My Father and Myself
Read My Father and Myself Online
Authors: J.R. Ackerley
J. R. ACKERLEY
(1896â1967) was for many years the literary editor of the BBC magazine
The Listener
. His works include three memoirs,
Hindoo Holiday, My Dog Tulip
, and
My Father and Myself
, and a novel,
We Think The World of You
(all available as New York Review Books).
W. H. AUDEN
(1907â1973) was born in York, England and studied at Oxford. He established a reputation as a brilliant poet with radical political sympathies on the publication of his first book in 1930 and proceeded to travel widely, visiting and writing about such troubled spots as Berlin, China, and Spain. With the advent of World War II, he emigrated to America, where he became a citizen and rediscovered the Anglican religious beliefs of his childhood. Universally recognized as one of the dominant figures in twentieth-century English poetry and criticism, Auden spent his later years with his companion Chester Kallman and divided his time between Austria and New York.
MY FATHER AND MYSELF
J. R. Ackerley
Introduction by
W. H. AUDEN
NEW YORK REVIEW BOOKS
New York
THIS IS A NEW YORK REVIEW BOOK
PUBLISHED BY THE NEW YORK REVIEW OF BOOKS
435 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014
Copyright © 1968 by the Executors of the Estate of J. R. Ackerley
Introduction Copyright © 1969 by W. H. Auden
All rights reserved.
Reprinted by arrangement with the Estate of J. R. Ackerley
First published in Great Britain by The Bodley Head 1968
Cover image: Roger Ackerley and J.R. Ackerley, 1913.
Cover design: Katy Homans
The Library of Congress has cataloged the earlier printing as follows:
Ackerley, J. R. (Joe Randolph), 1896â1967.
My father and myself / J. R. Ackerley; introduction by W. H. Auden.
    p. cm.
Originally published: London: Bodley Head, 1968.
ISBN 0-940322-12-9 (pbk.: alk. paper)
1. Ackerley, J.R. (Joe Randolph), 1896â1967. 2. Gay menâGreat BritainâFamily relationships. 3. Fathers and sonsâGreat Britain. 4. Authors, Englishâ20th centuryâFamily relationships. I. Title.
HQ76.3.G7A24 1999
306.76'62'092âdc 21
99-14566
ebook ISBN: 978-1-59017-526-2
v1.0
For a complete list of books in the NYRB Classics series, visit
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Copyright and More Information
New Brighton: Stockley, my father, de Gallatin, Dudley Sykes
My father and Miss Burckhardt in New Brighton in 1889
My mother in
The Merry Wives of Windsor
Myself as a preparatory schoolboy: “Girlie”
MY FIRST REASON for wishing to review this book is that it gives me an opportunity to make public acknowledgment of a debt which not only I but many writers of my generation owe to Mr. Ackerley. He informs us that he became Literary Editor of
The Listener
in 1935, but of his work there he says not a word. Those of us, however, who were starting our literary careers at the time have very good cause to remember how much he did for us:
The Listener
was one of our main outlets. More surprisingly, he says nothing about his intimate friends in the literary world, of whom there were many, including E. M. Forster. He says that he went to work for the BBC because he felt he had failed in his ambition to become a writer himself. On first reading this statement seems absurd: though he published only four books in his lifetime, all were enthusiastically received by the reviewers, and are just as good reading today as when they first appeared. I think, though, I understand what he means, namely, that he discovered that he could not create imaginary characters and situations: all his books were based on journals, whether written down or kept in his head.
In
My Father and Myself
, Mr. Ackerley strictly limits himself to two areas of his life, his relations with his family and his sex-life. His account of the latter, except for its happy ending, is very sad reading indeed. Few, if any, homosexuals can honestly boast that their sex-life has been happy, but Mr. Ackerley seems to have been exceptionally unfortunate. All sexual desire presupposes that the loved one is in some way “other” than the lover: the eternal and, probably, insoluble problem for the homosexual is finding a substitute for the natural differences, anatomical and psychic, between a man and a woman. The luckiest, perhaps, are those who, dissatisfied with their own bodies, look for someone with an Ideal physique; the ectomorph, for example, who goes for mesomorphs. Such a difference is a real physical fact and, at least until middle age, permanent: those for whom it is enough are less likely to make emotional demands which their partner cannot meet. Then, so long as they don't get into trouble with the police, those who like “chicken” have relatively few problems: among thirteen- and fourteen-year-old boys there are a great many more Lolitas than the public suspects. It is when the desired difference is psychological or cultural that the real trouble begins.
