Tuesday, November 11, 2014

Harriet Sohmers Zwerling's Scandalous New Diaries on 1950s Paris

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A Tumultuous Decade of Sexual Exploration in 1950's Paris



Abroad: An Expatriate's Diaries 1950-1959 by Harriet Sohmers Zwerling


In her vivid new memoir “Abroad: An Expatriate’s Diaries, 1950-1959,” the writer Harriet Zwerling recounts a decade living in France, chronicling her numerous love affairs and the heady intellectual explosion in postwar Europe. The diaries are a turbulent coming-of-age story as well as a sexual awakening among the bohemians, writers and painters of Paris.

Harriet was 21 when she arrived in Paris with $200 in her pocket. A six-foot-tall brunette from New York City, she immersed herself in the cafes and bars, finding a tribe of young artists. Moving from cheap hotels to rented rooms with the toilet in the hall, Harriet and other seekers try to find themselves and their art. There is the heady mixture of euphoria and despair over romantic and sexual entanglements.

Zwerling’s first affair is with the Swedish painter Sven Blomberg, who takes her virginity. Their prospects for long-term love are quickly stymied when Sven gives her the clap, then tries to deny that he was unfaithful.

In a trip back to New York, Harriet meets the Cuban-American temptress Irene Fornes, who seduces her, giving Harriet satisfying sex with “her little thief’s hands.”. Irene eventually winds up in Paris with Harriet in what quickly degenerates into an emotionally abusive relationship, interspersed with passionate sex, jealousy and rampant infidelity.

Harriet’s diaries have copious amounts of sex, and she is often in search of the ultimate orgasm, where she finds on another visit to New York, with a lunk-head of a man named Peter in Hell’s Kitchen. who has a big penis.

Along the way, Harriet hangs out with future American literary greats like the poet John Ashbery, who is in a self-imposed exile in Paris. She parties with Allen Ginsberg and Gregory Corso, during their “Beat Hotel” period. Harriet’s lover Irene would also wind up becoming a famed New York playwright.

Harriet’s affairs with women make the diaries sing. Harriet falls hard for the sculptor Romaine Lorquet, but the love affair is marred by the fact that she is Sven’s girlfriend, and he insists on several unpleasant ménage a trois with the two lovers. In the course of a decade, Sven evolves into a pathetic figure, moping around as Harriet and Romaine fall in love, occasionally threatening to kill himself.

At the end of her diary, Harriet renews her affair with Susan Sontag, who would later become the formidable American philosopher-novelist. Harriet seduced Susan at Berkeley in 1949 when Susan was 16. In 1957, Susan abandons a Fulbright fellowship in London to move in with Harriet in Paris. From the beginning it is an unhappy affair, full of fights, verbal abuse and mediocre sex. Through Harriet’s diary, Susan Sontag the intellectual ice queen of the late 20th century is portrayed as just an awkward young woman in a miserable relationship.

As a sexual rebel in 1950s Paris, Harriet paints a striking portrait of a tumultuous decade spent abroad. There are good lovers, more bad ones, the occasional orgy and a fistfight or two.

Towards the end of her stay in Paris, while being immersed in multiple sexual affairs  that are supplemented with casual pickups of both men and women, Harriet takes stock of Europe as a lover and as an American: “I am starting to feel that Europe for me,” writes Harriet, “is something like homosexuality—a fantastically exciting detour, an unforgettable addiction—but not real.”

 
 (Harriet's previous collection "Notes of a Nude Model"...cover painting is a nude of Harriet done around 1960)

Back in New York City in 1959, Harriet eventually set aside her writing for almost five decades, becoming a New York City schoolteacher. In 2003, she published a collection of autobiographical stories called “Notes of a Nude Model.” The Paris diaries sat neglected in the bottom of various closets until she spent six years editing them before they were published this April.  In a one paragraph coda at the end, Harriet channels Edith Piaf in assessing her own life.

“Now, I am in my eighties,” writes Harriet Sohmers Zwerling. “ I read these pages with fascination, surprise and a certain nostalgia, overjoyed by the realization that, in them, there is nothing to regret…”

--Dylan Foley

(ABROAD: An Expatriate’s Diaries 1950-1959 by Harriet Sohmers Zwerling. Spuyten Duyvil, $18)

Friday, October 24, 2014

Jack Kerouac and Gore Vidal Hook Up in the Village

(Gore Vidal, bottom, and Jack Kerouac, top, though Vidal claims it was the other way around )

Jack Kerouac was known for his willingness to sleep with anything, though he preferred to live off various women while writing his novels. The story of Kerouac and the writer Gore Vidal hooking up in the Village in 1953 is a legend that is off the literary radar. Vidal has been boasting about the event for the last three or four decades, but the poet Allen Ginsberg denied that his friend and Vidal ever had intercourse. Here is the story:


Gore Vidal first met Jack Kerouac in 1949 at the Metropolitan Opera when Kerouac was on the cusp of publishing his first novel, The Town and the City, and Vidal had just published The City and the Pillar with its controversial and explicit depictions of gay sex. According to Vidal, Kerouac was with his publisher from Harcourt Brace, a man who Vidal claimed had paid both Kerouac and Neal Cassady for sex. Vidal and Kerouac flirted, but nothing happened.

Things were different the next time they met on August 23, 1953. “As everybody knows, I fucked Kerouac,” said Vidal in a 1994 interview. “He rang me and said, ‘I got a friend. He’s a junkie and he killed his wife, and he wants to meet you,’ referring to Burroughs. Burroughs had a sexual interest in Vidal, so Kerouac was bringing them together.

Vidal met Kerouac and Burroughs at the San Remo. In Palimpest, Vidal’s memoir, he devoted 10 pages to describing his final meeting with Allen Ginsberg in 1994, and how the two men discussed what happened that August night with Kerouac. “Jack bought Burroughs and me together at the San Remo, on the edge of Greenwich Village,” wrote Vidal. “Hot night. Jack was manic. Sea captain’s hat. T-shirt. Like Marlon Brando in Streetcar. Drinking beer. Burroughs looked like a traveling salesman who had traveled too far in a wrinkled gray suit. He had published a good novel, Junkie under the name William Lee....Bill was quiet. Jack was loud. I suppose he was drunk.” Instead of letting Burroughs make a pass at Vidal, Kerouac started flirting with Vidal himself.

