Recovery Read online

  First, is escape difficult (i.e. beyond my powers—too difficult)? Evidently, for (1) the walls are strong and I am weak, and (2) I love my walls. That Outside may be Hell worse than the hell in here, and I am too afraid of it even to begin action toward it. Existential immoral crisis: angst. Effort not only would not avail but is not available. Situation seems desperate. Yet some have escaped.

  How? (1) historical;

  (2) refusing to accept Walls as God’s will (the Redemption story—Moses, Buddha, Christ—is true too). With an effort we lift our gaze from the walls upward and ask God to take the walls away. We look back down and they have disappeared. We are “free.” But now we are really terrified, because we are programmed-for-walls.

  But are we now? No, we find to our surprise that we are programmed-for-happiness. So we happily find ourselves without walls.

  We turn back upward at once with love to the Person who has made us so happy, and desire to serve Him. Our state of mind is that of a bridegroom, that of a bride. We are married, who have been so lonely heretofore.

  Life lies open before us, with commitment, its interesting and difficult (but He will guide us) choices, its sweet rewards, its delightful (for we will have become so weary) end: immortal rest.

  6th Friday, 20 November, 6–7 a.m. [1971]

  Father’s suicide [for Severance’s journal?]

  He had not exactly lost his faith. He had gone into violent rebellion. God was a son of a bitch who had allowed Daddy to go mad with grief and fear. This sentiment subsided very gradually into a sort of not quite indifference, but two senses remained vivid and even strengthened in adult life. He had no doubt at all about God the Creator and Maintainer of the Universe: the original giant hydrogen atom or whatever and its descendants down to the cortex. And it was perfectly clear to him that God intervened occasionally in the affairs of creatures, for good: heroes, saints, artists, scientists, ordinary people. No sweat. He also believed in the Devil. He believed in miracles and felt indeed not only impatience but contempt when their possibility was denied. The Resurrection—appearances, say, those at any rate to Peter and the other disciples—no Church otherwise, eh?—and to Paul. What he did not buy was any regular attention to human affairs on the part of His Majesty. Screw that. Because look at them. Still, he was keen on New Testament criticism. It constituted his only hobby, excluding the arts and star-gazing, and he read the bloody commentators with a sharp eye and desperate envy.

  What is the meaning of life?

  It must lie in our performance

  of God’s will, our free-will being

  one indispensable tool.

  1) mate & > children.

  2) work = solve problems (vs. boredom) sleep, eat, excrete; keep warm enough or cool enough, dry enough or wet enough; wash?

  3) play (for some, the lucky, = 2)

  4) worship; resist temptations.

  5) help (others) & accept help:

  Group, Family, Tribe, Nation.

  6) confront & survive ordeals.

  7) become, thro’ dependence, FREE.

  but he has made both

  mysterious, & banned access

  to certain all-important

  key problems (for instance,

  the Resurrection).

  8) Forgive: all, including ourselves.

  Severance’s re-socialization

  SST and Renunciation. Congressional rejection of the SST was the most important thing that has happened in this country for many years, and amazing, for the SST was (1) possible, (2) useless, (3) evil. On all three counts it seemed immensely desirable to many Americans besides those very few who stood to benefit from its further funding. Let me explain.

  I agree with those who think our country has been performing not merely wicked actions for many years now but sick actions, and I agree with Henry Steele Commager (testifying recently before a Senate committee) that the name of our illness is Power. So, perhaps, do hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, who respond with rage to the invasion of Cambodia but with apathy merely to the invasion of Laos. Some observers have remarked a certain national despair, the response of a patient who learns at last that what he has is progressive and fatal. But the hospital patient does not feel responsible for his condition, whereas, though we don’t either and so resent it, also we do. Our feelings are right. We are not responsible. ‘Men are not evil-doers: they are sleep-walkers’ (F. Kafka). Knowledge is good for its own sake, power is good for its own sake.

