A Spectator's Notebook
The word 'Christmas' should be a beautiful word and there are still many places of worship where it has the inspiration of great music. But, one wonders ... for how long? As each year goes by, I become increasingly 'convinced that there was a great deal of sense in Mr Scrooge.
The first occasion on which I realised that there was something almost obscenely wrong about our modern interpretation of the word 'Christmas' was in Hollywood. The picture is very clear to me. It was Christmas Eve, and I was on the way to dine with an enchanting actress called Greer Garson. Being, as usual, far too early. I stopped off in one of the great boulevards that slash across the city. It was brighter than noon, and uproarious with noise. One's eyes blinked under the neon lights and one's ears ached to the scream of synthetic carols and the clang of recorded church bells.
Down the wide street came a vast carnival procession, led by a titanic Father Christmas, scattering rose petals among the crowds. These petals, when examined, proved to be delicately decorated with sanctimonious advertisements for whiskey.
Following in the wake of Father Christmas came the inevitable battalions of blondes, on floats, jigging their bosoms to the tune of 'Good King Wenceslas.'
But there were even greater wonders in store, even loftier spiritual heights to inspire
us. For in the distance, through a mounting crescendo of cheers, came Jesus Christ in person. Nearer and nearer He approached; louder and louder swelled the adoration of the multitudes.
And now, we must write something that is very difficult, that Jesus Christ, on this oc casion, was none other than Marilyn Monroe. Not in persgn. Even that greatly overrated bag of nerves never did anything quite so outrageous. But the features of the Saviour, executed in pale pink wax, were definitely those of Miss Monroe. The only distinguishing feature was provided by the beard, which was contrived in a sharp shade of peroxide yellow. tions. beginning with Mesmer, about whom I wrote a play which was produced by Cochran, and instantly forgotten by everybody else. (Mesmer, by the way is a remarkably contemporary figure, whose bizarre methods of therapy are now being taken seriously by the medical profession). From Mesmer I strayed off into the largely uncharted territory of water-divining, which lies at the back of the whole business. After this interlude, Harry Edwards became a valued and devoted friend with whom I had, and still have, arguments which seem of fundamental importance. Meanwhile there were a great many experiments with pendulums, which I watched swinging in strange and inexplicable rhythms.
This was followed by a rather dramatic personal experience of radiesthesia, in which a broken wrist was healed solely by the spiritual force of a man slowly passing his hands above it. He did not touch me physically, I was not under hypnosis, and I was able to watch the uncanny flickerings of the muscles, as though an unseen battery was at work. And the wrist was healed.
The man who healed it, by the way, was a highly qualified surgeon and a devout Catholic, so he could hardly be described as a quack. But I can't supply his address because I have no idea what has happened to him.
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