dinsdag 29 mei 2012

Christopher Isherwood -- 30 mei 1956

May 30. Felt sick again last night and weary this morning, but always just able to do my stint for the day, which is something. So far, I have kept up with all my chores.
Last night, Marguerite [Lamkin] came to supper with Ivan Moffat. Marguerite was on her way to the airport for another trip to New York. [Montgomery] Clift, it now seems, won't be well till July. Everybody is on half-pay. The picture [Raintree County] will cost fortunes. Marguerite, meanwhile, has a Long Island millionaire interested in her.
Ivan tells us that Giant is a masterpiece, and he feels that this is all due to George Stevens [regisseur] - no one else. James Dean's selfishness as an actor; he did nothing whatever to help the girl [Elizabeth Taylor]. Meanwhile, old Edna Ferber [auteur van Giant] is writing a novel about the Esquimos in Alaska.
What an interesting figure Ivan is! I feel I would like to know much more about him - what he really wants, what he hopes for. Is it to be a good writer? A good director? He seems to be avoiding marriage, and he repeatedly says that one of the great advantages of his house up on Adelaide is that you couldn't possibly share it with anyone else.
I think he is prey to great terrors. Last night he talked about his horror of planes. Whenever he's in them, he expects to be burried alive.
The Duquettes' birthday party and dance for Beegle on the 27th was a sensation. Marion Davies' husband threatened to shoot down the chandelier while Agnes Moorhead was reciting. "It'll be like Booth and Lincoln," he said. Later at Pickfair [huis van Mary Pickford en Douglas Fairbanks], he somehow or other fired two shots, one of which grazed Mary Pickford's forehead.
Heard from Gerald Hamilton yesterday, confirming the news that Peter Watson is dead. But still no details.


Christopher Isherwood (1904-1986) was een Britse, in de VS wonende schrijver. Hij hield het grootste deel van zijn leven een dagboek bij.

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