Liberation by Christopher Isherwood Page B

noncareer as a portrait artist.
    Yesterday I called Hunt Stromberg for news of “Frankenstein,” having heard nothing for weeks. To my surprise, Dick Shasta answered the phone, so apparently they’ve made it up. Hunt told me that now someone else is trying to finance the “Frankenstein” project and that he’s to hear news this week.
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    December 11. This may be my last entry for a while, because tomorrow this desk will probably be moved and the top taken away to be refinished and I shall lose touch with most of my other possessions.
    Got a contract to sign from Simon and Schuster; am to be given an advance of seven thousand five hundred dollars, which is good. But no word so far from Peter Schwed, or Michael Korda.
    Saw Evelyn Hooker yesterday. She wants me to work with her on a “popular” book on homosexuality. She seemed very emotional still; once she actually shed a few tears while describing the goodness of her sister to her during her breakdown. I am doubtful about the project. It seems that I shall have to read through sixty case histories and then write about them—which really means retell them, and what the hell is the use of that? Nonwriters never understand what writers can and cannot do. They think they can tell you exactly what to say and that you will then somehow magically resay it so it’s marvellous. However, I didn’t want to refuse straight away. I’ll read some of the stuff first and try to find out more exactly what it is that Evelyn expects. She is a very good woman and her intentions are of the noblest and I would like to help her, if I can do so without becoming her secretary.
    After threats of rainstorms, the weather is brilliant; you can see the whole arm of the bay in clearest detail. I feel we are “wasting” this weather; it ought to be saved until we really need it, during the repairs to the house. The roofers are supposed to come in and do the job tomorrow.
    Gavin and Mark Andrews are going to Tahiti for Christmas. Gavin saw an ad for a round-trip on the French airline; you get a week on Tahiti and a week on Moorea with hotels and food, plus the fare, for six hundred dollars—cheaper than staying at home! We wonder if they won’t be terribly bored, however. (This reminds me that Jim Bridges had an outburst, quite violent for him, about the relationship between Brian Bedford, Gavin and Mark; he said he found it disgusting that they call each other by women’s names—Gavin’s is “Dora.” “It offends my dignity as a homosexual,” Jim said.)
    Jim is busy trying to organize this reading of our play for after the holidays. Yesterday we saw a young British actor named Ter[r]ence Scammel[l]; but he isn’t right. Scammell told us he has read the script of the Cabaret film (because he’s up for the part of Chris) and that “Chris” (now called Brian) is queer, that’s to say he can’t make love to Sally at first and then later he can and then Sally does it with a mature but very attractive baron and Chris is jealous and makes a scene about it with Sally, and Sally exclaims, “Oh, fuck the Baron!” (meaning that he’s unimportant) and Chris replies coyly, “I do.” That’s the kind of thing which offends my dignity as a homosexual. The queer is just an impotent heterosexual; that’s what these Jews keep saying, over and over again.
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    December 24. Just to record that I am sitting down at my “refinished” desk today for the first time since this upheaval began. My workroom is now painted. So is Don’s little back bedroom and so is the hallway. That is all. John Bleasdale works very slowly but he is pretty thorough it seems and easy to get along with. The girl who did the desk isn’t much good and she still hasn’t delivered Don’s desk and his chair. Her name is Carol Palermo. Cliff Lemke, the carpenter recommended by Lon