Vidal noted that almost everything that happened that night, except for graphic descriptions of sex, were described almost word for word in Kerouac’s novel The Subterraneans. “In fact, everything is verbatim from our meeting at the San Remo and our visit at Tony Pastor’s, a dyke hangout, and then, outside on a streetcorner, as Jack, with one arm, swinging his body round and round on a lamppost, a Tarzan move that caused Burroughs to leave us in disgust.

“I said I was heading uptown. I was staying at my father’s apartment, but Jack had other ideas. ‘Let’s go get a room around here.’ The first law of sex is never go to bed with a drunk. Corollary to this universal maxim was my own fetish--never have sex with anyone older. I was twenty-eight. Jack was thirty-one.

“At the nearby Chelsea Hotel, each signed his own name,” wrote Vidal. “Grandly, I told the bemused clerk that this register would become famous...I’ve often wondered what did happen to it...Lust aside, we both thought, even then (this was before On the Road), that we owed it to literary history to couple.”

According to Vidal, the two writers had intercourse. In the morning, Vidal wrote, “We had woken up on a low double bed...Jack was hungover. After we had dressed, he said he would have to take the subway back to wherever he was living with a black girl,” who would be Alene Lee, the woman who inspired The Subterraneans. “Only I don’t have money,” said Kerouac. “I gave him a dollar, and said ‘Now you owe me a dollar,’ which he reports in The Subterraneans.

In the novel, Kerouac wrote of the Vidal encounter, “[He] is a well-known and perfectly obvious homosexual of the first water, my roaring brain---we go to his suite in some hotel--I wake up in the morning on the couch, filled with the horrible recognition, ‘I didn’t go back to Mardou’s at all.’”

Forty-one years later, Ginsberg told Vidal that “’Jack was rather proud of the fact that he blew you.’ Allen sounded a bit sad as we assembled our common memories over tea in the Hollywood Hills,” wrote Vidal. “I said that I had heard that Jack had announced this momentous feat to the entire clientele of the San Remo Bar, to the consternation of one of the customers, an advertising man from Westinghouse, the firm that paid for the program Studio One, where I had only begun to make a living as a TV playwright.” The forlorn ad man was reputed to have said to Vidal, “I don’t think this is such a good advertisement for you, not to mention Westinghouse.”

Alene Lee had a great description of the Remo as a self-conscious environment where everyone was watching each other. “The San Remo used to be very crowded,” said Lee. “Two girls used to come in, they wore very heavy eye makeup and they had bangs--very attractive--and they used to sit on a low refrigerator unit in the corner of the bar, a large room filled with over a hundred people, peeking out and looking at everything. We used to call them birdwatchers.

“We were all like that,” said Lee. “We were standing there on the black-and-white tile squares, like a checkerboard where you take up a position.” Lee claimed years later that she tried to stop Kerouac from hooking up with Vidal. “I remember Gore Vidal standing at the bar and leaning, with one foot on the rail,”said Lee. “I’ve got to see Gore Vidal!” said Kerouac, according to Lee. “It’s a historic literary occasion.”

“We went outside where we had this little scene,” said Lee. “I tried to drag him away so he wouldn’t go on drinking all night.” Lee could not stop the momentum of history

Tuesday, October 21, 2014

An Interview with the Greenwich Village Poet and Hellraiser Brigid Murnaghan, Bleecker Street, May 2014



An Interview with the Poet and Hellraiser Brigid Murnaghan on Bleecker Street, Greenwich Village, May 2014


By Dylan Foley

The poet Brigid Murnaghan was an eternal Greenwich Village rebel in the 1950s and 1960s. Born in 1930, she escaped the Irish Bronx in 1945, couch surfing so she could stay in the Village. Famous for her high-cheekboned beauty and her long legs, Brigid frequented such famous bars like the San Remo, the Kettle of Fish and the White Horse.

Brgid’s poetry was featured in Seymour Krim’s seminal anthology The Beats (1960), she was a subject in the Frank O’Hara’s poem about his time living over a gay bar and  a character in Bill Manville’s “Saloon Society” column in the Village Voice.

Brigid has lived for more than 50 years in the same Greenwich Village walk-up tenement apartment. For years, she ran a poetry slam on Sundays at the Back Fence, a nearby bar on Bleecker Street. During a recent visit in May 2014, the 85-year-old was a  witty interview subject. Though her short-term memory was very hazy, her long term memory was sharp.

Murnaghan had requested that her interviewer bring her a bottle of Coke. The home-care attendant chided, him, saying, “She takes anxiety pills, but Coca Cola makes her hyper…what’s the use of medicine if you drink Coke?”

Q. How did you wind up in Greenwich Village?

I’m an opera buff. I went to see La Boehme at the Met and I was enthralled. After it was over, we’d all go to a nearby cafeteria. They had cafeterias in those days. We all talked about the performances. Most of them [the other fans] were homosexuals. I said, “I’m saving up every penny, so I can go to Paris, ‘cause I finally saw people that I could live with.” This fairy at the end of the table said, [affecting a mincing voice], “You don’t have to go to Paris. You just have to take the D-train to West 4th Street.” Guess what I did? I was 14, going on 15. The war had just ended.

Q. What did you see?

Boom. There were women in jeans. I was already in jeans because I was very hard on my clothes. My first pair of jeans were bought by my mother. My mother came from the North, Co. Down, and my father came from West Mayo. God help us.

I got downtown and I walked all around the West Side. I found out about the cafeterias. Those people weren’t drinkers or raising hell. There were a lot of homosexuals. Nice people. Much nicer than anyone in the fucking Bronx, except for the zoo.

One day, I had my girlfriend Penny…I’d found out about the bars. I’d been asking questions. We went to the Minetta Tavern. We were 15, but I was tall, 5’10 ½”. I ordered. They gave me a drink. I ordered a drink for Penny.

Penny and I met on the subway because we were both reading books. We
went to the theater together. Later on, Penny became a lesbian, but she wasn’t when we were close. When I hit the Minetta, there were two guys--John O’Malley and Warren Finnerty. He’s an actor. He was in films. He wasn’t then. He was just starting out. “Why stay at the Minetta?” asked Finnerty. “That’s not where the action is. The action is at the San Remo.” They could have taken us to an opium den, for Crissake. I went to the Remo and I was home.

