#sku AB1 #title Truth Versus Lies (Original Draft) #author Ted Kaczynski #date May 10th, 1999 #source [[https://archive.org/download/ab.-truth-versus-lies/AB1.%20TJKs%E2%80%99%20Most%20Recent%20Draft.pdf][Archive.org]] & Boxes 66-67, Ted Kaczynski papers, University of Michigan Library (Special Collections Library). #lang en #pubdate 2022-08-16T02:07:25 #topics Autobiographical Writing #ATTACH t-k-ted-kaczynski-truth-versus-lies-original-draft-3.pdf [[t-k-ted-kaczynski-truth-versus-lies-original-draft-1.jpg]]
“An odd principle of human psychology,
well known and exploited ... holds that
even the silliest of lies can win
credibility by constant repetition.” ―Stephen Jay Gould**
“A FRIEND says there are a lot of people who mistake their imagination for their memory.”[1]―Daily Oklahoman I am very different from the kind of person that the media have portrayed with the help of my brother and my mother. The purpose of this book is to show that I am not as I have been described in the media, to exhibit the truth about my relationship with my family, and to explain why my brother and my mother have lied about me. In fairness, I should acknowledge that my brother and mother probably are not fully conscious of many of their own lies, since they both are adept at talking themselves into believing what they want to believe. Yet at least some of their lies must be conscious, as we shall see later. I consider it demeaning to expose one’s private life to public view, but. But the media have already taken away my privacy, and there is no way I can refute the falsehoods that have been propagated about me except by discussing publicly some of the most intimate aspects of my own life and that of my family. Ever since my early teens, my immediate family has been a millstone around my neck. I’ve often wondered how I had the bad luck to be born into such a nest of fools. My relations with them have been to me a constant source of irritation and disgust, and sometimes of very serious pain. For some forty years my brother and mother leaned heavily on me for the satisfaction of certain needs of theirs; they were psychological leeches. They loved me because they needed me, but at the same time they hated me because I didn’t give them the psychological sustenance they were looking for,; and they must have sensed my contempt for them. Thus, their feelings toward me were, and remain, strongly conflicting. In my brother’s case, the conflict is extreme. I certainly can’t claim that my own role in the life of my family has been a noble one. I had good justification for resenting my parents, but instead of making a clean break with them in early adulthood, as I should have done, I maintained relations with them: sometimes was kind to them, sometimes used them, sometimes squabbled with them over relatively minor matters, sometimes hurt their feelings intentionally, occasionally wrote them emotional letters expressing my bitterness over the way they had treated me and the way they had exploited my talents to satisfy their own needs. With my brother too I should have broken off early in life. The relationship wasn’t good for either of us, but it was much worse for my brother than it was for me. This is a complicated matter that I will deal with at length further on. This book is carefully documented. It has to be, because otherwise the reader would not know whether to believe my account or that of my brother and mother. Due to the continual need to quote documents and argue facts, the writing is dry and perhaps pedantic. All the same, I think the book will attract many readers because of the intrinsic human interest of its content. The amount of material about me that has appeared in the media is enormous, and I have not read or seen more than a small fraction of it. Apart from some straightforward reports of legal maneuvers or courtroom proceedings, most of what I have seen is loaded with errors and distortions, some of them trivial, some of them very serious indeed. Due to limitations on my own time, energy, and resources, the documents I’ve studied in preparing this book include from the media only a few items; principally the articles on my case that appeared in Newsweek, Time, U.S. News and World Report, and People on April 15th and 22, 1996; the “quickie” books that appeared within a few weeks after my arrest, Mad Genius and Unabomber;, the articles based on interviews with my brother and mother that appeared in the New York Times, May 26, 1996, in the Washington Post, June 16, 1996, in the Sacramento Bee, January 19, 1997; and my mother’s and brother’s appearance on 60 Minutes, September 15, 1996. The latter covers all of the public statements about me made by my brother and my mother that I have seen up to the present date, March 5, 1998. (Added April 1, 1998: I’ve recently been reminded of some other remarks by my brother, brief ones that have appeared in various newspapers, but I don’t think they contained anything that I need to address in this book.) Apart from the published sources, I cite a large number of unpublished documents. It will of course be necessary at some point to make these documents accessible for examination so that it can be verified that I have cited them accurately. But I don’t expect to do this immediately upon publication of this book. For one thing, some of the documents are still legally sensitive, and for another, I don’t want journalists rummaging through my papers to get material for sensational articles. I hope to get the documents housed in a university library and arrangements will be made so that some responsible and unbiased party can examine them and verify that I have cited them correctly and have not unfairly taken any passage out of context. Eventually some of them will be published. In any case, I will make every effort to see that the citations can be independently verified at the earliest possible time. I also make use in this book of a few reports received orally from investigators who worked for my defense team. The investigators do not want their names revealed because the resulting publicity about them might interfere with their work as investigators, but. But at some point I expect to make arrangements so that the investigators can be consulted discreetly and confirm the oral information that they gave me. (But see below for my remarks on the reliability of this information.) In this book I refer to the investigators as Investigator #1, Investigator #2, etc. Similar remarks apply to the psychologist whom I call Dr. K. Needless to say, I am not able to provide documentary evidence to refute all of the false statements that have been made about me, or even all of those that have been made by my brother and my mother. But I am able to demonstrate that informants have been lying or mistaken in enough cases to show that statements made about me are so unreliable that they should not be given any credence unless they are corroborated by documents written at or near the time to which they refer. In many cases I cite documents written by myself—principally my journals, some autobiographical notes, and letters sent to my family. All of these were written at a time (prior to my arrest) when I had no motive to lie about the points that are now at issue. They were either seized by the FBI when they searched my cabin, or were in the custody of other persons at the time of my arrest. Since my arrest, I have not had physical possession of any of these documents; I have worked from Xerox copies. Thus, there can be no question of my having fabricated any of this material for the purposes of this book. (Exception: Notes that I took on information given to me orally by the investigators and by Dr. K. were of course written after my arrest and while I was preparing this book.) Moreover, some of these documents, especially my 1979 autobiography, contain highly embarrassing admissions that show that I was striving to be as honest as possible. Some of the documents were written almost immediately after the events that they record; others, while not contemporary with the events, were written many years ago when my memory of the events was fresher, and hence they presumably provide more reliable evidence than someone else’s recollections taken down within the last year or two. In many cases I make use of sources of information that I know to be unreliable, such as media reports. The rationale for doing this is that if the reader has conceived a certain impression of me from unreliable sources, and if I can show by quoting those same sources that the impression is not to be trusted, then I will at any rate have demonstrated that the sources are unreliable and, hence, that the reader has no reason to believe them. As for statements of my brother and my mother that were quoted in the New York Times, the Washington Post, and the Sacramento Bee, my mother and brother presumably saw the articles based on their interviews, and, as far as I know, they never wrote letters to the newspapers in question correcting any errors, so they have to be considered responsible for their statements as quoted in the articles. In all cases when I have felt that a source was more or less unreliable, I have warned the reader of that fact in the Notes on Documents. Quite apart from the unreliability of the media, I was appalled to learn how few people provided trustworthy information. A psychologist (Dr. K.) repeatedly interviewed my brother, my mother, and me. She gave me orally some items of information obtained from my brother, mother, and aunt, and I wrote these down at the time. But when I asked her to confirm some items of this information several months later, in three cases out of a total of nine she either said she couldn’t remember any such information and couldn’t find it in her notes, or she reworded the information in such a way as to change its meaning significantly.[2] Other shrinks misquoted me or gave seriously incorrect information in their reports. The investigators who worked for my defense team were much more reliable than the shrinks, but they too gave me orally a few items of information that they later had to correct, not because they had learned something new from further investigation, but because they had reported to me carelessly in the first place. For this reason I have tried to rely as little as possible on information received orally. Wherever I have used such information the reader is made aware of it either in the text or in a footnote and he or she is advised to receive such information with caution. I have cited oral information from Dr. K. or the investigators in only a few cases. It is possible that Dr. K. or the investigators may decline to confirm some of this information if they are asked. Yet I was careful in recording the information and I am certain that I have accurately reported what I was told. What really horrified me, though, was the nonsense reported to the media or to the investigators by people who knew me years or decades ago. The investigators have given me written reports of interviews conducted with approximately 150 people.[3] Some of the information obtained in these interviews dealt with matters of which I have no knowledge, hence, I am unable to give an opinion of its accuracy. Taking into consideration only matters of which I have knowledge and speaking in rough terms, I can say that something like 14% of the informants gave reports the accuracy of which I was unable to judge; 6% gave reports about whose accuracy I was doubtful; 6% gave reports that were inaccurate in detail but provided an overall picture of me that was not far from the truth; 36% gave reports that were fairly accurate; 38% gave reports that were seriously inaccurate; and, of these last, eleven persons gave reports that were so far off that they were mere flights of fancy. More than that: of the reports that were fairly accurate, 72% were brief (one and a half pages or less); while fewer than one in four of the seriously inaccurate reports were brief. So it seems that people who spoke carefully and responsibly usually didn’t have much information to give, while most of those who had (or thought they had) a good deal of information didn’t know what they were talking about. (I was told that under normal circumstances the investigators would have interviewed the subjects over and over in order to separate the wheat from the chaff, but for some reason this was not done in my case.) To judge from what I have seen of them, statements about me made to journalists by people who knew me, as quoted in the media, were even more inaccurate than what was reported to my investigators. In some cases I have documentary evidence that shows that reports about me are false, but in the great majority of cases I am relying on memory for the information that disproves the reports. Why do I assume, when my recollections disagree with someone else’s, that mine are usually right? First: In many cases I can be confident that I am right simply because I am in a better position to know about the matter in question than are the persons whose memories disagree with mine. For instance, if someone says that I used to wear a plaid sport–jacket four decades ago, I can safely assume that he has me mixed up with someone else, because I have owned very few sport–jackets in my life and I know that I have never had a plaid one. Second: I have good evidence of the accuracy of my long–term memory.[4] (A) lnvestigators working for my defense team who researched my past told me repeatedly that my long–term memory was remarkably sharp and accurate.[5] This does not mean that I never made mistakes of memory, but that I did so seldom. See Appendix 11. (B) In preparing this book I’ve studied hundreds of old family letters [6] that my mother had saved, going all the way back to 1957, and I’ve found hardly anything to surprise me: to the extent that the matters covered in the letters overlapped with areas of which I have memories, my memories were confirmed with only minor discrepancies. (C) During the 1990’s, for reasons that I need not take the trouble to explain here, I obtained from Harvard a transcript of my record. Before looking at it, as a check on my memory, I wrote down on a sheet of paper the number–designations of the courses I took (e.g. “Math 1a” ) and the grades I got in them. The FBI found this sheet of paper in my cabin and I have a copy of it.[7] Here is how it compares with the official transcripts [8] of my record: General Education AHF (which everyone referred to as “Gen Ed A” ), Humanities 5, and Social Sciences 7 were courses lasting two semesters; all other courses were of one semester. | Official Transcript | | My Memory | | | General Education AHF (mid–year grade) | B− | General Ed A (mid–year grade) | not remembered | | German R | A | German R | A | | Mathematics la | A | Math la | A | | Humanities 5 (mid–year) | C | Hum 5 | C | | Social Sciences 7 (mid–year) | C | Soc Sci 7 | C | | General Education AHF | C | Gen Ed A | C+ | | Physics 12a | A | Physics 12a | A | | Mathematics 1b | A | Math 1b | A | | Humanities 5 | C+ | Hum 5 | C+ | | Social sciences 7 | B− | Soc Sci 7 | B− | | Anthropology I a | B+ | Anthro la | B+ | | German Da | B | Germ Da | B | | Mathematics 20a | A | Math 20a | A | | Physics 12c | C | Phys. 12c | C− | | Anthropology 10 | B+ | Anthro 10 | B+ | | Astronomy 2 | B+ | Astron 2 | B | | Mathematics 20b | B | Math 20b | B | | Mathematics 101 | C | Math 101 | C+ | | History 109a | B− | History | B− | | Mathematics 105a | A− | Math 105a | A− | | Mathematics 106a | A | Math 106a | A | | Philosophy 140 | A | Phil 140 | A | | History 109b | C− | History | C− | | Mathematics 105b | C+ | Math 105b | C+ | | Mathematics 106b | A− | Math 106b | A− | | Philosophy 141 | B | Phil 141 | B+ | | History of Science 101 | B+ | Hist Sci 101 | B+ | | Humanities 115 | B− | Hum (Ren) [9] | C+ | | Mathematics 212a | B | Math 212a | B+ | | Mathematics 250a | B | Math 250a | B | | Anthropology 122 | A− | Anthro (hum gen) [10] | A− | | History 143 | C+ | Eng intel hist [11] | C+ | | Mathematics 212b | A | Math 212b | A | | Scandinavian 50 | A− | Scand 50 | A− | As far as I can recall, I never saw a transcript of my Harvard grades from the time I left Harvard in 1962 until I wrote them down from memory in the early 1990’s. (D) In the other surviving documents I have found reasonably good agreement with my memories. When I have encountered a discrepancy between my memories and someone else’s memories as reported in the media or to my investigators, and when some document was available that resolved the discrepancy, the discrepancy has always been resolved in my favor, with very few exceptions.[12] (However, I can think of two cases—one trivial, one significant—in which my memory has disagreed with someone else’s and I am sure that the other person is right because the matter is one about which she could hardly be mistaken.[13] Also, when I recall things that I have read years previously in books and magazines, it is not uncommon for my memory of what I have read to be distorted; occasionally it is seriously wrong.[14] On the other hand, my memory of things I have written or read in personal letters or heard in conversation seems to be pretty reliable, so far as surviving documents have made it possible to judge.) Third: There is abundant evidence of the gross unreliability of the memories of me that have been reported to my investigators or have appeared in the media. In reference to the information given to the investigators, Investigator #2, who is very experienced, writes:
“Lay witness reports of Ted’s behavior and functioning are extremely suspect given the high profile nature of his case. Many of their anecdotes and conclusions are most likely the result of planted memories and suggestions they’ve read, seen, or heard from others.”[15]There are three ways by which I have been able to establish that they are wrong. They may contradict information about which I am in a position so well that there is hardly any chance that my own memory could be mistaken; they may contradict convincing documentary evidence; or the accounts of two different people may contradict one another, so that at least one of them must be wrong. Throughout this book, the reader will find examples of reports that are proved wrong. But it will be useful to give some examples here in the Introduction also, because, among other things, they will illustrate some of the ways in which false memories or false reports arise. Some of the sources of falsehood or distortion can be identified with reasonable confidence: (a) Media planting. The informant “remembers” something because it has been suggested to him by the media. (b) Mistaken identity. The informant has me mixed up with someone else. (c) Remembering later years. The informant remembers the later years of his association with me, largely forgets the earlier ones, and attributes to the earlier years the same traits, relationships, or circumstances that existed in the later years. (d) Stereotyping. The informant sees that I have some of the traits of a given group, so he identifies me with that group and assumes that I have all of the traits that are characteristic of it. (e) Lying. It is difficult to say how many of the falsehoods told about me are conscious lies. At least some of the things that my brother and my mother have said are conscious lies and not honest errors, and I can identify one other individual who definitely has been lying about me. But otherwise my guess is that the conscious lying by informants has not played an important role; it is a matter, instead, of human fallibility and irrationality. On the other hand, some conscious lies by journalists can be clearly identified, and there is enough evidence of unscrupulousness and irresponsibility in the media to make it plausible that journalists may often lie when they think they won’t get caught. Apart from the factors we’ve just listed there are four others that may have helped to produce false reports in my case, but their existence is more–or–less speculative and cannot be definitely proved. These are: (f) Projection. People who themselves have mental or psychological problems are prone to see others as having such problems. (g) Personal resentment or jealousy. This factor is clearly present in the case of my brother and mother. In some other individuals its presence may be suspected, but this is speculative. (h) Mass hysteria, herd instinct. Under certain conditions, when an individual or a class of individuals within a society is pointed out as evil or worthy of being cast out, an atmosphere develops in which other members of the society draw together defensively, gang up on the rejected person(s), and take satisfaction in reviling him or them. It becomes something like a fad. Possibly sadistic impulses are involved. Some such factor seems to be operating in my case, but it is difficult to prove this objectively. (i) Greed. Several people who once knew me have appeared on television in connection with my case, and I know of at least one person who was paid for it. Obviously, those who told the most bizarre or exaggerated stories about me would be most in demand by talk shows and therefore might make the most money. When interviewed later by my investigators, they would give them the same story that they gave on television so as not to have to admit to themselves or others that they had perhaps allowed their memories to be warped by greed. Now some examples: (a) Media planting. There are very many instances in which I am reasonably sure that this has occurred,[16] but often I can’t prove it definitely. For example, Leroy Weinberg, a neighbor of ours when I was a teenager, told investigators that when he said “hello” to me I always failed to respond.[17] I know that this is false, because my mother had me well trained to be polite to adults, and that included answering all greetings from them.[18] It seems fairly obvious that Weinberg attributes this and other strange behavior to me because his memory of me has been warped by exposure to the media; but how can I be certain? Conceivably he might remember some instance in which I failed to respond to a greeting of his because I simply didn’t hear it. However, there are some cases in which it does seem virtually certain that media planting has been at work. Dr. L.Hz., a dentist who practices part of the time in Lincoln, Montana, told my investigators: “Ted must not have had much money because his mother usually paid his dental bills.”[19] My mother had provided me with a large sum of money from which I paid my dental bills among other things, but she never paid any of my dental bills directly. I deposited her money in a bank and paid Dr. L.Hz., either in cash or with checks, on my own account. There is no way that Dr. L.Hz. could have known that the money came ultimately from my mother, because I was embarrassed about the fact I received money from her, and I was careful to conceal it from everyone. Certainly I would never have told Dr. L.Hz. about it. It is clear, therefore, that Dr. L.Hz. must have learned from the media after my arrest that I had been receiving money from my mother, and this information altered his memory of his own dealings with me. Dr. L.Hz. also told my investigators: “Ted was an extremely quiet person, so quiet that Ted appeared odd. Ted was a kooky man. ... Ted did not talk much.” [20] Media planting was probably involved here, too, as Dr. L.Hz.’s account is contradicted by that of his own dental assistant, R.Cb. According to my investigators, R.Cb. “described Ted as, ‘a sweet, nice, pleasant guy.’ ... She said that Ted was ‘friendly’ and she would chat with him when he came into the office. She does not remember what they talked about.”[21] Dr. L.Hz. was present at most of my conversations with R.Cb. and he participated in them. Another clear example of media planting is provided by Dale Eickelman, whom I knew in junior high and high school. Eickelman, now a professor at Dartmouth College, told my investigators that “Teddie did not have other friends [than Dale Eickelman] during the time that Dale knew Teddie from 5th grade until Teddie’s sophomore year [of college].”[22] In Chapter III of this book (pp. 79, 87, 88) I mention eight people (other than Dale Eickelman), of approximately my own age or up to two years older, with whom I was friends during some part (or in one case almost all) of the period between fifth grade and the time I left high school.[23] These were good friends whom I genuinely liked, not just casual acquaintances or people (like Russell Mosny) with whom I spent time only because we were thrown together as outcasts. Professor Eickelman is a highly intelligent man. He must realize that his house was a least a mile and a half from mine, and that after fifth grade we were never in any of the same classes at school. So how can he imagine that he knows whether I had any friends other than himself? The only evidence he cited was that when he visited my house (which was not very often) no other friends were present.[24] But it was equally true that when I visited Eickelman’s house he never had any other friends there. Would this justify me in concluding that his only friend was myself? Professor Eickelman’s belief that he was my only friend clearly has no rational basis. Only one plausible explanation for this belief presents itself. It was suggested to him by the media portrayal of me as abnormally asocial. It is true that I was unsuccessful socially in junior high and high school. Thus, the media did not create Professor Eickelman’s belief from nothing, but caused him to exaggerate grossly the accurate perception that I was less social than the average kid. (b) Mistaken identity. In Chapter VI the reader will find several examples of mistaken identity: cases in which it can be clearly shown that an informant has made a false statement about me because he has confused me with someone else. We give another example here. G.Wi. owns a cabin not far from mine, though I haven’t seen him for several years. According to investigators who interviewed him, “[G.Wi.] thinks that Ted was always looking over his shoulder. Sometime during the 1970’s, Ted talked to [G.Wi.] about the KGB. Ted told [G.Wi.] he had a place he could hide in up [sic] Old Baldy where no one would ever find him.”[25] G.Wi. has me mixed up with Al Pinkston, a gentleman whom he and I met up in the Dalton Mountain or Sauerkraut Creek area about late December of 1974. Pinkston (now deceased) was an obvious paranoiac who believed that the Lincoln area was infested with KGB agents. He told me he was hiding out up on the mountain because “they’re gunnin’ for my ass.” I related the story of this encounter three months later in my journal [26] and in a letter to my parents.[27] I never told G.Wi. or anyone else that I had a hiding place. In this and in some other cases of mistaken identity, it is likely that media influence was at work. G.Wi. probably confused me with Al Pinkston because the media had portrayed me as crazy, like Pinkston. (c) Remembering later years. In greater or lesser degree this phenomenon seems to affect a number of the reports made to my investigators by people who have known me. In some cases it is clear–cut. For example, Russell Mosny reported that he and I met through our membership in the high school band,[28] but actually I knew him from the time I entered seventh grade.[29] In some cases it is difficult to disentangle the effect of “remembering later years” from that of “media planting.” Thus, L.D., the daughter of one of my father’s best friends, told investigators: “Ted Jr. was a very shy and quiet boy. He was introverted and only involved himself in things he could do alone.”[30] Here and throughout her interview, L.D. exaggerates my shyness and introversion to the point of caricature. Most likely this is the result of media planting. Yet “remembering later years” would seem to be involved too, since L.D. appears to have forgotten completely the earlier years when I was not particularly shy or introverted and we were lively playmates. I wrote the following in 1979:
“I might have been about 9 years old when the following incident occurred. My family was visiting the D____ family. The D____‘s had a little girl named L____, about my own age. At that time she was very pretty. I was horsing around with her, and by and by I got to tickling her. I put my arms around her from behind and tickled her under the ribs. I tickled and tickled, and she squirmed and laughed. I pressed my body up against hers, and experienced a very pleasant, warm, affectionate sensation, distinctly sexual. Unfortunately, my mother caught on to the fact that our play was beginning to take on a sexual character. She got embarrassed and told me to stop tickling L____. L____said, ’No, don’t make him stop! I like it!’ but, alas, my mother insisted, and I had to quit.”[31]The most important case of “remembering later years” involves my father’s close friend Ralph Meister. On February 2, 1997, Dr. Meister signed for my investigators a declaration in which he outlined what he knew about me and my family life. The declaration is mostly accurate except in one respect. Dr. Meister represents my mother and me as showing certain traits through the entire period of my childhood and adolescence, whereas in reality those traits were not shown until I was approaching adolescence. Thus, he writes: “Wanda put pressure on Teddy John to be an intellectual giant almost from the day he was born.”[32] Actually I never felt I was under much pressure to achieve until at least the age of eleven. Dr. Meister also implies that I had difficulties with social adjustment from early childhood,[33] whereas in reality those difficulties did not begin until much later. All this will be shown in Chapters I through V of this book. (d) Stereotyping: The most clear–cut example of this is that some people remember me as having used a pocket protector in high school.[34] I have never used a pocket protector in my life. But because I was identified with the “Briefcase Boys” (academically–oriented students), and because some of these did wear pocket protectors, people remember me as having worn one too. (e) Lying: Apart from my brother and my mother, the only informant whom I definitely know to be consciously lying is Chris Waits of Lincoln, Montana. Waits has been pretending that he knows me well.[35] He used to say hello to me when he passed me on the road in his truck, and I would return his greeting. I don’t remember ever accepting a ride from him, but it’s conceivable that I may have done so on one or two occasions, not more. I once had a brief conversation with him at a garage sale. Apart from that, I had no association or contact with him. One wonders what Waits’ motive might be. Perhaps he is one of those pathetic individuals who feel like failures in life and try to compensate by seeking notoriety through tall tales that they tell about some news event that has come close to them. I recall that back in the 1950’s there was a derelict in Chicago named Benny Bedwell who “confessed” to a highly publicized murder just in order to make himself famous. (f) Projection. It does appear to be true that persons who themselves have mental or psychological problems are prone to see others as having such problems, but it is difficult to say definitely that this factor has operated in my case, since the people who portrayed me as strange, abnormal, or mentally ill may have done so under the influence of “media planting” or some other factor. But it is a fact that many of the people who portrayed me in this way had serious problems of their own. For the case of Joel Schwartz, see Chapter XII and Appendix 6. Many other examples can be found in the investigators’ reports of the interviews that they conducted.[36] Here I will only discuss some of my suitemates from Eliot N–43 at Harvard who gave false information about me. W.Pr., Pat McIntosh, John Masters, and K.M. formed a close–knit clique within the suite. To all outward appearances they were thoroughly well–adjusted. They wore neatly–kept suits and ties, their rooms were always tidy, they observed all of the expected social amenities, their attitudes, opinions, speech, and behavior were so conventional that I found them completely uninteresting. Yet three of the four gave my investigators a glimpse of their psychological problems. Pat McIntosh, according to the investigators’ report, did a great deal of whining throughout his interview about how hard it was to survive academically and psychologically at Harvard. For example: “[Pat] found life at Harvard to be extremely difficult...[37] Patrick [had] his own adolescent insecurities...[38] Patrick was too insecure and wrapped up in his own problems ...[39] The faculty or administration at Harvard was ... unconcerned with students’ emotional and psychological problems. Patrick did not know any students who actually sought and received emotional help ... At times, Patrick wanted help surviving himself, but he had no idea where to go. John Finley, the house master ... didn’t want to recognize the serious difficulties that many of the students were having.”[40] McIntosh evidently assumes that I was having problems similar to his own: “One day during Patrick’s second year at Harvard ... he saw a student being taken out on a stretcher. The student had slit his wrists after receiving a C on an exam ... Patrick ... thought of Ted and worried that maybe Ted might end up like this kid.” [41] John Masters told the investigators that he “was two years old when the United States dropped the atomic bomb on Nagasaki and Hiroshima. After that he used to dream about the atomic bomb; these dreams sparked John’s desire of becoming a nuclear physicist but after he barely earned a C in his freshman physics class at Harvard, he decided that he was not cut out for a career in the hard sciences...[42] During John’s first semester of his sophomore year at Harvard, his family began to fall apart. He became very depressed for several months and started receiving therapy at the student health services”.[43] When John Masters first moved into Eliot N–43 he mentioned having been in “the hospital.” I asked him what he had been in the hospital for, and he answered, “just nervousness.” Like McIntosh, Masters made false statements about me and exaggerated my solitariness. According to the investigators’ report of his interview, “House Master Finley ... did not intervene on John’s behalf when John needed counseling. The same was probably true for Ted. Ted’s solitary nature failed to draw Master Finley’s attention because diversity or unusual behavior was accepted at Harvard. John believes that today Ted’s solitary behavior would warrant some type of intervention; at the time, his behavior did not even raise an eyebrow.[44] ... John’s solitary lifestyle meant that he did not make more than five friends while at Harvard.”[45] W.Pr. “was shy and socially backward when he went to Harvard and feared that he would never fully come out of his shell. ... He had a strong desire to lead a normal life. W.Pr. was an astronomy major. He originally intended to pursue astronomy on the graduate level but his fears drove him away from that goal. He saw that many of the astronomy graduate students at Harvard were not well–adjusted and he felt he would move further away from a normal life if he pursued astrophysics.