Mr. Ackerley, like many other homosexuals, wanted his partner to be “normal.” That in itself is no problem, for very few males are so “normal” that they cannot achieve orgasm with another male. But this is exactly what a homosexual with such tastes is unwilling to admit. His daydream is that a special exception has been made in his case out of love; his partner would never dream of going to bed with any other man. His daydream may go even further; he may secretly hope that his friend will love him so much as to be willing to renounce his normal tastes and have no girl friend. Lastly, a homosexual who is, like Mr. Ackerley, an intellectual and reasonably well-off is very apt to become romantically enchanted by the working class, whose lives, experiences, and interests are so different from his own, and to whom, because they are poorer, the money and comforts he is able to provide can be a cause for affectionate gratitude. Again, there is nothing wrong with this in itself. A great deal of nonsense has been spoken and written about the sinfulness of giving or receiving money for sexual favors.
No, the real difficulty for two persons who come from different classes is that of establishing a sustained relationship, for, while a sexual relationship as such demands “otherness,” any permanent relationship demands interests in common. However their tastes and temperaments may initially differ, a husband and wife acquire a common concern as parents. This experience is denied homosexuals. Consequently, it is very rare for a homosexual to remain faithful to one person for long and, rather curiously, the intellectual older one is more likely to be promiscuous than his working-class friend. The brutal truth, though he often refuses to admit it, is that he gets bored more quickly.
For many years, Mr. Ackerley was a compulsive cruiser:
In spite of such adventures, if anyone had asked me what I was doing, I doubt if I should have replied that I was diverting myself. I think I should have said that I was looking for the Ideal Friend. Though two or three hundred young men were to pass through my hands in the course of years, I did not consider myself promiscuous. It was all a run of bad luck.... What I meant by the Ideal Friend I doubt if I ever formulated, but now, looking back, I think I can put him together in a negative way by listing some of his disqualifications. He should not be effeminate, indeed preferably normal. I did not exclude education, but did not want it, I could supply all that myself and in the loved one it always seemed to get in the way; he should admit me but no one else; he should be physically attractive to me and younger than myselfâthe younger the better, as closer to innocence; finally he should be on the small side, lusty, circumcised, physically healthy and clean: no phimosis, halitosis, bromidrosis.... The Ideal Friend was always somewhere else and might have been found if only I had turned a different way. The buses that passed my own bus seemed always to contain those charming boys who were absent from mine; the ascending escalators in the tubes fiendishly carried them past me as I sank helplessly into hell.... In the “thirties” I found myself concentrating my attention more and more upon a particular society of young men in the metropolis which I had tapped before and which, it seemed to me, might yield, without further loss of time, what I required. His Majesty's Brigade of Guards had a long history in homosexual prostitution. Perpetually short of cash, beer, and leisure occupations, they were easily to be found of an evening in their red tunics standing about in the various pubs they frequented, over the only half-pint they could afford or some “quids-in” mate had stood them. Though generally larger than I liked, they were young, they were normal, they were working-class, were drilled to obedience; though not innocent for long, the new recruit might be found before someone else got at him; if grubby they could be bathed, and if civility and consideration, with which they did not always meet in their liaisons, were extended to them, one might gain their affection.
Frank as he is, Mr. Ackerley is never quite explicit about what he
really
preferred to do in bed. The omission is important because all “abnormal” sex-acts are rites of symbolic magic, and one can only properly understand the actual personal relation if one knows the symbolic role each expects the other to play. Mr. Ackerley tells us that, over the years, he learned to overcome certain repugnances and do anything to oblige but, trying to read between the lines, I conclude that he did not belong to either of the two commonest classes of homosexuals, neither to the “orals” who play Son-and/or-Mother, nor to the “anals” who play Wife-and/or-Husband. My guess is that at the back of his mind, lay a daydream of an innocent Eden where children play “Doctor,” so that the acts he really preferred were the most “brotherly,” Plain-Sewing and Princeton-First-Year. In his appendix, he does tell us, however, that he suffered, and increasingly so as he got older, from an embarrassing physical disabilityâ premature ejaculation with the novel and impotence with the familiar. O dear, o dear, o dear.
But then, when he was nearly fifty, a miracle occurred. He acquired an Alsatian bitch named Tulip. (Had Fate sent him an
Aureus
dog instead of a
Lupus
, there would have been no miracle.)
She offered me what I had never found in my sexual life, constant, single-hearted, incorruptible, uncritical devotion. She placed herself entirely under my control. From the moment she established herself in my heart and my home, my obsession with sex fell wholly away from me. The pubs I had spent so much of my time in were never revisited, my single desire was to get back to her, to her waiting love and unstaling welcome. I sang with joy at the thought of seeing her. I never prowled the London streets again, nor had the slightest inclination to do so. On the contrary, whenever I thought of it, I was positively thankful to be rid of it all, the anxieties, the frustrations, the wastage of time and spirit. The fifteen years she lived with me were the happiest of my life.
