nyuuzyou/wikis huggingface dataset:
Lipton’s Journal/February 14, 1955/570

It can be stated as a philosophical proposition I believe that pleasure and idea are antithetical, yin and yang. To have society man must be deprived of pleasure, for it is in the frustration of pleasure that reason (desperate to save the body from the bio-chemical poison of frustration) advances into the mystical unknown.
So intellectuals are unhappy because their need is to convert thoughts into ideas, and the intellectual knows pleasure only when he has expressed the thought in an idea which is so elaborated, so “approximately” perfect that he may relax back into vague thought. For thought is the state of pleasure. It is only when we attempt to convert it to an idea that pain comes—the pain of birth, of separating an embodiment from the total. As our idea that “man is the measure of all things” has grown through history, so woman’s child-birth has become progressively more painful. Child-birth now is an idea rather than a thought; an orgasm of pain rather than a swell of muscular ebb and flow.
Adele often comments in our bed, “Why are you frowning so? You look in pain? You look angry and tortured?” Every time she makes such a remark I am in the process of trying to shape a thought into an idea. I am trying to give birth. My mighty mother is in me, but I have books, ideas, projects, theses, etc., instead of birthing children.
Category:February 14, 1955
Lipton’s Journal/February 14, 1955/571

Pain and pleasure, (I change orgasm for pleasure) Pain and orgasm, vomit and detumescence are expressions of the , forms given to the body by S. I speak naturally of the subjective “sharpness” one-ness of the feeling. The natural state is the rhythmic state where pain and orgasm become merely ebb and flow and ebb and flow—like the ocean. Which is what the oceanic feeling is. This is the passive state of life, moving in unbeated rhythms of slow up and slow down. An ocean has the one expression of crashing waves when the foreign object, earth—society—whatever intrudes itself. So life (l the passive existence came out of the water onto the earth where it became I—active agent—able to return to the water only by the ffff of fuck).
Category:February 14, 1955
Lipton’s Journal/February 14, 1955/572

“Stupid” people find thought painful, fucking delightful—at least generally, typically, they do. (Folk-lore and platitudes show the truth of this). Intellectuals find thought joyous, fucking painful—again generally true. Rare people find fucking and thought joyous—usually orgiastic mystics who can dispense with the guilt of no-orgasm and the guilt of no-idea, no-work-accomplished. Balanced “healthy” people are people who can move from one to the other from the orgiastic mystic to the rational orgasm and back again. Contentment and depression are the lot of the “socially healthy” person—hard ideas and strong orgasms—a very rare bird by the way. But such birds pay by being relatively ordinary—they are not geniuses. Orgiastic mystics (the rarest birds of all) who are healthy orgiastic mystics have a rich inner tumescent universe, but seem pitiable, perverted, “crazy” and hopeless to society. 
The genius is the rarest of all for he contains both—his love and hate for himself, his and his , his saint-loverness and social-critical oneness are both enormously developed. The genius is deprived of pleasure and deprived of real love of the one (One’s mate) so the genius has his incredible insights into the nature of pleasure and pain, and when he loves a person is capable of loving them only by endowing them (as indeed every person understood well enough is) with all the nature of pleasure and pain, all the love and hate the genius feels for the universe. There have been very few total geniuses in history, but more and more I suspect that Joyce was one of them. If I can ever write Antacid Analgesic the way I conceive it, I too will be a genius. Until then I will merely give intimations and promises of genius together with a lot of qvatch.
I started this note on the thought that I can enjoy fucking only when it arouses creative thought (not detachment) which flows in and out and around and of the person or persons to whom I make love. Once it wells into words, ideas, the fucking loses its savor. Which is why Adele was so furious at me the night of the fuckanalysis. She knew that a joyous act had become a painful one for me; I was no longer thinking-flowing, but ideating—stopping and starting.
Category:February 14, 1955
Lipton’s Journal/February 14, 1955/573

