Lipton’s Journal/Correspondence of Robert Lindner and Norman Mailer/March 14, 1955

::::::::::::::::::::To Norman Mailer
::::::::::::::::::::March 14, 1955
Dear Norman,
It’s been so long since I heard from you that I’ve begun to wonder why. I called you when I was in New York last week—almost continuously (as Edna must have told you)—and since returning to Baltimore a number of times, including last night. It did occur to me that you may have gone on the ski trip you talked of taking—and maybe that’s why there’ve been no notes from the journal, no letters, and no calls.
It occurs to me that there may be a change of climate in our relationship. I don’t feel one on my part—but perhaps, after your last visit, you do. According to the notes, once you expressed your peeve, you purged yourself of ill feelings. I can only hope that this is so. For my part, I think that if there is any difficulty between us, it is put there by your insistence on projecting some of your doubts about the “new” self you are discovering on me. I wish I knew how to get you beyond this—how to convince you of my total acceptance. But, at the same time, Norman, I feel your pressure to, somehow, close me off. Take that matter of painting. You and Adele insist I know nothing about it, and I’m content to let you think that—both of you—if you wish. But when I try to tell you, not what I know about it, but what I think of it, you accuse me of lecturing on painting. And yet I have stood by both amused and a little appalled when Adele has pointed out a picture in a book to you and said, “Don’t you think I’ve been getting a few effects like this?”—so I have seen and heard the evidence from both of you that what I wanted to discuss with you then—the absence of ideas from non-objective painting—you charge me with gratuitous and pompous “lecturing.” So also with Lipton’s. Do you want a one-way street, Chazar? Look, I’ll take—willingly, happily—all you have to dish out; but don’t sulk when I show I’ve got a few stray bits of guts, too.
Ah, well—enough of that. If it’s there, we’ll both know it—or sign off.
The last few weeks have been disturbing and distressing ones. The death of a close friend set the tone for a whole series of disappointments. Although the book is doing alright, it is just about limping along, and will continue that way unless or until I can get Rinehart to do more advertising. They’ve been content to see it move at about 600 to 1000 copies a week on what they call “word of mouth” and excellent reviews. What it wants, of course, is a goose. That goose would have been provided by the Omnibus program—which fell through. Yes, my friend, I’ve been fucked but regally—with all the trimmings—and I want you to be among the first to know about it. Seems that when the final decision had to be made, the medicos on the board of the Ford Foundation ruled that it would be regarded as an unfriendly act by the medical profession if I, a psychologist, talked about my work and my thinking to twenty-one million people. The implication being that I’m a charlatan and a quack. So they gave me the knife—and that, too, is that.
They’ve been other disappointments and shocks, too—but this above was the worst. I wanted this thing, not for what it would do for me, but for what I could do. Do you understand?
I’ve missed you, Norman—what gives?
::::::::::::::::::::Yours,
:::::::::::::::::::::Bob