Q. What was the environment at the San Remo?

A. Lovely. You drank. Everybody left you alone,. They were trying to get in your pants, but that was beside the point. It was a world and a half from the Bronx. I was sleeping on people’s floors. Many a morning, I’d wake up  in this apartment with people sleeping on the floor. I’d go, “Ah, memories.” Some not so young, some bombed out of their minds, sleeping here and getting up to go to work.. More than once, I’d go down to the drugstore and buy razors and cream, giving it to them, so they could get themselves together, so they could go to work. Nobody would fuck anyone. I guess it all had to do with alcohol. I’ve been here 40 years.


Brigid Murnaghan in Saloon Society's "The Nice Thing About Tweeds"

Q. Who were the San Remo characters?


A. Maxwell Bodenheim. I loved Max. Max liked me. Then there was a painter named Harold “Popsy” Anton. He was a character. He lived on Bleecker Street in a loft. He’d go around selling paintings the size of a large notebook, then he’d have enough money to drink and buy drinks. I loved his work. I don’t have any of his work. It’s all been stolen from me.

Q. When did you finally leave home for good?

A. 1946, I guess.

Q. Did you live in a cold-water flat when you moved to Manhattan?

The whole nine yards. I lived on Fifth Street, between A and B.

I hit the San Remo and never left. At that time, the San Remo was getting famous or infamous. All sorts of celebrities were coming. There were more writers at the San Remo. At the Cedar, I knew all the painters--de Kooning, Franz Kline, all those guys. De Kooning says that I looked like James Joyce. I’d rather be that than Maureen O’Hara.

Q. When did you know that you wanted to write?


A. When did I first admit it to myself? Sy Krim, who edited The Beats, grabbed me and asked me for some work. I’m in that first anthology.

Very little happened at the Minetta.
I can’t drink water, because fish fuck in water. They don’t fuck in Pellegrino.

I loved Delmore Schwartz. There was a poet named Milton Klonsky and he introduced me to Delmore. It was love at first sight. No, we didn’t fuck [Home attendant’s catcalls in background…”your mouth is like a sailor, it kills me.”] He and I really liked each other. He was crazy.  I hadn’t seen him in a while, and I said, “Where have you been?” He says, “I’m living uptown. 42nd Street.” He was living in a hotel. I really started worrying about him.

I met Delmore with Klonsky. Klonsky and [Anatole] Broyard were kissing cousins.

Q. Did you like Broyard?

He had a good look about him. He was very into himself. As my mother would say, he was very into himself. As I would say, he thought he shat ice cream. He always had women. I never saw him as a sex symbol, but he was nice and always nice to me. He was younger and wilder.
It was Delmore, Klonsky and Anatole. Clement Greenberg had already made it. He once made a pass at me.
I loved Klonsky. He was a short guy. He was handsome in a way. He had a big nose and lovely eyes. Thirty years later, I was walking on 14th Street. He said “Brigid Murnaghan,” and he had such a smile on his face. I said, “How you doing dear?”

Romantic, what is romantic? I was a kid, but he was my boyfriend for a while. When he thought about me, he thought about me fondly. That’s when he got a place in my heart.

Q. What about your writing?

I never talked about writing in those days. It was a great big secret. That had to do with male chauvanist pigism. It was very, very bad. Every once in a while, you would say something and they would do you in.

Q. How did you support yourself?

A. Please! Half the time, I was going home to the Bronx. I slept on floor. Viva La Boehme.

Q. Did you ever have a straight job?

No. Maneuvers is the best word for it.


Norman Mailer wasn’t at the San Remo. He didn’t come until after his book was published. He was a Jewish guy. I liked Jewish guys.

[Phone call.] I’m in A.A. That was one of my complainers. 31 years sober. Don’t talk about it. That’s the only thing I’ll ask you.

I knew Frank McCourt before the Lion’s Head.
 
Q. How did you wind up drinking at the White Horse?

I went from the San Remo to the Kettle of Fish to the White Horse.

Q. Was the Kettle rough?

They were all pussycats. They were my friends.

Q. Do you know anything about the Kerouac assault in front of the Kettle?

Don’t believe the bullshit. I would have known. He was with his mother. He was a mamma’s boy. [Murnaghan refers to a famous Kerouac photo that is on her dresser] It’s a picture of Jack before he died. He and his mother are at the kitchen table. He’s sitting and she’s standing with her hand on his shoulder. I looked at it, and said, “She’s finally got him.” He was all bloated. There was a drink on the table. He went home to die. That look on her face…”I have him now.” He was all bloated. He was a little guy.

Q. Did you know Allen Ginsberg?

I knew Ginsberg from the San Remo. I knew him early. He was a faggot. We were at a big, big reading and he said, “You’re not going to be drunk?” I said, “I never drink when I read.” That was my relationship with him. I knew Peter Orlovsky.

Next to McDonald’s, there was a Mafia-owned nightclub.

Q. When did the Kettle become important?

When we took over? That’s what we did. The food was better than the San Remo. They all thought we were crazy.

Q. Was it a takeover?

That’s how it worked. One would go, another would go, then everybody would go.

Q. Did you go to Louis’ Tavern?

I went to Louis’, then it went… We went to Julius’ for the cheeseburgers. You never hung out because it was so faggoty. They had the best cheeseburgers and they were cheap. Many a night, I ate my dinner at Julius’. You had money to drink on, or at least you had the entrance fee. Entrance fee is very important. That’s the first drink you buy, then some guy tries to hit on you, or you know somebody. The next thing you know, you walk out and say, “How the fuck did I get so drunk? I only had five bucks.”

Nothing was 15 cents. Fifty cents, maybe. I had a fight with one of the bartenders at the Remo, something stupid.. I said, “Fuck you,” and went to the Kettle of Fish, then to Louis’ and the White Horse. They were all pick up joints. You needed an entrance fee.

Larry Rivers did a portrait of me. The bars had their own personalities.
At the Cedar, the painters were no fun.

I had boyfriends. I stuck around with them for a while, I had a child. I stayed square for a few days, then I went back to the high life, or the low life, or whatever fuck kind of life you want to call it.

