nyuuzyou/wikis huggingface dataset:
Lipton’s Journal/January 24, 1955/253

everybody is both male and female, heterosexual and homosexual—a commonplace—what isn’t realized is that there are two kinds of sexual people—those who are essentially bi-sexual, and those whom I will call uni-sexual. Bi-sexuals make long clinging imaginative love passages, wanderings, where the orgasm is merely regretted terminus rather than climax. Uni-sexuals make short love, be it cold or hot, love which is harsh, active, emotional, rigorous, and oriented to climax. Analysts generally would call unisexuals healthy, bi-sexuals unhealthy, but I wonder. Because bi-sexuals are more developed and their lovemaking is a more painful but richer playing out of the conflict. Unisexuals have habits which enable them to suppress . So potent or frigid, is over quickly and the mind hibernation . The bisexual is stimulated, frightened, is at the edge of the mystery, is frustrated, comes back, flees, sweats cold, loses him or herself, has a great thought or perception, feels love, loses love, chases it again, and so forth.
 The unisexual is all male or all female on the surface. Underneath, and deeply buried except as they reveal themselves in their habits is the reverse. So, a woman uni-sexual is apparently feminine, calm, capable, good housewife, efficient, motherly, light on make-up, likes the short brisk act, and unconsciously toward other women and as a male. The unisexual male if he is nominally heterosexual and healthy is aggressive toward women in an easy way, has short quick , is decisive, executive, athletic, and is unaware of the woman in him, although he is subject to sudden aggressive and passive homosexual panics and indeed even actions. 
Bisexuals are much more consciously aware of the male and female in them. They are therefore anxious, “sex-obsessed,” orgiastic, and…stable. Because whether they make love to a man or a woman the man-and-woman in the bi-sexual makes love to the woman-and-man in the partner. There is always a quartet going on. a bi-sexual with a unisexual there is an orgy—at least three people are present and one is watching (the unisexual’s buried self). Therefore, the bi-sexual may appear to have a great variety in the choice of partners but the bi-sexual is essentially making love always to the same partner—— deepening the act by experience. Unisexuals are much more subject to real sexual anxiety attacks because the anxiety is more buried and the action is more compulsive. 
Category:January 24, 1955
Lipton’s Journal/January 25, 1955/254

The advances in medicine may well be an expression of the . (I am sick of writing sociostasis. From now on S for that and for homeodynamic). Put briefly, the increase in the war between the H and the S has rendered people so physically sick, their bodies so overcome by the false nutritions offered by S, that they are literally in danger of dying faster out of essentially nervous ailments. Sexual ailments—sex being the euphoria of the nervous system when it is satisfactory. 
Therefore more and more money has gone into research, and the antibiotics have come—without them mortality rates might have increased, and one of the strong advertisements society always has to offer is to say, “Look, because you obey us, you live longer. Medical research is society.” The anti-biotics were lying around for years—penicillin was discovered back sometime in the twenties, but it wasn’t necessary then—it is today. 
Uncle Dave would have died without cortisone, and he is one of the perfect examples of a man who was strong, capable, executive, dynamic, and then past fifty was suddenly ravaged by asthma—the rage of the soul at how he had not lived. But his case is not the exception. How, otherwise, can one account for the perfect obsession with cancer which runs through people, and the millions spent on research. I’m certain that when the cause of cancer is truly discovered, it will be psychosomatic. 
Category:January 25, 1955
Lipton’s Journal/January 25, 1955/255

