Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch (29 page)

Contemplating such a painting, I know that there has been no undue dispersal of the artist’s forces. I realize, when I study the painting, that the conflicting interests which I had feared would pull him this way and that were but healthy seductions which he survived and made use of in alchemical fashion. The elasticity of soul which makes the giver is the supreme protection of the creator. When he returns to his rock, his sky, his sea, he puts into them all that he has endured, sacrificed and discovered through identification with the sorrows and sufferings of his fellow-men. The meaning of the diaspora shines through his work like a rainbow.

If the first Christian was a Jew, it is quite possible that the last one will also be a Jew, for there is nothing in the history of the uncircumcised to indicate that they are capable of bridging the gap between man and man-god, or as the Chinese say, between
“l’homme
and
l’homme-humain.”

On the surface there is something not only quixotic but paradoxical about
“the part of fortune.” One always likes to think he
earned
his good fortune, or that
he made the most of the breaks which chance presented. Myself, I have come to believe that
through being receptive, keeping one’s mind and heart open—showing faith and trust, in other
words—one’s desires, or prayers, are realized. By prayer I do not mean asking, hoping, begging
or bartering for that which one desires but, without formulating it, living the thought—“Thy
will be done!” In short, acknowledging wholeheartedly to ourselves that, whatever the
situation we find ourselves in, we are to regard it as an opportunity and a privilege as well
as a challenge.

Up to a certain point in my life I have known more ups and downs, I do
believe, than fall to the lot of the ordinary man. About the time I moved into the Villa
Seurat (1934), I became aware that the seismographic disturbances, so to speak, were
diminishing. A definite rhythm and order was beginning to manifest itself, though outwardly my
life was still hectic, troubled and confused. The realization that there
was
a
pattern to my life, one which made sense, came about in a curious way. Shortly after moving
into the Villa Seurat I had begun to record my dreams. And not only the dreams but the
associations which the act of transcribing them induced. Doing this over a period of several
months, I suddenly began to see. “To suddenly see,” as Saroyan says somewhere. A pregnant
phrase—to anyone who has had the experience. An expression which has only one meaning: to see
with new eyes.

About this same time, through a concatenation of events, “haphazard”
encounters, the reading of certain books—books that were thrown into my lap, as it were—things
began to jell. I became
more and more aware of a curious phenomenon,
hitherto conspicuous by its absence: the realization of one dream after another. I soon
developed an attitude of caution with regard to
what
I desired, having come to
realize that we generally desire either what is unimportant or else what is actually harmful.
At this point, as everyone knows who has had the experience, enter the subtle temptations.

The trip to Greece (1939-40), which came about through an unforeseen
friendship with Lawrence Durrell, clinched things. It was a “break” in a triple sense, for not
only was it a stroke of good fortune—the very best thing that could have happened to me at the
time—but it was also the means of breaking with a life which had already come to an end in the
Villa Seurat. Above and beyond all this, however, is the fact that the Greek adventure was an
eye-opener: from then on the world no longer looked the same to me. Even the expulsion from
Greece, due to the war, was a blessing which I had not the wisdom at the time to comprehend.
Finally, the rediscovery of America,
*
a then seemingly futile and unpleasant
business, led to the discovery of Big Sur.

From here on (Big Sur) things began to happen in earnest. If I did not succeed
in finding the “peace and solitude” I had hoped to find, I most certainly found other things
which have more than compensated for my disappointment. Once again, I might say that I found
what I needed to find, experienced what I needed to experience.

