No Guru, No Disciple, Part Two

In the car on the way home, Michael was furious. "How could you ask him that kind of question?" he asked, aghast. "He was nice enough to agree to an interview, and then you go and quiz him on his personal life."

"Quiz him? I asked a seventy-year-old man about gay relationships. I didn't ask for photos of him fucking Don."

"Well, it's none of your business, and you didn't have the right to ask."

"Let me get this straight. We've got a writer prized for his honesty who refuses to discuss homosexuality? His religion centers on unity and oneness, but his experience in life has no bearing on our own? There's been a sexual revolution. We've had gay liberation. And the end result is we still can't talk about sex?"

"Yes," he said. "That's absolutely right."

I tried to back out of our agreement, but even I knew that'd be lame. Michael hadn't promised he'd be civil to me: he'd just agreed that I could go. I typed up the interview, Michael edited it, and then he sent it off to Mr. Isherwood for his approval. A week or so later a reply came back.

Mr. Isherwood had written up a whole new interview, with brand new questions and answers. His version talked a bit about writing but focused primarily on Vedanta. I'd written off that religion. I didn't believe in reincarnation. I didn't believe in one God, let alone vast quantities of them. I was a gay teenager who'd left home at sixteen. I'd spent most of my adolescence on the street, wondering if long-term relationships even existed. To me, and other teenagers like me, the details of an obscure Indian religion weren't foremost in my mind.

Here, however, they was explored in vast detail.

Tell us about the role Vedanta's Five Sheaths of Existences can play in illuminating the unexamined corporeal life.

I flipped through the pages in disbelief. It seemed like every question should have been asked on a hilltop and ended with "Oh Enlightened One." Neither Michael nor I could get through the thing. Maybe it would have been interesting to, say, Dick Cavett, but nobody under forty could have plowed through Isherwood's first reply.

Michael was somewhere between insulted and horrified. He'd spent weeks preparing for the interview: rereading every book, reading every interview, writing up pages of questions. And it wasn't good enough. It didn't rate praise or publication. It had to be tossed out and rewritten by the pro.

The interview was printed the way Isherwood wrote it, and Michael came through with flying colors. Since he hadn't offended the master, he was invited back, and eventually Don drew a picture of him.

Me, I learned a lesson, though it wasn't quite as profound as the ones Mr. Isherwood learns in "My Guru and His Disciple."

Even if someone assures you that their life is an open book, don't risk looking between the covers.

No Guru, No Disciple, Part One

Until last weekend, I'd assumed Christopher Isherwood had faded into history. At the local library, though, I saw an announcement for a panel discussion of the new film "Chris and Don: A Love Story" -- to be attended by Chris' partner of thirty-something years, Don Bachardy -- and I knew I couldn't miss it.

The event was an absolute lovefest. Chris was a brilliant writer, a generous teacher, a devoutly religious man. Sure, he picked up Don on a Santa Monica beach when the former was 48 and the latter was 18. Or was he 16? But theirs was a love story for the ages that just had to be put on film.

Chris just loved young men, filmmaker Guido Santi declared. He loved their "violent opinions." They reminded Chris of his youth. And filming couldn't have been easier. They had access to everything. Nothing was off-limits. What honesty everyone had shown!

What a pile of crap, I thought.

Many years ago I went to college to get a math degree. Between studying and working full time, I was burning the candle at both ends. To buy myself a little peace and quiet -- and to learn something that might have the slightest relevance to my life -- I signed up for a Gay Literature class. How hard could it be? I thought. Read a book, then discuss. Not exactly trying to reconstruct the proof of Fermat's second theorem.

Michael, one of my classmates, was a lead member of the clique that produced the school's gay quarterly. We weren't exactly friends -- he was a May Sarton to my John Rechy -- but one day he just casually let drop that he was going to interview Christopher Isherwood, in the way you casually mention your parents gave you a Firebird for your birthday. Being the world's biggest Isherwood fan, I went temporarily insane. I told Michael I'd do anything if I could tag along. I'd cook him dinner, I'd wash his socks, I'd type up the whole interview for him. Michael agreed to the bribe.

Bubbling with excitement, we drove out to Isherwood's house in a secluded part of Santa Monica Canyon. Mr. Isherwood, casually dressed and apparently alone, met us at the door and led us into the living room. We talked about everything under the sun, from his childhood to his writing to his adherence to Vedanta, a Hindu religion. After about an hour, I worked up the courage to ask a slightly more difficult question. About his personal life.

Now, even at this point I had issues with Isherwood. His work, while beautiful, was completely closeted. He was known as a gay writer, but his characters were sexless rather than gay. The female protagonists would bunk up with the Navy while the male lead sat in a cafe and stared out the window. I'll admit that most works of this period were similarly closeted but James Baldwin and Gore Vidal had the guts to push the boundaries a bit.

I thought it was a harmless topic. I'd had vast numbers of insignificant relationships and not a single long-term one, so I asked an old man about his. Did he think gay couples needed to follow the heterosexual model of monogamy? If so, did he think we were capable of it?

The pair shot me a horrified look, like I'd ejaculated bodily fluids onto the cashmere carpet. "Do you speak German, Chris?" Michael asked.

Mr. Isherwood said yes, and the pair started conversing in German. For two, three, four, five minutes. It's pretty clear you've done something wrong when people switch to a language you don't know. They were both clearly offended, but I thought their reaction had me beat. There are several thousand tactful ways of telling somebody they've overstepped the bounds of propriety. Talking about them in a foreign language isn't one.

They wrapped up their little conversation, bonding with a mutual distaste for my prying, and I wanted the floor to open up. I stayed quiet for the rest of the night. I'd brought along a biography of Isherwood, intending to ask him about some of it, but instead I just asked for his autograph. "You know I didn't write this, right?" he asked.

Oh great, I thought. I'm stupid now.