The predictor, the prophet, and the gambler are cousins. The prophet has a saintly confidence—he is so certain he is right that he can afford to wait until he is dead before his prediction will be realized or confounded. The predictor is a gambler operating with social sanction. The gambler is a man (or woman) who feels in his bones that he is right and the whole world is wrong—but he also feels that he is wrong and the world is right. The uncertainty is so intense that he must make prophecies about events which occur in the next hour, for he must have the objective correlative. (In that sense he is a scientist.) 
I think Bob Lindner is right and yet not right in his assessment of the gambler playing with destiny—defeat one side, insanity the other. It may not be so desperate as that. The gambler feels his soul, he also feels society—he is essentially betting that his intuitions, his sensitivity, is greater than the world’s. And the reason certain gamblers lose is not necessarily their fear that if they’re right they will go mad, so much as their fear that they will have to become all-out rebels, and pit themselves against the world. So, painful as it is, they invariably lose. After all, the value of losing is that one can tell oneself that one was right except for bad luck. So one can remain a conformist and still maintain one’s deep private respect for one’s intuitions. But to win does not permit such ambiguity, such “double” profit. It lays down an imperative. “You were right,” says victory, “Go ahead and rebel,” which is why victory often produces deep depression. 
Certainly this is true of victories one has not sought—like my victory in having The Deer Park published. What I have said above applies mainly to the long-shot player, the man who roots for the underdog. There is the other kind of gambler who plays favorites, and his psychology is also fascinating. Victory tells him the world is right which is what he wants to hear because he suspects the opposite. Defeat is unbearable because it tells him he was wrong; such a man often flies into a rage.
Yet, I wonder if he is not secretly thrilled by the underdog defeating his favorite. He would not be a gambler in the first place if he were not unconsciously obsessed with the whole business of the soul’s insights against the world’s insights. He gambles malgré lui (despite himself), he is drawn into it cautiously, slowly, reluctantly. Gambling on favorites is his defense against gambling on underdogs, gambling on his own intuitions. Men who bet on favorites are invariably successful men who are beginning to be deeply dissatisfied with their success; long-shot players cover a great range of what seems to be cranks, sneaks, weird-o’s, rummies, whores, junkies, etc.
Category:January 25, 1955
Lipton’s Journal/January 25, 1955/256

The above note. I did not have a deep depression when Putnam took the book, I had a half relief and a half depression. Because I was gambling two ways. The bet was hedged. On the one hand I didn’t want a house to take it, because then I could have gone all the way. On the other hand I wanted a house to take it because I sensed that if I published it myself and won (as I felt I would) my life as a gambler would be established. I could hardly turn back.
Category:January 25, 1955
Lipton’s Journal/January 25, 1955/257

Bob is the dishonest man who was sent out to come back with the truth. I am the honest man who was sent out to explore the lie. That is why each of us were immediately fascinated with the other, and why each of us have exciting lives. An exciting life is to be sent by one’s vocation across the extreme of one’s personality. Doing that, one crosses the spectrum of humanity and outlines the architecture of the world.
Category:January 25, 1955
Lipton’s Journal/January 25, 1955/258

I wonder if one doesn’t choose a mate who accommodates the particular combination of our parents which the and need at a given time. So Bea who was like my mother in her strength, her confidence, her bold grasp, and her lack of deeper understanding combined with the essential non-conformism of my father. Essentially I married my mother (who is masculine) because I felt womanly, but I chose the particular mother-substitute who could remind me of my father (who is delicately feminine) but also a rebel. I married a woman who was a feminine rebel in a masculine way. But I grew in masculinity, and our marriage became intolerable to both of us. (One subtlety of Bea is that she acts like my father in times of stress—she pulls out of the situation, she becomes passive and inert.) 
With Adele I found the lovely sensitive woman who was always in my father, and Adele whose sensitivity is deep like my father’s also plays the fool like my father. He says pompous things which repel one; she says silly things which make one ridicule her. But while the woman is dominant in Adele, the masculine element (my mother) is present. In times of stress—quarrels between us, etc.—Adele puts her head down and slugs it out toe to toe, just like my mother. Her rages are strong, her affection is strong, her loyalty is essentially constant but she plays with her loyalty to me, she examines it with the sensitivity of my father.
What I have tried to outline here is that we do not marry mother-substitutes or father-substitutes, we marry (especially if we are bisexual) mother-father embodiments. But we choose the embodiment we are best able to deal with, and for that matter admire—which is a way of saying “What the world will approve of most.” But there is no escaping it. When we find a mother-father embodiment corresponds closely to what we truly need (given the particular H vs. S imbroglio we can hardly escape her or him). Weird marriages one must always attempt to understand, for they are the marriages of people who are very close homeodynamically (the word is just frightful—I’ve got to get something between that and soul).
Category:January 25, 1955
Lipton’s Journal/January 25, 1955/259