Antacid Analgesic. There are many elements in this. And and ant. Acid and alkali. Anal and by implication Oral. Already I could call it Andalc Oralgesic. The take and the cid (the beggar and the king) (Take from tac); Pain and pain-killer. Pain-killer provides pleasure, so pain and pleasure—the condition of existence. Even, very private, an al, an Al—from Brother Can You Spare A Dime—Don’t You Know me, They call me Al, it was Al (hell) all the time. So Heaven and Hell. Gesic. Guess and seek. God—little e of self-society; I who is sic, sick. God and I guess and seek for the sick. 
Category:February 14, 1955
Lipton’s Journal/February 14, 1955/574

What a title. I bet I could locate (give) every theme, idea, thought and spiral and circle of this journal in Antacid Analgesic. How significant that I never read Joyce. I know when I’ll read him. (That is I never read more than a hundred pages of Ulysses, and two or three pages of Finnegans Wake.) But if I write a great Antacid Analgesic, then I will read Joyce and be able to understand him as few or perhaps no rationalist has before me.
Category:February 14, 1955
Lipton’s Journal/February 14, 1955/575

Yes, I am a rationalist. But I am the rationalist who seeks to explore the mystical. My reason works only as my mystical self emerges; my reason is always the element, the I use to control the . (S and er; Sir—Sire—Lord—God). (Mister as Man—I—society—thing—er). Thing is wider than t—that is, th is wider, more sustained than t, thing is more evocative, more general—more socially approximate to the universe than (Ting). But ting is the sound of a ricochet. And a gun is the depersonalization of man and the apotheosis of the power of society. No wonder savages look upon the white man as a god. He is a god, but he is the god of society, and so a false-but necessary god.
Category:February 14, 1955
Lipton’s Journal/February 14, 1955/576

And isn’t that the Devil? The Devil is a false but necessary God—he is society. What we think of in organized religion as the devil—to wit, the sensual, the flesh, (flesh goes through life, e of self, society, to the head—fuck and thought, universe and recognition of universe which is in our bodies and minds.)
Anyway: If we take the proposition that religion’s idea of God (organized religions) is God as Society, and the Devil as the rebellious element in man, then we can also see how man redressed the balance because underneath he was saying, God is Go to death, and Devil is death going to life. So, God and Devil each containing their opposites being God-and-Devil And Devil-and-God compose the quartet, the family, the orgy, the universe or total of experience.
Category:February 14, 1955
Lipton’s Journal/February 14, 1955/577

My nose has stopped running. Why? I knew this was not a cold. But has it stopped running because the is complacent, not punishing, because it knows that I am merely putting down in crude ideas vast thoughts which therefore will endanger it not at all so that in a few days when I reread this I’ll think, “Oh, My God,” (Oh, Society, please forgive me for such nonsense.) Or is it because I am happy, because my is finally flowing again.
Category:February 14, 1955
Lipton’s Journal/February 14, 1955/578

A truly great man is a man who does not begin the freezing-making process until he is totally ready, until he cannot grow unless he begins to make and give. A crank, a fanatic, a dogmatist was a potential genius who froze too early, who made too early. Wilhelm Reich strikes me as being half-genius, half-crank. I know very little about his orgone theory, but I suspect that he was close to something truly tremendous, and perhaps terrified of going insane (which is the danger of growing when the road is too impacted with obstacles) he froze at the level of his orgone box, which haunts us, for we feel alternately and even simultaneously that it is a lie and a truth (using truth as something on the way to Truth).
Category:February 14, 1955
Lipton’s Journal/February 14, 1955/580

What I’ve been avoiding in consonants but must get into is that consonants which I’ve been approaching as units are actually spectrums, polarities, opposites. Thus r is rage, but it is also reason. The end of rage is reason, the end of frustrated reason is rage. So “s” is society which is static, but it is also sssssssssss which is the flow of gas, of water, of piss. I’ve been trying not to admit this for it makes my consonant approaches more difficult than ever. Now I have to give a double-spectrumed analysis of each word, and my poor brain aches.
Category:February 14, 1955
Lipton’s Journal/February 14, 1955/582

