To achieve great things, two things are needed; a plan, and not quite enough time.
So said Leonard Benrstein, the American composer. Or enough money or enough success, I would add.
But that’s not what most of us wish for is it? We all hold dreams of having a little more time and a little more money and lot more success.
Here’s my dream life:
A big, white, clapboard house in New England with a wrap-around porch and a swing. An upstairs study, my desk pressed up against a big window that overlooks a lake and mountains: this scene is always in The Fall, with its golden leaves. Attached to the house is an annexe where our lovely, full-time, Mary Poppins nanny lives. She looks after Tennessee while I write – and because she looks after her at home, I can pop down and give Tennessee a cuddle whenever I please. We have a Noah’s Ark of animas. Cats. Dogs. Baby goats. Micropigs, of course. Hugh is out directing a play he’s written – it’s about to transfer to Broadway and then The West End. He’s busy but he always has time to come home to give Tennessee her bath and to have supper and a snuggle on the sofa with me. On the bookcases that line my study walls, I have a row of bestsellers. I don’t need to write, but I love it, so I keep scribbling. My publishers have given me a book-a-year contract for life. I have enough ideas to fill another hundred novels. I have time to sleep well, eat well, walk. All my friends and family live nearby. Life’s good.
But would it really be so good? And, more importantly, would it allow met to keep writing stories that matter?
Not according to my daughter’s namesake, the playwright, Tennessee Williams. In his essay, The Catastrophe of Success, he wrote that ‘the human organism is created’ for ‘a life of clawing and scratching along a sheer surface and holding on tight with raw fingers to every inch of rock higher than the one caught hold of before.’ We make the best art, he argued, when we don’t have quite enough time or money or success.
Success – and the time, money and comfort that comes with it – leads to lethargy. Creative inertia. ‘The heart of man,’ Williams writes, ‘his body and his brain, are forged in the white-hot furnace for the purpose of conflict (the struggle of creation).’
Once Tennessee Williams became a household name, was surrounded by people who chanted, ‘I love your play,’ lived in the pent-house suite of a hotel, had his pick of plays to write and theatres to perform them in – he got depressed. The best art, it would seem, comes not from comfort, but struggle. It’s a lesson we’ve seen born out in history. Perhaps that’s why the Swiss don’t produce all that much good art: they are too content, too wealthy – their trains too punctual – to create the friction that produces words and images that sparkle. (I beg forgiveness for this comment from my dear Swiss friends and relatives; I am sure they have some good art).
Now, there’s a fine balance. If you are too poor, too sleep-deprived, too short of time, too much afflicted by rejection after rejection, your body and soul will grow frail and the creative well will dry up. But that’s not the position most of us reading this blog are in, is it?
So, what’s my life like when compared to the idyll recounted above?
Well, I have a Mary Poppins nanny, Samantha, but only for a few days a week – and only for a day a week at the moment. Today, I have her for exactly seven and a half hours. That means I have to write fast to get my edits done. But urgency breeds efficiency.
For my beautiful desk and study I have a small round table in a coffee shop with a view of a busy high street (probably more inspiring to a writer than a lake…).
Hugh won’t be back for bath time or supper tonight because the boarding school he works for demands him to be at work until late. And he hasn’t yet had time to finish that play – though he will, I am confident of that.
I left my car a couple of miles from Reading to save on parking and walked the rest of the way for exercise. Walking is the cheapest form of exercise (no expensive gym subscriptions, just a pair of trainers) and it’s time-efficient (you can use your feet for transport as well as for exercise). From September, my part time salary will just about cover the cost of my part-time Mary Poppins: no holidays for a while and I’ll probably have to sell my rattley, bird-poop covered Polo.
And as for the white, clapboard house in New England? Well, I’ll have to settle for school accommodation in Crowthorne. A higgledy piggledy cottage that needs quite a bit of work; it’s close to the theatre though, so Hugh will be able to pop up for bath time every now and then.
Not so idyllic? Well, maybe it is…
If Tennessee Williams is right, and I think he is, then I have just about the most perfect life to be a half-decent novelist: not quite enough time or money or success. And, as Bernstein said, I do have a plan. A plan to keep writing, to publish more novels and so to move an ever greater number of readers through my stories.
Here is his full essay: well worth reading and pinning on your noticeboard!
