Barbara Kraft's Blog
June 15, 2016
Henry Miller Library talk at Palms-Rancho Library
The Palms-Rancho Park Branch Library Presents and Author Program:
Henry Miller’s Last Days
Author, Barbara Kraft will discuss her new book: Henry Miller: The Last Days (2016). Ms. Kraft is also the author of Anais Nin: The Last Days and Light between the Shadows: a Conversation with Eugene Ionesco.
Saturday, June 18, 2016
3:30-5 p.m.
Palms-Rancho Park Branch
2920 Overland Ave.
Los Angeles 90064
(310) 840-2142
For ADA accommodations, call (213) 228-7430 at least 72 hours prior to event.
Henry Miller’s Last Days
Author, Barbara Kraft will discuss her new book: Henry Miller: The Last Days (2016). Ms. Kraft is also the author of Anais Nin: The Last Days and Light between the Shadows: a Conversation with Eugene Ionesco.
Saturday, June 18, 2016
3:30-5 p.m.
Palms-Rancho Park Branch
2920 Overland Ave.
Los Angeles 90064
(310) 840-2142
For ADA accommodations, call (213) 228-7430 at least 72 hours prior to event.
March 24, 2016
Great Russian Women Poets of the 20th Century
I have been fascinated, intrigued and beguiled by the Russian poets of the 20th century since I first read them in my late teens. In particular, by Osip Mandelshtam and the two great women poets, Anna Akhmatova and Marina Tsvetaeva. As Josef Brodsky writes, “It’s an abominable fallacy that suffering makes for greater art. Suffering blinds, deafens, ruins, and often kills.” Mandelshtam was a great poet before the revolution. So was Anna Akhmatova, so was Marina Tsvetaeva – they would have become what they became even if none of the historical events that befell Russia in 20th century had not taken place: Because they were gifted. Basically, talent doesn’t need history.
In one of his essays on Nadezhda Mandelshtam, Brodsky wrote, “In educated circles, especially among the literati, being the widow of a great man is enough to provide identity. This is especially so in Russia, where in the 30’s and 40’s the regime was producing writers’ widows with such efficiency that in the middle of the 60’s there were enough of them around to organize a trade union. At the age of 65, Nadezhda Mandelshtam wrote a two-volume memoir that “amounts to a day of judgement on earth for her age and it’s literature….A judgement administered all the more rightly since it was this age that had undertaken the construction of earthly paradise…Her memoirs are something more than a testimony of her times; they are view of history in the light of conscience and culture.”
As Nadezhda Mandelshtam wrote in Hope Abandoned, “my impression of Tsvetaeva was that she was absolutely natural and fantastically self-willed. I have a vivid recollection of her cropped hair, loose-llimbed gait – like a boy’s – and speech remarkably like her verse. Her wilfulness was not just a matter of temperament, but a way of life.”
She could never have reined herself in, like Akhmatova did. Tsvetaeva hung herself in 1941 at the age of 49; Akhmatova died a natural death at the age of 77.
I will discuss the contributions of Anna Akhmatova (1889-1966) and Marina Tsvetaeva (1892-1941) during my lecture:
Great Russian Women Poets of the 20th Century
Saturday, March 26, 2016
3:30-5 p.m.
Palms-Rancho Park Branch
2920 Overland Ave.
Los Angeles 90064
(310) 840-2142
For ADA accommodations, call (213) 228-7430 at least 72 hours prior to event.
In one of his essays on Nadezhda Mandelshtam, Brodsky wrote, “In educated circles, especially among the literati, being the widow of a great man is enough to provide identity. This is especially so in Russia, where in the 30’s and 40’s the regime was producing writers’ widows with such efficiency that in the middle of the 60’s there were enough of them around to organize a trade union. At the age of 65, Nadezhda Mandelshtam wrote a two-volume memoir that “amounts to a day of judgement on earth for her age and it’s literature….A judgement administered all the more rightly since it was this age that had undertaken the construction of earthly paradise…Her memoirs are something more than a testimony of her times; they are view of history in the light of conscience and culture.”
As Nadezhda Mandelshtam wrote in Hope Abandoned, “my impression of Tsvetaeva was that she was absolutely natural and fantastically self-willed. I have a vivid recollection of her cropped hair, loose-llimbed gait – like a boy’s – and speech remarkably like her verse. Her wilfulness was not just a matter of temperament, but a way of life.”
She could never have reined herself in, like Akhmatova did. Tsvetaeva hung herself in 1941 at the age of 49; Akhmatova died a natural death at the age of 77.
I will discuss the contributions of Anna Akhmatova (1889-1966) and Marina Tsvetaeva (1892-1941) during my lecture:
Great Russian Women Poets of the 20th Century
Saturday, March 26, 2016
3:30-5 p.m.
Palms-Rancho Park Branch
2920 Overland Ave.
Los Angeles 90064
(310) 840-2142
For ADA accommodations, call (213) 228-7430 at least 72 hours prior to event.
August 11, 2015
Hannah Arendt & Mary McCarthy: An Unlikely Friendship?
Author Barbara Kraft will discuss " Between Friends," the correspondence between political theorist Hannah Arendt and novelist Mary McCarthy which lasted from 1949 to 1975. The correspondence was edited by Carol Brightman and published in 1995 by Harcourt Brace.
Ms. Kraft is the author of " Anais Nin: The Last Days" and " Light between the Shadows: a Conversation with Eugene Ionesco".
Saturday, August 29, 2015
3:30-5 p.m.
Palms-Rancho Park Branch
2920 Overland Ave.
Los Angeles 90064
(310) 840-2142
For ADA accommodations, call (213) 228-7430 at least 72 hours prior to event.
Ms. Kraft is the author of " Anais Nin: The Last Days" and " Light between the Shadows: a Conversation with Eugene Ionesco".
Saturday, August 29, 2015
3:30-5 p.m.
Palms-Rancho Park Branch
2920 Overland Ave.
Los Angeles 90064
(310) 840-2142
For ADA accommodations, call (213) 228-7430 at least 72 hours prior to event.
September 14, 2014
Anais Nin Reading at Los Angeles Public Library - Palms Rancho Branch
The Palms-Rancho Park Branch Library Presents:
Anais Nin The Last Days
Author, Barbara Kraft will discuss her new book, Anais Nin The Last Days, A Memoir, which offers her recollections of Nin and their friendship.
Saturday, September 27, 2014
3-5 p.m.
Palms-Rancho Park Branch
2920 Overland Ave.
Los Angeles 90064
(310) 840-2142
For ADA accommodations, call (213) 228-7430 at least 72 hours prior to event.
Anais Nin The Last Days
Author, Barbara Kraft will discuss her new book, Anais Nin The Last Days, A Memoir, which offers her recollections of Nin and their friendship.
Saturday, September 27, 2014
3-5 p.m.
Palms-Rancho Park Branch
2920 Overland Ave.
Los Angeles 90064
(310) 840-2142
For ADA accommodations, call (213) 228-7430 at least 72 hours prior to event.
January 9, 2014
Henry Miller: The Last Days
This was published by Huffington Post on December 17, 2013.
If Henry Miller were still alive on December 26, he would be 121 years old. "The Last Days of Henry Miller" was originally published in The Hudson Review in 1993. The piece below is excerpted from the original piece. One of the ironies of my life is that I was to meet both Anaϊs Nin and Henry Miller independently of each other when both were nearing the end of their lives. Nin died in 1977; Miller in 1980. I met Anaϊs in February 1974.
"Barbara - This is Anaïs Nin speaking. I have read your work and I think it is very good. We have many affinities. I would like you to come and see me."