  But we are responsible. (Cf. R. Guardini in 1955 to students in Munich.) Only this was wrong. The body politic itself is a victim of disease, producing sincere delusions—that is, lies which the liar believes. However, to be deluded is far worse than simply to be wicked. What is finally scary about our murderers just now, like Charlie Manson’s girls and Lt Calley and his collaborators, is their motives—they killed at random ‘with love’ and ‘for duty’—and their judgment: the massacre of Asiatic human beings herded into a ditch, Calley testifies, ‘wasn’t any big deal.’ This is the self-appraisal of a maniac. Millions of worthy Americans share it.

  [Letter mailed to the editor of The New York Times but not printed]

  10 April 1971

  Dear Sir:

  With regard to the agony or outraged or complacent denial or apathy of millions of us over our share if any in the guilt of Lt Calley for what happened at My Lai 4, and over our share of responsibility for other things (a word about that presently), we might seek what consolation is to be found in the wise analysis of the Roman Catholic theologian (now Bishop) R. Guardini. I extract from a complex argument (reported in The Bridge, vol. I, ed. John M. Oesterreicher, 1955) a few sentences. Addressing university students in Munich twenty years ago on the responsibility of the German people for the Nazis’ crimes, he rejected the view lately (very lately) adopted with dismay by many Americans: that which assigns ‘collective guilt’. ‘There is,’ he told his audience, ‘no such thing. Never can a man be guilty of another man’s crime, unless, of course, he cooperates in it or fails to do what he can and should to prevent it. There is no “collective guilt”, but there is collective honor, the solidarity of the individual with his people and of all individuals with one another. If a member of my family commits some wrong, I may say, I am not guilty; but I may not say, It is no concern of mine. For I am part and parcel of my family, and its honor is, within certain limits, my honor. Similarly, each one of us must accept a share of responsibility for the wrong done by our people, since this wrong touches each one’s honor and demands of him that things be put right. This is our duty, because injustice must not be left standing: it must be dealt with till nothing of it remains, and this for two reasons. First, it violates the sovereignty of the good, and it is man’s nobility to know of this and bear its burden. Second, injustice is real: if not conquered, it continues to work in the ideas begotten by it and in the people formed by them.’

  So no American is off any hook, fellow-actors. The hook is thick and dug deep. Notice ‘in the people formed by them.’ We are obliged to hold ourselves responsible not only for a decade of Asiatic corpses and uninhabitable countryside and genocidal ‘resettlement’ of whole populations of Asiatic villagers, but for what we are doing to the survivors with (for instance, a grant of $21 million last fiscal year; this year: $30 million) to the police of the South Vietnamese regime for whom our men have been dying,—police whose ‘timely and positive action’ (so a high American official officially boasts to our ambassador in that desperate country) ‘effectively contained civil disturbances including war veterans, students and religious groups’ (so the director of a finely named Agency for International Development, Mr John Mossler, quoted in The Minneapolis Tribune, 9 April 1971). This aid of ours, by the way, to the enemies of the progressive elements in their country, is six times as great as our aid to education in South Vietnam. Surely we did not know these things. Surely we cannot responsibly continue to support an administration which is thus, by a natural, if loathsome, sympathe
tic conformation, repressing exactly those possibly democratic elements that all or some of us wish to encourage. Not that any of all this ought to be any of our pretentious Government’s business!—not even the education bit, when our own schools are at most levels radically unsatisfactory and thirty million Americans are right this bright Spring morning slowly starving.

  Yours, etc.,

  in-patient

  Severance was not very good at Natha(?) and yoga. He had mastered lobhastana and [indecipherable], but the instructions of his guru, a banker in Calcutta, went largely neglected.

  3 or 4 months ‘out of’ treatment

  Severance was not happy about his money. He was paid a very high salary by the University for teaching three hours a week, his publisher sent him handsome cheques, often sums drifted in from foundations and Government, the place was crawling with dough. He sweated with guilt. He had been poor most of his life, many of his friends, including his brother, were actually unemployed at the moment—some for many months now—and though he supported half a dozen people and ‘lent’ money to still others, he couldn’t reconcile himself to his good luck. He didn’t feel worthless, much less Franciscan, but

  5th month out of treatment, Severance in his Want Ad cheaply buys himself in Des Moines a black star-sapphire ring from a young Thai sculptor, giving himself seven plus-strokes for only half of what the guy paid for it—sixty dollars, in Bangkok.