The Catastrophe of Success
by Tennessee Williams
This winter marked the third anniversary of the Chicago opening of “The Glass Menagerie,” an event that terminated one part of my life and began another about as different in all external circumstances as could well be imagined. I was snatched out of virtual oblivion and thrust into sudden prominence, and from the precarious tenancy of furnished rooms about the country I was removed to a suite in a first-class Manhattan hotel. My experience was not unique. Success has often come that abruptly into the lives of Americans. The Cinderella story is our favorite national myth, the cornerstone of the film industry if not of the Democracy itself. I have seen it enacted on the screen so often that I was now inclined to yawn at it, not with disbelief but with an attitude of Who Cares! Anyone with such beautiful teeth and hair as the screen protagonist of such a story was bound to have a good time one way or another, and you could bet your bottom dollar and all the tea in China that one would be caught dead or alive at any meeting involving a social conscience.
No, my experience was not exceptional, but neither was it quite ordinary, and if you are willing to accept the somewhat eclectic proposition that I had not been writing with such an experience in mind and many people are not willing to believe that a playwright is interested in anything but popular success—there may be some point in comparing the two estates.
The sort of life that I had had previous to this popular success was one that required endurance, a life of clawing and scratching along a sheer surface and holding on tight with raw fingers to every inch of rock higher than the one caught hold of before, but it was a good life because it was the sort of life for which the human organism is created.
I was not aware of how much vital energy had gone into this struggle until the struggle was removed. I was out on a level plateau with my arms still thrashing and my lungs still grabbing at air that no longer resisted. This was security at last.
I sat down and looked about me and was suddenly very depressed. I thought to myself, this is just a period of adjustment. Tomorrow morning, I will wake up in this first-class hotel suite above the discreet hum of an East Side boulevard and I will appreciate its elegance and luxuriate in its comforts and know that I have arrived at our American plan of Olympus. Tomorrow morning when I look at the green satin sofa I will fall in love with it. It is only temporarily that the green satin looks like slime on stagnant water.
But in the morning the inoffensive little sofa looked more revolting than the night before and I was already getting too fat for the $125 suit which a fashionable acquaintance had selected for me. In the suite things began to break accidentally. An arm came off the sofa. Cigarette burns appeared on the polished surface of the furniture. Windows were left open and a rain storm flooded the suite But the maid always put it straight and the patience of the management was inexhaustible. Late parties could not offend them seriously. Nothing short of demolition bomb seemed to bother my neighbors.
I lived on room service. But in this, too, there was a disenchantment. Some time between the moment when I ordered dinner over the phone and when it was rolled into my living room like a corpse on a rubber-wheeled table, I lost all interest in it. Once I ordered a sirloin steak and a chocolate sundae, but everything was so cunningly disguised on the table that I mistook the chocolate sauce for gravy and poured it over the sirloin steak.
Of course all this was the more trivial aspect of a spiritual dislocation that began to manifest itself in far more disturbing ways. I soon found myself becoming indifferent to people. A well cynicism rose in me. Conversations all sounded as if they had been recorded years ago and were being played back on a turntable. Sincerity and kindliness seemed to have gone out of my friends’ voices. I suspected them of hypocrisy. I stopped calling them, stopped seeing them. I was impatient of what I took to be inane flattery.
I got so sick of hearing people say, “I loved your play!” that I could not say thank you any more. I choked on the words and turned rudely away from the usually sincere person. I no longer felt any pride in the play itself but began to dislike it, probably because I felt too lifeless inside ever to create another. I was walking around dead in my shoes and I knew it but there were no friends I knew or trusted sufficiently, at that time, to take them aside and tell them what was the matter.
This curious condition persisted about three months, till late spring, when I decided to have another eye operation mainly because of the excuses it gave me to withdraw from the world behind a gauze mask. It was my fourth eye operation, and perhaps I should explain that I had been afflicted for about five years with a cataract on my left eye which required a series of needling operations and finally an operation on the muscle of the eye. (The eye is still in my head. So much for that.)
Well, the gauze mask served a purpose. While I was resting in the hospital the friends whom I had neglected or affronted in one way or another began to call on me and now that I was in pain and darkness, unpleasant mutation which I had suspected earlier in the season had now disappeared and they sounded now as they had used to sound in the lamented days of my obscurity. Once more they were sincere and kindly voices with the ring of truth in them and that quality of understanding for which I had originally sought them out.
As far as my physical vision was concerned, this last operation was only relatively successful (although it left me with an apparently clear black pupil in the right position, or nearly so) but in another, figurative way, it had served a much deeper purpose.