Several years later I met Henry Miller. The meeting came about as a result of "An Open Letter to Henry Miller" that I wrote and broadcast over KCRW in 1977. Someone -- to this day unbeknownst to me -- took a tape of the program to Henry, and shortly after the broadcast I received an invitation from his secretary telling me that Henry wanted to meet me. Would I be able to come for dinner?
Last Days of Henry Miller by Barbara Kraft
(December 26, 1892 - June 15, 1980)
That last year he shuffled between his old-fashioned, high-set, walnut-dark bed, the desk at its foot, the Ping-Pong table in the lanai on which he now painted, a more sedentary kind of play for an octogenarian, and the dining table, in fact, a redwood picnic table covered with a cloth. This is where he held court every evening attired in his bathrobe, plaid or blue terry cloth, pajamas, fluffy white bedroom slippers and white socks. He was a tough old bird, rather like a turkey, with his croaky voice, heavily veined, creped hands, parchment-thin skin, wattled throat and indomitable, naked head.
As his body failed him, the eyes, the ears, the bowels, the bladder, the bones, he shrugged his shoulders and with head held high said, "We must accept what comes, don't you know." And then he would return to the arduous business of folding the napkin in front of him. The long-fingered, still graceful hands, bruised and etched with coagulated arteries, slowly smoothing the cloth, folding it in half, in quarters. This accomplished he would labor to roll the napkin up, fitting it, at length and with considerable effort, into the monogrammed, silver napkin holder that marked his place at table. One tiny island of control that could still be mastered with great concentration.
The word he used to describe his condition was apocatastasis, a Greek word meaning "restoration" and referring to the eternal round made by the planets which restores a state of being. The word also refers to the doctrine that Satan and all sinners will ultimately be restored to God. Though Henry accepted what was happening to him, there were moments when he flapped his wings in annoyance, an appropriate response for a man who had steadfastly refused to be overcome by anything. "You think for the man of great spirit it [death] should be a graceful thing. A just going to sleep and yet that isn't necessarily true. It could be awful, ignominious."
His humble efforts to carry on with his life were at times moving, at times exhausting, at times hysterically funny and at all times immensely and universally human. For Miller was not and never desired to be "somebody" in the sense that today everybody is somebody. Either through their own earned or unearned celebrity or through some vicarious attachment to celebrity. Miller was anybody and everybody, a meat-and-potatoes man, an ordinary bloke according to the literary critic Alfred Kazin, a man who would rather be at peace with himself than a writer according to his friend, the writer Wallace Fowlie. Although, with all due respect to Mr. Fowlie, Miller's rapprochement with peace was achieved by writing which ordered and transformed the Milleresque chaos into a turbulent and teaming celebration of life on its own terms.
Henry described himself as a plain, down-to-earth, simple man. He was also a genius who, if reincarnated, wanted to come back not a genius but an ordinary man, a horticulturist, as he told me one evening over dinner. No, I was not one of Henry's "ladies;" I was one of his "cooks" and Friday was my night chez Miller. On this particular Friday evening, some six months before he died, I had to awaken him to come to the table. A punctilious man, he was orderly in all his habits. His pens, pencils and paper in their proper place on his desk, his watercolors, his paintbrushes neatly arranged on the Ping-Pong table, his dinner served at 7:00 p.m. The dedication to list making over the years. The famous, framed lists of places he had been, of places he had not been, lists of favorite foods, lists of favorite piano music, lists of women he had never slept with. Behind that Buddha-like equanimity lurked a Germanic heritage.
Usually he was up waiting for me but of late he had become so weak that he was no longer able to navigate alone the distance between bedroom and dining room. Debilitated by malnutrition, not an uncommon affliction of old age, and a kind of palsy, possibly caused by petit mal seizures, he was quite frail. His hands trembled, he was paralyzed on one side, deaf in one ear and blind in one eye, so he said, although he regularly commented on what I was wearing down to a pair of green suede cowboy boots I once showed up in. When sight failed him, his sense of smell came to the fore. "I can smell your perfume, Barbara. Hmmmmm. I can barely see anymore but I can still smell." The full lips gathered into a lopsided grin, exposing teeth that remained remarkably virile.
I roused the slight body that was all but invisible under the satin-covered, down comforter and eased him into the waiting walker. At dinner that night he spoke about how he would come back "a man who tends flowers. Not a genius, or a writer, that's the worst." Pressed, he elaborated on what writing entailed, his eloquent, age-marked hands raised in decisive exclamation. "It's a curse. Yes, it's a flame. It owns you. It has possession over you. You are not master of yourself. You are consumed by this thing. And the books you write. They're not you. They're not me sitting here, this Henry Miller. They belong to someone else. It's terrible. You can never rest. People used to envy me my inspiration. I hate inspiration. It takes you over completely. I could never wait until it passed and I got rid of it."
But he never did get rid of it. Of inspiration. Nor did he rid himself of his obsession with woman, with eros, with life itself. Woman, eros and life were vital to Miller's sense of himself, imbued with a mystery and a magic which compelled and obsessed and bemused him without letup until June 7, 1980 -- the day his eternal round was completed.
"I keep my nose to the grindstone," he said. "Old age is terrible. It's a disease of the joints. It's awful when I get up in the morning. I can barely bend over to brush my teeth. It's only when I get to work solving problems that I forget about it."
Beset by a multitude of infirmities the last decade of his life, Miller worked as furiously as ever producing several books (among them the three-volume Book of Friends) and hundreds of watercolors. He continued to maintain his voluminous correspondence with the world and entertained a seemingly inexhaustible stream of visitors which ranged from Vietnamese immigrants to celebrities like Ava Gardner, Governor Jerry Brown and Warren Beatty who was then filming Reds in which Miller appeared in a cameo role.
In between were people who came to interview him, academics who came to write about him, and film crews eager to commit to videotape the passing of an era. Some he performed for, some he insulted, others he beguiled. He had a striking photograph of the young Ava Gardner in his entrance hall which hung next to a framed list of his favorite cock and cunt words. When the lady came to visit in the flesh Henry overheard her chauffeur asking, as they left, where she wanted to go. According to Miller, she responded "Anywhere. Just anywhere." Henry found that a remarkable answer. In August of 1978, Jerry Brown, accompanied by his entire entourage, paid a call at Ocampo Drive. Miller was in one of his wicked moods, being wicked was a pure delight to him, but he was never malicious. He greeted Brown, saying, "You know I think politicians are the scum of the earth, next to evangelists. I can't stand Billy Graham." Henry had a way of benignly saying outrageous things. Having said them he would sit back, a cat pawing a mouse, a crooked smile playing expectantly around his lips, waiting for the response his words would elicit...
Nearing the end a crazy strength coursed through his failing form, the terrible energy of the dying. One night, forgetting he could no longer walk, he managed to get into the bathroom where he closed the door before collapsing. The bathroom, as legendary as his lists and charts and part of the Miller lore, was covered floor to ceiling with photographs of friends, naked women, idols such as Nietzsche and Lawrence and gurus like Krishnamurti and Gurdjieff. When he was found by Bill Pickerill, he was gesticulating and talking to some image on the wall, calling, "Monsieur, Monsieur." According to Bill, Henry looked up calmly and said, "Oh, Bill, I'm so glad to see you again. How good that you're passing by just now. I'm having the damnedest time with this guy."
With all of this transpiring, it wasn't sad in that house, at that table, in that bathroom. Touching, yes. And moving. And immensely human and funny too. For Henry was a man at peace with himself. He had acted out and lived his beliefs. And when the by now rare "don't you know" crossed his lips, it was a burst of sunlight bringing tears to the eyes and a clutch of joy to the heart. One evening as he was being rolled off to bed he noticed my skirt which was bright red. Reaching forward, blind as he was, he gathered up the hem, stroking the material with his other hand, exclaiming how wonderful it was that I always wore such beautiful clothes.