Last night taking my Seconal I thought—“A pill for the swill.” And I was flat (stunned) by the recognition. How I hate this journal, hate myself, hate Adele, hate my wild kick, hate the garbage I release, how I cling to society to knock me out, to stun my rebellion. 
If I ever go insane I’ll not be a schizo. I’ll be a manic-depressive. Adele will too. For we either love each other or hate each other, we are either all or all at a given moment. The lucky saving grace which makes us mates is that we almost always love each other or hate each other fairly simultaneously. So our hatred flows into love by being discharged, our love becomes hatred by being expressed in its fullness. And the longer we live together the deeper this becomes—although since it becomes more understandable, we grow over the whole closer and I believe stronger-if-more-vulnerable because we have more to lose. 
But my salvation is for my honesty to hunt the crook in me forever. Only through understanding myself can I come to create. By going in, I can give out. As I understand myself, and understand Adele (for whom sensuality is the equivalent of speech for me) so I can waste less time. These days I’m consumed with impatience which comes out in the barely suppressed pompousness and sense of rightness with which I talk even to dear friends—They must understand, there’s no time to lose. I feel it so unbearably. And yet I must repel them even as I seek to bring them closer because if I bring them closer I find contentment and so must give up the attempt to be a genius.
Bea was a manic-depressive too, still is but now maniacal outside, depressed inside—she thickens her skin, becomes progressively more insensitive, and feels like death in her heart. Bea’s trouble and mine was that one always zigged when the other zagged, and I always felt as if she always led the tune—whereas Adele and I take turns at leading one another. So Bea was a “castrator” and Adele is not. When I was tender and loving with Bea, she was cold; when I was frustrated, angry, and cold with Bea, she became a soft little child saying “Why do you hurt me so?”
No wonder I hate her today—I think she was right in being afraid of me, I think I might conceivably have killed her if she had continued frustrating me. When I get angry at Adele I just want to smack her (smack—man sacks the female) and usually I do. Bea I rarely touched, but I used to feel like strangling her.
Category:February 14, 1955
Lipton’s Journal/February 14, 1955/583

What bothered me about “A pill for the swill,” was that Adele and I had been so happy, so close, so loving on the train and the train trip seemed to take two hours, no more. We were very close. We held hands and felt our bodies flowing into one another. But I exhaust everything when I feel intense. So I spent my love, and realized in taking the pill that now my hatred was close.
I have to recognize, accept, and more get the benefit of these swings of mood for I learn from each—and it is only when we try to suppress one aspect of ebb or flow, give or take, make or rest, challenge or response, love or hate, upbeat or downbeat—when we try to be simply happy, strong, loving, or whatever, try to freeze the rhythm into a straight line progression that we become frustrated, impotent, anxiety-ridden and restless. 
So, when I hate Adele I will recognize it from now on in myself, even as I will try to appreciate her when she hates me. Indeed I do. Drunk, full of beans, she often hates me, or rather feels general lustility for the world. After all hatred is not simply hatred. Hatred is valuable too. Hatred is the mover, love is the rest. Hate makes, love nourishes. A mother who simply loved her children would make nothing but contented cows. It takes the bull to make a bullfight, and when we have a Ferdinand in the ring, the crowds gives hate, the crowd rains pillows down. When the bull hates and charges and seeks to kill, and the bullfighter shows his great appreciation and understanding of that hatred, then the corwd (crowd and cord) can love. And how it loves. It would kiss the feel, the (I wrote feel for feet—must explore this.) feel, the feet, of the bullfighter, in order the ass, the genitals, the belly and the lips, it adores this taking loving agent of bullfighter who has shown the creativity which may be saved from hatred. 
And that is the value of the bullfight—it shows us that hatred too is creative, it is at the heart of the creative process—that hatred goes into love and love back to hatred. No wonder the Mexicans turn on their hero-bullfighters when they’re bad. And no wonder El Loco was so extraordinary—for he aroused the maximum of love and hate, and aroused it in waves.
Category:February 14, 1955
Lipton’s Journal/February 14, 1955/584

Kill or be killed is the lingua franca of hatred. It recognizes the motile power of hatred. For if the enemy symbolically kills us, then we change, we enter a new world. And if we kill the enemy then too we enter a new world. So hatred understood, accepted, even accentuated (which is the hysteric’s knowledge) leads to love. Which is Johnnie’s power. She is potentially a great lover and hater, and actually is a much larger hater and lover than most people admit to. It is the secret of her health, it is what keeps her going. If she were less guilty over her hatred, less ashamed of her raw love, she would be even healthier.
Category:February 14, 1955
Lipton’s Journal/February 14, 1955/585

