everybody in London was shivering. I remembered how the actors played to nearly empty houses, heroically stripped down to their indoor clothes, while we their audience huddled together in a tight clump, muffled to the chins in overcoats, sweaters and scarves. I remember a chic lunch party composed of the intellectual beau monde , at which an animated discussion of existentialism was interrupted by one of the guests exclaiming piteously, ‘Oh, I’m so cold! ’ Two or three of my friends said to me then: ‘Believe us, this is worse than the war!’ By which I understood them to mean that the situation couldn’t by any stretch of the imagination be viewed as a challenge to self-sacrifice or an inspiration to patriotism; it was merely hell.
Nevertheless, I have to confess, with the egotism of a tourist, that the blizzard did a great deal to ‘make’ my visit. It gave me a glimpse of the country in crisis which helped me to some faint idea of what the war years had been like. And, besides this, the cold certainly increased one’s energy and sharpened one’s senses. There was a great deal to be seen in London that winter - particularly in the art galleries, where many new and talented painters were exhibiting. It was then that I acquired, though only to a very modest degree, the good habit of buying pictures.
Before he went back to America on the Queen Elizabeth , he returned to London for a few days of parties and leave-takings. This gave me the opportunity to introduce him to some of the younger artists I had been featuring in Penguin New Writing , in particular Keith Vaughan, to whose work he had taken a special liking; he in fact bought several paintings of Vaughan’s to take back with him to America. He also promised to do all he could on that side of the Atlantic for my new publishing firm, which I had started the year before when the break with Leonard Woolf occurred. He wrote to me on arrival in New York:
Just to tell you that I arrived on Friday, after a bugger of a voyage, with strong head-gales. I avoided being sick by doggedly overeating and dosing myself with whisky. We were all vaccinated, which made me a bit sick after landing but I’m fine now. Jimmy (Stern)’s 2 apartment is a dream (I even have a room all to myself to work in) and Caskey is sweeter than ever, and I am very very happy. I even think I’ll like New York this time, anyhow till it gets really hot. So far, I’ve only seen Wystan, who was eager for all the London news.
My trip to England was wonderful, largely thanks to you.
I can’t ever tell you how much your kindness helped me through the first dubious moments and made me feel welcome.
I only hope I wasn’t a dreadful nuisance. Caskey was delighted with the Keith Vaughans, and they will occupy key positions in our living-room and be viewed by thousands. We’ll try to do our part in building up his American reputation.
In a few days I hope to start driving the plough over the terrain for my new novel. I have terrible stage-fright about it but the only thing is to make a start. At all costs, I’m resolved, this time, not to be funny. I don’t care how dreary and boring it is, as long as it isn’t the kind of book anybody could possibly read for pleasure on a train. People resent being amused more than anything, I’ve decided.
This was, I thought, a curious statement from the creator of Mr Norris and Sally Bowles; but it is true that The World
in the Evening didn’t turn out a very funny book. And Christopher’s hope of enjoying New York life at last was quite soon dashed.
Christopher Isherwood photographed by Howard Coster in 1936, ‘A cross between a cavalry major and a rather prim landlady’?
Left to right, W.H. Auden, Christopher Isherwood and Stephen Spender in the thirties, close friends and ‘out to create an entirely new literature’.
Christopher and Heinz in 1934, a picture taken in
Nevertheless, I have to confess, with the egotism of a tourist, that the blizzard did a great deal to ‘make’ my visit. It gave me a glimpse of the country in crisis which helped me to some faint idea of what the war years had been like. And, besides this, the cold certainly increased one’s energy and sharpened one’s senses. There was a great deal to be seen in London that winter - particularly in the art galleries, where many new and talented painters were exhibiting. It was then that I acquired, though only to a very modest degree, the good habit of buying pictures.
Before he went back to America on the Queen Elizabeth , he returned to London for a few days of parties and leave-takings. This gave me the opportunity to introduce him to some of the younger artists I had been featuring in Penguin New Writing , in particular Keith Vaughan, to whose work he had taken a special liking; he in fact bought several paintings of Vaughan’s to take back with him to America. He also promised to do all he could on that side of the Atlantic for my new publishing firm, which I had started the year before when the break with Leonard Woolf occurred. He wrote to me on arrival in New York:
Just to tell you that I arrived on Friday, after a bugger of a voyage, with strong head-gales. I avoided being sick by doggedly overeating and dosing myself with whisky. We were all vaccinated, which made me a bit sick after landing but I’m fine now. Jimmy (Stern)’s 2 apartment is a dream (I even have a room all to myself to work in) and Caskey is sweeter than ever, and I am very very happy. I even think I’ll like New York this time, anyhow till it gets really hot. So far, I’ve only seen Wystan, who was eager for all the London news.
My trip to England was wonderful, largely thanks to you.
I can’t ever tell you how much your kindness helped me through the first dubious moments and made me feel welcome.
I only hope I wasn’t a dreadful nuisance. Caskey was delighted with the Keith Vaughans, and they will occupy key positions in our living-room and be viewed by thousands. We’ll try to do our part in building up his American reputation.
In a few days I hope to start driving the plough over the terrain for my new novel. I have terrible stage-fright about it but the only thing is to make a start. At all costs, I’m resolved, this time, not to be funny. I don’t care how dreary and boring it is, as long as it isn’t the kind of book anybody could possibly read for pleasure on a train. People resent being amused more than anything, I’ve decided.
This was, I thought, a curious statement from the creator of Mr Norris and Sally Bowles; but it is true that The World
in the Evening didn’t turn out a very funny book. And Christopher’s hope of enjoying New York life at last was quite soon dashed.
Christopher Isherwood photographed by Howard Coster in 1936, ‘A cross between a cavalry major and a rather prim landlady’?
Left to right, W.H. Auden, Christopher Isherwood and Stephen Spender in the thirties, close friends and ‘out to create an entirely new literature’.
Christopher and Heinz in 1934, a picture taken in
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