“At the end of W.Pr.’s junior year, he dropped out of Harvard. He was confused as a college student and this confusion led him to drop out of school.[W.Pr.] went to the Harvard health services for counseling before dropping out of Harvard. He thought the counseling was helpful ... he returned to Harvard a year or two later. W.Pr. did not last long at Harvard and soon dropped out again.”[46]W.Pr. too made false statements about me and exaggerated my solitariness. “W.Pr. and the others at N–43 were too young to realize how serious Ted’s isolation was for him...”[47] Thus McIntosh, Masters, and W.Pr. appear to have seen me as having problems or needs that were, in part, similar to their own. In reality, I was psychologically self–reliant and felt neither insecure, nor depressed, nor did I feel in need of help, nor did I find it hard to face the academic challenges of Harvard, nor. Nor did I feel troubled by loneliness. I did suffer from acute sexual starvation: I was in daily contact with smart, physically attractive Radcliffe women and I didn’t know how to make advances to them. I did feel very frustrated at a few mathematics teachers whose lectures I considered to be ill–prepared. Apart from that there was just one other thing about which I felt seriously unhappy: It was a kind of nagging malaise the nature of which I never fully understood until I broke free of it once and for all in 1966. But that is a story that will be told elsewhere than in this book. (g) Personal resentment or jealousy. Only in the case of my brother and mother can resentment or jealousy be clearly identified as a factor influencing reports given to investigators. However, this factor may be suspected in some other cases. Ellen A. (see Chapter VI) once told me that “everyone” was jealous of me, presumably referring to the people whom we both knew, including G.Da. and Russell Mosny, both of whom seemed to become cool toward me at about the time I moved a year ahead of them in school. In G.Da.’s opinion, “Academically and intellectually, Ted was head and shoulders above the rest of the students at Evergreen Park High. His exceptional intelligence set him apart, even from a group of bright young men like the Briefcase Boys.”[48] “The Briefcase Boys” was a clique that included, among others, G.Da., Russell Mosny, and Roger Podewell. According to Podewell, “It wasn’t just Ted’s shyness that set him apart from the Briefcase Boys. He was more intelligent than the others, a fact that made Roger a little jealous ... .”[49] G.Da. and Mosny both went to the University of Illinois and flunked out. Roger Podewell went to Yale and got a C average his first year. (How he did after that I don’t know.) I did not fail to josh Podewell and Mosny about their academic performance, but they didn’t seem to find it amusing. G.Da., Podewell, and Mosny (especially the last) gave my investigators unflattering and inaccurate accounts of me that exaggerated my social isolation. Is this due only to media planting, or are dislike, resentment, or jealousy also involved? My guess is that no such factor is involved in Podewell’s case but that it is involved in Mosny’s. With G.Da. it could be either way.
“Patrick [McIntosh] was jealous of Ted’s prowess in mathematics ... .” [50] Did this influence McIntosh’s highly inaccurate and unflattering portrayal of me? There is no proof that it did, but. But it’s a fact that a sense of inferiority can be one of the most powerful impulses to resentment. Especially when the person who appears to be more able is lacking in tact, as I’m afraid has sometimes been the case with me.(h) Mass hysteria, Herd instinct. This is a very vaguely–defined factor that has probably been at work in my case, but it is impossible to separate from media planting or illustrate with specific examples. (i) Greed. Although I know of at least one case of a person receiving payment for an interview, I have no way of proving that people who told stories about me on television allowed themselves to alter their recollections in such a way as to make them more profitable financially. But it is worth noting that two of the people who appeared most on talk shows—Russell Mosny and Pat McIntosh—gave my investigators accounts of me that were among the most exaggerated and inaccurate.
“On the first occasion Date met Ted, Wanda and Ted Sr.[my father], Dave and he were discussing Plato, in connection with something they had read in their book club. Ted came out of his room and said there was no reason to read any early Greek philosophers like Plato because they had all been proven wrong. That was all Ted said before returning to his room or leaving the house. ...[Ted] never made eye contact, but just looked off blindly while he spoke.”[52]Here is how Jeanne E. described my behavior at the same colloquium:
“[Jeanne met Ted] one night when she and K.H. were back at the Kaczynskis’ house for another colloquy [sic]. When he was introduced to her, Ted made a disparaging comment about her and about women in general. She was completely shocked, but the nature of Ted’s comment made her feel that there was no point in trying to get to know Ted. Later, when the group began the colloquy Ted participated at first, but Jeanne recalls that he soon disagreed with something in the discussion. He then became nervous and fidgety and kept getting up, walking out and coming back to the conversation.”[53]The reader will observe that the two accounts are inconsistent with one another. At least one of them must be false. As a matter of fact, both are false. I remember the colloquium quite clearly. The participants were Dale E., K.H. and Jeanne E., my parents, my brother, and myself. I can state exactly where each of us was sitting, I can describe in a general way the demeanor of each, and I can even recall some of the details of the conversation. The subject of the colloquium was a dialogue of Plato that discussed happiness and love; Plato’s conclusion was that true happiness lay in the love of wisdom. I was present in the living room when the others entered. I did not make a disparaging comment about Jeanne personally. I did not make a disparaging comment about women in general when I was introduced to Jeanne, but it is conceivable that at some later point I may have made a comment about women that might have been felt as disparaging by a woman who was excessively sensitive about her gender. However, it’s more likely that Jeanne is remembering a joking comment about women that I made in a letter to her husband, K.H., during the mid–1980’s., (Added July 20, 1998: Since writing the foregoing, I’ve obtained copies of some of my letters to K.H. including the letter mentioned here. This undated letter refers jokingly to “Woman, the vessel of evil.” ). I did not say that the early Greek philosophers had “been proven wrong.” I did say that their methods of reasoning were naive by modern standards, hence, they were worth reading today only for esthetic reasons or because of their historical interest, not as a source of rational understanding. I did not become “nervous” or “fidgety”, and I did not leave the room at any time until all of the guests had left. I did repeatedly get up to take pieces of snack food from a bowl that was on a table five or six feet from where I was sitting. It is probably some garbled memory of this that leads Jeanne to say that I kept getting up and walking out. Dale E.’s statement that I “never made eye contact” with him is literally true, but it was he, not I, who avoided eye contact. I looked at Dale E.’s face a number of times during the evening, but he never looked back at me. I’m more than willing to put the matter to a test. I invite Mr. E. to come and visit me in the presence of witnesses. Let the witnesses judge which of us has difficulty maintaining eye contact with the other. Besides his evasion of eye contact, Dale E. seemed unable to deal with any challenge to his opinions. Twice during the evening, I was made so bold as to disagree with him. In each case, instead of answering my argument, he just shut his mouth, elevated his nose, and looked away without saying anything. K.H. didn’t give the investigators any account of my behavior at the colloquium, or at least none is mentioned in the report that I have. He did have much else to say about me, however, and it is mostly fantasy. Unfortunately, no documents are available that confirm or refute his statements except in one case. According to the investigators’ report of their interview with K.H. and Jeanne:
“[K.H.] and Jeanne compared Ted to Jeanne’s brother Dan who was severely mentally ill and killed himself in 1984. In fact, Dave [Kaczynski] also knew Dan and saw a clear parallel between Dan and Ted. Dan had extremely rigid opinions and was often intolerant and impatient of divergent views. ... Dave, in fact, found Dan and Ted so similar that when Dan finally killed himself in 1984, he began to worry that Ted might do the same.”[54]But here is what my brother wrote to me in 1984, shortly after Dan’s suicide:
“I’ve been feeling kind of depressed the last couple of weeks since learning that Jeanne’s brother Dan committed suicide. As he lived with K.H. and Jeanne, and didn’t have a regular job, I spent quite a bit of time with him during my two visits in Rockport. We ... often talked about philosophy. … “[I]t was hard getting through to Dan. On the other hand, he seemed to have a message he was trying to get across, and which he didn’t feel that I, K.H., or anyone had yet appreciated adequately. So he must have felt a similar frustration with us, in answer to which, according to K.H., he seemed to be withdrawing from everyone more and more during the last couple of years. K.H. seemed to think that Dan’s suicide was a ‘rational act’—i.e. that it was a consequence of his ideas. The arresting thing for would–be intellectuals, such as K.H. and me, assuming this were true, is the facility and resolution with which Dan’s ‘idea’ translated itself into an act. [K.H.] ... is even worse than me, living a bourgeois [sic] lifestyle in almost all respects except his reading.” “... When I spoke to [K.H.] on the phone, he still sounded unusually distraught. If Dan had intended at all to make a permanent, life–long impression on [K.H.]—to break through the barrier of mere philosophizing at last—then I think he might have succeeded. The rest of the family prefers—I suppose for obvious reasons—to interpret Dan’s later years and his suicide as symptoms of a mental disease. ...[Dan’s death] reminded me of the sometimes dismal gulfs which isolate human beings from one another. It reminded me just a tad of myself, having ideas and affections, but often feeling at a loss for the proper means to share them. More acutely, I felt somewhat guilty, as if I were being called to account for my unresponsiveness to similar claims made on me by others.”[55]In his interview, K.H. goes on and on about my supposed “intolerance” of other people’s ideas (making, at the same time, many false statements about my behavior).[56] As a matter of fact, I never had more than a very little philosophical or intellectual discussion with K.H. but (though I was not knowingly tactless) that little apparently was enough to show him that I did not respect him or his ideas, which presumably is why he thought I was “intolerant.” If the reader were to make K.H.’s acquaintance and familiarize himself with his ideas, he would be able to make his own judgment as to whether my lack of respect for them was due to intolerance or to the quality of the ideas. K.H. used to read children’s comic books and claimed that he found philosophical messages in them.[57] I once asked him whether he believed the messages were put there intentionally or whether he created them himself out of the comic–book material. He answered that he preferred not to discuss the question at that time. Among many other inaccuracies that appear in Professor Peter Duren’s interview with the investigators, there is the following:
“The last time that Professor Duren ever saw Ted was at the annual meeting of the American Math Society in San Francisco in 1968. Ted did not give a talk which was strange since professionally it was the right thing to do. Professor Duren saw Ted standing near the escalator. He went over to talk to Ted, and they had a very stiff, very brief conversation. The conversation consisted of Professor Duren asking questions that Ted did not feel like answering. Ted did not seem comfortable or happy.”[58]This may be a case of mistaken identity or it may be just fantasy. I was not a member of the American Mathematical Society in 1968 and I have never in my life attended any kind of mathematical meeting outside of a university where I was a student or faculty member. I just wasn’t that interested in mathematics. I suppose the names of participants in American Mathematical Society meetings are recorded, and if that is so, then it may be possible to get documentary proof that I was not at the 1968 meeting; but at present I am not able to provide such proof.
“Physically, ... Dave was much smaller than his classmates. He was also socially awkward. Dave was shy and quiet and tended to keep to himself. Dale never saw Dave hanging out with friends. ...[S]ocially and physically, he was behind [his classmates]. ... Dave seemed socially and physically awkward.”[61]Referring to the early 1970’s, Dale E. said:
“Dave was still socially awkward and inept ...[W]hen Dale and Dave went for walks in the Morton Arboretum, Dave made Dale walk ahead of him so that Dave did not have to speak to any people they passed. He told Dale he did not want to have to say hello to people.”[62]Lois Skillen, guidance counselor at the school, described my brother during his high school years as follows:
“David was outgoing, friendly and sociable. ... David had friends and played sports. ... David was outgoing and happy. ... David ... sat down in the living room with all the women and immediately started to chat with them. David was laughing and having a good time. He was sweet, friendly and social.”[63]The admirable consistency between Dale E.’s description of my brother and Miss Skillen’s should help the reader to estimate the value of these reports. Much of the information that Skillen gave my investigators is inaccurate, but on this particular point she is right and Dale E. is wrong. My brother is occasionally a little shy, and he wasn’t socially polished, but he never had any trouble making friends. In high school, if anything, he was more outgoing than he was later. I don’t have Dave’s medical records, but they would probably show that he was at least average height for his age. Anyone who thinks Dave is physically awkward will soon change his mind if he plays tennis or ping–pong with him. The Morton Arboretum incident may well have occurred, since my brother occasionally behaves a little oddly. But it does not fairly represent his usual social behavior.