When the gauze mask was removed I found myself in a readjusted world. I checked out of the handsome suite at the first-class hotel, packed my papers and a few incidental belongings and left for Mexico, an elemental country where you can quickly forget the false dignities and conceits imposed by success, a country where vagrants innocent as children curl up to sleep on the pavements and human voices, especially when their language is not familiar to the ear, are soft as birdsâ€™. My public self, that artifice of mirrors, did not exist here and so my natural being was resumed.
Then, as a final act of restoration, I settled for a while at Chapala to work on a play called “The Poker Night,” which later became “A Streetcar Named Desire.” It is only in his work that an artist can find reality and satisfaction, for the actual world is less intense than the world of his invention and consequently his life, without recourse to violent disorder, does not seem very substantial. The right condition for him is that in which his work is not only convenient but unavoidable.
For me a convenient place to work is a remote place among strangers where there is good swimming. But life should require a certain minimal effort. You should not have too many people waiting on you, you should have to do most things for yourself. Hotel service is embarrassing. Maids, waiters, bellhops, porters and so forth are the most embarrassing people in the world for they continually remind you of inequities which we accept as the proper thing. The sight of an ancient woman, gasping and wheezing as she drags a heavy pail of water down a hotel corridor to mop up the mess of some drunken overprivileged guest, is one that sickens and weighs upon the heart and withers it with shame for this world in which it is not only tolerated but regarded as proof positive that the wheels of Democracy are functioning as they should without interference from above or below. Nobody should have to clean up anybody else’s mess in this world. It is terribly bad for both parties, but probably worse for the one receiving the service.
I have been corrupted as much as anyone else by the vast number of menial services which our society has grown to expect and depend on. We should do for ourselves or let the machines do for us, the glorious technology that is supposed to be the new light of the world. We are like a man who has bought up a great amount of equipment for a camping trip, who has the canoe and the tent and the fishing lines and the axe and the guns, the mackinaw and the blankets, but who now, when all the preparations and the provisions are piled expertly together, is suddenly too timid to set out on the journey but remains where he was yesterday and the day before and the day before that, looking suspiciously through white lace curtains at the clear sky he distrusts. Our great technology is a God-given chance for adventure and for progress which we are afraid to attempt. Our ideas and our ideals remain exactly what they were and where they were three centuries ago. No. I beg your pardon. It is no longer safe for man to even declare them!
This is a long excursion from a small theme into a large one which I did not intend to make, so let me go back to what I was saying before.
This is an oversimplification. One does not escape that easily from the seduction of an effete way of life. You cannot arbitrarily say to yourself, I will not continue my life as it was before this thing, Success, happened to me. But once you fully apprehend the vacuity of a life without struggle you are equipped with the basic means of salvation. Once you know this is true, that the heart of man, his body and his brain, are forged in a white-hot furnace for the purpose of conflict (the struggle of creation) and that with the conflict removed, the man is a sword cutting daisies, that not privation but luxury is the wolf at the door and that the fangs of this wolf are all the little vanities and conceits and laxities that Success is heir to—-why, then with this knowledge you are at least in a position of knowing where danger lies.
You know, then, that the public Somebody you are when you “have a name” is a fiction created with mirrors and that the only somebody worth being is the solitary and unseen you that existed from your first breath and which is the sum of your actions and so is constantly in a state of becoming under your own violation— and knowing these things, you can even survive the catastrophe of Success!
It is never altogether too late, unless you embrace the Bitch Goddess, as William James called her, with both arms and find in her smothering caresses exactly what the homesick little boy in you always wanted, absolute protection and utter effortlessness. Security is a kind of death, I think, and it can come to you in a storm of royalty checks beside a kidney-shaped pool in Beverly Hills or anywhere at all that is removed from the conditions that made you an artist, if that’s what you are or were intended to be. Ask, anyone who has experienced the kind of success I am talking about— What good is it? Perhaps to get an honest answer you will have to give him a shot of truth serum but the word he will finally groan is unprintable in genteel publications.
Then what is good? The obsessive interest in human affairs, plus a certain amount of compassion and moral conviction, that first made the experience of living something that must be translated into pigment or music or bodily movement or poetry or prose or anything that’s dynamic and expressive—that’s what’s good for you if you’re at all serious in your aims. William Saroyan wrote a great play on this theme, that purity of heart is the one success worth having. “In the time of your life—live!” That time is short and it doesn’t return again. It is slipping away while I write this and while you read it, and the monosyllable of the clock is Loss, loss, loss, unless you devote your heart to its opposition.