The painters were very aloof. They were the highest in the realm of art. I once got a lecture from a painter on how the painters were more important than the writers. I can see his face, but I can’t remember his name. I didn’t even fuck him. Franz Kline was a very nice guy, but the artists were pains in the asses. They had no senses of humor.

Q. What did you think of Frank O’Hara?

I knew Frank O’Hara at the Remo. I knew him early. He was a little guy with a punched-in nose, like a fighter. It made him nicer. He was a 110 pounds soaking wet.

John Ashbery and I talked about how we wanted to open a theater that just showed coming attractions. There were no conversations about Baudelaire. They were just light conversations.

Q. Did you know Joe LeSueur, Frank O’Hara’s roommate?

They must have fucked once or twice. They weren’t a couple. They were friends.

Q. What was your view of Jackson Pollock?

I liked Pollock. I don’t give a fuck what anybody says. He was a very shy guy. You’d say hello to him and he’d jump out of his skin. De Kooning was lovely. De Kooning was a gentleman.

The White Horse had the would-bees.

I remember Dylan Thomas. What a pain in the ass. I went up to the bar to get a drink. All of a sudden, this guy turns around, and I said, “Oh, it’s you. Hi, how are you doing?” I ordered a drink. [Thomas gave her a furious, dirty look.] They talk about him being gay. Dylan Thomas was not born gay.  He had these couple of guys going around with him. He was a switch hitter, obviously.

Q. What was your reaction to his death?

What a fucking waste of time. He was so talented.

Q. What was the White Horse like after Dylan Thomas died?

I loved the Clancy Brothers. Paddy was my favorite. He was the smartest. I liked Tommy. Paddy was quiet. I screwed Paddy. He took me home one night in a cab and the next thing I knew, he was on top of me. Whoever it was , it was a guy I trusted. I wondered which one it was. [Checks face of the man.] “Oh, it’s Paddy Clancy.” It just happened once.

Seymour Krim was very nice.
A lot of people hung out. They weren’t as loud as I was. I had my opinions.
Delmore had not nice things to say about Elizabeth Pollet. “You stick all woman in one bucket,” I said to him. Anyone else would have gone out and found another woman.

I adored Milton Klonsky, but he certainly didn’t know what to do with me. There was this little pack of guys. They were all chauvo pigos. I once said that I wanted to be a poet. I might as well have said that I wanted Josef Stalin in the White Horse. I was a girl. I had no right to say I wanted to be a poet. I wanted to go into a profession that was completely male dominated. Let me explain me…I was young, I was beautiful and I was wild. They had a lot of prejudice, my fellow women. When the women’s lib movement came, I took to it like a duck to water.

I have a son, Cade, called Cado. At this point in time, he’s not talking to me.

Q. What was the Lion’s Head like?

The writers there were newspapermen. My daughter loved the Lion’s Head. She’s a photojournalist. Annie Hagman McDermott. She hung out at the Lion’s Head. That was her saloon, so I stayed away from it.

Q. I have heard that the 55 Bar on Christopher Street was famous for customers having sex in the bathroom. Have you heard of this?

That’s not sex. Another place that did that was the Lion’s Head. I know a couple of the blow-job queens from the Lion’s Head. One of them is in AA with me. In AA, you tell the truth.

I was 15 when I went into the Remo. A shot and a beer. That’s what you do. A shot of Johnnie Walker Black and a beer back. Nobody asked me how old I was. That is one of the secrets of drinking before your time. They watch you drink the shot, then they forget about you. I was one of five girls. They knew I was wild, but they also knew that there was nothing they could do with me. They knew I was a writer before I became a writer. It was a dream then…you had to put up with all that bullshit of women being treated as second-class citizens.

In the San Remo, I liked the bartenders, except for one. I liked the people. It was a lot of fun. Good times were had there. Practically everybody is dead. There were some really good times there. Then the celebrities would come. I swore I would never be a celebrity.

Q. Did you know any of the Partisan Review writers?

You’re talking squares. You are not talking all squares, but they tend to the square bit. They had that whole kind of superiority that squares get, that any normal person would be ashamed of to act like that.

Delmore Schwartz was so beautiful. He was taking downers. Paranoid? He invented the word. No one knew how to spell it before he came up with it. I loved him so much. He was just one of those people you love. He was so nuts. It scared me about writing. Would I get nuts like that? Cado came when I was 30. It calmed my dinties down. I’m grateful. It tied me down.

Q. Which of your children was born in 1960?

That was Annie. You might as well show the children the bar. Cado is in A.A. Annie, I don’t even ask.

Boyfriends are very hard. You have to pay attention to them.

You got me thinking of Delmore Schwartz. Smart guy. Smart guy. He knew he couldn’t get to first base, that he was a friend.
De Kooning.
People who knew me for years never knew that I wrote.

Q. How would you describe Joe LeSueur?

He was a cunt. It fits right on the money. That kind of looks, I knew he wouldn’t age gracefully.

Q. Did you know Winnie Myers?

Did I know Winnie? Let me tell you, there were nights when we slept in the same bed. I loved her very much. She was very smart. The only thing she had was alcohol. If I’d known about AA then, I’d have taken Winnie to AA. She would have done very well. Winnie was as black as the Ace of Spades. She really had an ear for languages.

Winnie would take out a tit and stick it in somebody’s face. The woman loved being naked.

Q. Do you know the story of her doing a reverse striptease on the 6th Avenue bus?

You’re asking me, who heard it from the mouth of the woman who did it. On 6th Avenue and 8th Street, across from the Waldorf Cafeteria, there was a skinny bar and it was very hot. These were the days before air conditioning. Winnie was hot. She took off all her clothes , folded them neatly, put them on the bar and went out for a walk. She had big tits and a big ass. If she went out naked in Africa, you’d never look at her twice because everyone looked that way. They got her. They took her to Bellevue. They asked her at Bellevue why she did it. She said, “It was hot. I’m an African.” They gave her 30 days, to make sure that she was sane.

I did my turn in Bellevue, because my son’s father finked on me. Mr. White Protestant, and me raging mad, wanting to get my hands on him, so they put me in to see that I was sane. I didn’t assault him, but I was trying. Why are you calling the cops for?