Typing errors. One I make frequently is to fail to put the apostrophe in properly. The ’ (I just made a mistake). The 8 appears. But look at them: ’ & 8. A little cock and a big cunt. The critic would say “How fortunate for you that the apostrophe and the eight were placed together on the typewriter.” To which I would answer, “Maybe the man who set up the arrangement was a bisexual too. Most creative people have to be.” 
Category:January 25, 1955
Lipton’s Journal/January 25, 1955/260

But I wanted to finish the note before this. Herr Bergler (what’s in a name?) wrote a book Divorce Won’t Help. No doubt he sees himself as a giant holding his enormous lever in the machine so the wheels can’t turn. People are static and bound forever in their characters. Only Bergler can let them see their characters and accept them. But this is crap, and deep-down he knows it. People change. People change. It is part of their magnificence. Just as the body changes every instant of our existence, so too do people. And the and never remain static although they may be locked in the depression of trench warfare for a decade and then another decade. We change, and as we change we need another mother-father embodiment, one who is closer to us. So divorce can help, and often it does.
Category:January 25, 1955
Lipton’s Journal/January 25, 1955/261

What I wrote about Sergius and his father is true for my father and me. 
But I was saying it so directly. My father was born in Russia and has pretended to be born in South Africa for so long that he believes it himself. And our name is not really Mailer but something which resembles it remotely in Russian or Jewish. Truly, there is nothing in the world like being a false Englishman. Which is what my pop has been all his life, and what I have been. That’s why I always get so nice-nelly and affected and talk with an English accent when I’m with Englishmen, American society people, or even the genteel rich-poor who live in Connecticut and Vermont. And this is true for my sister as well.
Category:January 25, 1955
Lipton’s Journal/January 25, 1955/262

This Journal in so far as it is a piece or a record of my Lipton’s self-analysis has had one objective correlative. For in a way this Journal is a great big wager—I am betting that the under-dog (the in me) is going to score. That I am going to come out of this bigger than I went in—successfully analyzed. And today before I started writing, I spent four hours with my father, and we talked, and it was the first talk we ever had in our lives, and I was able to tell him that I love him. And for once I was able to give him what he needs, to tell him what a great guy I think he is, instead of hitting him with all kinds of shit and making him feel like a piece of dirt. In a way, for the first time I understood him, understood him from inside himself and I was close to tears all the time, not tears of pity for him but tears of sorrow for myself and the way I had acted, and tears of pride at how marvelous he is really, and how his gambling was an expression of his artistry, and how now at the age of sixty-three he isn’t ridden with cancer or asthma or heart trouble or rheumatism, but instead looks hale and hearty and handsome, a dapper little guy who’s always been a gentleman and never hurt anybody except as he was forced to reluctantly in expressing his artistry. And I really got the feeling that he’s going to grow in his old age, and find pleasures in play.
Category:January 25, 1955
Lipton’s Journal/January 25, 1955/263

