Report from the Interior (21 page)

A
UGUST
28:
My writing goes painfully, slowly. Exhaustingly so … I have been very moody—real depression, then optimistic. Things are still swimming. Last night, in a bad mood, I went all the way across the city in the hopes of getting a free meal at a certain cafeteria for which M. had given me a meal ticket. But no luck. The ticket was no longer good. So I went back. In the metro a woman was singing—beautifully, sadly, to herself. It made me terribly sad, that is, sadder …

For 50 cents you can buy a litre of vin ordinaire. I’ve been drinking a bit too much. Often it makes me quite sleepy and I just KONK out.

I want to write a film. Have some really good ideas …

The following week (September 5) another letter that begins in French: Je ne sais plus quoi dire. La pluie tombe toujours, comme une chute de sable sur la mer. La ville est laide. Il fait froid—l’automne a commencé. Jamais deux personnes ne seront ensemble—la chair est invisible, trop loin de toucher. Tout le monde parle sans rien dire, sans paroles, sans sens. Les mouvements des jambes deviennent ivres. Les anges dansent et la merde est partout.

Je ne fais rien. Je n’écris pas, je ne pense pas. Tout est devenu lourd, difficile, pénible. Il n’y a ni commencement de commençant ni fin de finissant. Chaque fois qu’il est détruit, il paraît encore parmi ses propres ruines. Je ne le questionne plus. Une fois fini je retourne et je commence encore. Je me dis, un petit peu plus, n’arrêtes pas maintenant, un petit peu plus et tout changera, et je continue, même si je ne comprends pas pourquoi, je continue, et je pense que chaque fois sera la dernière. Oui, je parle, je force les paroles à sonner (à quoi bon?), ces paroles anciennes, qui ne sont plus les miennes, ces paroles qui tombent sans cesse de ma bouche …
¹¹

Seven hours later, past midnight, you return to your room and continue the letter, leaving behind the somber lamentations of the dark, soggy afternoon for a long, free-floating discourse on politics and revolution, a shift of tone that is so abrupt, so absolute, that the effect is quite disturbing. You look at this two-pronged letter as a sign of your growing instability, the first concrete evidence of the mental crash that would threaten you in the days ahead. “I won’t go into the present situation in America,” you begin. “All that is obvious, and can be read in the newspaper every morning. What is important is that some sense be made of the confusion. (My ideas are quite confused themselves, in that I don’t know where to begin—).” You digress at that point, digress before you have even started, pondering whether you can subscribe to the philosophical foundations of Marxism, asking whether there is a pattern to history, questioning whether the dualistic nature of the dialectic is valid, conclude that it isn’t, and then, contradicting your own conclusion, as you ask whether the class struggle is a reality or a fiction, you assert—“probably a reality.” In the next paragraph, you launch an attack against what you call
bourgeois philosophy
: “Skepticism led to the exaltation of strictly
objective
methods of describing the universe, such as geometry and logic: think of Descartes, Spinoza, Leibniz, Kant—a glorification of science: which implies such dualities as subject/object, form/content, etc., which are nonexistent. It led to a disassociation between
thought & action
 … and thus in the economic world … to the idea of the
worker considered as a machine.
The contract of labor was reduced to a contract of
capital,
rather than a contract
between men,
which it actually is. It happened because people were, (are), taught to think in terms of abstract ideas. So, for instance, today, very scientific sociological studies can be conducted to determine the efficiency of workers during certain hours of the day, etc. This is
dehumanization
—for now one doesn’t have a man for so many hours, but so many hours of man—as if he were a machine. The capitalist world is a world of objects rather than people.” It’s not that these words are incoherent, precisely, or that you don’t know what you are talking about, it’s simply that you are going too fast, trying to write a book-length argument in a few pages, probably exhausted, probably a little drunk, without question miserable and lonely, and after you spend the next couple of paragraphs explaining that the oppressed classes in America have not risen up in revolt because the myth of nationalism has deluded them into thinking they are not oppressed, you wrap up your speculations by calling for the middle class to undergo a process of willful self-destruction—“for the middle class youth (for instance us) to nullify the society we have been brought up in——to transcend our class out of shame for what it stands for & join the ranks of the poor & the persecuted races.” You sign the letter: “a sad and semi-paralyzed Paul.”