“[Your hatred of your parents] I think, I am convinced, has its source in your traumatic hospital experience in your first year of life. You had to be hospitalized with a sudden, very serious allergy that could have choked off your breath. In those days hospitals would not allow a parent to stay with a sick child, and visits were limited to one hour twice a week. I can still hear you screaming ‘Mommy, Mommy!’ in panic as the nurse forced me out of the room. My God! how I wept. My heart broke. I walked the floor all night weeping, knowing you were horribly frightened and lonely. Knowing you thought yourself abandoned and rejected when you needed your mother the most. How could you, at nine months, understand why—in your physical misery—you were turned over to strangers. When I finally brought [you [68]] home you were a changed personality. You were a dead lump emotionally. You didn’t smile, didn’t look at us, didn’t respond to us in any way. I was terrified. What had they done to my baby? Obviously, the emotional pain and shock you suffered those four days became deeply embedded in your brain—your sub–conscious. I think you rejected, you hated me from that time on. We rocked you, cuddled you, talked to you, read to you—did everything we could think of to stimulate you. How we loved you, yearned over you. Some said we spoiled you, were too lenient, doted on you too much. But you were our beloved son—our first born and we wanted so much to have you love us back. But I think that emotional pain and fear never completely left you. Every now and then throughout your life, I saw it crop up. …”[69]I was surprised when I saw that in this letter my mother described my hospitalization as having lasted only four days. She had previously told me—repeatedly—that it had lasted a week,[70] and that I had been “inert”, “a dead lump”, for a month after I came home. Here is what my brother reportedly said about “that hospital experience” when he was interviewed by the FBI:
“TED had a severe allergic reaction and was hospitalized for several weeks. His parents were only allowed short daily visits and TED became unresponsive and withdrawn during his stay in the hospital.”[71] “When TED was a year or so old, he was hospitalized after suffering a ‘severe allergic reaction.’ His parents were restricted from visiting him for more than a few minutes a day, and when he recovered and was taken home two or three weeks later they noticed that he was markedly unresponsive and displayed a significantly ‘flat effect’ (emotionless appearance). It took weeks and even months for his parents to re–establish a satisfactory relationship with TED, and WANDA attributes much of TED’s emotional disturbance as an adolescent to this early trauma.”[72] “DAVE stated that on four distinct occasions, TED has displayed a type of ‘almost catatonic’ behavior which has long perplexed and mystified his family. The first was his withdrawal after a three–week hospital stay when he was an infant.”[73]Here is what my brother told the New York Times:
“David, who had been told the story by his parents, said that the infant Teddy developed a severe allergy and was hospitalized for a week. ‘There were rigid regulations about when parents could and couldn’t visit,’ David said. He recalled that on two occasions, his parents ‘were allowed to visit him for one hour.’ “After Teddy came home, ‘he became very unresponsive,’ David said. ‘He had been a smiling, happy, jovial kind of baby beforehand, and when he returned from the hospital he showed little emotions [sic] for months.’”[74]Newsweek cited information from federal investigators (who presumably were relaying information received from my mother or my brother) as follows:
“The first clue is something that happened when Kaczynski was only 6 months old. According to federal investigators, little ‘Teddy John,’ as his parents called him, was hospitalized for a severe allergic reaction to a medicine he was taking. He had to be isolated—his parents were unable to see him or hold him for several weeks. After this separation, family members have told the Feds, the baby’s personality, once bubbly and vivacious, seemed to go ‘flat.’”[75]Time gave a similar report.[76] The FBI’s “302” reports often contain inaccuracies, and (as we will show later) journalists’ reports are extremely prone to gross inaccuracies that result from carelessness, incompetence, or intentional lying. But the fact that several different sources gave roughly similar accounts is a good indication of the kind of information my brother and mother had been giving out. Furthermore, on April 12, 1996, Investigator #1, an investigator for the Federal Defender’s office at Helena, Montana, interviewed my mother in Washington, D.C. According to Investigator #1’s notes, my mother gave her the story as follows:
“When Ted was nine or 10 months old, he developed a severe and sudden allergic reaction to something, his entire body swelled, and he had severe itching all over. Wanda walked with him the entire night, and took him to the University of Chicago–Children’s Teaching Hospital first thing in the morning. She described the hospital visit as very traumatic for both Ted and his mother. When they arrived, Ted was taken from Wanda by a nurse and put in a separate room. Ted started screaming and crying, calling nonstop for his mother, who also started crying ... . That Friday the hospital called Wanda and said she could come and pick Ted up, as the swelling had subsided. When Wanda arrived at the hospital, she was handed her son, who she described as ’a dead lump.’ She said Ted would not respond to her or her husband at all for weeks after the hospital stay. Wanda and Theodore spent hours trying to bring Ted out of his shell, coaxing a smile, or attempting to get him to play with a toy, mostly without success. … “After the stay in the hospital, Wanda described Ted as much more clingy, and less trusting of strangers. He would scream whenever he was taken into a strange building, fearful his parents were going to leave him. About four or five months after Ted was released from the hospital, he fell while running in the house, and split his tongue. Wanda rushed him to the hospital, where he immediately began screaming and fighting. … Ted’s regular pediatric visits were always upsetting, as Ted acted terrified of doctors.”[77]How accurate is this picture? Fortunately that question is easy to resolve, because my mother kept a “Baby Book,” or diary of my development as an infant. The book contained printed instructions and questions with blank spaces left for the parent to fill in. (When quoting from the Baby Book, I will put the printed matter in italics and material written by my mother in ordinary type.) The following excerpt from the Baby Book includes every word of my mother’s account of “that hospital experience,” from the first appearance of the symptoms to my apparently complete recovery. My age at the time was just over nine months.
“FORTY–FIRST WEEK. Dates, from Feb. 26 to Mar 5 [1943] “Saturday, the 27th [of February] Mother noticed small red splotches on baby’s stomach and neck, as the day progressed the splotches spread. In the evening we took him to the hospital. The doctor diagnosed them as hives. Sunday [February 28] the hives were worse but baby seemed not effected [sic] by them. We took him for a long ride in his buggy. Shortly after we returned we noticed the baby had a fever. Called the hospital and was told to give him frequent baths & 1/2 aspirin every 3 hrs. Monday morning [March 1] the baby was examined at Bobs Roberts [Hospital] by several doctors. The consensus [sic] of opinion was that baby had a bad case of urticaria [hives, rash] & should be left at the hospital. Wednesday [March 3], mother went to visit baby. The doctors still think he has an extreme case of urticaria but are not sure. The [sic] omitted [sic] eggs from his diet. Mother felt very sad about baby. She says he is quite subdued, has lost his abandoned virve [sic] & aggressiveness and has developed an institutionalized look. “FORTY–SECOND WEEK. Dates, from Mar. 5 to Mar. 12 [1943] “Baby’s home from hospital. Perfectly healthy But quiet and unresponsive after his experience. Hope his sudden removal to hospital and consequent unhappiness will not harm him. “Later in the week—Baby is quite himself again. Vivacious and demanding. Says ‘bye–bye’ by waving his hand.[Etc.]”[78]According to hospital records [79], I was admitted on March 1, 1943 and released on March 6, so I was hospitalized for five days. Since the statement that I was quite myself again could not have been written later than March 12, it took me at most six days (and possibly much less time) to make an apparently complete recovery. It should also be noted that a careful study of my medical records has turned up no mention of my supposed unresponsiveness. Furthermore, on September 6, 1996, my Aunt Freda (Freda Dombek Tuominen) was interviewed in Gainesville, Florida by two investigators working on my case. She told them that she was away on a two–week vacation when I was hospitalized from March 1 to 6, 1943. When she returned, someone mentioned to her that I had been in the hospital, but after that she heard nothing more about the episode until it was publicized in the media following my arrest.[80] Since Freda was very close to my parents during the 1940’s, this is a clear indication that at that time, my mother did not attach much importance to the hospitalization and that the effect on me was not obviously serious. What about my mother’s statement that “Ted’s regular pediatric visits were always upsetting, as Ted acted terrified of doctors?” [81] That is another lie. The Baby Book and my medical records show four, and only four, instances in which I appeared to be afraid of doctors or nurses, and two of these occurred before “that hospital experience.” Here are the corresponding entries from the Baby Book and the medical records:
“FIFTH WEEK. Dates, from June 19 to June 26 [1942], “... When the doctor was handling him today he cried a great deal. ... Perhaps he was frightened of the unfamiliar surroundings and handling.”[82] “SEVENTEENTH WEEK. Dates, from Sept. 11 to Sept. 18 [1942]. ... Sept. 15. When taken for his periodic examination the child became very frightened of the doctor.”[83]”In the medical records the two foregoing examinations are recorded, but no mention is made of my reaction to the doctor,[84] which probably indicates that the doctor did not consider my reaction unusual. My hospitalization occurred during the latter part of my forty–first week. About a month later, the following reaction was reported in the Baby Book:
“FORTY–SIXTH WEEK. Dates, from 4/2 to 4/9 [1943]. “This week we visited the hospital with Teddy. When mother took him in to be undressed & weighed Teddy saw the nurses in their white uniforms & immediately HOWLED. It’s evident he remembered his sojurn [sic] in the hospital. It took about 10 min. for mother to calm him. When the doctor entered the little room that he was taken to after being weighed there was no definite reaction other than interest in her, but as soon as she attempted to examine him he yowled.’’ [85]The hospital record of this examination does not mention my fearful reaction.[86] The last instance in which I showed fear of medical personnel is mentioned in my medical records, but not the Baby Book (which does not go beyond December 25, 1943):
“June 27, 1944. ... Reluctant to carry examination. Child is fearful of white coats since his visit for repair of his tongue.”[87]The reference is to an injury to my tongue [88] that had occurred about two months earlier, on April 29, 1944. Note that this extract from the medical records clearly implies that prior to the tongue injury, I was not fearful of medical personnel. That I was not afraid of doctors or nurses for at least nine or ten months preceding my tongue injury is confirmed by the absence of any mention in the Baby Book or the medical records of any such fear on my part between April 9, 1943 (about a month after my hospitalization) and April 29, 1944 (the date of my tongue injury), even though the medical records and the Baby Book report that I was examined at the University of Chicago clinics [89] on May 18, 1943, June 13, 1943, October 19, 1943, January 11, 1944, and January 18, 1944. Moreover, the Baby Book’s one–year inventory of the child’s development (late May, 1943, less than three months after “that hospital experience” ) includes the question, “Does he [the baby] show persistent fear of anything?“My mother left the question blank.[90] After my tongue injury (which, by the way, did not require hospitalization), my mother told a doctor that I was “quite fearful of hospitals” (see extract below, April 4, 1945). But that I had no long–lasting fear of doctors or hospitals is confirmed by the following extracts from the medical records [91]:
“June 13, 1943. ... Healthy w–d [well–developed?] well nourished infant. No pathological findings.”(No mention of unresponsiveness or fear of doctors.)
“April 4, 1945 ... appetite excellent. Plays well with other children. Quite fearful (?) of hospitals.”(Evidently the doctor is recording information furnished by my mother. The question mark after “fearful” is in the original and possibly indicates skepticism on the part of the doctor. Further along in the report of this same examination:)
“Sturdy, well nourished boy with good color who tries to manipulate his mother by temper [?] outbursts. Submits [illegible] but not quickly [or quietly?] to examination—after she is sent from the room. Quite agreeable at conclusion of examination.”(The foregoing entry contradicts my mother’s claim that I was afraid of being left by my parents, since the departure of my mother calmed me and caused me to submit to the examination.)
“January 4, 1946 ... A well nourished [?] adequately muscled [?] very whiny little boy.” “April 10, 1946 ... A whiny but fairly cooperative boy ... .” “October 16, 1947 ... A pleasant, quiet, alert, slender boy ... .” “December 8, 1947 ... A friendly, intelligent youngster who is not acutely ill. He is extremely inquisitive of all that is said and requests explanations.”The foregoing include all of the passages in my surviving medical records up to age 6 that have any bearing on my behavior in the presence of doctors or nurses. So much for my mother’s claim that “Ted’s regular pediatric visits were always upsetting, as Ted acted terrified of doctors.” According to the Washington Post, “Ted had an almost paralyzing uneasiness around strangers, a reaction, again, that Wanda traced back to Ted’s childhood hospitalization.”[92] Apart from the few cases in which I showed fear of doctors or nurses, the Baby Book reports two, and only two, cases in which I was frightened by strangers, and both of these cases occurred before my “hospital experience.”