In May of 1980, one month before Henry died, the Rumanian-born playwright Eugene Ionesco was visiting Los Angeles. I was doing an interview with him for National Public Radio and in the course of our meetings I mentioned that I knew Miller. Ionesco, eager to meet Henry for whom he had great admiration, asked if I could arrange it. No two men could have been more different. Ionesco all doubt and despair, fixed on the contradictions, consumed by anguish; Miller, all accepting, preaching surrender, abdication and a self-created paradise, pure light. Yet they shared a reciprocal esteem for each others work. Their starting point was similar; their roads different. The meeting never occurred. Henry demurred, saying, "Oh, I don't want him to see me like this, how I am now." Adding a few minutes later, "If Ionesco could see me now, that's something he could write a play about." Instead I took a set of books inscribed to Ionesco from Miller.
When the end came it wasn't awful, it wasn't ignominious. It all happened very simply and was just short of a "going to sleep." Henry died at home in his own bed in the arms of Bill Pickerill on a Saturday afternoon. I end this memoir with Miller's own words, words written about Auguste, his clown, in The Smile at the Foot of the Ladder: "Perhaps I have not limned his portrait too clearly. But he exists, if only for the reason that I imagined him to be. He came from the blue and returns to the blue. He has not perished, he is not lost. Neither will he be forgotten."
Reprinted by permission from The Hudson Review, Vol. XLVI, No. 3 (Autumn, 1993). Copyright © 1993 by Barbara Kraft
If Henry Miller were still alive on December 26, he would be 121 years old. "The Last Days of Henry Miller" was originally published in The Hudson Review in 1993. The piece below is excerpted from the original piece. One of the ironies of my life is that I was to meet both Anaϊs Nin and Henry Miller independently of each other when both were nearing the end of their lives. Nin died in 1977; Miller in 1980. I met Anaϊs in February 1974.
"Barbara - This is Anaïs Nin speaking. I have read your work and I think it is very good. We have many affinities. I would like you to come and see me."
Several years later I met Henry Miller. The meeting came about as a result of "An Open Letter to Henry Miller" that I wrote and broadcast over KCRW in 1977. Someone -- to this day unbeknownst to me -- took a tape of the program to Henry, and shortly after the broadcast I received an invitation from his secretary telling me that Henry wanted to meet me. Would I be able to come for dinner?
Last Days of Henry Miller by Barbara Kraft
(December 26, 1892 - June 15, 1980)
That last year he shuffled between his old-fashioned, high-set, walnut-dark bed, the desk at its foot, the Ping-Pong table in the lanai on which he now painted, a more sedentary kind of play for an octogenarian, and the dining table, in fact, a redwood picnic table covered with a cloth. This is where he held court every evening attired in his bathrobe, plaid or blue terry cloth, pajamas, fluffy white bedroom slippers and white socks. He was a tough old bird, rather like a turkey, with his croaky voice, heavily veined, creped hands, parchment-thin skin, wattled throat and indomitable, naked head.
As his body failed him, the eyes, the ears, the bowels, the bladder, the bones, he shrugged his shoulders and with head held high said, "We must accept what comes, don't you know." And then he would return to the arduous business of folding the napkin in front of him. The long-fingered, still graceful hands, bruised and etched with coagulated arteries, slowly smoothing the cloth, folding it in half, in quarters. This accomplished he would labor to roll the napkin up, fitting it, at length and with considerable effort, into the monogrammed, silver napkin holder that marked his place at table. One tiny island of control that could still be mastered with great concentration.
The word he used to describe his condition was apocatastasis, a Greek word meaning "restoration" and referring to the eternal round made by the planets which restores a state of being. The word also refers to the doctrine that Satan and all sinners will ultimately be restored to God. Though Henry accepted what was happening to him, there were moments when he flapped his wings in annoyance, an appropriate response for a man who had steadfastly refused to be overcome by anything. "You think for the man of great spirit it [death] should be a graceful thing. A just going to sleep and yet that isn't necessarily true. It could be awful, ignominious."
His humble efforts to carry on with his life were at times moving, at times exhausting, at times hysterically funny and at all times immensely and universally human. For Miller was not and never desired to be "somebody" in the sense that today everybody is somebody. Either through their own earned or unearned celebrity or through some vicarious attachment to celebrity. Miller was anybody and everybody, a meat-and-potatoes man, an ordinary bloke according to the literary critic Alfred Kazin, a man who would rather be at peace with himself than a writer according to his friend, the writer Wallace Fowlie. Although, with all due respect to Mr. Fowlie, Miller's rapprochement with peace was achieved by writing which ordered and transformed the Milleresque chaos into a turbulent and teaming celebration of life on its own terms.
Henry described himself as a plain, down-to-earth, simple man. He was also a genius who, if reincarnated, wanted to come back not a genius but an ordinary man, a horticulturist, as he told me one evening over dinner. No, I was not one of Henry's "ladies;" I was one of his "cooks" and Friday was my night chez Miller. On this particular Friday evening, some six months before he died, I had to awaken him to come to the table. A punctilious man, he was orderly in all his habits. His pens, pencils and paper in their proper place on his desk, his watercolors, his paintbrushes neatly arranged on the Ping-Pong table, his dinner served at 7:00 p.m. The dedication to list making over the years. The famous, framed lists of places he had been, of places he had not been, lists of favorite foods, lists of favorite piano music, lists of women he had never slept with. Behind that Buddha-like equanimity lurked a Germanic heritage.
Usually he was up waiting for me but of late he had become so weak that he was no longer able to navigate alone the distance between bedroom and dining room. Debilitated by malnutrition, not an uncommon affliction of old age, and a kind of palsy, possibly caused by petit mal seizures, he was quite frail. His hands trembled, he was paralyzed on one side, deaf in one ear and blind in one eye, so he said, although he regularly commented on what I was wearing down to a pair of green suede cowboy boots I once showed up in. When sight failed him, his sense of smell came to the fore. "I can smell your perfume, Barbara. Hmmmmm. I can barely see anymore but I can still smell." The full lips gathered into a lopsided grin, exposing teeth that remained remarkably virile.
I roused the slight body that was all but invisible under the satin-covered, down comforter and eased him into the waiting walker. At dinner that night he spoke about how he would come back "a man who tends flowers. Not a genius, or a writer, that's the worst." Pressed, he elaborated on what writing entailed, his eloquent, age-marked hands raised in decisive exclamation. "It's a curse. Yes, it's a flame. It owns you. It has possession over you. You are not master of yourself. You are consumed by this thing. And the books you write. They're not you. They're not me sitting here, this Henry Miller. They belong to someone else. It's terrible. You can never rest. People used to envy me my inspiration. I hate inspiration. It takes you over completely. I could never wait until it passed and I got rid of it."
But he never did get rid of it. Of inspiration. Nor did he rid himself of his obsession with woman, with eros, with life itself. Woman, eros and life were vital to Miller's sense of himself, imbued with a mystery and a magic which compelled and obsessed and bemused him without letup until June 7, 1980 -- the day his eternal round was completed.
"I keep my nose to the grindstone," he said. "Old age is terrible. It's a disease of the joints. It's awful when I get up in the morning. I can barely bend over to brush my teeth. It's only when I get to work solving problems that I forget about it."
Beset by a multitude of infirmities the last decade of his life, Miller worked as furiously as ever producing several books (among them the three-volume Book of Friends) and hundreds of watercolors. He continued to maintain his voluminous correspondence with the world and entertained a seemingly inexhaustible stream of visitors which ranged from Vietnamese immigrants to celebrities like Ava Gardner, Governor Jerry Brown and Warren Beatty who was then filming Reds in which Miller appeared in a cameo role.
