Another friend, a writer, this one strange and, like Kafka, an exile from the ordinary world in which most of us are destined to live: Anna Kavan.

Anna welcomed me to her home, the home of her own design. We met towards the end of her life. I knew nothing of her heroin habit, a habit she had been on for some thirty years. Heroin was her truce with reality.

She lived in Hillgate Street, near Notting Hill Gate. I had selected her book, Ice, as the best science fiction novel of 1967, less from any conviction that Ice actually was SF than from a desire to draw attention to a splendid piece of writing which might otherwise have been overlooked in the face – the welter! – of noisier claimants for public attention.

Anna was delighted to have her book called science fiction; she said it made her feel modern. And so I was welcomed into that strange narrow circle, if there is such a thing, of Anna Kavan’s friends.
She longed to have a reputation. And one sees in her work that species of modernism which one finds in the novels of Aldous Huxley.

Anna showed me round her home, walking with a stick. The house was cunning and discreet; garden and house interlocked. Many exotic plants grew everywhere; mirrors basked mistily among paintings, some of them her own paintings. The Elaborate basked there; I found myself consorting with Kafka’s sister. ‘Reality had always been something of an unknown quality to me,’ as she says on the opening page of Ice.

Carl Jung says that all we see of the mentally ill, regarding them from the outside, ‘Is their tragic destruction, rarely that side of the psyche which is turned away from us.’ Anna shows us that hidden side, struggling to make sense of an illogical world. Extracts can be taken at random from her several novels.

She also loved comedy, and could be very amusing. Just to write about her here, I feel her pungent atmosphere enfold me. Her paintings are remarkable; headless creatures hug one another. I am fortunate in having three of her paintings – upstairs, so as not to scare the children.

My wife and I, wisely or unwisely, invited Anna to spend a weekend with us. We received a note saying she could not come. ‘Sorry this is such a disjointed note. I really don’t feel human at present.’
The ice was closing in. She died on 6th of December 1968.

Her novels include Sleep Has His House, Guilty, A Charmed Circle, Julia and the Bazooka and My Soul in China. All were first published by Peter Owen.

Picador Classics published My Madness, selected and edited by me from Anna Kavan’s writings.

“But the consequence of the traumatic experience was still evident in the insomnia and headaches from which I suffered. the drugs prescribed for me produced horrid dreams, in which she always appeared as a helpless victim, her fragile body broken and bruised. These dreams were not confined to sleep only, and a deplorable side effect was the way I had come to enjoy them.”

Such is an early paragraph in Anna Kavan’s novel “Ice”. the Antarctic ice cap, melting, has flowed over the South Pacific and the Atlantic oceans, creating a vast ice-mass, this reflects the suns rays and throws them back into outer space, thus depriving the Earth of its warmth. Such is the scenario of Anna Kavan’s best known novel, “Ice”. I selected this book of Anna’s as the best science fiction novel of 1967, less from any conviction that “Ice” indeed was S.F. than from a desire to draw attention to a splendidly eccentric piece of writing which could easily have been overlooked in the welter of noisier claimants for public attention.

I found that Anna was delighted to have her book called science fiction. She said it made her feel modern. I was welcomed to her home, a house of her own designing. I knew nothing of Anna’s heroin habit, a habit she had been hooked on for something like thirty years; heroin was Anna’s truce with reality.

For a brief while I performed my part in that strange narrow circle (if there is such a thing) of Anna Kavan’s friends. She longed to have a reputation, while perhaps being too strange to gain one. One can see in much of her work that kind of modernism which are found in the novels of Aldous Huxley. In truth, she was fortunate in having Peter Owen as her faithful publisher.

Her house was cunning and discreet, with garden and house interlocking. Many exotic plants grew everywhere, with mirrors basking mistily among various canvasses, some of which were her own paintings. I went among them as one consorting with Franz Kafka’s sister.

Her novels include “A Charmed Circle”, “Sleep Has His House”, “Guilty”, “Julia and the Bazooka”, and “My Soul in China”. All published by Peter Owen. Later, Picador Classic published “My Madness” a selection from Anna Kavan’s writings which I selected and edited.

Tragic though she was, Anna loved comedy and could be very amusing. Writing about her, I feel again her pungent atmosphere enfolding me. Her paintings are remarkable. Headless creatures hug one another. I am fortunate in having three of her paintings on my wall.

Carl Jung says that all we see of the mentally ill, regarding them from the outside “is their tragic destruction, rarely that side of the psyche which is turned away from us”. Anna shows that hidden side, struggling to make sense of an illogical world. Extracts could be taken at random from her several novels.

The ice was closing in on her. Anna Kavan died on the 6th December 1968. I keep my copies of her books close to Franz Kafka’s.