I realized so many funny things about Dad. He is the frustrated giver who has developed his giving to a high artistry. For one of the paradoxes about him (and be it said a paradox is never a paradox if we can only grasp it) was always the contrast between the sensitivity he would reveal at rare isolated moments so that I always knew he understood me better than mother— his sensitivity against his daily pompousness and ability to say nothing interesting were understood by me. For his pompousness was always the echo of mother’s “bourgeois” sentiments. He overdid it. Unconsciously, he made her sound ridiculous. It was his private way of encouraging me to be a rebel. Her dictums made a certain practical common-sense. To rebel against them would have made me feel too guilty. But there was my father, repeating what she said, exaggerating it, multiplying it, until the sheer human nonsense of bourgeois values rang in my head, and then I would turn on him, and instead of showing his wonderful sensitivity and adroitness he would keep repeating what he had said. I remember that when I was eighteen he used to keep saying to me, “Norman, either get a haircut or we’ll have to buy you a violin.” From deep within him, he meant it, he was warning me, he was saying, “Go out, son, be a rebel, because if you’re not a rebel you’ll end up a pompous fool, ignored, and the subject of people’s contempt.” 
So I loved him today; I wanted to kiss him and hug him because he did so much for me, and he was always so good to me in the cramped way permitted him by society and by my mother, sturdy society-substitute with all of society’s sensitivity for danger. But finally he was smarter than her. He mocked her all through those years saying, “Really, Norman, why don’t you look decent for once,” to which I would respond by opening my collar and yanking down my tie. And though he would pretend to look pained, there was always that little grin on his face. No wonder. He’s scored a point for respectability which satisfied the top of his brain, and confirmed me in my rebellion which satisfied the rest of him. 
A man who can do two opposed things at once for all of his life against great difficulties has a kind of genius. And like all geniuses he looks mighty good in his old age. But what I should say is his nominal old age, for as he said today, and he talked to me as well as me to him, “You know, Norman, I still feel young.”
Category:January 25, 1955
Lipton’s Journal/January 25, 1955/264

Since I started this Journal I have been feeling happier than I have in my whole life. So much has been released and so much created—because for me release and creation are parallel expressions of the same thing. But underneath it persists a feeling that I am going to die soon which perhaps is why I entrust each installment of the journal to the mail. I even caught myself thinking just now that perhaps I would write at this journal for the next year or two, and there would be thousands of pages, and then pop I would go—which makes me sad rather than depressed because for the first time in my life I really want to live, how I want to live. But anyway I then thought, “There must be literary executors,” and I thought of Cy and Adele and possibly my sister, and Danny Wolf, and very much my father, and as chief executor, Bob Lindner of course. And then I thought of how that would pain Adele and yet it would be necessary, for so much of this journal would be painful to her, and so she could not exercise her genuine literary taste.
But what also occurs to me is that Bob too has feelings about dying early. Perhaps the emotion has no bodily significance—it is only the retiring cannonades of sociostasis which with its cunning knows that people who are highly sensitive and put trust in their sensitivity are most prone to the suggestion of death for they believe what their brain tells them. Only I suspect for both Bob and me that it’s the part of our brain which is talking and not the . The H is giving the happiness now—it knows I’m going to live to a healthy old age like my father.
Category:January 25, 1955
Lipton’s Journal/January 25, 1955/265

The sense of time. A person with a highly developed sense of the past and a careful sense of the future (in other words, fear of consequences) who puts little value in powerful emotions of the present is essentially an man. People like myself, who at this moment is putting so much into the present, believing that what I discover each second will be true for the future, are people. That is why I can now understand psychopaths and their sense of the present. But I wonder if I wasn’t wrong about saints. Maybe they too have an enormous sense of the present. They believe what their heart tells them at any instant. Perhaps the difference between a saint and a psychopath is that the saint knows it is his heart which talks, and the psychopath knows nothing, feels only the compulsion. But there is much more to say about this difference, and I am not satisfied with it yet.
Category:January 25, 1955
Lipton’s Journal/January 25, 1955/267

To continue 265, I wonder if the difference between the saint and the psychopath is that what the psychopath feels for only a moment (but feels strongly and acts on it), the saint feels more or less permanently. As an example would be the love I felt for my father this afternoon. If it makes a permanent change in our relations, at least in my attitude toward him (by which I do not mean that there will be no ups and downs, but rather that the “average” of my feelings and expressions toward him is different) then I was feeling saintly emotion. But if it’s all gone in a few days and I slip back into feeling the old things about him, then it was a psychopathic expression. In other words, it is not that psychopaths are “heartless” but that the bidding of their heart is isolated. So they love and hate in isolated apparently contradictory “bursts.” The saint is almost always in communion with his “heart.” Therefore he always loves. He loves because finally hatred is always always the frozen echo of love, and the saint is aware of the love he feels and has dissolved all hatred in himself.
Category:January 25, 1955
Lipton’s Journal/January 25, 1955/268