In between were people who came to interview him, academics who came to write about him, and film crews eager to commit to videotape the passing of an era. Some he performed for, some he insulted, others he beguiled. He had a striking photograph of the young Ava Gardner in his entrance hall which hung next to a framed list of his favorite cock and cunt words. When the lady came to visit in the flesh Henry overheard her chauffeur asking, as they left, where she wanted to go. According to Miller, she responded "Anywhere. Just anywhere." Henry found that a remarkable answer. In August of 1978, Jerry Brown, accompanied by his entire entourage, paid a call at Ocampo Drive. Miller was in one of his wicked moods, being wicked was a pure delight to him, but he was never malicious. He greeted Brown, saying, "You know I think politicians are the scum of the earth, next to evangelists. I can't stand Billy Graham." Henry had a way of benignly saying outrageous things. Having said them he would sit back, a cat pawing a mouse, a crooked smile playing expectantly around his lips, waiting for the response his words would elicit...
Nearing the end a crazy strength coursed through his failing form, the terrible energy of the dying. One night, forgetting he could no longer walk, he managed to get into the bathroom where he closed the door before collapsing. The bathroom, as legendary as his lists and charts and part of the Miller lore, was covered floor to ceiling with photographs of friends, naked women, idols such as Nietzsche and Lawrence and gurus like Krishnamurti and Gurdjieff. When he was found by Bill Pickerill, he was gesticulating and talking to some image on the wall, calling, "Monsieur, Monsieur." According to Bill, Henry looked up calmly and said, "Oh, Bill, I'm so glad to see you again. How good that you're passing by just now. I'm having the damnedest time with this guy."
With all of this transpiring, it wasn't sad in that house, at that table, in that bathroom. Touching, yes. And moving. And immensely human and funny too. For Henry was a man at peace with himself. He had acted out and lived his beliefs. And when the by now rare "don't you know" crossed his lips, it was a burst of sunlight bringing tears to the eyes and a clutch of joy to the heart. One evening as he was being rolled off to bed he noticed my skirt which was bright red. Reaching forward, blind as he was, he gathered up the hem, stroking the material with his other hand, exclaiming how wonderful it was that I always wore such beautiful clothes.
In May of 1980, one month before Henry died, the Rumanian-born playwright Eugene Ionesco was visiting Los Angeles. I was doing an interview with him for National Public Radio and in the course of our meetings I mentioned that I knew Miller. Ionesco, eager to meet Henry for whom he had great admiration, asked if I could arrange it. No two men could have been more different. Ionesco all doubt and despair, fixed on the contradictions, consumed by anguish; Miller, all accepting, preaching surrender, abdication and a self-created paradise, pure light. Yet they shared a reciprocal esteem for each others work. Their starting point was similar; their roads different. The meeting never occurred. Henry demurred, saying, "Oh, I don't want him to see me like this, how I am now." Adding a few minutes later, "If Ionesco could see me now, that's something he could write a play about." Instead I took a set of books inscribed to Ionesco from Miller.
When the end came it wasn't awful, it wasn't ignominious. It all happened very simply and was just short of a "going to sleep." Henry died at home in his own bed in the arms of Bill Pickerill on a Saturday afternoon. I end this memoir with Miller's own words, words written about Auguste, his clown, in The Smile at the Foot of the Ladder: "Perhaps I have not limned his portrait too clearly. But he exists, if only for the reason that I imagined him to be. He came from the blue and returns to the blue. He has not perished, he is not lost. Neither will he be forgotten."
Reprinted by permission from The Hudson Review, Vol. XLVI, No. 3 (Autumn, 1993). Copyright © 1993 by Barbara Kraft
November 5, 2013
TV Interview about Anais Nin: The Last Days
I was interviewed by Connie Martinson for Connie Martinson Talks Books about "Anais Nin: The Last Days"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xCRVQj...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xCRVQj...
October 1, 2013
The Politics of Abortion
This was posted on the Huffington Post in August of 2012:
I count myself among the millions of women and men outraged by Missouri Senator Todd Akin's unbelievable and absolutist anti-abortion remarks regarding what he calls "legitimate rape." What does he mean by legitimate rape? That is something I would like to know? There is no legitimate rape. Rape is rape! That aside, he believes that in such cases, "If it's a legitimate rape, the female body has ways to try to shut that whole thing down. ... But let's assume that maybe that didn't work or something: I think there should be some punishment, but the punishment ought to be of the rapist, and not attacking the child." He thinks "if it doesn't work or something" there should be some punishment?
Many years ago, convinced that Roe v. Wade would be resurrected and challenged over time, I wrote a play called The Politics of Abortion: An American Entertainment which was 'inspired' by an actual abortion-related incident that occurred in Bowling Green, Ky., in the late '70s. In the case I refer to, a 22-year-old woman was indicted on charges of performing an illegal abortion and manslaughter. She was approximately 20 weeks pregnant and within the time period for a legal abortion (in those days) but was refused an abortion by the doctors at a clinic who told her that she was more than 20 weeks pregnant and it was too late in their opinion to have an abortion. At the time, the law allowed abortions up to 24 weeks or the third trimester. The girl was accused of using a knitting needle to perform an abortion on herself, a crime in Kentucky that could have brought her a minimum 10-year prison term. The manslaughter charge was dismissed subsequently on the ground that a fetus has no legal standing as a person. But the abortion charge stood because according to a section of the Kentucky abortion statue: "No person other than a licensed physician shall perform an abortion." The law imposed a 10-20-year sentence for violations. The Commonwealth attorney insisted he knew little about the abortion controversy and had no opinion about abortion but that it was his job to uphold the law. "All I know is that this is a law," he said. "It may be right or it may be wrong. The grand jury returned an indictment and it is my duty to try it." (This story ran in the L.A. Times on Aug. 28, 1976.)
The Politics of Abortion: An American Entertainment is written as a theater piece and centers on the trial of Noelle, a 17-year-old girl charged with performing an illegal abortion -- that is practicing medicine without a license (only licensed doctors were allowed to perform abortions in all but seven states.). Having been turned down for a legal abortion by her physician, even though her request was within the legal time period for such a procedure, Noelle goes home and self-aborts the old fashioned way with a pair of knitting needles.
A carnival atmosphere is the prevailing tone of the work. The action takes place in a courtroom set in a circus ring reminiscent of the kind used by old-fashioned European traveling circuses. The raggedy troupe of characters includes The Ringmaster, The Author, Noelle, The Mother, The Father, The Lawyer, The Grandmother, The Judge and The Doctor. The Pro-Choice and Pro-Life Representatives are played by the same actor using masks. The Media Two, a TV News Team of a woman and a man, report on the mayhem as it progresses. The Four Greek Chorus Girls double as the PRO-LIFE and PRO-CHOICE CROWDS.
The Ringmaster announces at the beginning of the play that the 'subject' would lead one to expect a tragedy but that "when all the parts came together, we saw the comic possibilities were equal to the tragic, running neck to neck as it were... We decided 'so much the better... a laugh sheds more light than a tear in these times of moral and social discord.'"
Near the end of the play the Grandmother dies on stage by dissembling herself -- she removes her hearing aid, her false teeth, her eyeglasses, and her heart. Her very existence and her public death are a nuisance to all concerned; no one cares when she dies. The point of her death is to juxtapose this real death of a real human being with the termination of a fetus.
While the case that The Politics of Abortion: An American Entertainment is based on occurred in the late '70s, similar incidents have continued throughout the intervening decades, including one in 1995, in which a Florida woman shot herself in the stomach in an attempt to kill the fetus after she had been refused a legal abortion.
If Roe vs. Wade is reversed, women will again self-abort, self-mutilate and end up bleeding in dark alleys in their need to terminate unwanted pregnancies.