  6 months out. Author interrupted at breakfast by phone. Liz is back in treatment!

  He felt some hurt. Liz was a foxy intelligent sumptuous woman, rich, with four splendid girls, a bad but unassuming portrait-painter, a great friend of his. Towards their discharge, a year ago, he had proposed that the three of them—R. Wall was the witty snobbish advertising director for the second largest department store in the city—start their own AA group. Incredible? Yet at the time he hadn’t understood at all when Jerry Croy, to whom he mentioned the gorgeous project in two sentences on the wing, had just said, ‘Sounds selective to me’ and vanished down the corridor towards some meeting.

  Delusions (major ‘activity’)

  I. Drive to solve his failure with the 1st Step (he hadn’t)

  II. Drive to solve mystery of OK 5 years (real, and very odd because so long delayed and so long lasting—well, the joke reported by Augustine, Confessions)

  III. Drive to become a Jew (expiate imaginary transgressions—cf. Guardini—join son and dead friend (Delmore Schwartz)

  IV … . . Effort of > 3rd Step I. Sacrifice. of vainglory (not ‘amphitheatre’) of self knowledge (not ‘Fa>SKS-X)

  II. Selflessness, in Group-Labour (find a term for this) entails: sacrifice of pride; secrets! as ‘incest’ and attempted————(drunk—barely escaped)

  So, it wasn’t only Mini-Group that did the work, but both-especially Keg bringing me out to ‘level’ with him (= attack, & so remorse) and Harley trapping me in D-D at the last minute!

  Only realized, 7 June 71, on noticing the “Sacrifice” of Hastings encycl. in a 2nd hand cat.

  “The Jewish Kick”

  The priest genuflected and kissed and mumbled. In chapel Severance suddenly felt a resistless hostility, akin to mother’s in Rome, against the gabbled masses. (Succumbed to thru awful laicism in old age, though.)

  9:25 a.m. Fri. 13th

  I become a Jew—the wonder of my life—it’s possible! Rabbi M. is coming at 2:30.

  My uneasiness with Xt’y (Christianity) came to a head in Mass with George this morning. Worship God but where? how? want company (George—Mike with his wife).

  Passion over Rose’s John saying to her at last “I love you” —Severance: ‘You never could say it to her before, could you?’—I thought of P. wanting to say it to me, maybe, but held off by disappointment with me (rage, perhaps?)—baffled, hurt—how will he take my letter?!?

  Left and came to my room and incredibly thought of becoming a Jew. Always held it impossible because of inadequate concept of God. Ok since Vin’s rescue—but hostile to Trinity, dubious of X (Christianity?), hostile to the Blessed Virgin, anti-Pope, deep sympathy with Church, but not for me.

  alone with God, yet not alone, one of many worshippers, like them except in blood (who cares?)

  Somebody in Snack Room even said to me recently, ‘You ought to become a Jew!!’—Bud? (Irish-Jewish wives—my son, perhaps the nexus just now.)

  I feel apprehensive—joyful—can I? Will He receive me? I know I must prepare, be ready for all.

  [NOTE ON SIDE OF PAPER] The Cantor’s letter helpt me, unknowing by me. (Maybe as far back as “Imaginary Jew” *—and no wonder I was the N.Y. Jew in Hong Kong story) and overjoyed by The Bridge of Will Herberg!!

  All has pointed HERE.

  I. In my old story2, a confrontation as Jew is resisted, fought, failed—at last is given into symbolically. I identified at least with the persecution. So the ‘desire’ (was it?) is at least 25 years old.