The interesting confirmation of this is that what we have always disliked about saints is that they are not haters. They love everyone. But this is intolerable to the social sense which consists of the spectrum of things detested absolutely to things admired absolutely. A saint has no discrimination we feel and so we get fed up with him. Psychopaths, of course, are always seen by society as hating everyone and everything. We speak of them as being filled with hate. And that is their connection to saints. They are truly saints reversed. But I wonder if hatred is not precisely the interruption, the severing, of the connection between the heart (the soul, the ), and the mind. Good old in between.
Category:January 25, 1955
Lipton’s Journal/January 25, 1955/270

Radicals. Particularly socialists. It is no accident so many socialists come from the middle class in this country. They are almost all sociostatic in character. They hate our society, and the Soviet even more, if like me, they are anti-Stalinist leftists, then what leaves them so unappetizing and so unsatisfying even to themselves, as I was always so dissatisfied with the yawning holes in my intellectual structures, is that they wish to replace society by another society. Their imaginations, their creativity, their is entirely devoted to the service of Sociostasis, and so their thoughts, programs, predictions, and analyses invariably have a square blunt building-brick quality. 
Even Malaquais who is the best Socialist thinker I have ever come across, thinks in finite blocks. His thought of course has the nobility of a cathedral, but he’s filled every square inch of the cathedral with a tile, and so his new thought can consist merely of improving the total design. He can replace one tile by another. But he will never build a cathedral which dissolves into light. For all the beauty of his conceptions, a dank oppressive gloom breathes out of the doors and no one wants to enter poor Malaquais’ cathedral. He is left the gloomy caretaker of it. One reason he cannot chase me away entirely is that I’m the village boy who wandered in one evening and stayed to admire the cathedral for many years, asking the caretaker every day, “Don Malaquais, tell me about the saints, and why this stone is this color?” I was a naughty boy and I was forever quitting his lessons to throw stones at the bats, but what he cannot bear, dear Malaquais, is the silence now that I am gone. Timidly, terrified, like a shy old miser, he is making the endless preparations necessary to go out and buy a new hat. He has no real hope he’ll be detained in the village and find a place to build a new cathedral; he knows he’ll go back to the old one and watch the bats multiply, but it is so gloomy in there. Even Fra Jean has to get a bit of air.
Category:January 25, 1955
Lipton’s Journal/January 25, 1955/271

Prose on wings, tra-la, tra-la. What I started to say in the previous note was that radical socialists because they are sociostatic have ended up aiding society. They present tools of analysis bourgeois society unaided could never have come up with, but because socialists think sociostatically, so capitalists can turn their thought to their own advantage.
Norman Thomas is always complaining that the Republican and Democratic parties have stolen his program, and indeed they have. Marxism for all its grandeur and its genuine revolutionary ethic—its ultimate anarchism which nearly all socialists have forgotten—approached the problem of society as a materialist conception. But capitalists are also materialists. So they could adapt Marxism to their needs, improve their sociostatic techniques, shore up the crazy house and keep the warped mirrors form cracking . . . yet.
Category:January 25, 1955
Lipton’s Journal/January 25, 1955/272

So, modestly, I see my mission. It is to put Freud into Marx, and Marx into Freud. Put Tolstoy into Dostoyevsky and Dostoyevsky in Tolstoy. Open anarchism with its soul-sense to the understanding of complexity, and infuse complex gloom with the radiance of anarchism. As Jenny Silverman said of me once, “The little pisherke with the big ideas.” Pint-sized Hitler. Yes.
Category:January 25, 1955