“ELEVENTH WEEK. Dates, from July 31 to Aug 7 [1942] “Twice this week the baby was on the verge of crying when approached by unfamiliar persons. After a bit of handling and talking to by the strangers he became very friendly, cooing and smiling in response to their overtures.”[93]How did I react to strangers (apart from doctors and nurses) after the “hospital experience?” Only two pages in the Baby Book provide relevant information. The one–year inventory of the child’s development instructs the parent:
“Underline each of the following terms which seems descriptive of the child’s behavior. Doubly underline those which are shown very frequently or in a marked degree ... .”The Baby Book then lists thirteen terms. One of them is “shyness,” and my mother underlined it once. (The other terms are “curiosity,” which my mother underlined doubly; “excitability,” “impulsiveness,” “cautiousness,” “jealousy,” “stubbornness,” “cheerfulness”, “sensitiveness,” “boisterousness,” all of which my mother underlined once; and “irritability,” “listlessness,” “placidity,” which my mother did not underline at all.[94] The same terms were listed in the nine–month inventory, and there my mother underlined “curiosity” doubly, she underlined “excitability,” “impulsiveness,” “stubbornness,” and “boisterousness” once, and she underlined none of the others.[95]) Further along in the one–year inventory we find:
“Does child show greater interest in children or in adults? Describe. Either definitely likes or dislikes adults. Loves to tussle with other children. Is he usually shy or friendly with strange women? either men? either children? friendly Does he show any special preferences for certain persons? Yes Describe For unaccountable reasons will either be very friendly or unfriendly to strangers. But almost always friendly to people he knows.” [96]About seven weeks after the “hospital experience” and three weeks before the one–year inventory, we find in the Baby Book:
“FORTY–NINTH WEEK. Dates, from 4/23 to 4/30 [1943]. “When the door buzzer rings Teddy, when in his walker, immediately skoots [sic] to the door, no matter what he’s occupied with at the time. When not in the walker he insists on being carried or assisted in going himself.”[97]Since I was so anxious to meet visitors, it’s clear that I had no particular fear of strangers and was not excessively shy. The statement that I had “an almost paralyzing fear of strangers” going back to my “childhood hospitalization” is another lie. Did my hospitalization at the age of nine months have any lasting effect on my personality or behavior? I do not know the answer to that question. But it is obvious that if the experience tended to make me permanently fearful of doctors or of strangers, or if it made me less social, then the effect was so mild that it is not clear whether there was any effect at all. Psychologists consulted by my defense team searched the literature for reports of empirical studies of children who had suffered separation from their parents at an early age. They found only one study [98] that was closely relevant to my case. This study shows that my reaction to hospitalization and my recovery from it were quite normal for an infant hospitalized under those conditions. While the study found that all “overt” effects of hospitalization in such infants disappeared within 80 days, at most, and usually in a fraction of that time, the infants were not observed for a long enough period to determine whether there were any subtler, long–lasting effects. Thus it remains an open question whether my hospitalization had any permanent effect on my personality. The aim of this chapter has not been to prove that there could not have been such an effect, but that whatever that effect may have been, it was not what my mother and brother have described. My mother’s and brother’s motives for lying about me will be dealt with later. (See Appendix I for further evidence of my mother’s untruthfulness.)
“Feb. 27. 1943. Mother went to visit baby. ... Mother felt very sad about baby. She says he is quite subdued, has lost his verve and aggressiveness and has developed an institutionalized look. “March 12, 1943. Baby home from hospital and is healthy but quite unresponsive after his experience. Hope his sudden removal to hospital and consequent unhappiness will not harm him.”[99]Compare this with the accurate transcription of the passage given a few pages back. Kovaleski and Adams have made important changes. On February 27 I was still at home. I was not hospitalized until March 1, and the entry that Kovaleski and Adams dated “Feb. 27” actually refers to March 3. Kovaleski and Adams assign the date March 12 to an entry that was obviously written earlier, and they completely omit the entry that shows that on or before March 12 I had already recovered completely from “that hospital experience”. Kovaleski and Adams altered not only the dates but also the wording of the passage. The most important change was that, where the Baby Book states that I was “quiet and unresponsive,” Kovaleski and Adams wrote that I was “quite unresponsive.”[100] The effect of these obviously intentional changes is to give the impression that the “hospital experience” and its consequences were much more long–lasting and severe than they really were. ** Chapter II. My early years My mother, my brother, and the media have portrayed me as socially isolated to an abnormal degree from earliest childhood. For example, shortly after my arrest, Time reported: “Investigators were told that in childhood Ted seemed to avoid human contact.”[101] According to Investigator #1’s interview with my mother,
“As he grew older (age 2–4) Wanda spent a great deal of time attempting to get Ted to play with other kids, mostly without success. Friends and relatives always told her Ted was too clingy, so she attempted to encourage his interaction with other children. She would invite children from the neighborhood over to play, only to have Ted leave the group and go to his room to play alone. She said he always managed to have one friend at a time, but would rebuff the attempts of friendship from all other children. Wanda also took Ted to a play school for children for an hour or so each week so that he could play with other kids. Ted didn’t mind going, but would play alongside the other children instead of with them. Ted would get angry if another child tried to join or interfered with what he was doing. Ted went to preschool and kindergarten, and seemed to enjoy it. The teachers did not complain about his behavior, but did mention Ted always wanted to work on projects alone, and did not interact with other children.”[102]The Washington Post told a similar tale on the basis of an interview with my mother.[103] Here again the documentary evidence shows that my mother is lying. I will not try the reader’s patience by addressing all of her false statements, but will stick to the essential point, that my interaction with other children was normal until, at about the age of 11, I began to have serious social problems for reasons that will be made clear later. According to the pediatricians who examined me:
“April 4, 1945 ... Plays well with other children. …” “May 18, 1950 ... Healthy boy. Well adjusted. …” “May 8, 1951 ... Plays well with children in school and neighborhood. Very happy.”[104]The doctors could have obtained this information about my social adjustment only from my mother. It was always she, and not my father, who took me to my examinations at the University of Chicago clinics. Thus, statements of my mother’s that were recorded during my childhood clearly contradict her recent statements concerning my early social development. If she wasn’t lying then, she is lying now. Either way, the record shows her to be a liar. What then is the truth concerning my social adjustment in early childhood? My mother’s reports to doctors carry little weight because, as we will show later, she often did lie in order to present a favorable picture of me to persons outside the immediate family. But since the Baby Book was private there is no particular reason to doubt the statements she made there that show that I was not socially withdrawn. It’s true that at one point in the Baby Book my mother indicated I was somewhat shy,[105] as noted in Chapter I, and I myself have a vague memory of being a little shy up to the age of five or so. Furthermore, I wrote in my 1959 autobiography:
“As far as I can remember, I have always been socially reserved, and used to be rather unpleasantly conscious of the fact. For example, I remember that when I was very little, 3 or 4 years old, I was very concerned over the fact that when my mother bought me an ice cream cone, I was always afraid to take it directly from the lady’s hand; my mother had to take it from her and give it to me. Eventually I overcame this. … “I learned to whistle and to swim later than most of my companions, and I never did learn to skate. And it often bothered me that I was less socially active than the rest of the boys, which I think was partly due to shyness and partly due to a certain lack of interest in some of their activities. I’ve always kept to myself a lot.”[106]The second paragraph of this passage evidently applies not to my earliest years but to a much later period when I did indeed have social problems. As a result of these problems I began to take a perverse pride in being unsocial, and this is probably what led me to imply (as I did in the first paragraph above) that I was “socially reserved” even in my earliest years. But even if that first paragraph is taken at face value, there is plenty of evidence to show that my social interaction with other children was easily within the normal range until my real problems began in early adolescence. As we saw in Chapter I, my mother indicated in the Baby Book that at the age of one year I was consistently friendly to other children:
“Is he usually shy or friendly with strange women? either men? either children? friendly ... .” [107]From age one to three I developed a close friendship with Adam Ks., a boy about eight months older than I was. The attachment left a long–lasting impression on both of us. He was the son of the couple who occupied the first floor of the house of which my parents and I had the second story; when we moved to another house I was separated from him.[108] In the new house we again occupied the second story, and with the little girl downstairs, Barbara P., I formed another strong attachment,[109] though it was not as strong as my attachment to Adam. During this same period (age 3 to 4) I had at least one other frequent playmate, whose name, if I remember correctly, was Jackie.[110] Shortly before my fifth birthday we moved to a house on Carpenter Street (the first house that my parents owned),[111] and from that time until I entered Harvard I always had several friends. My friends on Carpenter Street included Johnny Kr., Bobby Th., Freddie Do., Jimmy Bu., Larry La., and Mary Kay Fy.[112] As long as we lived on Carpenter Street, I attended Sherman School, a unit of the Chicago public–school system. All of my friends on Carpenter Street either attended the Catholic school or were a year older than I was, so that they were in a different grade. Consequently my school friends were not the same as those with whom I played near home. My school friends included Frank Ho., Terry La C., Rosario (an Italian kid whose last name I do not remember) and Peter Ma.[113] I not only had friends but, on a few occasions, exercised leadership. For example, I once came up with the idea of putting on a “carnival,” as we called it. I persuaded Johnny Kr. and Bobby Th. to help me arrange games and simple entertainments, and after advertising the event by word of mouth for several days we made up tickets by hand, sold them to neighborhood kids, and made a modest profit.[114] Thus there is no truth in my mother’s portrayal of me as abnormally solitary from early childhood. There was no need for her to “invite children from the neighborhood over to play,”[115] nor did she ever do so during these years as far as I can remember. The first indication of any significant social difficulties on my part came when I was perhaps eight or nine years old,[116] and it very likely resulted from the fact that our family was different from its neighbors. My father worked with his hands all his life; my mother, apart from teaching high school English for two years during her fifties, never did anything more demanding than lower–level secretarial work; and our family always lived among working–class and lower–middle class people. Yet my parents always regarded themselves as a cut above their neighbors. They had intellectual pretensions, and though their own intellectual attainments were extremely modest, to say the least, they—especially my mother—looked down on their neighbors as “ignorant.” (But they were usually careful not to reveal their snobbish attitudes outside the family.) [117] Our block of Carpenter Street was part of a working–class neighborhood that was just one step above the slums. As my playmates grew older, some of them began engaging in behavior that approached or crossed the line dividing acceptable childhood mischief from delinquency.[118] For example, two of them got into trouble for trying to set fire to someone’s garage.[119] I had been trained to a much more exacting standard of behavior and wouldn’t participate in the other kids’ mischief.[120] Once, for instance, I was with a bunch of neighborhood kids who waited in ambush for an old rag–picker, pelted him with garbage when he came past, and then ran away. I stood back in the rear and refused to participate, and immediately afterward I went home and told my mother what had happened, because I was shocked at such disrespect being shown to an adult—even if he was only a rag–picker.[121] So it may be that the reason why I ceased to be fully accepted by my Carpenter–Street playmates at around the age of eight or nine was that they saw me as too much of a “good boy.” In any case they did seem to lose interest in my companionship—I was no longer one of the bunch.[122] I continued to get along well with the kids in school.[123] Unlike the kids on my block they showed no tendency to serious mischief, either because they were better–behaved kids or because the supervised environment of school left few opportunities for misbehavior. My parents noticed the fact that I was becoming isolated from my Carpenter–Street friends, and they repeatedly expressed to me their concern that there might be something wrong with me because I was not social enough.[124] To me it was acutely humiliating to be pushed out to the fringe by these kids with whom I had formerly associated on an equal basis, and I was too ashamed to tell my parents what was really happening, or even to admit it to myself until many years later. My mother invented an explanation for my isolation that was consistent with her intellectual pretensions: I wasn’t playing with the other kids because I was so much smarter than they were that they bored me. This was absurd. I was bored with the other kids when (as often happened) they moped around aimlessly rather than pursuing some activity, but there can be no doubt that I wanted to continue playing with them and was deeply hurt by the fact that I was no longer fully accepted. Yet, because my mother’s explanation soothed my vanity, I half–believed it myself. In a very brief (one and a quarter–page) autobiographical sketch that I wrote at the age of fifteen, I said:
“Beginning in the second or third grade I began to become somewhat unsocial, keeping to myself and seeking the companionship of my comrades less often. This was probably due, in part, to the level of education and culture in my old neighborhood, where no one was interested in science, art, or books.”[125]Actually, I wasn’t so terribly interested in science, art, or books myself. The autobiographical sketch was part of an application for admission to Harvard and therefore was written under the close supervision of my mother. Rereading it now I feel almost certain that the first paragraph of it was actually composed by her. That paragraph is written in a kind of language that I rarely use now and that I can hardly imagine myself having used at the age of fifteen; but it’s just the sort of thing that my mother would write.[126] I’m quite sure that my partial isolation from the Carpenter–Street kids did not begin before I was eight, at the earliest, and that I had no serious problems with the kids in school at the time. Yet the sketch refers to “the second or third grade,” which would make me seven or eight years old. Possibly my mother’s hand is seen here too. Notwithstanding all of the foregoing, I think my parents had an inkling of the fact that the bad behavior of the other kids had something to do with my isolation. Not long after my tenth birthday we moved to Evergreen Park, a suburb of Chicago, and my mother told me many years later that she and my father had decided to move mainly so that I “would have some decent kids to play with.” Though my mother is hardly a reliable source of information, her statement is probably true in part; yet it’s likely that there were also other reasons for the move. Not far from where we lived, a case of “block–busting”[127] gave rise to some very serious race–riots that were essentially territorial conflicts between the black and the white working class. All white householders in the area were put under pressure to place in their windows a small sign saying, “This property is not for sale,” which was intended as a show of white solidarity against black “intrusion.” My parents had very liberal attitudes about race and felt that it was against their principles to put up such a sign. But they received a threat, and, fearing that I might be attacked on my way to school, they gave in and placed the sign.[128] This was extremely upsetting to them and it must have contributed to their decision to move out to the suburbs.