Of all the many fruitful experiences which I fell heir to since anchoring in
Big Sur, the discovery of certain books holds as much, possibly more, importance, I find in
retrospect, as the “coincidences,”
rencontres hasardeux
and other “unpredictables.”
Of the “meetings” with these books I hope to have more to say later on.
†

Where to begin in this web which stretches out in all directions—vertically
as well as horizontally—and which is apparently without limits? The first
thing one realizes when one begins to examine into such a mysterious thing as “fortune” is the
fact, and it is a stupendous one, that there is neither beginning nor end. All is
interconnected and of a piece. When we put the parts together, like a puzzle, the good and the
bad seem equally “the part of fortune.” Trifles particularly assume an importance altogether
disproportionate to size or weight. Everything falls into whack, and to a degree which
nullifies the vain assumptions of the ego. When I spoke of rhythm and order a while ago, what
I meant was a matching of inner and outer, or—“as above so below.” If I read the stars, it was
not to find out what was going to happen tomorrow but to seek confirmation in what was taking
place at the moment.

Stay put and watch the world go round!

Aye, but like a tightrope walker, not a slug. Treading softly, eyes front. A
miss is as good as a mile. This side of Paradise and that side of Paradise. One thing as good
as another. Alert and relaxed; empty and wide awake. In step, but not in uniform. The revolver
always handy, but loaded with blank cartridges. A weather eye open for weeds, thistles, burrs,
nettles and thorns. To arms! when the bugle calls, but minus a trigger finger.

Never pray for money! If you send out an S.O.S., ask for chicken feed.
Otherwise you’ll be cruelly deceived. Never mention the filthy lucre except in terms of what
it can buy. Take commodities and light your pipe with the greenbacks! Remember, if you can’t
make money, make friends. Not too many either, because one real friend is all you need to
protect you against the blows of outrageous fortune.

I said at the beginning of this potpourri that it started like a
haemorrhage—with Cingria. And who put Cingria under my nose? Gerald Robitaille of the 19th
Arrondissement. Answer this—how did Gerald know that what I needed to start the merry-go-round
was a copy of the
N.R.F
. with its
“couronne”
for the recently departed and
sorely beloved Charles-Albert Cingria? And how
could any mortal foresee
that the remembrance of a single meeting with the said Charles-Albert would galvanize these
last eleven years of my life?

What is Hecuba to me or I to Hecuba?

A potpourri, did I say? Why yes. Or—point-counter-point. Hearts are trumps.
Win or lose, it’s the same two-handed game of pinochle.

Ever since I began writing I have been compelled at intervals to send out
letters begging for help. The intervals between these cries of distress grow bigger with the
years,
heureusement
. Of late—the last seven years or so—I have noticed something
strange and interesting taking place. No sooner have I had the letters mimeographed, and the
first batch off in the mail, than a check arrives which makes the whole thing seem ridiculous.
Not a check in answer to my appeal, mind you, but a check from the blue. Usually it’s for a
debt which I had written off as hopeless or payment for royalties which I had forgotten all
about.

“Should I not have displayed a little more patience?” I ask myself. “Or, is it
possible that, in taking action, I gave fate a little push in the right direction?”

Oddly enough, the important thing turns out to be not the money but the
discovery of a friend I didn’t know I had. Yes, it’s good to send out an appeal, even if at
the last moment it turns out to have been unnecessary. Why? Because, aside from discovering
your real friends, the ones who send you their widow’s mite, you learn what you have always
known—that the rich are generally the last to respond. My last experience in this realm, an
overwhelming one, revealed the fact that the four individuals (out of a hundred or more) who
failed to respond, even with a “No thank you!” were the very wealthiest ones on my list. The
aid which one of these alone might have offered without batting an eyelash…. But why go into
it? The sad thing, the ironic thing, about this quartet, is that they all regard themselves as
great friends of mine. One of them always slaps me on the back when we meet
and, in his blithe, jovial way, says: “Henry, you’re a saint!” I ought to ask him
sometime just what he means by this remark—whether he’s grateful because I don’t hound him or
whether it takes a saint to live on nothing.

When I was getting ready to go to Greece I gave into the hands of a friend for
safekeeping a trunk containing the notebooks and manuscripts I thought precious enough to
keep. The war broke out, I lost contact with my friend, and soon I resigned myself to the
thought that the trunk was lost. In fact, after a few years I thoroughly forgot that there was
such a trunk. Then, shortly after I was installed at Partington Ridge, I received word from an
officer in the merchant marine that he was holding two trunks consigned to me. He added that
he was one of my readers and that it was a pleasure to be of service—no charge for the
transportation.