I count myself among the millions of women and men outraged by Missouri Senator Todd Akin's unbelievable and absolutist anti-abortion remarks regarding what he calls "legitimate rape." What does he mean by legitimate rape? That is something I would like to know? There is no legitimate rape. Rape is rape! That aside, he believes that in such cases, "If it's a legitimate rape, the female body has ways to try to shut that whole thing down. ... But let's assume that maybe that didn't work or something: I think there should be some punishment, but the punishment ought to be of the rapist, and not attacking the child." He thinks "if it doesn't work or something" there should be some punishment?
Many years ago, convinced that Roe v. Wade would be resurrected and challenged over time, I wrote a play called The Politics of Abortion: An American Entertainment which was 'inspired' by an actual abortion-related incident that occurred in Bowling Green, Ky., in the late '70s. In the case I refer to, a 22-year-old woman was indicted on charges of performing an illegal abortion and manslaughter. She was approximately 20 weeks pregnant and within the time period for a legal abortion (in those days) but was refused an abortion by the doctors at a clinic who told her that she was more than 20 weeks pregnant and it was too late in their opinion to have an abortion. At the time, the law allowed abortions up to 24 weeks or the third trimester. The girl was accused of using a knitting needle to perform an abortion on herself, a crime in Kentucky that could have brought her a minimum 10-year prison term. The manslaughter charge was dismissed subsequently on the ground that a fetus has no legal standing as a person. But the abortion charge stood because according to a section of the Kentucky abortion statue: "No person other than a licensed physician shall perform an abortion." The law imposed a 10-20-year sentence for violations. The Commonwealth attorney insisted he knew little about the abortion controversy and had no opinion about abortion but that it was his job to uphold the law. "All I know is that this is a law," he said. "It may be right or it may be wrong. The grand jury returned an indictment and it is my duty to try it." (This story ran in the L.A. Times on Aug. 28, 1976.)
The Politics of Abortion: An American Entertainment is written as a theater piece and centers on the trial of Noelle, a 17-year-old girl charged with performing an illegal abortion -- that is practicing medicine without a license (only licensed doctors were allowed to perform abortions in all but seven states.). Having been turned down for a legal abortion by her physician, even though her request was within the legal time period for such a procedure, Noelle goes home and self-aborts the old fashioned way with a pair of knitting needles.
A carnival atmosphere is the prevailing tone of the work. The action takes place in a courtroom set in a circus ring reminiscent of the kind used by old-fashioned European traveling circuses. The raggedy troupe of characters includes The Ringmaster, The Author, Noelle, The Mother, The Father, The Lawyer, The Grandmother, The Judge and The Doctor. The Pro-Choice and Pro-Life Representatives are played by the same actor using masks. The Media Two, a TV News Team of a woman and a man, report on the mayhem as it progresses. The Four Greek Chorus Girls double as the PRO-LIFE and PRO-CHOICE CROWDS.
The Ringmaster announces at the beginning of the play that the 'subject' would lead one to expect a tragedy but that "when all the parts came together, we saw the comic possibilities were equal to the tragic, running neck to neck as it were... We decided 'so much the better... a laugh sheds more light than a tear in these times of moral and social discord.'"
Near the end of the play the Grandmother dies on stage by dissembling herself -- she removes her hearing aid, her false teeth, her eyeglasses, and her heart. Her very existence and her public death are a nuisance to all concerned; no one cares when she dies. The point of her death is to juxtapose this real death of a real human being with the termination of a fetus.
While the case that The Politics of Abortion: An American Entertainment is based on occurred in the late '70s, similar incidents have continued throughout the intervening decades, including one in 1995, in which a Florida woman shot herself in the stomach in an attempt to kill the fetus after she had been refused a legal abortion.
If Roe vs. Wade is reversed, women will again self-abort, self-mutilate and end up bleeding in dark alleys in their need to terminate unwanted pregnancies.
June 6, 2013
A Conversation With Eugene Ionesco
Recently Huffington Post ran an excerpt from a lengthy interview done with Ionesco for the Canadian Theatre Review. Ionesco was the most amazing person.
I noticed the post a few days ago on the production of Ionesco's Bald Soprano and The Chairs at The Garage Theatre in Long Beach and was prompted to post this piece in support of the Theatre (May 10 - June 8). A portion of it was published in the Canadian Review. At the time I was also a close friend of Henry Miller in his last days and Ionesco wanted very much to meet Miller but Miller demurred saying "Oh, I don't want him to see me like this, how I am now...if Ionesco could see me now, that's something he could write a play about." Instead I took a set of books inscribed to Ionesco from Henry. When Miller died a few months later, Ionesco sent me a moving letter of condolence. I've attached a brief introduction and excerpt from the Ionesco interview which was conducted in the spring of 1980.
"A Conversation With Eugene Ionesco" (1909-1994)
Introduction
Staged all over the world during the 60s and 70s, Ionesco's plays were once among the most performed works in the theatrical repertoire. With his plays The Bald Soprano, The Lesson and The Chair he helped inaugurate a new type of theater which came to be known as "theater of the absurd." Ionesco's 'theater,' which included Samuel Beckett, Jean Genet and Arthur Adamov, was a theater that posed a problem; it was not a theater of entertainment. The problem they dealt with was "the existential condition of man, his despair, the tragedy of his destiny, the ridiculousness of his destiny, the absurdity of his destiny, the existence of God."
When asked by a New York Times journalist in 1988 to list his compatriots in the Theater of the Absurd Ionesco named Beckett, Genet, Adamov and Shakespeare. Shakespeare? "...Shakespeare is the King of the Theater of the Absurd," Ionesco stated. He said:
Macbeth, for example, says that the world is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. That is the pure definition of the Theater of the Absurd -- and perhaps of the world. Shakespeare was the great one before us. His place was between God and despair......Another interesting problem is the existence of a God, a divinity, as Beckett writes about in Waiting for Godot. Man without God, without the metaphysical, without transcendence is lost.
Not surprisingly, he went on to criticize American realistic and naturalistic theatre as naïve and simple-minded.
Ionesco's work characteristically combines a dream or nightmare atmosphere with grotesque, bizarre and whimsical humor. His first play, Bald Soprano (1950), satirizes the deadliness of bourgeois society frozen in meaningless formalities. Ionesco referred to his plays as anti-plays; it was Martin Esslin who dubbed the work "Theatre of the Absurd."
Amédée (1954) was Ionesco's first three-act play. It portrays the lonely, bitter life of a couple who share their apartment with a corpse, a symbol of their dead love. As the play progresses, the corpse grows to gigantic proportions. Ionesco subsequently created a character named Berenger, a simple sort of Everyman, who is also a self-image of himself; Berenger appears in 5 of his plays, including the classic Rhinoceros (1959) and Exit the King (1962). In Rhinoceros, his break-through play in English, totalitarianism (Nazism and fascism) is depicted as a disease that turns human beings into savage rhinoceroses. The hero Berenger stands alone watching as his friends turn into horned beasts. In Exit the King, the 400-year-old King Berenger confronts and comes to terms with his own death. Some of the dialogue includes various characters saying that at the beginning of his reign the "population was nine thousand million;" now there are only "a thousand old people and they are dying as we speak."
In an article he wrote for The USC Chronicle on the occasion of the 1980 international symposium and celebration of his work held at the University of Southern California, Ionesco gave an opening talk. The following are a few excerpts:
Culture cannot be separated from politics. The arts, philosophy and metaphysics, religion and the sciences, constitute culture. Politics are the science or art of organizing our relationships to allow for the development of life in society. But, in our time, politics have overtaken all other manifestations of the human spirit...Developing as they have by trampling on man's other activities, they have made men mad. Politics have become nothing more than a senseless struggle for power that mobilizes and monopolizes all the energies of modern man.
