Peggy Guggenheim

Paul Bowles had invited me to Ceylon, where he had bought a little island. It was the southern-most inhabited spot in the Indian Ocean, fantastically beautiful and luxuriant, with every conceivable flower and exotic plant from the east. The house resembled the Taj Mahal, as it was built in octagonal form. We all lived there together in separate rooms divided by curtains, we being Paul, his wife Janie, Ahmed, a young Arab primitive painter of great talent, and an Arab chauffeur, who seemed rather sad without the Jaguar car, which had been left behind in Tangier, Paul's other home.

In order to get to the island one had to pick up one's skirts and wade through the Indian Ocean. There was no bridge or boat. The waves usually wet one's bottom, even though the distance walked could be done in one minute and a half. It was terribly unpleasant to go about all day with a wet bottom, but there was no other way. The beauty of the surroundings made up for all the inconveniences, which were many. There was no water on the island and the servants had to carry it over on their heads. This made bathing, apart from sea-bathing, virtually impossible. But there was a raft just below the house and the swimming was superb. The beach opposite was skirted with coconut palms, and there were narrow fishing craft with beautiful Singalese fishermen riding them astride. It was another world. . . .

Jane And Paul Bowles

Paul hired a driver, a young Moroccan, Mohammed Temsamany, whom he dressed in a military-looking uniform with shiny boots and puttees and with a visored cap. In the Jaguar they drove south to Marrakech and then to Fez, where Paul began to see a good deal of the young Moroccan painter Ahmed Yacoubi, whom he had first met in 1947. Whe Paul heard from Jane that she wanted to return to Morocco, he suggested that he drive to the French border to pick her up. Paul invited Ahmed to come along with him.

With Temsamany in his uniform and Ahmed in his white turban and jellaba, Paul drove through Spain.

Jane was in very good spirits when they picked her up at the border. During the trip south, however, she objected every time Paul drove. She insisted that she always knew exactly what Paul was thinking. She said she felt as if she herself were driving when he drove and she could not relax.

Hard Blue Backdrop

She looked around the empty room, shivered, and went out onto the terrace, feeling unpleasantly nervous. The wind was near to being a gale, but the clouds, which until now had covered the sky, were breaking up, letting the hard blue backdrop of the sky show through in places.

In the cypresses the wind whistled and hissed, and when it hit her face it took her breath away. The air was sharp with the odor of eucalyptus, and damp from the fine spray of the breaking waves below. Then, when the landscape was least prepared for such a change, the sun came out.

Knew Just How Many

She had arrived at the apartment house; it had a gray-stone facade and a good deal of wrought iron around the entrance door. A woman who looked like a West Indian of some sort came out. Noticing that June was carrying a potted plant under her arm, she held the door partially open for her. June thanked her and went in. It was a rubber plant she had bought for Van's apartment. He was inclined to be indifferent about flowers, and she feared, about decoration in general. She always had hoped to develop aesthetic appreciation in him, and she considered that she had made remarkable progress during the past year. Practicallly all the adornments in his apartment were objects either of her buying or her choosing.

She knew just how many steps there were to each flight of stairs: nineteen for the first and fifteen for the others. The halls were tiled in black and white, like a bathroom, and tonight, to add to that impression, the stairs and floors were thoroughly wet with the melting snow people had tracked in; the air smelled of wet doormats, wet rubbers, wet clothing. On the third floor a huge perambulator of black leatherette nearly blocked the passageway between the stairs. She frowned at it and thought of the fire regulations.

Because she did not want to be out of breath she mounted the stairs slowly. Not that Van would be there when she arrived - it was still too early - but being out of breath always created in her a false kind of excitement which she particularly wanted to avoid tonight. She turned the key in the lock and stepped inside.

From Its Wrapping

The dream has emerged from its wrapping of fog. Not all of it, but that does not matter. I recognized it immediately when only a piece of it appeared, as I was lying here in the dark, half asleep.

I relaxed and let more of it come.

A senseless dream, it would seem, and yet powerful enough to have colored all these past few days with its sadness.

It is almost impossible to put down, since nothing happens in it: I am left only with vague impressions of being solitary in the park of some vast city.

Solitary in the sense that although life is going on all around me, the cords that could connect me in any way with the life have been severed, so that I am as alone as if I were a spirit returned from the dead.

The Mail That Morning

The mail that morning had brought her a large advance from her publishers. At least, it looked large to her there in the International Zone where life was cheap.

She had opened the letter at a table of the sidewalk cafe opposite the Spanish post office.

The emotion she felt at seeing the figures on the check had made her unexpectedly generous to the beggars that constantly filed past.

Then the excitement had worn off, and she felt momentarily depressed.

The streets and the sky seemed brighter and stonger than she.

She had of necessity made very few friends in the town, and although she worked steadily every day at her novel, she had to admit that sometimes she was lonely.

Sticking Out Beyond

They were quiet. Soon the breeze became a strong wind, coming from the direction of the distant mountains; but it too was hot, like the breath of a great animal. The lamp flickered, threatened to go out. Lucha got up and turned it down.

As Chalia moved her head to watch her, her attention was caught by something else, and she quickly shifted her gaze to the wall. Something enormous, black and swift had been there an instant ago; now there was nothing. She watched the spot intently. The wall was faced with small stones which had been plastered over and whitewashed indifferently, so that the surface was very rough and full of large holes.

She rose suddenly and approaching the wall, peered at it closely. All the holes, large and small, were lined with whitish funnels. She could see the long, agile legs of the spiders that lived inside, sticking out beyond some of the funnels.

"Lucha, this wall is full of monsters!" she cried.

The Bare Fact

When things become wholly unbelievable, all one can do is laugh.

There is nothing to fall back upon but the bare fact of one's existence; one must forsake logic for magic.

It's Bad Enough

This morning the Stewarts very kindly invited me on a picnic to Rye Beach. I could not entertain the thought of going, certainly. It's bad enough to have them living next door, to have to hear their abominable radio at all hours of the day and night, and put up with the depredations wrought in the garden by that untrained brat of theirs, without going out of my way to accompany them on an outijng.

It was a kind thought, however, and I have decided to go downtown the first thing tomorrow morning and buy a toy of some sort for little Dorothy. Maybe a tricycle, or something that will keep her on the sidewalk.

Anywhere, anywhere, out of my garden!

Upon The Pillows

Suddenly she decided that it would be inexcusable not to let her parents know she was staying the night.

She went into the bedroom and lay on the bed, resting the telephone on her stomach.

It moved ridiculously while she dialed.

Her mother, not her father, answered.

"Thank God," she said to herself, and she let her head fall back upon the pillows.