Ted Amussen cannot express hatred—that is his sickness. Neither can Danny Wolf. If Danny doesn’t take a smack at me soon, I’ve got to let up or I’ll drive him into schizophrenia. The answer to Bob’s question as to why I provoke the orgy with people like Dan and Rhoda, whom I don’t desire sexually (and what a world of lack of understanding is buried in to desire sexually) is double at least. I want to enrage Dan to the point where he’ll attack me. If he could express his hostility in physical aggression he would feel wonderful afterward—I know that. I would like to make him scram at me, weep, rage, spit, and strike. Next day he’d wake up in a good mood. I know it. That’s why I always try to touch off hatred in people—it’s the only way to get back to love. 
When Bob came to India’s I knew he was suppressing his hostility toward me (chassidility) (He was like a rabbi furious that his most talented disciple was wearing his tfillen) (And isn’t Bob’s talent to be a teacher who stimulates others past him?) and I also knew that the longer Bob suppressed his hostility toward me the more depressed and tired he would become. So I taunted him, insulted him, stuck needles in him, twisted writs and wrists (the Ritz is the Writs) provoked him until—and I really believe this—he scared us in turn when he drove the car. Granted the Lipton’s had us paranoid. Nonetheless, Bob had a shit-eating grin when we screamed that we were scared. 
And after that, after that equality, after hatred met hated, we were close and warm the rest of the evening which was a fine evening—and Bob’s energy, his enormous was flowing. Because Bob is a lover. When he loves he is tireless—it is the source of his energy. He becomes flat only when he hates and cannot express it. But crook loves crook. And crooks know how to express hatred. So I shit on Bob, and he shit on me, and then we were brothers again, mutual leader and follower.
Category:February 14, 1955
Lipton’s Journal/February 14, 1955/586

The and He. But I am getting closer to h which is a most interesting and paradoxical consonant. For h has no sound as such—it borrows from its contiguity with other consonants. The h in shhhhhhh is different from the h in thhhhhhh. One is roughly close to issssssssssssh, the other is roughly close to thuuuuuuuuuhh. Next to a hard vowel he has a huh quality. I feel that h is one of the mystic cryptic sounds—I cannot express it better yet—but by its oneness as a letter (that is, its apparent oneness) it is able to make the necessary and many mystical self sounds which are necessary to the life of language. That is, h is a number of er sounds which are masquerading as one, for h invariably appears in social words—just as s which is the most social of the consonants is also the most onomatopoetic of the sounds, and expresses wind and water—the sighing of the sails. 
So back to h. I expressed a hidden spiritual quality in words which are ostensibly social institutions, parts, acts, etc. So h is in hide, head, Head of Department, whore, (what a word to explore)—ore is wealth, real wealth, present in lore, roar, pore, store (societies hoard) more, nor (the reduction of ore) b ore (be, that is, b is beginning and end, so boredom is an end and a beginning, a beginning and an end. What is so painful and pregnant with new possibilities or disasters as when our friends bore us? For is a continuation—the fuck of ore, the succession. (Prepositions are the key to language.) Also, door—the death of ore, the new beginning. 
Gore—what a word, the God-killer of wealth (that is natural wealth); floor—the support of ore, the basis of it, the fuck-love, draw and drawer, glore—glory and glower, hore—whore—the mystical orgy embodied in degraded social form, jore—jaw, pour, plore as in implore, explore, deplore (Letinisma colored) prore—prow, prore as preyer, quore as in quorum, sore, score, shore (society and man’s natural wealth mated in the meeting—a shore is the meeting of one and infinity which is reason) slore—slayer (the matricide is a lover wielding the sword of society) smore (some more) slore (slower—reduce, says society, the rate of increase of self) snore (society’s negation of the self) spore, sprore—sprawl, vore as in devour. 
I am very excited by these. For the preposition or is the alternative, the two of one, and therefore it implies natural wealth. Of the words I forced like jaw from jore, I was doing it not so much to ram a thesis home as to explore, for it is perfectly reasonable that Anglo-Saxon put out mutations, like all languages, from the first basic grunts and groans and sighs and smacks of the self.
Category:February 14, 1955
Lipton’s Journal/February 14, 1955/587

