without a sense of humour. Betty was
condescending to tell me I shouldn’t condescend to her – or else, no more
letters… some ludicrous sanction like that. She is unaware of her impertinence,
or perhaps aware, but not that it’s a paranoic [sic] ploy. I expect she
lacks confidence – she certainly should as a person, though her writing’s
improved since I’ve known her, e.g. since she lacks any conversational
gift, in fact I’ve seldom met a woman more able to staunch the source
in any but herself (which, of course, is not dialogue at all), she has the
cheek to justify it by asserting that anyway conversation does not lend
itself to expansive thought – though I don’t wonder she lacks such an
experience – as if her monologues thereby did! Poor pet, I don’t think she
can help herself. A sense of humour would help, at any rate to mitigate the
effect of her awful sense of self-importance, which is powerful strong, or
to prevent deadening overexplicitness in the hypercriticism And even if
you overcome these obstacles to free speech, she has a practically unique
knack of not meeting your meaning but, wormlike, dragging the leaf
down into her burrow where it’s transmuted out of all resemblance to
its original self – in short, has become manure… pure shit; and you’re
expected to accept this as what you meant! Christ, as if after overcoming
all that – to love her for herself alone – wasn’t enough, if you don’t accept
her word on herself as gospel – worse than a fundamentalist – she lectures
you on how to treat her, just like one of the more rare diseases… that’s a
fact. That’s what I got. You can’t have a mind of your own; it’s against the
law. It was all very wearisome. I expect she’s unhappy – sadness is all she
has to give at any rate. You’ve been warned, so steer clear of her. I’m going
to. Really, it’s too silly, but if she’s not going to write to me – and even
then she says her letters were a pack of lies – I can’t keep dropping stones
into the well, listening to the splash, when I know it’s bottomless and
void. That’ld be plain daft. And on this she’s dead right, we’ve nothing
to communicate. Funny to think she used to be interesting to talk to,
but that was years ago. You might find her interesting for a time, until
she begins to repeat herself – she doesn’t change much, holds fast to what
she’s got, and she can keep it. When you start thinking she’s too good to
be true, you’re right, and from then on it gets worse and worse. She might
be better with women though. I think she is, for a reason that is obvious
but which I won’t hazard – since you should understand her for yourself.
And for goodness[’] sake keep your understanding to yourself. She’s not
interested in candour, as I’ve already indicated. Well, good luck. It’ll be
an experience for you. As for me, I’ve had enough. She bores me to death.
We’re going to “Much Ado About Nothing”, appropriate that, and after
that, in that, this dangerous liaison draws to its ditchwater, drab close. I
simply couldn’t face Archie Hind’s exposition of ideas in her presence. It
would be a diversion but of the wrong kind. Love, John.
P.S. I went to a party last night. Barbara Brown arranged it. Strange.
All these actors, like moths without a light, floating, fluttering around
from one person with an eye to the next, resting nowhere. Boring. No –
fascinating. I sat relaxed with Barbara on the sofa watching the silhouettes.
Then we had a drunken orgy to ourselves – fully dressed… incredible.142
137 This is an allusion to Ian’s almost being the death of her.
138 I was arranging a collaborative meeting among our friends over a supper of iced caviar [sic] and Château d’Yquem.
139 After five pages on everything but, including, ‘Maria will be content, I predict, that she wasn’t in the wrong,’and, ‘My long hair provides conversation with the second year upward: should I cut it or not, grow it forward, have longer sideburns, grow a beard, what kind, a moustache, etc.’ I end:
140 Succinct. After those two words on an otherwise blank page, [308] returns to epistolary convention.
141 The Lessing play Steven Berkoff was in; he was thinking of dramatising Jack London but in London I advised him against that as “too masculine.”
142 I wanted to find out if I could surf the impulse alone to the beach, but couldn’t by-pass the reef without having had the forethought to remove it or resorting, while riding the wave, to dynamiting it apart, as I forbore to, though oddly enough I had the dynamite to hand in my hands. Concluding the impulse itself wasn’t enough, and forethinking was preferable to the alternative, with the merest flicker of a look I indicated her disingenuous taunt to subvert my will with the postulate she was any criterion of virility was beneath contempt. She had the grace to laugh; she should’ve taken off her knickers! “I knew there was something going on between you and Barbara Brown!” Barbara Lambie said. “You want me to masturbate you!” He hadn’t thought he did, but now she’d said, he might.