[p43, these titles are centered at the top and midway of the page respectively, with the following passages below them. They are all handwritten on a left page facing a typewritten page]
the Demolished Man [sic]
who He? [sic]
Anima: In current psychiatry the term anima is almost invariably associated with the analytical psychology of Jung. Jung distinguishes between the anima [soul] and the psyche. By the psyche I understand the totality of all the psychic processes, both conscious as well as unconscious; whereas by soul I understand a definitely demarcated function complex that is best characterized as a personality.
Jung postulates an inner and an outer personality. I term the outer attitude, or outer character, the persona, the inner attitude I term the anima or soul.
Jung makes a further distinction when he maintains that a very feminine woman has a masculine soul [that is, an animus] and a very manly man a feminine soul [or an anima.]
I dont think I quite understand this last point.
Benzol produces dangerous anemia; which is probably the most useless gimmick in this book, although there are other strong contenders.
The Man With the Mortgaged Mind- We mortgage our potential future and life in perpetuity to maintain a neurotic pattern of existance [sic].
The only criterion for the detection of the neurotic is the discrepancy between potentialities and actual achievement. We must not live below our potential. This would seem to answer the perplexing problem of whether artistic creation is a by-product of neurotic misery. Can the happy artist create?
The answer is that theres a vast difference between compulsion and neurosis. The artist must be compulsive because creation is compulsion, but compulsion is not necessarily neurotic. If the artist lives up to the peak of his potential he cant be called a neurotic, no matter how powerful the compulsion that drives him, and no matter how miserable it may make him. Nor, on the other hand, can happiness make a man any less compulsive. Its one of the fallacies to confuse existance [sic] in Eden with existance [sic] in coma.
When, in difficult life situations, a neurotics delicately balanced compromise between compulsive and incompatible elements which make up the pattern of his living fails to operate, he feels that everything is going to pieces, and he struggles frantically, trying to shore his life up. Actually, the neurotics world is going to pieces, but the tragedy is that he never realizes that its a world not worth saving. It would be far better to let it fall apart and build a sounder one in its place.
(This last is Berglers, and damned good. The first two paragraphs were my own, and werent worth transcribing.)
[p ? handwritten]
Story about a town that builds a new church out of a spirit of vanity and conspicuous display. After the church is completed its discovered that no one can speak from the pulpit. This is Gods punishment. And no one will ever speak from the pulpit unless he understands God. Final twist: idiot girl, as amoral as an animal, is found one night in the empty church babbling exstatically [sic] from the pulpit.
What would be the effect on the world of absolute proof that there was no life after death? Would it destroy religion?
There are sporadic outbursts of cannibalism on chicken farms. The chickens peck at each others combs. The blood drives them wild.
No silver dollars were minted between 1910 and 1920.
The lucky man who never is disappointed in anything. Would be a thoroughly miserable man because good fortune is a seasoning not a food. You cant have it for a steady diet.
Last night I dreamed I heard a simple sound --- something like a coin or ring dropped into a metal pail --- and I awoke with a start of terror. I wonder what the real sound of terror was, which my mind masked by substituting this? I wonder how much of the sounds, words, and sentences we hear in our dreams is camouflage, and would it be dangerous for us to compile a dictionary of our imagery of concealment?
Ruth Straus story about her mother throwing a glass of milk at her in her sleep in the middle of the night.
The weird world of women In the past we could possess women without entering their alien worlds. Now that we have permitted them to enter ours, weve discovered that theyve brought theirs along with them and, like it or not, they substitute theirs for ours and turn us into resident aliens.
Once you have made love to a woman she considers the act of intimacy to oblige you, ipso facto, to give her total intimacy; she will never suffer you to have any privacy of your own. Perhaps this is because women are basically simpler creatures than men, with no need for personal privacy. I dont know. All I do know is that a woman would far rather you spent a night with another woman whom she knows than with a part of yourself that she doesnt.
Its always the most competitive, destructive, ball-busting woman who is the first to express her longing for a real man who will make her feel more like a woman. This is the kind of woman who wants a man to be manly in everything except masculinity. She doesnt want to eat her cake and have it; she wants to eat her cake and lose weight.
I find within myself (and I think every man does) an entire recapitulation of the history of superstition, somewhat similar to the rule of ontogeny recapitulating phylogeny; beliefs in portents, signs, magic rituals and charms, good luck and bad luck. Only education prevents me from actually believing, because its the nature of the animal to believe. Fear can always extinguish rationality. Im not one to feel superior to the man of the Dark Ages. The Dark Ages persist within me.
A man gets tired of being good and put upon. He decides to become a shit and enjoy life. But the point is this; were all shits already, only we never recognise [sic] this. We just want to be another kind of shit.
[p ? typed, the bracketed last line is handwritten]
I thought, the other night, of writing a story called The Last Star or The Final Star. Its about the universe in the far future in which there are no longer inhabited planets, but an incredibly vast manufactured megalopolis, galactic in size, a rabbit warren, a maize, a Möbius complex light years across, in which all the inhabitants of the known universe live.
In order to solve their energy problems they have consumed the planets and stars of the universe, relentlessly destroying the world in which they live. Now there is only one star left, and conservationists are fighting desperately to preserve it. Our contemporary conservation conflict is being repeated in that future: Which is more important, nature or man?
Stars or jobs?
I dont know how to resolve the story. This afternoon I thought that it might be ended at the peak of the conflict by the abrupt disappearance of the star. It has been consumed by another megalopolis in space, hitherto unknown. [Through a White Hole from a contra-universe?]