When the trunks arrived I saw to my amazement that one of them belonged to the
man I call Fillmore in
Tropic of Cancer
. (Those who know the story will recall how I
packed him off to America,
sans cheapeau, sans bagage.)
For a good two years, after
he got back to his town town, Fillmore, who was somewhat of a lawyer as well as a “bohemian,”
drove the customs officials and the railway officials (at the Gare St. Lazare where he had
left his trunk
en consigne)
crazy. I believe he even went so far as to address a
letter of abuse to the President of the Republic. And now, here it was, intact. I opened it
out of curiosity: it contained nothing but law books, family albums and souvenirs of his days
at Yale. I opened the other one, which was mine, and found that nothing had been tampered
with. Everything I had put in it was there, and in good condition. Among the contents was the
original voluminous script of the
Tropic of Cancer
, an item which may one day fetch a
small fortune.

Where had these trunks been all the time? Who had sent them to me?
A
déménageur
from a village outside Paris, a man whom I had met only twice and with whom
I had exchanged but a few brief words. When I wrote to thank him I inquired what I could
possibly give him in return for the great gift he had made me. I made it
very clear that I considered the recovery of the trunk a priceless boon. He replied: “Nothing!
Nothing at all! It was a pleasure to be of service.” I wrote again, several times in fact,
hoping that I could induce him to suggest, if not money, something which he and his family
might have need of. (The French at that time were still sorely in need of many things.) But
no, not a thing did he crave. His last reply was to the effect that, if I would be so kind, I
might send him an autographed copy of one of my books—nothing more. In the course of
correspondence I learned that the trunks had been entrusted to him when my friend left France
at the outbreak of war. But how this conscientious moving man discovered my whereabouts is
still a mystery. And how Fillmore’s trunk, along with my own, happened to find its way into
the cellar of the good Marius Battedou is also a mystery.

Had the trunk contained the Dead Sea scrolls, I feel certain the good man
would have made the same reply.

Voilà un chic type!

Money
—and how it gets that way! During the first months on Partington
Ridge I toyed with the idea of going to Mexico to finish
The Air-conditioned
Nightmare
. I drew up an “appeal for funds”—sufficient to last me a year, I
specified—and begged Frances Steloff, of the Gotham Book Mart, N. Y., to post it on her
bulletin board. I had little expectation of getting results from this appeal. It was worded
rather flippantly, I thought, probably because in the bottom of my heart I really did not want
to go to Mexico. All I wanted, truly, was a little hard cash.

A few weeks later there came a letter, postmarked New York, containing a
cashier’s check for $250.00. The sender, who gave his name as Harry Koverr, gave me to
understand that he wished to keep his identity secret. He promised to send me a like sum every
month, for a year. He added that he had read everything of mine he could get hold of and
wished me to know that he was a warm admirer. It was rather a strange letter, couched in
perfect English
but with a foreign tinge to it which aroused my
curiosity. I made no effort, however, to discover who the man was. (Never look a gift horse in
the mouth!)

The instalments came regularly, as he had promised. In the meantime, a young
woman with whom I had been corresponding for some time came to stay with me. She was a dancer
and she made it a habit to go through her routine every day, rain or shine. Now and then,
strolling through the forest, I would come upon her clad in leotards and swinging from limb to
limb like a chimpanzee. All part of her training….

One day as we were trudging up the hill, loaded with mail and supplies, a car
pulled up behind us and the driver leaned out to ask if I might be Henry Miller.

“I’m Harry Koverr,” he said.

I looked at him blankly, failing to make the proper association.

“I’m the man who sends you those checks. Don’t you recognize a friend?”

For a moment I was too embarrassed to make reply. I blushed crimson. And then
it clicked.