The next letter you received must have come as a blow, a disappointment, a shock of some kind that was difficult for you to bear. When you write back on September eleventh, you sound chastened and demoralized, not bitter so much as emotionally spent. “The honesty of your letter is equaled only by the new-found honesty of my thoughts—caused, no doubt, by the terrible depression I am going through. Of course everything you say is true. Avoiding the facts in our correspondence (before my trip was canceled) was merely an illusion, a veil I shrouded my eyes with in order to block out the light of real objects so that I could better watch the fantasies that revolved within my head. But imperceptibly the veil began to slip. Now it has bound my feet (around the ankles) and each step I take makes me fall flat on my face. If I wish to walk now, I must be willing to fall as many times as steps I take. Eventually the cloth will break and I will be free, or, which is also likely, I may decide not to get up after one of the falls, simply remain … without any desire to get up again…”

S
EPTEMBER
15:
I seem to have fallen under the weather (which is just miserable—ugly all-day rains; autumn is coming—the trees are beginning to change colors) with a bad sore throat, cold, and chills. Nevertheless, I’ve been busy preparing to register for courses & exams. I must tell you … that your friend Professor L. is very lazy and very much a bastard—makes it difficult for one to see him, does little to help. It seems (also) that he misinformed us in N.Y. about the program—for much of it will be taking language courses at the
foreign
branch of the Sorbonne. It doesn’t seem all that inviting. Even Peter, who came to study music, will have to devote most of his time to language courses …

Have been thinking and getting excited about the movies—“film”
=
THE CINEMA. Have started writing a scenario. Will comment in a future letter …

My dreams have been vivid nearly every night: in one, I was machine-gunned by Nazis, and much to my surprise death was not unpleasant: I floated prone and invisible through the air; in another: naked with a beautiful woman in public places, then in a locked movie house. The double perspective: through my eyes and also objectively—her nakedness was stunning …

The frustrating battle with Professor L. had begun. Perhaps you had been spoiled by your first two years at Columbia, by the inspired and inspiring men you had studied with as a freshman and sophomore in New York, not just the aforementioned Angus Fletcher and Donald Frame (nineteenth-century French poetry the first year, Montaigne seminar the second) but also, among others, Edward Tayler (Milton) and Michael Wood (a bilingual seminar on the novel: George Eliot, Henry James, and James Joyce in English; Flaubert, Stendhal, and Proust in French), and even your adviser, the medievalist A. Kent Hiatt, the acerbic, urbane gentleman with whom you met every semester to discuss which courses you should take, had always treated you with sympathy and encouragement, which meant that you had navigated yourself through one half of your college career with no pedants or stuffed shirts in sight, no bad eggs or disgruntled souls to inflict their unhappiness on you, and then you ran into the brick wall that was Professor L., the bored administrator that was Professor L., and you clashed. Your French was good enough by then for you to be ready for a more serious curriculum than the glorified Berlitz course he was insisting you take. With Peter, the situation was even more preposterous, since his mother was French and he was perfectly fluent, but Peter was less hotheaded than you were, and he was willing to submit to the program for the sake of his studies with Boulanger. Your letter on the fifteenth had announced your dissatisfaction with Professor L., but the discord must have mounted quickly, for just five days later you were on the verge of out-and-out rebellion.

S
EPTEMBER
20:
Never before have I known such overwhelming confusion … such violent fits of depression. I am now at what is called the crossroads—the most important of my life. Tomorrow, after I see Professor L., I will know for certain one thing—whether or not I stay in Columbia. At this point I am seriously considering dropping out. Unless the program can be improved, I will do it. Professor L. sickens me … I would prefer to remain a student this year so that I could have the time to … think out what I will do afterwards (I have several ideas). But I will not study French grammar for 15 hours a week in order to have that time.