Antacid Analgesic is filled with ‘a’s. Beginnings. A is the first vowel, B is the first consonant. But because it is a succession it is also a death. B means beginning and it also means end, or death, or finish. Bottom, bone, building, burial, banal, barter (where a commodity’s use is born for one man, buried for another).
Category:February 14, 1955
Lipton’s Journal/February 14, 1955/588

P, I believe, signifies part, the part of the whole, the initiator, the petrifaction of an essentially continuous process. P is thus part, separation, definition of what is a whole. Thus port, pact (a continuing process between nations) piss—the puh represents the grunt with which we begin to ssssssssss. Which is why when I cannot piss I turn on the water. The sss of the water lulls me into its condition. What characterizes me is that it is harder for me than for most to start and to stop—once moving I can be graceful, but I lack grace entirely for the start and stop which is why me personality is so staccato, why it is harder for me to sleep and harder for me to wake up than for most—bodies in motion tend to remain in motion, bodies at rest tend to remain at rest—that is our apperception of physics (Newton’s great insight) and society who pinnacle, elegance, rests upon the exercise of grace in precisely one’s starts and one’s stops. Elegant people rarely accomplish enormous amounts, but they are marvelous at cocktail parties which are total start and stop, and they are marvelous at moving from social convention to the introduction of emotion which is where I am totally inept, often rude in conversation, etc. So, p. 
Category:February 14, 1955
Lipton’s Journal/February 14, 1955/590

The curve is life, the straight line is society. We believe we solve in a straight line—that is reason’s assumption. The slovenly is the inchoate mass. To be simply a solver or simply a sloven is to deny oneself. One must be both. One must love disorder and love order, hate order and hate disorder. 
Yet, here is where I disagree with the Greeks and all the other Golden Meaners—there is no such thing as the Golden Mean in Life. It is only by welcoming the extremes of one’s personality, tempering those extremes only—assuming of which I’m not certain that life here is better than life-after-death—tempering those extremes only by the knowledge that one must not be destroyed by them, that one goes on, one grows, one finds creative-destroying fulfillment. For no philosopher (artist, scientist, merchant man, chief) is ever simply a creator, no real good one. The essence of creativity is that it accepts the destruction implicit in its assertion.
Category:February 14, 1955
Lipton’s Journal/February 14, 1955/592

Last night on the train I discovered an important thing. I was so engrossed in talking and then in reading that when I looked out the window for the first time we were in Trenton, and what I saw on a neon sign above a factory was, “TRENTON MAKES, THE WORLD TAKES.” And I pondered this, and realized that I had left make out of give and take and give and take and give. 
So first I reestablished the progression to Take—Make—Give—Take—Make, etc. And then I realized that that was very partial. So I changed it to Take—Make—Give—Rest—Take—Make—etc. But in finding the word Rest—for indeed no matter what we give there is always the moment of neutral, of rest, of passivity before the more active take (Take understood as being more active than rest, total rest—has anyone yet remarked on the relative qualities and quantities of “passivity”?) So to make and to rest, to work and to play, fit and enriched the contradictions of Give and Take, (And is indeed the word of rest. A period is the enforced rest of society. A child speaks in rambling spirals, it says, and then and then and then and then. Sometimes it starts to stammer in resentment when we attempt to inflict too soon periodicity, start and stop upon it. So then I had it: Here is the dialectical progression of all process.
Rest—Take—Rest—Make—Rest—Give—Rest—Enter (the door, the portal)—Rest—Take—Rest—Make, etc. 
I establish it as a quartet of Take Make Give Enter with a rest between each. But of course this is merely an attempt to set up more points on what is always a continuous (not discrete) curve. Life is a continuum, not a discontinum. But the illusion of separation comes from the time lag which is the social representation of rest. This I think is more adequate although of course incomplete—only infinity can express the total of the curve—than the Marxian dialectic which is two-poled rather than four-poled. I’ll get bisexuality into everything.
Category:February 14, 1955