  II. PLUS after that, The Black Book 3—abandoned—obsessed—perhaps now take it up again? My position is certain.

  III. Horror of anti-semitism. Excitement over Babel! Buber! the Hasidim! Bloch’s music! Pascal’s Hebraism in ‘conversion’! WCW’s Jewish blood!

  love for S., first doctor I ever felt anything for.

  resentment of Cal’s tiny Jewish blood, Daiches’ full heritage.

  flourishing of Freud and Einstein.

  Jewish girls.

  Yiddish stories and slang.

  my Hebrew effort. Peret and Bargebecher(?).

  regular Old Testament study at last, this year.

  my anthology of Yiddish poetry! (till lately—why kept?)

  unique devotion to Job—texts, study, translation begun.

  resented/liked name ‘Berryman’ being thought Jewish.

  End of Book

  LAST SIX PAGES? Book ends (put the Assumption stuff the week before) on the bus descending Pike’s Peak. Put the ‘pros. distance’, [indecipherable] and the ‘great sacrifice’ bits the day before. Plus tooth long loose—to lose. P: in here better or worse. S: there isn’t enough of it to form an opinion. With understanding of his special awareness earlier, growing up. Prem. of Death-controlled by: Medicine. Value. Still … Well, okay with him. He could see a good deal of pain coming up. No sweat. Sorry to leave dygs. so much work unfin’d. Oh sorry sorry—hard to leave [indecipherable]. Headache and lassitude gone. P’s question and his answer.—P. slumpt in seat, M. sleeping. ‘He felt fine’

  [Note on back of a yellow card in Berryman’s hand] ‘END OF NOVEL: TURN THIS CARD OVER.’

  .˙. by Christmas

  The goals of psychotherapy were char’d by remembering. The goal of alcoholic treatment, he only had really grasped after six months out, was oblivion. ‘The passion of a free and truthful life.’ [Indecipherable] Five minutes on waking, twenty seconds gratitude at bedtime,—‘the rest is silence.’ He might, certainly, at any time drink again. But it didn’t seem likely.

  He felt-calm.

  [On a separate page, in Berryman’s hand] ‘LAST PAGE OF BOOK (EXCEPT SELAH).’

  On Pike’s Peak, coming down.

  He was perfectly ready. No regrets. He was happier than he had ever been in his life before. Lucky, and he didn’t deserve it. He was very, very lucky. Bless everybody. He felt-fine.

  The Imaginary Jew

  The second summer of the European War I spent in New York. I lived in a room just below street-level on Lexington above 34th, wrote a good deal, tried not to think about Europe, and listened to music on a small gramophone, the only thing of my own, except books, in the room. Haydn’s London Symphony, his last, I heard probably fifty times in two months. One night when excited I dropped the pickup, creating a series of knocks at the beginning of the last movement where the oboe joins the strings which still, when I hear them, bring up for me my low dark long damp room and I feel the dew of heat and smell the rented upholstery. I was trying as they say to come back a little, uncertain and low after an exhausting year. Why I
decided to do this in New York—the enemy in summer equally of soul and body, as I had known for years—I can’t remember; perhaps I didn’t, but was held on merely from week to week by the motive which presently appeared in the form of a young woman met the Christmas before and now the occupation of every evening not passed in solitary and restless gloom. My friends were away; I saw few other people. Now and then I went to the zoo in lower Central Park and watched with interest the extraordinary behavior of a female badger. For a certain time she quickly paced the round of her cage. Then she would approach the sidewall from an angle in a determined, hardly perceptible, unhurried trot; suddenly, when an inch away, point her nose up it, follow her nose up over her back, turning a deft and easy somersault, from which she emerged on her feet moving swiftly and unconcernedly away, as if the action had been no affair of hers, indeed she had scarcely been present. There was another badger in the cage who never did this, and nothing else about her was remarkable; but this competent disinterested somersault she enacted once every five or ten minutes as long as I watched her,—quitting the wall, by the way, always at an angle in fixed relation to the angle at which she arrived at it. It is no longer possible to experience the pleasure I knew each time she lifted her nose and I understood again that she would not fail me, or feel the mystery of her absolute disclaimer,—she has been taken away or died.