“‘Before David was born, Teddy was different,’ the aunt said. ‘When they’d visit he’d snuggle up to me. Then, when David was born, something must have happened. He changed immediately. Maybe we paid too much attention to the new baby.’”[130]Little did my aunt Josephine know the real reason why I stopped snuggling up to her! I’ll explain in a moment. But first let me make it clear that I’d never heard anything of this sort from Josephine before I read the New York Times article, and it’s evident that my brother never heard it either, since, in our discussions of his theory about my reaction to his birth, he never mentioned any such statement on the part of our aunt; nor did he ever cite any other rational evidence in support of his theory. The theory, apparently, grew entirely out of his own imagination. As to the real reason why I stopped snuggling up to my aunt: Josephine was a good–looking woman; though she was over forty at the time of my brother’s birth, she’d kept herself in shape and was still attractive. I don’t know whether it was normal or precocious, but by the age of about seven I already had a fairly strong interest in the female body.[131] Not long after my brother’s birth, my family and I visited the apartment where Josephine lived with her mother (my paternal grandmother). My aunt and I were sitting on a couch, and, attracted by her breasts, I slid over against her, put my arm over her shoulder, and said, “Let’s play girlfriend.” Josephine laughed and put her arm around me, and I had the decided satisfaction of feeling her breast against my body. My aunt just thought it was cute, but my mother was sharp enough to see what was really going on. After a short interval she said, “I think I’ll go to the store and get some ice cream” (or maybe it was candy or something else), and she invited me to come with her. I declined, but she insisted that I should come. As soon as she got me out of the house she gave me a tongue–lashing and a lecture on appropriate behavior with ladies. It will not surprise the reader that, from then on, I kept my distance from Josephine. To return to my brother’s theory that I resented his arrival in the family: He first indicated his suspicion that I unconsciously hated him in a letter to me written some time during the summer of 1982. That letter has not been preserved, but there is a reference to it in a letter that I sent to my brother in 1986. I wrote: “I recall that a few years ago you said you had feared that I had (as you put it) a hatred for you so great that even I was unable to acknowledge it.”[132] In a letter that he wrote to me in 1986, my brother expounded his theory as follows:
“You should have hated me, in that as a new baby in the family, the new locus of affection, I should have awakened your fears of abandonment.[My brother is referring here to the alleged” fear of abandonment” that I was supposed to have as a result of “that hospital experience.” ] The parents tell me that just the opposite was true, that you were extremely affectionate toward me and that you didn’t show any jealousy whatsoever. I have thought of a way to fit this in, by recourse to the Freudian theory of ‘Denial.’ When you saw the murdered babies in the Nazi camp, it might have awakened your horror as a secret wish fulfillment in respect to me.[My brother is referring here to a dream that I once had about him, concerning which I will have more to say shortly.] When you vowed to protect me at the expense of your own life, perhaps the one you vowed to protect me from was yourself, I have no idea how much or little truth there may be in this interpretation.”[133]The disclaimer in the last sentence is perhaps disingenuous, as my brother has clung to the theory persistently over the years. According to the New York Times, “David said his mother told him that she gradually encouraged Ted to hold him and that ‘from that time forward, he showed a great deal of gentleness toward me.’”[134] The implication, that I had resented him at first, is contradicted by my brother’s own statement, quoted above, that “[t]he parents tell me that ... you were extremely affectionate toward me and that you didn’t show any jealousy whatsoever.” It is also contradicted by a statement of my mother’s: “Ted seemed to easily accept having a brother in the house, and liked to hold David when he was a baby.” [135] As I remember it, prior to my brother’s birth my parents told me repeatedly that the new baby, when it came, would require a great deal of care and attention, and that I must not feel that my parents loved me any less because they were devoting so much time to the baby. When David was born I wondered why my parents had put so much emphasis on this point, because I by no means felt left out or deprived of attention. As I wrote in my 1979 autobiography:
“My brother David was born when I was 7½. I considered this a pleasant event. I was interested in the baby and enjoyed being allowed to hold it. … “One reads much about ‘sibling rivalry’—the older child supposedly resents the new baby because he feels it has robbed him of his parents’ affection. I do not recall ever having had any such feeling about my baby brother. ... I think my parents were aware of the problem of ‘sibling rivalry’ and made a conscious effort to avoid this problem when the new baby came .”[136]In those years my parents and I got all our medical care at the University of Chicago teaching hospitals, which were among the finest in America, and the doctors no doubt had talked to my parents about the way to handle my relationship with my new brother. Why then does my brother think that I have an intense, unconscious hatred for him? People often attribute their own motives and impulses (including unconscious ones) to other people. Further on in this book we will show that my brother has a hatred for me that he has not acknowledged—probably not even to himself. At the same time he has a strong affection for me, and it appears that he has never faced up to the profound conflict between his love and his hatred. My brother habitually retreats from conflicts rather than struggling with them. My feelings toward my brother in his infancy are well illustrated by a dream that I described to him in a letter that I sent him during the summer of 1982. After making some highly critical comments about his character, I wrote:
“I am going to open to you the window to my soul as I would not open it to anyone else, by telling you two dreams that I’ve had about you. The first dream is simple. It is one I had more than thirty years ago, when I was maybe 7 or 8 years old and you were still a baby in your crib. Some time before, I had seen pictures of starving children in Europe taken shortly after world war II—they were emaciated, with arms like sticks, ribs protruding, and guts hanging out. Well, I dreamed that there was a war in America and I saw you as one of these children, emaciated and starving. It affected me strongly and when I woke up I made up my mind that if there was ever a war in America I would do everything I possibly could to protect you. This illustrates the semi–maternal tenderness that I’ve often felt for you.”[137]In reply to the foregoing letter my brother wrote to me expressing his gratitude for the affection I had expressed, and for the fact that I “cared for [him] more than anyone else ever had.” He then added the remark mentioned earlier—that until then he had feared that I had a hatred for him so great that I could not acknowledge it.[138] I referred to this letter of my brother’s in a note that I wrote him in September, 1982:
“I received your last letter and note that it shows your usual generosity of character. Instead of being sore over the negative parts of my attitude toward you, you were favorably impressed by the positive parts.”[139]My brother does have a good deal of generosity in his character, but I now think that the nature of his reaction to my letter was less a result of generosity than of his tendency to retreat from conflict.
“You don’t realize that the atmosphere in our home was quite different during the first few years of my life than it was later. You know how it was during my teens—people always squabbling, mother crabby and irritable, Dad morosely passive. Too much ice cream, candy, and treats, parents fat and self–indulgent. A generally low–morale atmosphere. But it was very different up to the time when I was, say, 8 or 9 years old. Until then, the home atmosphere was cheerful, there was hardly any quarrelling, and there was a generally high–morale atmosphere. Ice cream and candy were relatively infrequent treats and were consumed in moderation ... . Our parents were more alive and energetic. When punishment was necessary it was given with little or no anger and was used as a more–or–less rational means of training; whereas during my teens, when I was punished it was commonly an expression of anger or irritation on the part of our parents. Consequently this punishment was humiliating. The more–or–less rational punishment of the early years was not humiliating.”[142]** Chapter III. My adolescence; family dysfunction; verbal abuse About June, 1952, my family and I moved to the suburb of Evergreen Park.[143] If my parents made the move in order to provide me with “some decent kids to play with,” they did not choose the location well. The only kid in my age group on our block was B.O., who was about a year younger than I was. He was a frequent playmate of mine for one or two years after we came to Evergreen Park, but he was a rather obnoxious character and we didn’t get along well. We had several fights, all of which I won. A few years later, after the O.’s had moved away, my mother told me she’d heard that B.O. had gotten into trouble with the police, but, in view of my mother’s unreliability, I don’t know whether this is true. Shortly after we arrived in Evergreen Park, my parents, in order to encourage me to be socially active, made me enroll in a summer program of organized recreation that was conducted at Evergreen Park Central School. I didn’t like it, and soon stopped attending. At some later time my father forced me to enroll briefly in the Boy Scouts, and I didn’t like that any better. I wrote in my 1979 autobiography, “As a kid I usually didn’t like activities that were organized and supervised by adults, other than my parents.”[144] Apparently this is typical for mathematically gifted kids. According to a book on the psychology of adolescence, “An interesting characteristic of mathematically gifted adolescents was their independence with regard to how they spent their out–of–class time. ‘Though they played some individual sports and some musical instruments, they completely resisted any regimented activity in the way of planned recreation.’”[145] In September, 1952, I entered the fifth grade at Evergreen Park Central School. At Sherman School we had spent the whole school day in one classroom and with one teacher, but at Evergreen Park Central, the students shifted from one classroom to another to be taught different subjects. Because of this new system and the unfamiliar people I felt very insecure at first, but after a few weeks I adjusted comfortably.[146] I made some friends at school, including Dale J., Bob C., Barbara B., Dale Eickelman, and Larry S. Larry S. was the best of these. The friendships with Dale J. and Bob C. didn’t last; the former turned out to be decidedly peculiar, and the latter was a boy with little self–control who once tried (unsuccessfully) to get me to participate in stealing. Dale Eickelman had a few peculiarities of his own, and I can’t say that I ever really liked him, but I continued to associate with him throughout my grade–school and high–school years. My friendship with Barbara B. had nothing to do with sex. Her family moved away before we completed fifth grade, and thereafter I corresponded with her for a short time.[147] Also in fifth grade, I carried on an intense flirtation with a beautiful female classmate named Darlene Cy. Because she teased me and provoked me, I loved her and hated her at the same time. She gradually began to conquer me, however, and love undoubtedly would have won out in the end if circumstances hadn’t separated us. What happened was that upon completing fifth grade I was placed directly in seventh, and after that I rarely saw Darlene.[148] Skipping a grade was a disaster for me. It came about as follows. While I was in fifth grade the school guidance counselor, Miss Vera Frye, gave some of us a battery of tests including a Stanford–Binet IQ test. On the latter, I scored very high,[149] 167. The Washington Post quoted my mother as follows:
“A school psychologist [Miss Frye] gave Ted a Stanford–Binet IQ test ... . But his mother took more comfort in the results of a personality test, which showed him to be well–adjusted. “‘For a while [Wanda said] all my uneasiness about these residual effects from his early childhood were laid to rest because this psychologist said, “Oh, he is fine,”... . In fact, she said he had a strong sense of security, which surprised me ... . She said he could be whatever he wanted to be. ... He was the cat’s whiskers.’ … “[The family] now believe that perhaps Ted was smart enough to figure out the most appropriate answers to the test and outwit it.”[150]Psychological tests include devices to detect cheating, and it is hardly likely that a ten–year–old (however bright) with no knowledge of psychological testing would be able to outwit such a test. In any case, Miss Frye telephoned my parents, informed them of my high IQ score, and (according to my mother’s account) went so far as to tell them that I had the potential to be “another Einstein.”[151] This was foolish, because there is a lot more to being an Einstein than scoring high on an IQ test. It’s possible that Miss Frye may have been laying it on thick because she had previously encountered parents who had shrugged their shoulders at information about their children’s IQ scores and she was therefore trying to impress my parents with the importance of what she had to say. If she had known something about my mother, she would have been much more cautious. My mother came from a very poor background—poor not only financially but in every other respect.[152] Her position at the bottom of the social scale had been very painful to her, and she saw academic achievement, much more than financial success, as the avenue to the social status that she craved. She had neither the intelligence nor the self–discipline to achieve anything herself, however, so she sought to fulfill her ambitions through her children.[153] During my early years her expectations were reasonable and she put only very moderate pressure on me to perform well in school, but from the time of Miss Frye’s phone call, she was filled with grandiose fantasies of what I was supposed to achieve. Even at that time I felt that my mother’s reaction to Miss Frye’s call was childish. Her excessive exhibitions of pleasure seemed ridiculous, and she immediately telephoned some of our relatives in order to brag to them. She told me a great deal that Miss Frye had asked her to keep secret from me. She admonished me not to reveal these things to anyone, because “Miss Frye says we’re not supposed to tell you; but we feel that we can treat you as an adult.” It was from this time that I gradually began to lose respect for my parents.[154] It was essentially Miss Frye who decided that I should skip a grade. She had the consent of the school authorities and the enthusiastic support of my mother, but they relied on her judgment as the supposed expert. Why did she make that decision? My mother told me at the time that it was because the tests showed that my greatest ability lay in the area of mathematics and physics, and (supposedly) mathematicians and physicists burned out young. Hence they were to be educated rapidly so that maximum use could be made of their ability while it lasted. Many years afterward, in a discussion with my mother, I bitterly criticized the decision to put me in seventh grade. At that time she tried to justify the decision by claiming that Miss Frye had said I was drawing “violent” pictures during my free time in school, and that pushing me a year ahead was somehow supposed to cure me of this.[155] The proposition that academic acceleration will cure anyone of violent fantasies seems dubious, to say the least. Anyway, I replied to my mother that drawing war pictures and the like was commonplace among boys of that age at that time and place, but she insisted that no, my drawings were different.[156] I brought the subject up again in 1991 in a letter to my mother: “You claim that Miss Frye said I was drawing pictures of violence during my spare moments in school. ... I’m not aware that I drew violent pictures any more often than the other boys. Miss Frye may have thought I did, but I certainly wouldn’t trust her judgment ... .”[157] My mother now changed her story. She wrote: “[Y]our memory of Frye is faulty. She considered your drawings quite normal. Just drawings of battle scene strategy.”[158] This is a typical example of the way my mother plays fast and loose with the truth in order to suit her purposes of the moment. Was I drawing abnormally violent pictures at the age of ten? All I can say is that I do not remember making any drawings that would be considered unusual for a ten–year–old boy.[159] And my mother’s statement quoted above, that Miss Frye considered me “well–adjusted,” weighs against the abnormal–drawing story (assuming, of course, that my mother’s statement is true, which may not be the case).