Q. Were you friends with Gregory Corso?

Darling, I was important in making Gregory Corso famous. I had a boyfriend named Art Franklin, who was a genius in PR. It was the 1940s. You had to feed the newspapermen good stories to get in their columns. I introduced Gregory to Art. We all liked Gregory then. Gregory was a very close friend. Art got a piece on Gregory in one of his columns.

Art would get Gregory in all these columns. Gregory became famous. He took all the clippings to the West Coast. West Coast writers were talking about  Gregory showing off all these articles. Those were the pieces that Art had put in the paper for him. I wish Art had done it for me. Art was the press agent for all these black artists in the 1930s.


I can’t explain any of those guys, except they were nice. Then fame hit. They were all drunks. Allen wasn’t a drunk, but Allen’s boyfriend Peter Orlovsky was a drunk… Allen set him to drink.

Q. Did you drink with the painter Sheri Martinelli?

Of course, I knew Sheri. I loved her. Sheri and I got along very well. When I first met her, she was going out with Anatole Broyard. She was a very funny woman. She was very petite. She was smart and street smart. She was much more sophisticated than any of us.

Q. How about the doomed Iris Brody?

She hung out at the Remo. Iris was  quiet in a way, but you knew not to turn your back on Iris. Sheri wouldn’t stab me in the back. I liked Iris a lot. Is she dead, too? I think I knew that.

Iris was one of Marshall Allen’s girlfriends. He was a rich little guy from Connecticut. He owned a house on 13th Street. He was rich and had all that bullshit going for him. He could fuck. That’s one thing I can say.

Q. Were you involved with him?

Not very long. If our relationship was fucking, I’d be with him today. When you got out of the good part of him, you never wanted anything else. He was smart, he wasn’t dumb, but he was stupid.

Iris ran around with him.

A lot of people hung around with him, like Delmore Schwartz. He got Delmore out of some trouble. I know he gave money to Delmore. He couldn’t do what we could do. He once said, “Your little poems. I don’t write little poems. I’m not a little person.” He once told me, “I’ll buy you as many drinks as you want, but I’ll not buy you anything to eat.” I’d always go with him to a restaurant with a bar. My plot would always be to get him to feed me.

Q. Did you know Helen Parker, the woman who took Allen Ginsberg’s virginity?

She was somebody out of the twenties. She didn’t look it at all, but she had that twenties mentality--”I’m sexually free,” not sexually free like we were. She never went in the street and did what we did. She was really nice. She was married for a while and had two sons. The husband took the sons and she took to drink.  Always had boyfriends. She was a good-looking redhead. Real red hair, not out of a bottle. Irish red hair. She looked very Irish. Anyplace she drank, I drank. We were very friendly. She was older than I was. She gave me a lot of free advice on how to run my sex life. I couldn’t say love with a straight face. She always had a guy hanging on her, switch hitters, both men and women. She wasn’t but the guys were. Numerous amounts of them were switch hitters, because they were so kind. There is a lot alike with her and Tennessee Williams’ women. She wasn’t tough, but she stood up for herself.

Helen was somebody, if she was sitting at the bar by herself, if the stool next to her was empty, I’d put myself down next to her. She said, “I’m going to teach you how to drink all night.” She was my role model.

You know how they fade away? That’s what happened to her. She got some guy to keep her. Marshall Allen was very generous to writers, but he got to be so pompous. He had such a nice apartment. He had a million and a half books. I never left without a handful of books. Those who had courage made a pass at me. The cowards were afraid of me. I once heard somebody say I was so tough. I never laughed so much in my life. That’s one thing I am not. Loud, maybe, but not tough. I never had a fight with a woman.

Q. Did you ever hang out with the Mailers?

I met Norman and Adele at their parties. How do you get out of a fight with Adele Mailer? She started up with me. Norman was there. I said, “Norman, get her off my back.” I came from five sisters. None of them ever raised a hand to each other. I am a born feminist.

Once Liz Diamond stayed with me for Christmas. We bemoaned our fates that we were orphans in the storm. [48th and 8th].

Liz Diamond called Norman up and asked him if he was having a party. He invited us down to his garden apartment in the Village. Everybody was smoking dope in the garden. Everybody smoked, but everybody hid the smoking.

Q. Who was Liz Diamond?

She wanted to be a singer. She was a nice woman. She fucked them all, absolutely all of them. She was very attractive Jewish girl. We had a love-hate relationship. She hated my long legs. She came into the Remo at the end. She fucked everyone.

Q. What was your view of Jack Kerouac and his mother?

(Referring to an infamous photo of Kerouac’s mother standing over him.) Her standing over him. The look on her face. “I have him now, “a half dead man there. It was the scariest thing I’d ever seen.

Q. Were you ever involved with Gregory Corso?

He started out at the Remo. Gregory was in it for the money, but he was too stupid to make money. He got off on drinking and doing dope. You couldn’t say Gregory was a heroin addict because he was too mixed up to be one. If you gave him a shot of heroin or a drink, he’d think it was the same thing.

Gregory was so much fun. We’d go to the movies all the time. 

Nobody dated Gregory Corso. You couldn’t say with a straight face that you dated Gregory Corso. He just wasn’t there for that.

I never fucked any of them. I don’t know how I would have gotten up in the morning and looked in the mirror. They were my friends. I went outside for fucking. You don’t fuck a member of your family. I went uptown for fucking. I didn’t bother with my friends I boozed with and drank with and smoked with. I wouldn’t want one of those guys coming into the bar and saying, “Are you coming home with me tonight?” I had a reputation to uphold. I’d always say, “Go home to your mother.”



Friday, May 2, 2014

Dylan Thomas' Fatal Tour in Greenwich Village




 In commemoration of Dylan Thomas' 100th birthday, here is my piece on his downward spiral in New York City.

By Dylan Foley


The White Horse Tavern opened in 1880 in Manhattan to serve the longshoremen who worked the teeming docks on the Hudson River. A rough-and-ready establishment, the bar first achieved underground literary cache in the teens of the last century when the playwright Eugene O’Neill hung out there with Dorothy Day, the future Catholic activist.

The White Horse reestablished its literary bona fides in 1952 when Dylan Thomas was brought to the tavern during his second American tour by the Scottish poet Ruthven Todd. Thomas’ 18-month reign at the White Horse until his death in November 1953 paved the way for other writers drinking at the tavern. Jimmy Baldwin drank there in the early 1950s, before the publication of his first novel “Go Tell It On the Mountain” and his self-exile to Paris.