We know very well that Western humanism is bankrupt. We also know very well that the leaders of the Eastern countries no longer believe in Marxism. Absolute cynicism and a great biological vitality are all that remain of the East's revolutionary faith and all that keeps it leaders in power -- active in the struggle for power and world supremacy.....Life has become, then, a deadly combat without scruple, since all ideologies and moralities have vanished; a combat for the conquest of the planet and its material riches.
At the end of this talk he refers to one of Dostoevski's characters who says that if God does not exist, then all is permissible. "Therefore," Ionesco writes, "we are now in search of permanent foundations of behavior that will once again moralize politics. The crisis is fundamental. It's a quest of human survival -- and humanity survives only through culture....and culture is the expression of our continuity and of our multisecular identity across time and space." He continues saying that culture is learned behavior and is transmitted "by members of a given society to its offsprings through the medium of artistic, scientific, religious and philosophical traditions, political and technical customs and the thousand mores that characterize daily life.
For Ionesco politics lie, art, true art, cannot lie. "Politics separate men by bringing them together only superficially. Art and culture unite us in a common anguish that is our only possible fraternity, that of our existential and metaphysical community."
An excerpt from "A Conversation With Eugene Ionesco"
The following conversation took place in May 1980 at the University of Southern California where Monsieur Ionesco participated in a three-day symposium devoted to and in honor of his work. An excerpt from this interview was originally published by the Canadian Theatre Review, 1981. They prefaced the interview, writing:
Romanian-French playwright Eugene Ionesco has not granted many interviews in the course of his long and distinguished career. An extended interview with him is therefore of considerable significance. CTR is therefore pleased to be able to publish the following interview done by Barbara Kraft for National Public Radio in the United States. Edited for reasons of space, it was conducted this past spring during an international colloquium on Ionesco's work at the University of Southern California. It appears in print for the first time anywhere.
BK: There is an old saying that fame always comes for the wrong reasons. Do you think your audience understands your work and salutes you with knowledge of what you're really saying?
EI: It's a very complex problem. Commentators of writers' works generally express their own problems and their own obsessions through analyzing the work of a writer. And what concerns my work -- my first plays were very favorably commented on by the leftist critics and strongly criticized by the rightist critics. The critics of the left, thinking that my plays were basically a criticism and satire of the bourgeois, therefore liked my works. And that's the basic reason why the critics of the right did not like them at all. When the critics from the left noted that my works don't deal at all with that particular satire of the little bourgeois, they also stopped liking my works. For that same reason the critics of the right started liking my works more and more. In reality, to say the truth, left and right are not any more points of view valid for any criticism. There's no meaning at being at the extreme right or the extreme left.
These concepts have no meaning anymore. And what concerns the silent majority or the applauding majority? I have not really investigated on which side the majority is. But I think the audiences have started some time ago already understanding my plays and liking them and I've drawn great audiences. They understand my language. It is a very clear language, a very primal language and a very visual language. Only sclerotic bourgeois mentalities or other people restricted by their own ideologies have thought at the beginning that this was a theatre written only for a very limited audience. So when my first plays started to be performed all over the world I think that the audiences who were not dependent on specific ideologies, who were open to new trends in theatre, they received very favorably my plays all over the world. My plays have been performed before children, workers and peasants and they have well understood the meaning of my theatre. What is needed for people to watch my theatre is a freshness and openness of mind. They must go to this theatre without any prejudice. Nevertheless, it could be said that my plays are criticisms of kinds and forms of mental sclerosis; any good work of art should also be critical.
I noticed the post a few days ago on the production of Ionesco's Bald Soprano and The Chairs at The Garage Theatre in Long Beach and was prompted to post this piece in support of the Theatre (May 10 - June 8). A portion of it was published in the Canadian Review. At the time I was also a close friend of Henry Miller in his last days and Ionesco wanted very much to meet Miller but Miller demurred saying "Oh, I don't want him to see me like this, how I am now...if Ionesco could see me now, that's something he could write a play about." Instead I took a set of books inscribed to Ionesco from Henry. When Miller died a few months later, Ionesco sent me a moving letter of condolence. I've attached a brief introduction and excerpt from the Ionesco interview which was conducted in the spring of 1980.
"A Conversation With Eugene Ionesco" (1909-1994)
Introduction
Staged all over the world during the 60s and 70s, Ionesco's plays were once among the most performed works in the theatrical repertoire. With his plays The Bald Soprano, The Lesson and The Chair he helped inaugurate a new type of theater which came to be known as "theater of the absurd." Ionesco's 'theater,' which included Samuel Beckett, Jean Genet and Arthur Adamov, was a theater that posed a problem; it was not a theater of entertainment. The problem they dealt with was "the existential condition of man, his despair, the tragedy of his destiny, the ridiculousness of his destiny, the absurdity of his destiny, the existence of God."
When asked by a New York Times journalist in 1988 to list his compatriots in the Theater of the Absurd Ionesco named Beckett, Genet, Adamov and Shakespeare. Shakespeare? "...Shakespeare is the King of the Theater of the Absurd," Ionesco stated. He said:
Macbeth, for example, says that the world is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. That is the pure definition of the Theater of the Absurd -- and perhaps of the world. Shakespeare was the great one before us. His place was between God and despair......Another interesting problem is the existence of a God, a divinity, as Beckett writes about in Waiting for Godot. Man without God, without the metaphysical, without transcendence is lost.
Not surprisingly, he went on to criticize American realistic and naturalistic theatre as naïve and simple-minded.
Ionesco's work characteristically combines a dream or nightmare atmosphere with grotesque, bizarre and whimsical humor. His first play, Bald Soprano (1950), satirizes the deadliness of bourgeois society frozen in meaningless formalities. Ionesco referred to his plays as anti-plays; it was Martin Esslin who dubbed the work "Theatre of the Absurd."
Amédée (1954) was Ionesco's first three-act play. It portrays the lonely, bitter life of a couple who share their apartment with a corpse, a symbol of their dead love. As the play progresses, the corpse grows to gigantic proportions. Ionesco subsequently created a character named Berenger, a simple sort of Everyman, who is also a self-image of himself; Berenger appears in 5 of his plays, including the classic Rhinoceros (1959) and Exit the King (1962). In Rhinoceros, his break-through play in English, totalitarianism (Nazism and fascism) is depicted as a disease that turns human beings into savage rhinoceroses. The hero Berenger stands alone watching as his friends turn into horned beasts. In Exit the King, the 400-year-old King Berenger confronts and comes to terms with his own death. Some of the dialogue includes various characters saying that at the beginning of his reign the "population was nine thousand million;" now there are only "a thousand old people and they are dying as we speak."
In an article he wrote for The USC Chronicle on the occasion of the 1980 international symposium and celebration of his work held at the University of Southern California, Ionesco gave an opening talk. The following are a few excerpts:
Culture cannot be separated from politics. The arts, philosophy and metaphysics, religion and the sciences, constitute culture. Politics are the science or art of organizing our relationships to allow for the development of life in society. But, in our time, politics have overtaken all other manifestations of the human spirit...Developing as they have by trampling on man's other activities, they have made men mad. Politics have become nothing more than a senseless struggle for power that mobilizes and monopolizes all the energies of modern man.
We know very well that Western humanism is bankrupt. We also know very well that the leaders of the Eastern countries no longer believe in Marxism. Absolute cynicism and a great biological vitality are all that remain of the East's revolutionary faith and all that keeps it leaders in power -- active in the struggle for power and world supremacy.....Life has become, then, a deadly combat without scruple, since all ideologies and moralities have vanished; a combat for the conquest of the planet and its material riches.
At the end of this talk he refers to one of Dostoevski's characters who says that if God does not exist, then all is permissible. "Therefore," Ionesco writes, "we are now in search of permanent foundations of behavior that will once again moralize politics. The crisis is fundamental. It's a quest of human survival -- and humanity survives only through culture....and culture is the expression of our continuity and of our multisecular identity across time and space." He continues saying that culture is learned behavior and is transmitted "by members of a given society to its offsprings through the medium of artistic, scientific, religious and philosophical traditions, political and technical customs and the thousand mores that characterize daily life.