Rather than continue pursuing an academic career which will, no doubt, lead to only more studying, and perhaps, in the end, to teaching (how easy to succumb to that life!), I have decided—a visceral, exciting decision—to get into films—first as scenarist and … eventually as director also. It will be hard going at first, perhaps for quite a while. A matter of writing scenarios (I am doing one now), getting to know people, getting jobs as an assistant, etc. Tomorrow I’m seeing a producer and might possibly get work translating some scripts, for which I can earn a few hundred dollars … If my money is cut off from America, that is, if my father wishes to stop sending money, which I expect, and which is fully justified, something I would feel no rancor about, I would send for the $3,000 I have in the bank and be on my own.

The implications of quitting Columbia are involved and quite serious, for I would eventually lose my student status with the draft …

Tomorrow, the first and most important step will probably be taken. What I will propose to Professor L. is this—I’ll study for the exams for the 1st & 2nd degrees on my own, audit courses at the Sorbonne, and do the project. In effect, it means not taking the language courses which indirectly would prepare me for the exams (which are apparently the most important element in the program—which make it “official”) and, instead, taking
real
courses at the Sorbonne … However, I don’t think Professor L. will be receptive to the change. In which case I’ll bid him adieu and then be very much on my own.

The whole business has been rather sad. Professor L. gave me a letter saying that it would be enough for me to get my carte de séjour with. So I waited in line for 3 hours today feeling really sick (you should hear my cough) only to be told that because I was still a minor I needed a notarized letter from my father. Really aggravating. You know what I think of bureaucracies—even worse here …

S
EPTEMBER
25:
Thank you for the drawings and for your support. Everything has not yet been settled. Later today I must call long distance to Columbia to tell them of my plans and ask if the tuition (at least a good part of it) can be refunded. No, Professor L. did not like my idea—but there’s nothing much he can do about it.

In addition to all this school business, I’ve been keeping quite busy … Also … have translated ten poems of Jacques Dupin
¹²
and will send them to Allen
¹³
in N.Y., who said he would most likely be able to get them into
Poetry
. I could make about $50 for it.

I do not expect my father to give me any more money. Seeing that I have only about $3000 of my own—I have to keep up a source of income, somehow, no matter how minimal it might be.

I am rewriting the scenario of this Mexican woman, the wife of the producer who did
Cervantes,
in which my old composer friend had a role.
¹⁴
If and when it is filmed, I will be right in on it—getting the experience I want. She also wants me to translate one of her plays into English—all of which I will get paid for. She’s dark, enchanting, and beautiful—but I don’t trust her. I think her promises are a bit empty. But we shall see. There is a possibility that she can give me the maid’s room in her building—for no charge. I must move, because I can no longer afford the 300 Franc rent in this hotel. I will find out in a few days if I can have the room. It would be a great help. For I don’t care about luxuries (maid’s rooms are traditionally very very small & without water, always on the top floor, and reached by a back stairway).

My plan is this—remain in Paris for some time—write my own scenarios (continuing other writing too), do translations, and get all the experience I can …

S
EPTEMBER
27:
I won’t say much right now, since it is late, and I am awaiting your reply to my last letter.

However, some facts. I called the dean at Columbia (90 Francs; almost 20 dollars!) and have settled everything with them. The tuition can be returned in full. I have written a formal letter to them. Have also written to my parents—both father and mother. I’m curious to see how they’ll react …

Concerning the film—I am not the chief director, simply an assistant. Right now I am engaged in the monumental task of rewriting the scenario—almost completely. I’m told that Salvador Dalí is eager for one of the parts. That might prove to be interesting. Much of the film takes place in the sewers. Tomorrow afternoon the Mexican woman and I are going down to see them. Apparently, some people are interested in making the film—a young man, with lots of money, wants to produce it. Tomorrow we will also see the chief technician. Still, I am not too optimistic. I feel the whole thing will fizzle. Nevertheless, all remains to be seen.—It’s a strange thing to rewrite somebody else’s work. It seems to be good practice, though.