[p ? handwritten at the end of a typed page]
Here, in February, 1967, this version of the Commonplace Book was at last brought up to date, and the earlier versions burned.
January 3rd 1972. So ends the worst year of my life. I think of it as the year of the Nightmare. Ive tried very hard to endure it with patience and dignity, and I hope Ive succeeded. At the very least I have not lost my faith and belief in the cool inevitability of nature. Nature is always right, even for those unfortunates like myself who wind up on the wrong side of the statistical curve. One despairs, of course, but we hold on. One dreams of ending it, of course but we hold on. One is tempted to appeal to Almighty God for help, but there is no god, there is only the natural order of things which is impervious to prayer. So Ive kept faith with what Ive always believed. Im grateful that when put to the test I havent failed.
I must keep my notes in longhand again. Reading and typewriting are extremely difficult for me [a disaster for an author] but I have hopes for the future. Perhaps there will come a happy time when Ill be able to think and create at a keyboard once more. So I hang on and hope and try to work. If there are any prayers of thanksgiving due they go first to science which has perfected the cataract operation, but above all else to my wife for her loving care and unflagging support.
Dear Diary: Today I ironed my Commonplace Book. Ive heard of ironing money and newspapers but never of ironing a gimmick book. Have I invented a new vice?
Ive been reading the new definitive edition of Pepys diary and what confuses me is that he took every measure to keep it secret, yet had it carefully bound and bequeathed it with his collection of books, prints and Mss [sic] to the Oxford library. Why? Theres only one way to keep a secret, destroy it. I have the feeling that Pepys was very much like Boswell.
And while were on the subject of journals, diaries, gimmick books and the like; I have no intention of keeping a diary [I know how to keep my secrets] but Im wondering whether these story ideas and gimmicks may not prove to be a revelatory diary of my life afterall. Memo: be sure to burn this Commonplace Book before I blow my brains out.
[p152, title centered, typed]
November 1st, 1974
Well, here we are, back at the same old cigar stand, and business as usual. Here are some entries from old pocket notebooks that Ive found. Some I can understand.
Theres one basic rule for Americans (said a restaurant prop.) dont cheat them on meat and martinis.
A NASA engineer builds a stock car. How much? (John Glenn)
Are We lousy in Bed? The South American view. Or is this a myth? The mechanics of sex.
Princess Radziwell (Antic Arts)
Well Cut Em Off at the Pass The classic Hollywood sheriffs. (Gabby Hayes)
Election Predictions (John Scarne) How do gamblers make book on everything? Why not have Scarne take a look at Lloyds?
The Possessed. A takeout on gambling. Four points of view:
A gambler civilian
A professional gambler
The Vanishing Servant
The Hair Mystique. Is it about time to face up to a bald society? Hair and virility.
Table Settings and Flatware
20th Century Druids The Scientific Community. (C. P. Snow)
The Finks: all defectors; Americans, Russians, etc. (Goldberg) Whats life like for a defector? (Mrs. Oswald)
Have Files Replaced Religion? (What a demented idea!)
European ex-patriots in the States.
The American Establishment and its Jargon. (McCluhan [sic]. Bergen Evans.)
American Currency. Should we change it to duodecimal? Lets question all the things we take for granted as fixed; Home, Children, Print, Alphabet, Democracy, Friendship, the 24 hour day.
Factory Life Today (Walter Reuther)
A Cop Looks at Morality
Xenophobia The Peoples America Hates Today (Goldberg)
New Yorks Broadway Discovery? Follow it all the way to Albany. (Alan Coren)
The Charity Racket (Bob Cummings)
Race Tracks and betting around the world ---
[p286, typed, 1982]
Exoteric + Esoteric = Sontheteric
Esoteric (also secret) understood by and/or meant for a select few.
Exoteric suitable for or communicated to the general public.
Syntheteric combination of parts into a complex whole. (My own invention.)
Now what about that love scene?
Do we go all the way?
Use the ads from that magazine?
Should we pinch:
Last Night of Don Juan?
The Spook Sonata?
Cyrano? (The moon schtik into sex using the magazine ads?)
HEY! WAIT! WAIT! We need a mystery figure all through, in black robes with a lemon head kind of like in Hoffman.
I pronounce you man and woman. (Devils antlers)
I pronounce you lovers. (Jesters coxcomb)
I pronounce you bestial sinners. (Bishops mitre)
I pronounce you condemned. (English judges wig)
cranking a hurdygurdy which emitted the soundtracks of demented electronic games.
[p287, handwritten with trimmed paper reading JANUARY 83 glued above the text]
New Years Plea:
Dear God, why do I seem to frighten, fluster, put people ill at ease? Im just me. I have my own lifestyle which I never dream of imposing on others. I dont even think its the right style; its just right for me. I mind my own business. I keep my mouth shut and protect secrets. I try to give dignity to all others and try to amuse. I never judge. I never [or hardly ever] put down. To quote Mike Todd, I never blow the whistle on another mans act.
But they all say Im a gentleman as though Im a race apart, and that seems to put them on their best behaviour and into a strain.
Im no gentleman; I just mind my manners. What am I to do? Help!
Most are blessed with a convenient memory [La Rouge] but Im cursed with iron recall.
[p304, apparently a headline cut out from a magazine and glued lengthwise to an 8.5 x 11 sheet of whitepaper, then glued into the rightmost page]