For Ionesco politics lie, art, true art, cannot lie. "Politics separate men by bringing them together only superficially. Art and culture unite us in a common anguish that is our only possible fraternity, that of our existential and metaphysical community."
An excerpt from "A Conversation With Eugene Ionesco"
The following conversation took place in May 1980 at the University of Southern California where Monsieur Ionesco participated in a three-day symposium devoted to and in honor of his work. An excerpt from this interview was originally published by the Canadian Theatre Review, 1981. They prefaced the interview, writing:
Romanian-French playwright Eugene Ionesco has not granted many interviews in the course of his long and distinguished career. An extended interview with him is therefore of considerable significance. CTR is therefore pleased to be able to publish the following interview done by Barbara Kraft for National Public Radio in the United States. Edited for reasons of space, it was conducted this past spring during an international colloquium on Ionesco's work at the University of Southern California. It appears in print for the first time anywhere.
BK: There is an old saying that fame always comes for the wrong reasons. Do you think your audience understands your work and salutes you with knowledge of what you're really saying?
EI: It's a very complex problem. Commentators of writers' works generally express their own problems and their own obsessions through analyzing the work of a writer. And what concerns my work -- my first plays were very favorably commented on by the leftist critics and strongly criticized by the rightist critics. The critics of the left, thinking that my plays were basically a criticism and satire of the bourgeois, therefore liked my works. And that's the basic reason why the critics of the right did not like them at all. When the critics from the left noted that my works don't deal at all with that particular satire of the little bourgeois, they also stopped liking my works. For that same reason the critics of the right started liking my works more and more. In reality, to say the truth, left and right are not any more points of view valid for any criticism. There's no meaning at being at the extreme right or the extreme left.
These concepts have no meaning anymore. And what concerns the silent majority or the applauding majority? I have not really investigated on which side the majority is. But I think the audiences have started some time ago already understanding my plays and liking them and I've drawn great audiences. They understand my language. It is a very clear language, a very primal language and a very visual language. Only sclerotic bourgeois mentalities or other people restricted by their own ideologies have thought at the beginning that this was a theatre written only for a very limited audience. So when my first plays started to be performed all over the world I think that the audiences who were not dependent on specific ideologies, who were open to new trends in theatre, they received very favorably my plays all over the world. My plays have been performed before children, workers and peasants and they have well understood the meaning of my theatre. What is needed for people to watch my theatre is a freshness and openness of mind. They must go to this theatre without any prejudice. Nevertheless, it could be said that my plays are criticisms of kinds and forms of mental sclerosis; any good work of art should also be critical.
May 22, 2013
Huffington Post: Anaïs Nin: Her Last Days
An excerpt from my book was posted to the Huffington Posts Arts & Culture page in August 2012.
"Barbara -- this is Anaïs Nin speaking. I have read your work and I think it is very good. We have many affinities. I would like you to come and see me." That was how it began. Three years later, this is how it ended: "I can't tell the world about my illness, but you can, and I want the world to know. I want you to write about this."
I have chosen to reveal the intimacies of Anaïs's last days as I witnessed them so that the story of her death is not lost. Everything comes back in the mind's eye. Everything comes back in the crucible of the heart. She remains in my psyche all these years later as the most refined and rarified human being I have ever encountered. As Marcel Proust observed, "People do not die immediately for us, but remain bathed in a sort of aura of life... it is as though they were traveling abroad."
****
HER VOICE IS NO MORE from ANAIS NIN: THE LAST DAYS
A few days after Christmas, Rupert phoned late in the evening. It was nearly 10 p.m. He apologized for the lateness of the hour, saying that Anaïs had begged him to call me, that she was very weak and had not been able to dial herself. While we were speaking she took the phone from him.
"Barbara, do you think you could slip away for a bit? I know it is terribly late but I cannot bear the pain anymore. Please come and sit with me. I need you."
Your voice had become a phantom quavering tremulously on the edge of an abyss. I put on something pretty, I don't recall what it was, and left immediately. The house was wrapped in darkness when I arrived. There was only one tiny light on at the opposite side of the bed.
I went and wiped away her tears and put a cool cloth on her forehead. I held her hands in mine while I sat next to her and talked to her softly. She could not stop sobbing and then she asked me if I would get in bed with her and hold her. I was startled but at the same time it was such a human thing. I walked round to Rupert's side of the bed and gathered up her frailness and held her in my arms as if she were a child, rocking her gently, stroking her head, her cheeks, softly kissing her tear-stained face.
"Darling, can I have the shot now that Barbara is here? Please? The pain is so bad, nearly unbearable. I don't have to wait any longer, do I? It's nearly time anyway, isn't it?"
Rupert did not seem to hear her. I couldn't believe that he was still trying to make her wait as if it made any difference whether or not she became addicted to the morphine. It was ridiculous. It no longer mattered. He still couldn't let go of the idea that she would rally yet again.
I spoke up then and asked him very quietly, but very firmly: "Rupert, please give her the shot. She needs it now."
Her body was rigid with the pain and she rested her head on my shoulder while Rupert searched for a tiny spot of unmarred flesh on her fleshless buttocks. He had a difficult time with the shot. It seemed to take forever. She was a mass of puncture holes now and the shots themselves were extremely painful.
"We have tried everything for the pain," Rupert said. "Foot massage, acupuncture, meditation. Nothing works any longer. Only the morphine."
Whimpering like a wounded animal, Anaïs whispered in my ear telling me how it burned when it first went in, hot and red and then white and searing. "After a while, when it begins its journey through my body, it spreads out and engulfs me in a rush of warmth."
I pulled her gown down and the sheet up over her frailness. She drifted off in my arms, and I cradled her broken body against mine until she awoke. She must have slept an hour or so. She was so thin, barely any weight at all in my arms, like glass. I was afraid I might break her. I stroked her hair, her cheeks.
"I have never done this before," she whispered. She could no longer speak in a normal fashion. Her voice was gone. The disease had invaded her entire body.
I had to put my ear to her mouth to hear what she was trying to tell me. "I have never wept on another woman's shoulder. But there are some places that women touch that men cannot know. I cannot stand any more suffering. It has become unbearable." The night was dark and wild, and outside I could hear the leaves sighing in the wind. The room too was dark save for the little light on Rupert's side of the bed. He had disappeared somewhere.
"Am I dying?" she asked.
"You'll only die when you're ready to, Anaïs." I hoped my voice would sooth her. "Don't be afraid, Anaïs. Let go. We're all here to help you. Death is a release. It is freedom, the only real freedom. We've spoken about that before, remember? Shakespeare called death 'the little sleep.' Try to think of it that way. Just going to sleep."
A few days later, she whispered her final dream into my ear:
"I dreamt that I had all my dresses and capes laid out on the floor and that we were going to have them copied exactly for you. Then we would go out together as twins. But someone told me that was foolish because I could not get up and go out and that we could not ever be twins together. And that made me feel very sad and I woke up."
"But of course we can be twins, Anaïs. You'll see. When you're stronger we will lay all the dresses on the floor -- just as you dreamed -- and we'll step in and out of them, choosing just the right ones to have copied. We'll dress up as twins and play and dance and go out together just as you've dreamed."
The telling of the dream caused her great agitation and she became restless and distraught as if a fire burned in her. She worried and fretted about everything. About me, about Rupert, about her inertness, which she blamed on the drugs. She would not let go. She strained to speak and the frantic phrases tumbled out of her mouth, beating the air. To lift a hand was no longer possible. Yet the mind inside was in the grip of an awesome terror.