Thomas’ biographer Paul Ferris has suggested that the White Horse’s proximity to the nearby Hudson River docks reminded Thomas of his hometown of Swansea, Wales. In his book “Dylan Thomas in America: An Intimate Journal,” the poet and the director of the 92nd Street Y’s Poetry Center Malcolm Brinnin said that “the British who came to New York liked the White Horse because it resembled an English pub. Before Todd took Dylan to the Horse, I’d been trying to keep him in check, take him to places like the Blarney Stone, which wasn’t all that interesting, didn’t have a lot of people for him to talk to, but when he got to the White Horse it was all over.”

With Thomas’ exploding popularity, the bar was packed with his admirers. The White Horse “had become his favorite rendezvous,” wrote Brinnin, “and much to the delight of his proprietor, who found his business doubled by the many people--friends and mere ‘ardents’--who would assemble there at all hours in the chance that Dylan might turn up. This wave of prosperity at the White Horse was to continue until Thomas’ death.”

David Markson was a graduate student at Columbia in 1952 when he met Thomas at a reading on the Columbia campus. “Thomas did a reading, and I asked him if he wanted to go for a drink,” said Markson. “He met us at the West End Bar with some friends. We had a pleasant time. Afterwards, I asked him if I could give him a shout, and he said sure, call me at the Chelsea Hotel. When I came down with several friends, he said, ‘Let’s go to the Horse.’ I didn’t know what he was talking about, but it was the White Horse. Eventually, I began to spend time there myself.”

During his second trip to New York City, Thomas had brought along his fiery wife Caitlin, who he would sometimes bring to the White Horse. “She’d get pissed off that on one was paying attention to her,” said Markson. “One day we were at a table in the back with Thomas. Caitlin took out a cigarette. No one noticed her. She finally said, Would one of you satellites give me a light?’

“On a different night, I noticed that Caitlin had been gone from the table for a long time. I said, ‘Dylan, hasn’t she been in the ladies’ room for a long time?’ He said ‘Oh, David, she’s in the saloon across the street because she’s pissed off that she’s being ignored.’ Caitlin gave as good as she got.” Thomas asked Markson to fetch his wife. “He asked me, ‘Do me a favor, go buy her a beer and bring her back here. She’ll be less angry if you show up than if I do,’” said Markson. “Thomas was right. I found Caitlin in the nearest bar. I told her Dylan was sorry or whatever. She cursed, but she came back.”

Caitlin and Dylan Thomas had a passionate, jealous relationship with adulterous affairs on both sides. They baited each other while on tour in America in 1952, where Caitlin declared loudly at a party, “Is there not a man man enough for me in America?” She hated Thomas’ success in America and despised the girls that screamed for him as if he was a pop star. Once before he went on for a reading in New York, she said to Thomas of his poems, “Just remember, they are all dirt.”

The rift in their marriage became public in America, noted Brinnin. During a cocktail party at a wealthy admirer’s home, Caitlin and Dylan Thomas trashed the apartment. “I had witnessed one of these myself--at an evening party, given in their honor,” wrote Brinnin. “After watching their skirmishes, incredulous guests had abruptly departed from rooms littered with smashed glasses, overturned tables and broken objects d’art, leaving their hostess in a state of hysteria, as she contemplated her loss, part of which was a plaster section of the wall of her bedroom.”

The Thomas’ drinking during their 1952 stay in New York was prodigious. When traveling through Arizona on the reading tour, Thomas wrote on a postcard to a friend back in Wales that

“We were killed in action, Manhattan Island, Spring 1952,
in a gallant battle against American generosity.
An American called Double Rye shot Caitlin to death.
I was scalped by a bourbon.
Posthumous love to you and Irene.”

Despite the legions of admirers on the American tours, Thomas had to deal with crackpots. At the White Horse, a student approached Thomas, and said “I want to say to you, Fuck you, Dylan Thomas.” At a reading at Sarah Lawrence College in Bronxville on the same tour, a man told Thomas, “I’ll tell you what, Dylan Thomas, if you hadn’t written any poems, no one would have heard of you.” Thomas admitted to friends that he was unsettled by the occasional abuse.

Thomas was famous for several mistresses in England, and there were at least a few entanglements in America.

In a memoir published 30 years after Thomas’ death, Caitlin Thomas recounted a story of their ongoing mutual warfare: “Another awful evening I was with him at the White Horse Tavern when some woman came in, whispered in his ear--and he walked off with her as meekly as a lamb. I was in a quandary. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t go running off after him. There was nothing innocent about it (she wasn’t a journalist arranging an interview), it stank a mile off, and I went into a decompression after that. I don’t know how I got back to the Chelsea Hotel. Someone must have put me in a taxi.”

Caitlin, a striking Anglo-Irish dancer who was proud of her exceptional body, was hellbent on exacting revenge from her poet husband. According to her close friend Rose, Slivka, the wife of sculptor David Slivka, Caitlin would pick up the occasional sailor of longshoreman from the nearby docks, not far from the Chelsea.

One of the wilder stories of Caitlin Thomas’ stay in New York in 1952 involved the events at a party at the filmmaker Maya Deren’s house. Deren, fresh from a stay in Haiti, was showing off some Voodoo dance moves to the accompagnyment of frenetic drumming. Caitlin was the only one bold enough to challenge Deren to an impromptu aggressive dance off. Anatole Broyard witnessed the scene.

“I first saw Caitlin Thomas at a party given by Maya Deren in her apartment in Greenwich Village,” wrote Broyard in his memoir Kafka was the Rage. “I only saw the bottom half of her, her legs, thighs and cotton underpants, because she was holding her dress up over her head as if she was pulling it off, or hiding behind it like a child. She was dancing, a sort of elementary hootchy-kootch that didn’t have much to do with the fast Haitian drum music that filled the room.”

The stocky Deren faced off with Caitlin. “It was like a war or the worlds out there on the floor: the child-bearing, cottage-keeping, pub-crawling wife of the Welsh bard against a rising star of Greenwich Village,” wrote Broyard. “Caitlin relied on the immemorial argument of bump and grind, while Maya Deren, who wore trousers, danced not exactly to the tapes, but the different drummer of the American art establishment.”

