Lipton’s Journal/Correspondence of Robert Lindner and Norman Mailer/June 7, 1954

::::::::::::::::::::To Norman Mailer
::::::::::::::::::::June 7, 1954
Dear Norman,
It was great talking with you the other night. I hope you understood what I meant when I said I’d been having trouble writing. It is simply that my letters have been composed under the shadow of our private talks when you were here—and I couldn’t, for some reason, keep out the pompous and pedantic tone. Recognizing this, I’ve now made the decision not to write about those matters—to save them, that is, for personal meetings. This has removed the blocks, and now I’m able to continue our correspondence.
For some strange reason I’ve been feeling lousy these last weeks. My gut has been kicking up—a most unusual thing—and I’ve twice had a swelling on my lips. The guys I’ve talked to have this “angioneurotic edema,” a condition due to a specific allergy or sensitivity to something (a food or?), plus a condition of tension. You’re supposed to take anti-histamines for this kind of thing—but the last time I did they made me feel worse. Today my lower lip looks like I’ve just been made an honorary Ubangi. My private opinion is that this business may be related to my conflict over smoking. For some time I did great—but within the past few days I’ve slipped, and although I stay under 10 butts a day it still is the wrong thing. But if it isn’t the cigarette thing, it must be a food—and I’m damned if I can figure this out. In any case it can’t be something a few hours of analysis won’t clear up. Meanwhile, as usual when there’s something physically wrong with me, my chronic feeling is one of anger, anger at this frailty in myself.
I think you, too, react to illness or physical weakness with anger, don’t you? Which brings me to your liver. I’ve made inquiries, based on the very little you gave me, and I’ve learned that your condition is not to be taken too seriously. Apparently, you’ve been making excessive demands on a biologically slightly inadequate organ, and there is hardly any question but that a period of relaxed pressure on this organ will restore its proper function. Until I learned this, I did worry somewhat. Now I’m even glad of it, glad because the drinking (so you’ve said) has been eliminated.
You know, Norman, I haven’t been completely truthful with you (or Adele) about the drinking. I’ve honestly been concerned with it, mainly because I’ve noticed that rather than relaxing you, it seems to create more and more tension, and tension of a specific kind. By this I mean that it draws you away from people, breaks communication a little bit. This happens, of course, with every drinker, but you seem to get there a little more rapidly than most others. Also I think you’ve used the drinking for bad reasons—it wasn’t emergent, that is, growing out of a personal or party situation; but with you, the personal or party situations came from the drinking. Do you understand what I mean? To hell with it. We’ll talk soon.
As I told you over the phone, I’m in a kind of limbo these days. I don’t feel like doing anything, and I lend myself only reluctantly to my work, finding very little pleasure in it and pushing every day away or behind me. I think I get this way about this time each year—a kind of immense intellectual and (what?) spiritual fatigue seems to engulf me. I get jaded and bored very easily, have a minimal attention span, jump from one small enthusiasm to another, and largely hold secret converse with myself. I think what happens is a consequence of not having a framework or pattern for my ideas. When I am doing a book—or even writing an article—the ideas that occur to me during the time are employed somehow (and also everything I read). In this post-book, pre-book period they are necessarily unattached; they occur, I react—and then they dissipate. I guess this leaves me with a feeling of worthlessness: I’m, somehow, then, loosely and become disengagé. I know the solution is to begin a new project, even if only in thought; but right now I just don’t feel like it. Perhaps when the unattachment increases to a point of real discomfort—or when these blasted psychosomatic things really get my goat—I’ll do the necessary.
We’ve been seeing no one of any interest. Yesterday we drove out to Edgy Berman’s farm, and Phoebe (they both send remembrances) showed us a wonderful piece of property near them. It has a small waterfall and a narrow stream running through it. I’ve been wondering about it as an ideal spot for a long cherished dream of mine—a small weekend house. We think it may be possible to widen the pool to a real swimming place and dam up the stream at the further end. Then we could build a house above the water, stock the pool with bass or trout. Maybe this is the place we can write the Mailer and Lindner books from in a couple years—with time out for swimming or skating or fishing! In any event, I’m more excited about this than I’ve been about anything recently—and maybe it will go through.
About The Fifty-Minute Hour, I guess I’ve written it off now. Lerner’s preface, as I said, is terrific. He’s done exactly what I hoped—described the book as writing in a new literary genre, and emphasized the intrinsic excitement of the stories. Ted and Dudley feel there is a chance of having a selling success—for a change—and I’m sure that if Ivan brings off the Harper’s thing, we’ll get off to a good start. The “concerning” part—at least until reviews come in—is over. But it isn’t over for me (curiously, do you think?) about your book. I find I get more exercised about Deer Park than about my own book. Your report about the conference with Stan and Ted was much too brief; I hope you’ll expand when you write. What irks me is this: that the reaction of Stan is likely to be the reaction of any publisher I can think of (did you say this or am I being bright?), and at least at Rinehart’s you have a friend at court. It has probably taken courage for Ted to stand up for you as he did. But what’s to be done? Will Stan give the book what it should have if he continues to feel the way he does? Does it really matter? And then I’d like to ask you about your own feelings regarding the two scenes that seem to be the big thorns for Stan. I recall when I read the orgy scene, I told you it left me with a feeling of dissatisfaction. I thought your own doubts about it were showing at that time, and I remember saying that I thought you should either do it or forget it. Now I think it would be a serious artistic error (and a compromise that might harm you) to drop the scene; but I do believe it has to be really written, in detail, full orchestra. (Of course, I don’t know if you’ve done more with it since I saw the manuscript in January.) As for the Teppis scene, when we talked about it last time you convinced me it was essential stat. I remain convinced—the scene is tightly and intrinsic (if not, perhaps, entirely necessary) to the portrait of T. But on this I’d bet a house Stan can be convinced.
It is, finally, distressing to think that we’ll be out of personal contact for the next few months. All of us will, of course, be thinking of both of you every day. Believe me, it will be the one blot on our own vacation. We’ll be leaving for Low House on July 31st—just previous to that, when I get your Mexico address, I’ll send you the address. I’ll hope, too, that you might realize on the off-chance and join us there late in August. At least let me consider this improbability a possibility.
::::::::::::::::::::Much love for both of you from all of us, 
:::::::::::::::::::::Bob