"I cannot stop my mind. I cannot turn it off. There are so many things to talk about. There are so many plans we must make. There are so many things we must do."
Her voice, white with pain, cried out, a long, mournful haunting. "I can no longer see the violet fishes, Barbara. Not even the little gold flecks. Barbara, I am so tired. Rupert says Papa is waiting for me on the other side when I cross over." A few months earlier I had given her a mobile that Rupert hung above her bed.
When I reached him the following day he told me that he had taken you back to the hospital to help ease the dying. That it was a hard and difficult death.
"It was a blessed relief," he said, "because she had suffered so for the past two years. I was with her and her nurse Jo, who helped to ease the death as much as possible. But now that is over with, and she is with her father again and her mother and Gonzalo and they are waiting for her on the other side. I told her that she shouldn't be afraid to leave me behind because her spirit will always stay with me in the house and I will not be alone because she will always be with me and she will not be alone either because her father is waiting for her on the other side and now he will love her. I told her that her spirit would finally be free to flow to all the spots on earth, because that is what she wanted."
* * *
After her death, Rupert Pole announced her passing on her favorite purple cards:
"On January 14, 1977...at 11:55 p.m. Anaïs made the transvoyage into her 'World of Music.' Her passover was a blessing, relieving her of over two years of constant pain and misery. She wished her ashes to be scattered from an airplane into the Pacific Ocean where they will be carried to all parts of the world. She wishes you to celebrate her by reading."Anais Nin: The Last Days, a memoir
"Barbara -- this is Anaïs Nin speaking. I have read your work and I think it is very good. We have many affinities. I would like you to come and see me." That was how it began. Three years later, this is how it ended: "I can't tell the world about my illness, but you can, and I want the world to know. I want you to write about this."
I have chosen to reveal the intimacies of Anaïs's last days as I witnessed them so that the story of her death is not lost. Everything comes back in the mind's eye. Everything comes back in the crucible of the heart. She remains in my psyche all these years later as the most refined and rarified human being I have ever encountered. As Marcel Proust observed, "People do not die immediately for us, but remain bathed in a sort of aura of life... it is as though they were traveling abroad."
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HER VOICE IS NO MORE from ANAIS NIN: THE LAST DAYS
A few days after Christmas, Rupert phoned late in the evening. It was nearly 10 p.m. He apologized for the lateness of the hour, saying that Anaïs had begged him to call me, that she was very weak and had not been able to dial herself. While we were speaking she took the phone from him.
"Barbara, do you think you could slip away for a bit? I know it is terribly late but I cannot bear the pain anymore. Please come and sit with me. I need you."
Your voice had become a phantom quavering tremulously on the edge of an abyss. I put on something pretty, I don't recall what it was, and left immediately. The house was wrapped in darkness when I arrived. There was only one tiny light on at the opposite side of the bed.
I went and wiped away her tears and put a cool cloth on her forehead. I held her hands in mine while I sat next to her and talked to her softly. She could not stop sobbing and then she asked me if I would get in bed with her and hold her. I was startled but at the same time it was such a human thing. I walked round to Rupert's side of the bed and gathered up her frailness and held her in my arms as if she were a child, rocking her gently, stroking her head, her cheeks, softly kissing her tear-stained face.
"Darling, can I have the shot now that Barbara is here? Please? The pain is so bad, nearly unbearable. I don't have to wait any longer, do I? It's nearly time anyway, isn't it?"
Rupert did not seem to hear her. I couldn't believe that he was still trying to make her wait as if it made any difference whether or not she became addicted to the morphine. It was ridiculous. It no longer mattered. He still couldn't let go of the idea that she would rally yet again.
I spoke up then and asked him very quietly, but very firmly: "Rupert, please give her the shot. She needs it now."
Her body was rigid with the pain and she rested her head on my shoulder while Rupert searched for a tiny spot of unmarred flesh on her fleshless buttocks. He had a difficult time with the shot. It seemed to take forever. She was a mass of puncture holes now and the shots themselves were extremely painful.
"We have tried everything for the pain," Rupert said. "Foot massage, acupuncture, meditation. Nothing works any longer. Only the morphine."
Whimpering like a wounded animal, Anaïs whispered in my ear telling me how it burned when it first went in, hot and red and then white and searing. "After a while, when it begins its journey through my body, it spreads out and engulfs me in a rush of warmth."
I pulled her gown down and the sheet up over her frailness. She drifted off in my arms, and I cradled her broken body against mine until she awoke. She must have slept an hour or so. She was so thin, barely any weight at all in my arms, like glass. I was afraid I might break her. I stroked her hair, her cheeks.
"I have never done this before," she whispered. She could no longer speak in a normal fashion. Her voice was gone. The disease had invaded her entire body.
I had to put my ear to her mouth to hear what she was trying to tell me. "I have never wept on another woman's shoulder. But there are some places that women touch that men cannot know. I cannot stand any more suffering. It has become unbearable." The night was dark and wild, and outside I could hear the leaves sighing in the wind. The room too was dark save for the little light on Rupert's side of the bed. He had disappeared somewhere.
"Am I dying?" she asked.
"You'll only die when you're ready to, Anaïs." I hoped my voice would sooth her. "Don't be afraid, Anaïs. Let go. We're all here to help you. Death is a release. It is freedom, the only real freedom. We've spoken about that before, remember? Shakespeare called death 'the little sleep.' Try to think of it that way. Just going to sleep."
A few days later, she whispered her final dream into my ear:
"I dreamt that I had all my dresses and capes laid out on the floor and that we were going to have them copied exactly for you. Then we would go out together as twins. But someone told me that was foolish because I could not get up and go out and that we could not ever be twins together. And that made me feel very sad and I woke up."
"But of course we can be twins, Anaïs. You'll see. When you're stronger we will lay all the dresses on the floor -- just as you dreamed -- and we'll step in and out of them, choosing just the right ones to have copied. We'll dress up as twins and play and dance and go out together just as you've dreamed."
The telling of the dream caused her great agitation and she became restless and distraught as if a fire burned in her. She worried and fretted about everything. About me, about Rupert, about her inertness, which she blamed on the drugs. She would not let go. She strained to speak and the frantic phrases tumbled out of her mouth, beating the air. To lift a hand was no longer possible. Yet the mind inside was in the grip of an awesome terror.
"I cannot stop my mind. I cannot turn it off. There are so many things to talk about. There are so many plans we must make. There are so many things we must do."
Her voice, white with pain, cried out, a long, mournful haunting. "I can no longer see the violet fishes, Barbara. Not even the little gold flecks. Barbara, I am so tired. Rupert says Papa is waiting for me on the other side when I cross over." A few months earlier I had given her a mobile that Rupert hung above her bed.
When I reached him the following day he told me that he had taken you back to the hospital to help ease the dying. That it was a hard and difficult death.
"It was a blessed relief," he said, "because she had suffered so for the past two years. I was with her and her nurse Jo, who helped to ease the death as much as possible. But now that is over with, and she is with her father again and her mother and Gonzalo and they are waiting for her on the other side. I told her that she shouldn't be afraid to leave me behind because her spirit will always stay with me in the house and I will not be alone because she will always be with me and she will not be alone either because her father is waiting for her on the other side and now he will love her. I told her that her spirit would finally be free to flow to all the spots on earth, because that is what she wanted."
* * *
After her death, Rupert Pole announced her passing on her favorite purple cards:
"On January 14, 1977...at 11:55 p.m. Anaïs made the transvoyage into her 'World of Music.' Her passover was a blessing, relieving her of over two years of constant pain and misery. She wished her ashes to be scattered from an airplane into the Pacific Ocean where they will be carried to all parts of the world. She wishes you to celebrate her by reading."Anais Nin: The Last Days, a memoir