Broyard found Dylan Thomas hiding from the antics of his wife in a nearby bedroom, ignoring a circle of male admirers. Broyard had his own views on Thomas’ wrecked appearance.: “[Dylan] was no longer the pretty, pouting cherub of the Augustus John painting, but a man swollen by drink, and by sorrow, perhaps, or poetry. He looked like an inflatable toy that had been overinflated.”

Deren and a young confederate tried to usher Caitlin off the dance floor. She punched the young man out, then proceeded to grab the small Voodoo statuettes that Deren had arranged on a shelf, flinging them against the far wall. Deren was horrified. “Plunging her fingers into her curls, she cried like an Ibsen heroine, She’s smashing my universe.”

Dylan takes control at this point by grabbing Caitlin’s arm, spinning her around and flinging her, with great accuracy noted Broyard, from the living room into the bedroom. At one point, Broyard is given the job of restraining Caitlin Thomas on a bed. She stops struggling, then asks Broyard, “Are you queer?” The offended Broyard says no. “She threw her arms around my neck. Then for God’s sake, man, she said, love me! Love me!” He takes her back to the Chelsea by cab and runs away when she invites him in for a drink.

At the same time as Thomas was holding court, Norman Mailer set up a Sunday writers’ salon at the White Horse with the novelist Vance Bourjaily. Word had been passed around that Mailer wanted to meet some of the writers that hung out at Bourjaily’s apartment.

Hortense Calisher was one of the writers invited to the first event, which was not a brilliant beginning. “’Norman’ wanted us to meet pn a Sunday and get some needed cafe discussion started, the bar chosen being the White Horse on Hudson Street--which is how it came to be known as a place where writers went, by the time Dylan Thomas was taken there,” wrote Calisher in a memoir she published in the early 1970s.

The locals were not impressed with the uptown writers. “The day we first go,” wrote Calisher, “in a group of about ten, of which I recall for sure only Mailer, the Bourjailys and Frederic Morton, the bar and it’s usual patrons, mostly the remainders of indigenoous Greenwich Village Irish, are no more unhandy with us--don’t we know wherther we want a glass or a stein?

“The White Horse doesn’t know yet that it is going to be a literary pub. And we had the sad sense, or I do, that stuff like this is hard going in America. At one point Mailer takes out a dollar bill, and pleads with somebody to start an argument going with him ‘on anything.’ Nobody takes him up on it...Nothing memorable having been said by anyone, we leave, unsure whether we have consecrated the place.”

The awkward salons went on for about a year before they petered out. Mailer biographer Mary V. Dearborn notes that the salons were a place where some of New York’s important writers of the moment congregated for a while. This was all eclipsed by Dylan Thomas’ powerful explosion on the New York scene. It is also pretty clear that Mailer and Thomas never met.

Dave Van Ronk, who was to become a legendary folk singer, was one of the fans who would go to the White Horse to listen to Dylan Thomas reel off the occasional bit of verse. Van Ronk later mused that Dylan Thomas writing often didn’t make sense. like the work of Van Ronk’s friend Bob Dylan.

“I used to hear Dylan Thomas at the old White Horse Tavern back in the 1950s,” wrote Van Ronk, and when he had enough to drink--which was frequently--he would recite his poetry, and my draw would drop. it was beautiful, gorgeous stuff, and he recited it marvelously. But when I would go back and look at the page, a lot of it was bullshit. Not all of it, by any means, but I would challenge anyone to explain what some of those things were about.”

When Thomas showed up in New York for his third tour in February 1953, he confessed to Brinnin that “Under Milk Wood,” his epic “play for voices” that he had promised to the Poetry Center, was unfinished. On Thomas’ first day in New York, he and Brinnin went drinking at a series of Manhattan bars, winding up at the White Horse, where they were greeted warmly.

“At the White Horse Tavern, which we reached by midafternoon, everyone along the bar turned to greet him,” wrote Brinnin. “Ernie, the rotund proprietor, sent scotch to the table and sat down with us to reminisce about memorable evenings the year before. Dylan seemed happy, more than a little excited and most of all at home. His only genuine ease, I had long before observed, was among friendly faces, known and unknown, where the only propriety was to be oneself...I put aside the lists of urgent appointments and lecture tour matters...and simply basked in Dylan’s open and infectious delight at having come back to America.”

Nights for Dylan Thomas in Greenwich Village always included barhopping--going to Julius’s for hamburgers, then the San Remo, then back to the White Horse, where Brinnin wrote, “the usual crowd awaited his entrance.”

In April, Thomas’ Collected Poems was reviewed in Time magazine. The backhanded criticism praised his poetry and pummeled the man.

“[Thomas] is a chubby, bulb-nosed little Welshman with green eyes, a generally untidy air and the finest lyrical talent of any poet under 40,” went the unsigned Time review. The article continued to rip into Thomas’ personality: “When he settles down to guzzle beer, which is most of the time, his incredible yarns tumble over each other in a wild, Welsh dithyramb in which truth and fact become hopelessly smothered in boozy invention. He borrows with no thought of returning what is lent, seldom shows up on time, and is a trial to his friends and a worry to his family.”

After the piece came out, Thomas sued Time-Life International for libel.

During his third American tour in April 1953, Thomas was introduced to Liz Reitell, the secretary of the 92nd Street YW-YMHA’s Poetry Center. Though they initially disliked each other, they became lovers. Reitell, a sophisticated ex-Army WAC who’d been divorced twice, was responsible for pulling together “Under Milk Wood” from Dylan Thomas’ last-minute changes for the world premiere of the play at the Poetry Center in New York in May 1953.

Reitell and Dylan Thomas’ affair was common knowledge at the Poetry Center. Reitell was 33-years old, a striking woman with high cheekbones. She had been a painter and a dancer. A colleague described her as a “’flap-sandal-clad, artsy-crafty type,’ very possessive of Thomas: the nurse, the guard, secretary,” who pops up when famous men need looking after. As noted by the same colleague, Reitell also took Thomas’ abuse: “The few times I saw them together, Dylan was hostile to Liz and made personal, hurtful remarks that I wouldn’t have accepted from God but she, of course, ‘understood.’”

