Lipton’s Journal/Correspondence of Robert Lindner and Norman Mailer/July, 1955: Difference between revisions

The days go by and I find myself more hard pressed for time to write to you. Today I’m cutting through the crap to do what I’ve been wanting to do for weeks—spend a few minutes with my brother. Bingo, I have missed you. Actually, my inability to write has not been due entirely to other preoccupations, but do to the fact that—I’ve been—as you seem to sense—close to illness with exhaustion.{{refn|It appears that the root cause Lindner’s declining health was congestive heart disease, which he died of seven or eight months later.}} About two weeks before I went to California I picked up a viral infection. Out there I seem to have been able to pickle it in alcohol and burn it to an ember with the excitement. On my return it flared up—busting out this last week with severe gut pain, agonies in my back and chest, and a sort of quacking ague. Over the weekend I loaded myself with stuff and slept almost continuously. Today I’m better—and even have a few ideas. I hope I’ve got it licked—because despite my notorious hypochondria I resent, hate, despise the weaknesses of my body.