After the success of “Under Milk Wood” in Boston and New York, Thomas spent the last nine or 10 days of his spring tour walking around the Village with Reitell and hitting the bars. Years later, Reitell described Thomas as “terribly, clinically alcoholic...There was no great muse that made Dylan drink. He drank because he was an alcoholic. He had all the devils, and some angels, too.”

Dylan Thomas returned to New York for his fatal stay on October 19, 1953. His health was devastated. Thomas plowed through New York in a drunken haze, with the exception being his spectacular reprise of “Under Milk Wood” at the 92nd Street Y.

As in his relationship with Caitlin, Thomas had added an element of emotional cruelty to his love affair with Liz Reitell. In the last weeks of Thomas’ life, Reitell and Brinnin had a heartbreaking conversation about him. “He was, Liz said, without any question, the most lovable human being she ha d ever known,” wrote Brinnin. “While she adored him, she also knew that he was destroyer--that he had an instinct for drawing to him those most capable of being annihilated by them.” Reitell admitted she was going to break up with him.

That night, when Reitell refused to go on to the White Horse with Thomas, “Dylan went to the White Horse, stayed out most of the night, and returned to his hotel with a girl ‘loaned’ to him by one of his drinking companions,” wrote Brinnin.

Thomas’ health continued to collapse. After a particularly bad hangover, he had Reitell take him to the White Horse, where he drank beer and raw eggs, which had become his only source of nutrition.

Ironically, a good source of information for Thomas’ movements in his last few weeks of life was a private detective, who was following the poet around the Village because of the Time-Life libel suit. On October 31st, four days before he drank himself into a coma, Thomas entered the White Horse drunk with two friends. At a nearby bar and grill later that night, Thomas loudly confessed to sexual impotency and said that he loved his wife, and his adulterous affairs were just substitutes for Caitlin. He also admitted to contracting gonorrhea as a teenager. At 2:20 a.m., he was “seen taking benzedrine.” As his biographer Paul Ferris notes with sympathy, it must have been a tiring night for the detective.

Liam Clancy of the original Clancy Brothers , a group that was once called “the Irish Beatles,” hung out at the White Horse five or six years after Thomas died. He recounted the myth of Dylan Thomas’ death: "The doctors told [Thomas] that even one more whiskey would do in his liver, so he set up a pyramid of thirty-six shot glasses of whiskeys on the counter of the White horse. He looked a long time at the pyramid, contemplating. The he took the top shot glass off the pile, downed it and with suicidal certainty drank glass after glass until the pyramid was demolished.”

A more authoritative account of Thomas’ death comes from Paul Ferris, who said that Thomas spent the day of November 3rd drinking, sleeping and having delusions in his room at the ratty Chelsea Hotel on 23rd. At 2 a.m. on the 4th, he told Liz Reitell that he had to go out for a drink. He came back 90 minutes later, probably going to the White Horse, and said that line that started his death legend: “I’ve had 18 straight whiskeys. I think that’s a record.” He told Reitell, “I love you, but I am alone,” then fell asleep.

During the day of November 4th, Thomas was raving in his hotel room. Reitell took him to the White Horse for what was hoped would be a restorative two pints of beer. A quack doctor who he was seeing named Feltenstein, who boasted of having “a winking needle,” gave Thomas an injection of morphine, six times the amount he was supposed to have given him. Soon after, Thomas was taken to St. Vincent’s.

After Thomas went into his coma, his poet friend Ruthven Todd, who had introduced him to the White Horse, and Stuart Thomas, a Welsh lawyer from Swansea, tracked his last movements. Todd interviewed the White Horse’s bartender, who figured by checking his stock that Thomas could have only have had six whiskeys maximum.

Caitlin Thomas was in Wales when she was notified of Thomas’ serious medical condition. She went to a local party that night, but then took the train to London to wait for a plane. Caitlin Thomas flew into New York on November 8th, swept into St. Vincent’s and demanded of Brinnin, “Is the bloody man dead or alive?” Brinnin had the thankless task of hiding Liz Reitell, who’d spent days at Thomas’ hospital bedside, out of sight from Caitlin’s rage.

Caitlin Thomas’ actions at the hospital were fit for a short Irish drama. When she spent 15 minutes alone with the comatose Dylan, she tried to smash her head through the window of his room, but was unable to do so because the glass was reinforced. She was taken away by friends, but returned to the hospital later. On the second visit, she was initially more composed. “She was wearing a striking, close-fitting black wool dress; her tawny yellow hair was loosely done up; she looked radiantly beautiful, and she had had too much to drink,” wrote Brinnin. She refused to stop lighting cigarettes near Dylan’s oxygen tent. She then pulled a crucifix off the wall and smashed it, and splintered a statue of the Virgin to bits. She assaulted Brinnin and several others who tried to comfort her. She then bit an orderly, attacked a doctor and ripped a nun’s habit. She wound up sedated and in a straight jacket. The doctors at St. Vincent’s wanted to send her to Bellevue, but after the intervention of Brinnin and others, she was sent to Rivercrest, a private psychiatric institution in Queens.

Dylan Thomas died the next day, November 9th, while a nurse was giving him a sponge bath. Brinnin and Reitell were at Dylan Thomas’ side right after he died. “When I took his feet in my hands all warmth was gone,” wrote Brinnin. “It was as if I could feel the little distance between his life and death. Liz whispered to him and kissed him on the forehead. We stood then at the foot of the bed for a very few long minutes, and did not weep or speak. Now, as always, where Dylan was, there were no tears at all.”

In August 2008, Caitlin MacNamara Thomas’ diary from the 1950s was put on the auction block for $500,000. In a diary entry a few days after his burial in Wales, Caitlin wrote, “Oh God, oh Dylan, it must be cold down there; it is cold enough on top in November: the dirtiest month of the year that killed you on the ninth vile day. If only I could take you a bowl of your bread, and milk, and salt, that you always drank at night to warm you up.”

Sources:
Broyard, Anatole, Kafka was the Rage
Calisher, Hortense, Herself: An Autobiographical Work
Ferris, Paul, Dylan Thomas: The Biography
Interview with David Markson, July 2007
Thomas, Caitlin, Double-Drink Story
Van Ronk, Dave, The Mayor of MacDougal Street
Brinin, Malcolm, Dylan Thomas in America: An Intimate Journal
The Independent (London) August 12, 2008
Time Magazine, April 6, 1953