“Johnson ... flatly declared that the experiment of skipping kids ahead grades was a huge failure. The experiment was a notable failure during the era that Ted Kaczynski was promoted. Johnson added that the experiment was most especially a disaster with boys and indicated that he could document the fact that many of the boys who had been skipped ahead during Ted’s era ended up as outcasts. ... Less–bright kids become resentful of those boys who are advanced ahead, causing the smart and accelerated kids to be even more acutely ostracized from their peer groups. More important, Johnson added, girls do not go out with boys who are younger. Thus, these boys have been set up for failure, and fail they do. The act of pushing youngsters ahead is almost never done anymore as a result of these past experiments. In fact, the state of Illinois now requires kids to be older before they can be promoted ahead a year.”[162]I was not the only kid who was rejected for being smart. There were several other boys who had a reputation for being academically–oriented and as a result were harassed or treated with contempt by the “tough” kids.[163] But in my case the problems were compounded by the fact that, during the same period, I was being subjected to psychological abuse by both my parents.[164] I’ve already described the change in my mother’s personality that began not long after my brother’s birth. By the time I was in my teens, she was having frequent outbursts of rage during which her face would become contorted and she would wave her clenched fists while unleashing a stream of unrestrained verbal abuse.[165] Even when she wasn’t having one of her outbursts, she was often very irritable and would scold or make vicious remarks at the slightest provocation. The change in my mother affected my father. He became morose and pessimistic, and when family squabbles arose, he tended to sit in his easy chair and retreat behind a newspaper or book, ignoring the sordid turmoil around him.[166] Sometimes, however, his patience became exhausted and he would have angry arguments with my mother or with me. But my father’s moroseness was not exclusively an outcome of the family situation. I believe that he had deep–lying negative feelings about himself, about people, and about life in general. When he was in his mid–sixties and more ready to express his feelings than he’d been when he was younger, he took a car–camping trip by himself. On returning he said, “I can’t be alone, because I don’t like myself.” He tended to see other people as dirty or sick. For example, when I visited my parents in 1978, my father described his employer, Win PI., to me as a pathologically compulsive talker. Later I got to know Win PI. myself, and I found that he was rather talkative, but by no means abnormally so. My father also used to speak of some of our relatives and other people in terms that exaggerated their failings and portrayed them as sick or repellent. Throughout my teens I was the target of frequent verbal aggression (often unprovoked) from both my parents, especially my mother.[167] The insults that cut me deepest were the imputations of mental illness or gross immaturity.[168] I think it was my father who started these when I was about twelve years old. The rejection I experienced from my peers at school, in combination with the deteriorating family atmosphere, made me often sullen and cranky,[169] and my father, characteristically, interpreted this in terms of psychopathology. He began calling me “sick” whenever he was annoyed with me. My mother imitated him in this respect, and from then on until I was about 21 years old, both my parents would apply to me such epithets as “sick”, “immature”, “emotionally disturbed,” “creep,” “mind of a two–year–old,” or “another Walter T.” [170] (Walter T. was a man we knew who ended up in a mental institution.) It was always in an outburst of anger that my mother called me these things, but my father sometimes did so in a tone of cold contempt that cut worse than my mother’s angry shouting.[171] Neither of my parents ever suggested that I should be examined by a psychologist or psychiatrist.[172] My mother never actually thought that there was anything wrong with me mentally, and I doubt that my father saw me as any sicker than he saw many other people.[173] In saying cruel things to me my parents were only using me as a butt on which to take out their own frustrations.[174] Though the imputations of mental illness were what hurt me most, they comprised only a small part of the constant verbal bullying to which I was subjected day in and day out. My mother was continually shouting, scolding, insulting, and blaming me for everything that went wrong, regardless of whether I could have been responsible for it. During the summer before I entered Harvard, she made an appointment for me to see a professional photographer for a picture that the university wanted for its records. When the day of the appointment arrived, as it happened, I had a pimple on the end of my nose. My mother angrily scolded me for it. “Look at you! Now you’ve got a pimple on your nose! You’re going to look terrible in your Harvard photo! …” And on and on, as if it were my fault that I had a pimple. In another case my mother drove me and some other members of the high–school band to a music lesson. On the way back, the other boys, who were older than I was, talked a good deal about cars and driving. It made me feel small, since I was still too young to drive. After she dropped the other boys off, my mother began scolding me angrily: “Why don’t you get a driver’s license like the other kids so I won’t have to be driving you all over the place all the time?” I quietly pointed out that I was only fifteen years old and couldn’t get a license until I was sixteen. Instead of acknowledging that she was wrong and apologizing, my mother answered in an angry tone, “Well then, get a license as soon as you are sixteen! ... [etc.]” Once when I made a negative remark about someone’s competence, my father answered in a cold and sneering tone, “You’ll never be half as competent as he is.” My father did not typically lose his temper openly. Yet he sometimes did so; in a few cases, he shouted at me, “I’ll smash your face!” I didn’t believe he would really smash my face, but still it was frightening to hear him say that. These are only a few examples of the kinds of things that went on constantly. Physical abuse was minimal, but there was a little of it. A couple of times my father threw me on the floor in the course of family squabbles. My mother occasionally would flail at me with her fists, but by that time I was old enough (and my mother was weak enough) so that she didn’t hurt me. Contrary to what my mother and brother have told the media, up to the age of seventeen or so I was not socially isolated. Throughout my grade–school and high–school years I had several friends at all times.[175] Though I was not accepted by most of the seventh–graders with whom I was put when I skipped a grade, I continued to associate with some of the friends and acquaintances I’d made in fifth grade. For example, Larry S. was a patrol–boy, and I used to stand on his corner with him during the lunch hour; and I continued to associate with Dale Eickelman [176] until I finished high school. Moreover, I soon began to make friends among the boys in my own grade; [177] but most of these friends had low status among the other boys,[178] and some of them, like me, had a reputation as “brains” and for that reason were subjected to insults and indignities. On the other hand, one of my best friends had below–average intelligence.[179] Apart from those already mentioned, a list of my friends from seventh grade through high school would include Bob Pe.,[180] Tom Kn.,[181] Jerry U.,[182] and G.Da.[183] I hung around with Russell Mosny[184] quite a bit, but I never liked him much. We tended to be thrown together because we were in many of the same classes and were both “brains” who were treated with contempt by the “tough” kids. Both Mosny and G. Da. seemed to become cool toward me during my last year or so of high school,[185] but at the same time I became closer to Bob Pe. and Tom Kn., and I made a new friend, Terry L.[186] Having these friends, however, by no means compensated me for the pain of the humiliatingly low status I had in school. I skipped my junior year in high school,[187] and after that I was with kids who were two years older than I was. Most of these kids didn’t insult me, but they treated me with condescension,[188] which was perhaps worse, and, with the exception of Terry L., none of them had any interest in making friends with me. Even though I had friends, I spent a good deal of time alone. By the time I was in high school, B.O. had moved away and four other boys in my age–group had moved into our block. One of these was simply a jerk. The other three, the Tr. boys, were jocks and belonged to the “set” in school by which I was intimidated; and moreover I had little in common with them. With the exception of Bob Pe., all of my friends lived far enough away so that visiting was inconvenient, and consequently we went to each other’s homes only occasionally. Our activities tended to consist of aimless time–killing. We rarely engaged in athletics apart from occasional games of catch, we never undertook any significant joint projects, we never attended any social functions together. As I’ve already noted, most of my friends had low status, and, while I was in school with them, none was very active socially and none had girlfriends. If they ever dated, they never mentioned it to me. The only serious activity I had was trombone–playing; my music lessons brought me into contact with one of the very few adults I knew at the time whom I really respected, my teacher, Jaroslav Cimera. Two of my friends, Tom Kn. and Jerry U., also played the trombone, and I often played duets with one or the other of them. Still, until I went to Harvard, my adolescence tended to be an alternation among different kinds of boredom: A boring day in school, a boring visit with a friend, a few boring hours piddling around in my attic room, another boring day in school. This doesn’t mean that I never had fun with my friends or alone, but that boredom was a nagging problem for me.[189]
“April 24, 1952 ... Appetite, activity and general adjustment are all quite good.” “April 17, 1953 ... He eats well, plays actively, presents no behavior problems.” “April 27, 1954 ... Now in 7th Grade and does well. Does well socially.” “April 14, 1955 ... Eighth grade. Good grades. Active in some sports. No further [?] problem except for some adolescent [illegible]” “April 20, 1956 ... He does very well at school—not too much of a socializer, but is known as a ‘brain.’ Gets along well with others when he tries—seems popular but a little aloof.” “June [?], 1957 ... Accelerated in high school and will finish next spring by going to summer school. Has his eye on Harvard and [illegible] in physics and math. “Health has been good but mother is concerned lest program be too strenuous for him. Appetite good. Not very much physical activity. No great interest in girls as yet.” “April 21, 1958 ... Ted has been well during the past year. No problems. Is doing very well at school ... .”The reason why my mother gave the doctors a rosy picture of my adjustment (with barely a hint of social difficulties in the April 20, 1956 entry) is that she has always been extremely concerned with respectability [191] and with presenting to the world an attractive picture of our family, and to this end she does not hesitate to lie. In response to a request from Harvard, during the summer before I entered college she wrote a long (two single–spaced pages) letter in which she described my personality. In it she gives a fairy–tale portrait of me as a budding intellectual. For example, she speaks of my “serious goals” and “ivory–towerish intellectuality,” when in reality I didn’t have any clear goals at all and had little respect for intellectualism. In fairness to my mother, I should mention that in this letter she probably was not lying calculatedly. She talked herself into believing all that crap before she wrote it down and sent it to Harvard. Her capacity for self–deception is remarkable. What is significant for us here, though, is the way she described my psychological and social adjustment:
“Ted is strong, stable, and has an excellent capacity for self–discipline. However, I feel that he may be lonlier [sic] than most boys the first few months away from home. “... Ted does not respond quickly to friendly overtures. He is pleasant and polite, but reserved; and accepts only an occasional individual as a friend. Once he does, however, the relationship is permanent. All of his friends share at least one of his strong interests. One of these friendships is based on a mutual fondness for exploring the countryside and searching for fossils, arrowheads, and unusual rocks. ... He meets with another couple of friends because of a shared appreciation for listening to and making music ... . Ted is also very fond of another boy who shares with him a love for intellectual sparring, witty exchange and endless polemics. The written and verbal communication of satire and analysis on innumerable subjects by these two boys would fill a volume. [My mother has surpassed herself here. The two musical friends must have been Tom Kn. and Jerry U., but I have no idea who the other two friends could have been.] “The fact that he takes so little initiative in finding friends, that he accepts the advances of so few people,[192] and makes no attempt to join social groups makes us worry about the possibility of his being a pretty lonely boy (from our point of view—he claims he never feels lonely because there is so much to do.) [193] … “[Ted] has, as his counselor and teachers have said ‘a delightful personality, very witty and very clever.’ … ...[Ted is] working successfully as a busboy this summer and being well–accepted by the other people working there.[194]” “One of the things that Ted’s counselor hoped he would learn to do was bring ‘his light out from under the gushel [sic; “bushel” is meant].’ He has always functioned naturally and creatively ... almost devoid of the desire to impress or communicate. … Perhaps the poor quality of the school and neighborhood enviornment [sic] of his first ten years had something to do with this. Looking back, we realize how little stimulation and understanding he found there. Our own confusion, uncertainty, and worry about his ever–increasing propensity for solitary play didn’t help matters. The high–school counselor feels that Ted should become increasingly aware of the desireability [sic] of projecting his ‘brilliance and wit.’ More often now, he will be placed in situations in which a stranger may want to assess his talents in half an hour’s time. His whole future may depend on his ability and awareness of the need to project himself at will at a particular time.”[195]Contrast the foregoing with my mother’s portrayal of me in her interviews with the Washington Post [196] and on 60 Minutes,[197] in which she depicted me as severely disturbed and almost completely isolated socially. You can believe one version or the other, if you like, but you can’t believe both, since they are clearly inconsistent. Thus my mother is again shown to be a liar. For present purposes it is beside the point whether she lies calculatedly or talks herself into believing her own crap before she tells it to others. It is true, though, that my mother may not have realized the full extent of the social difficulties that I encountered from the time I skipped sixth grade. I said nothing to my parents about those difficulties because in our family talking about personal problems, particularly on the part of my brother and me, was almost taboo.[198] This was especially true in my case, because, ever since Miss Frye had told her about my high IQ score, my mother expected me to be her perfect little genius. If ever I revealed to her any failure, any weakness, it disappointed her and consequently her response was cold and critical.[199]
“Ted’s fantasies, his family says, included accusations that his parents had verbally abused and rejected him; accusations that became more and more bizarre.”[202]Later in the interview, my brother said:
“[Ted’s] feelings about our family bear no relationship to the reality of the family life that we experienced. These were loving, supportive parents.”[203]But here is what my brother told the FBI, according to the latter’s “302” reports of interviews with him:
“The relationship between TED Sr.[Theodore R. Kaczynski, my father] and TED was mostly difficult and conflicted, ... DAVE remembers specifically that his father often told TED, ‘You’re just like WALTER,’ identifying WALTER as a co–worker of his father’s at the sausage factory who was diagnosed schizophrenic. His father would often tell TED ‘you have the mind of a two year–old.’ DAVE remembered a specific incident when TED ran to his father saying, ‘Give me a kiss,’ and was rebuffed; TED Sr. pushed him away and said, ‘You’re just like a little girl, always wanting to kiss.’ TED eventually ‘got his kiss,’ DAVE said, but he never remembered that TED asked his father ever again for affection. TED became increasingly reclusive, and quarreled constantly with his mother. TED Sr.’s behavior toward his oldest son became increasingly cold and distant, and he ‘mostly showed his disapproval’ concerning TED.”[204] “Family members often ridiculed TED when they compared TED with DAVE who was well liked because he had better social skills.”[205] [False; I was not “ridiculed” for this.] “DAVE noted that despite WANDA’s concerns that certain actions she and her husband took during TEDs childhood must have been at least partly responsible for TED’s lifelong problems and isolation, WANDA is defensive of her own actions in general, and sees herself as having unfairly carried the main burdens of both her family of origin and her own family. DAVE characterized his mother as ‘often difficult herself,’ …”[206]Thus, my brother is clearly shown to be a liar. It’s true that the FBI’s “302” reports often have inaccuracies, and that the foregoing passages contain significant errors. (Whether the errors originated with the FBI or with my brother is an open question.) But it is hardly likely that the FBI would just make all this up out of nothing; and, as a matter of fact, much of it is corroborated by my autobiographies and by family correspondence.[207] In my 1979 autobiography, I wrote:
“One day, when I might have been about 6 years old, my mother, father, and I were all set to go out somewhere. I was in a joyful mood. I ran up to my father and announced that I wanted to kiss him. He said, ‘You’re like a little girl, always wanting to kiss.’ I immediately turned cold and drew back resentfully. My father immediately regretted what he had done and said, ‘Oh, that’s alright. You can kiss if you want to.’ But there was no warmth in his voice. Of course, I didn’t kiss him then. …”[208]This agrees fairly well with the account in the FBI report; but notice that the incident occurred when I was about six years old—before my brother’s birth. Thus the FBI report’s implication that my brother personally witnessed this incident is false. My 1979 autobiography continues:
“But the reader should be careful not to get an exaggerated idea of the coldness that my father occasionally exhibited—generally speaking I felt I had a good relationship with my parents that didn’t show any serious deterioration until I was about 11 years old.”[209]My father did become rather cold toward me during my teens, though my brother’s account, as reported by the FBI, somewhat overstates the case. I wrote in my 1979 autobiography, referring to my teen years:
“[M]y father tended to be cold. During my middle teens I felt there was an undercurrent of scorn in his attitude toward me.”[210]My brother and my mother state (more–or–less correctly) that, during my adolescence, when visitors arrived at our house, I would often retreat to my room.[211] Thus they unwittingly revealed information that helps to confirm the abuse: According to investigators who have experience with cases that involve child abuse, withdrawing from visitors is a common reaction of abused children.[212][213] ** Chapter IV. My parents’ treatment of me during my adolescence, as discussed in the Family Letters Ever afterward, I nursed a grudge against my parents for the insults I’d had to take from them as a teenager. But that wasn’t the only source of my resentment against them. There were other ways in which they had thrown burdens on me; for example, they tried to exploit my talents to feed their vanity. And even after I’d reached adulthood my mother’s behavior continued to be troublesome, especially her nagging and her insults. Only in the case of my brother did I enjoy a relationship that was, from my point of view, more positive than negative; and with that relationship too there were very deep–lying problems that did not become fully apparent until much later. The fact is that I simply didn’t fit with the other members of my family, and while my memories of verbal abuse formed the focal point of my resentment, that resentment really had broader origins and was my response to the unworkable relationship that I had with my parents and my brother. All this will be explained in due course. Our task in the present chapter will be to review all of the surviving family correspondence that has a bearing on my parents’ treatment of me during my adolescence. Almost all of my discussion of this issue with them was carried on by letter from my cabin in Montana. It wasn’t until about the beginning of March, 1974 that I confronted my parents openly on this matter. The letter in which I did so has not been preserved, but it is referred to in a letter that I sent my brother several weeks later. I’d been enjoying a solitary winter in my Montana cabin. I described to my brother what happened, as follows:
“I suppose you know that I am not on speaking terms with our parents. In case they haven’t given you the full story, here it is: I told them repeatedly, in letters and on the telephone, ‘Don’t worry about me over the winter—you won’t hear from me until I get out of here in the spring.’ I made a particular point of emphasizing this, because I know what mother is like. Some time in February I got a card from the old bag saying she was worried and wanted to hear from me. Then about the end of February I got a letter from them saying that if they didn’t hear from me soon they would contact the authorities and have them check up on me. The text of the letter stated (in effect) that it was from Dad, but the style and the worries were so like the old bag that I assume she induced him to write the letter.[Actually, she probably wrote it herself and signed it “Dad.” My mother’s handwriting is not very easy to distinguish from my father’s.] So I had to get a letter out to them so as not to have the cops come up here to check on me. This cost me considerable embarrassment and inconvenience [I had a roadside mailbox, but at that time I think I didn’t know that I could use it to send mail as well as receive it, so I walked four miles to Lincoln to mail the letter], and worse still, it broke into that sense of isolation that I so value up here. You may be sure that I cussed them out pretty thoroughly. This cussing out was further aggravated by some festering past resentments against them—some of recent origin and some going all the way back to my teens.”[214]The recent resentments mentioned here had to do with difficult behavior on my mother’s part that we will speak of later. My mother’s first answer to my letter of March, 1974 was vituperative, but she soon followed it with another letter in which she attempted to mend fences with me. (Neither of these letters has been preserved.) I ignored both letters and refused to communicate with my parents for more than a year, though they continued to write to me. Finally I softened and wrote to them in March, 1975, outlining my activities over the preceding year. My letter began:
“I happen to be in a comparatively mellow mood, and besides, you have lately given some faint signs of admitting your moral fallibility, though not nearly to the extent you should. So I decided to be nice and write you a letter.”[215]I do not now remember what the “faint signs of admitting ... moral fallibility” were. I imagine my mother conceded that she and my father were less than perfect parents, but I am certain that she did not apologize for the verbal abuse or anything else. My resentment of my parents’ treatment of me was next referred to in a letter I wrote in 1977. My mother had irritated me by sanctimoniously objecting to an obscene word that I’d used in an earlier letter. In reply I gave her a rich sample of insulting obscenity and explained:
“The reason [for my hostile attitude] is that whenever you rub me the wrong way, it reminds me of all the old, old reasons I have for hating you, which I explained quite clearly in a letter some time ago. ... Go ahead and call me an ‘ungrateful monster.’ You’ve called me that name before, and enough other names so that it doesn’t bother me in the least any more.”[216](The letter of “some time ago” referred to here was the 1974 letter that I mentioned at the beginning of this chapter.) My mother replied:
“Naturally we have been pretty depressed since your last letter. No one ever gets a perfect set of parents, nor do parents, for that matter, ever get a perfect child.”[217]This was an answer that I repeatedly got from my mother in response to my (usually hostile, I’ll admit) attempts to discuss with my parents the psychological abuse to which they had subjected me. “No parents are perfect,” she would say, conveniently ignoring the fact that some are much more imperfect than others. And generally she would add that no children are perfect either, implying that my parents had as much to blame me for as I had to blame them for. My mother never explained what imperfections of mine she was referring to, but I know her well enough to guess what she had in mind: I refused to follow the prestigious career that she had dreamed of for me, I didn’t love my parents, and I insulted them. But what could they expect after the way they had treated me during my teens? Especially in view of the fact that they refused to apologize for the abuse or even acknowledge it explicitly. Actually, my parents were not always mean to me during my teens. They never hesitated to heap insults on me when they were in a bad mood, but my mother was often warm and affectionate when she was in a good mood, and there were happy family times as well as bad ones to remember. Thus, if my parents had fully and frankly acknowledged and apologized for the way they had treated me, I probably would have forgiven them.[218] But my (admittedly hostile) attempts to get an apology from them were answered at first only with recriminations, excuses, or evasions on the part of my mother. When I did eventually extract an apology from her, it was cold and grudging, and obviously given in order to placate me and not in a genuine spirit of remorse. My father never gave any answer at all to the letters in which I raised these issues, except once, and then his answer was as self–righteous as it could possibly be. I will quote it later (p. 122). Probably around 1977 or 1978 my mother wrote:
“Both dad and I are searching for answers trying very hard to understand ourselves and our children. Who or what are we? Who are our children? What motivates them and us? Are we culture–bound? Have we hurt our children? Has the culture hurt them.”[219]This extract is from a very messy, scrawled–over, and much–corrected document that my mother saved. It appears to be the first draft of a letter that was intended for me. But I do not remember receiving such a letter, so it’s not clear whether a final draft was ever prepared and sent. I next raised the issue of my parents’ treatment of me in a hostile letter that I sent them in the autumn of 1982. That letter apparently has not survived, and I do not now remember what set off my anger against my parents in that instance. Nor has their reply to that letter been preserved; but I do remember that the reply consisted of a very brief note from my mother in which she coldly and stiffly apologized (on behalf of my father as well as herself) for the fact that they’d been poor parents to me. In spite of the coldness and brevity of the apology I was somewhat mollified, and I answered as follows, some time around Christmas, 1982:
“As to your last letter, in which you said you were ‘truly sorry to have been such failures as parents’: Its [sic] a satisfaction to me to have you admit your faults for once, instead of trying to make excuses for them. The resentment I have toward you will always remain, but your last letter does soften my attitude a little. Enough, anyway, so that I will take back what I said about hoping you drop dead on Christmas—cause it’s true that you were always good to me on Christmas, and on the whole I have pleasant memories of Christmases. I trust you got the Christmas card I sent you.”[220]My mother’s note of apology was also mentioned in a letter that I sent my brother in March, 1986:
“[A]bout 3 years ago after I’d written them on the subject, mother did write back: ‘We are truly sorry to have been such failures as parents.’ (But isn’t there a hint there of something like, ‘we are truly sorry you turned out so rotten’?) But even then she tried to excuse it on the grounds of’ ignorance.’ (They can hardly have been ignorant of the fact that it is extremely painful for a teenage kid to have his parents repeatedly tell him, in anger, that there is something wrong with him mentally.) Getting that much of an apology from her was something like squeezing a nickel out of a miser. It was cold and curt, and afterward she seemed to just shove it under the carpet and forget about it. Certainly it conveyed no sense of remorse; and very likely it was something she said merely to get me to soften towards them ... .”[221]
“The parents had visited [Ted] several times at his cabin until the mid–1980’s, and each time they had come away pleased at his cordiality, only to find another angry letter in the mail soon after returning home.”[222]According to an FBI “302” report, my brother told the interviewing agents:
“TED’s stormy relationship with his parents reached an impasse in 1984. Prior to that year, TED Sr. and WANDA had visited TED in Montana for several consecutive summers. They stayed at a motel in Lincoln, and traveled to the cabin during daylight. ... DAVE recalled that after their return from such a visit in the summer of 1984, his parents were elated at the success of that visit. ... One week later a letter arrived from TED breaking off relations with his parents, accusing them of gross mistreatment ... .[223]In reality, the last time I ever saw my parents was in June of 1982. The “angry letter” was not sent until several months later, in the autumn of 1982, and I did not tell my parents until the spring of 1983 that I was breaking off relations with them. On May 17, 1982, I wrote my parents, “see you June 11 or 12,”[224] and on May 25, 1982, “I trust that this is the last communication that will be necessary before you guys get here; so I will just assume that you will get here on June 11 or 12 ... .”[225] This clearly dates their visit to June. That my angry letter was not sent until late autumn of 1982 is shown by the letter[226] that I quoted above, from around Christmastime, 1982, in which I referred to my parents’ last letter as an answer to my angry letter and quoted my angry letter as saying that I hoped they would drop dead on Christmas; a clear indication that the angry letter was written not too long before Christmas. I was on reasonably amicable terms with my parents from around Christmas, 1982 until the spring of 1983, at which time I broke off relations with them completely, for reasons that I will describe in due course. My journal entries for May 25 and June 9, 1983 confirm the accuracy of my memory on this point.[227] Moreover, the surviving family correspondence contains no indication of a visit by my parents to Montana after June, 1982. My parents visited me a few times between 1971 and 1977, but my brother was wrong in telling the FBI that they had visited me “for several consecutive summers” up to their last visit. In reality they visited me only twice after 1977; once in 1980 or 1981 and once, as already noted, in 1982. My brother was also mistaken when he told the New York Times (see passage quoted above) that after their several visits to my cabin our parents “had come away pleased at [Ted’s] cordiality, only to find another angry letter in the mail soon after returning home.” I sent my parents many letters in which I expressed more or less irritation at them (we will see later some of the reasons for this irritation), but, prior to my brief correspondence with my mother in 1990–91, there were only three angry letters—ones in which I complained of my parents’ mistreatment of me. These are the ones already described. As we’ve seen, they were sent in early March, 1974, early February, 1977, and about Christmastime, 1982. It’s already been shown that this last letter was sent several months after my parents’ visit. The March and February letters could only have been sent several months, at least, after any visit by my parents, since naturally they didn’t come to see me during the months of cold and snow. My brother himself describes the visits as occurring during the summers; though actually some of them were in late spring (June) or early fall (October).
“No word, no small word of greeting from you. How that hurts! ... Have you no memory of our love and care? “All families have their fights. That is inevitable. We are imperfect humans in an imperfect world. But most of us are able to forgive, forget, apologize and go on loving and caring. Some are unable to control hatred, to overcome it. Why?[At this point my mother recites her embellished version of the “hospital experience.” After that:]
“Remember how you would react to anybody’s correction or criticism of you? ...How [can we] convince you that we love you? How convince you that fighting and difference of opinion doesn’t mean rejection. How can we be at last a normal family?
... Surely, we have not been so bad as parents that we should be denied the minimum respect of a word of greeting at Christmas time. What is this unnatural satisfaction you take in making us suffer so needlessly? [228]These excerpts illustrate both the self–pity that is characteristic of my mother and the evasive, euphemistic way of speaking that is even more characteristic of her. Insults are described as “correction or criticism,” abuse is described as “fighting” or “difference of opinion.” Of course, when a parent heaps vicious insults on the head of his or her fourteen–year–old kid, it’s not a “fight,” it’s just abuse. It’s worth noting that my mother never in any of her letters denied the facts that I alleged. She never denied that she frequently screamed at me, or that she and my father used to say that I had “the mind of a two–year old,” that they called me “sick” and “a creep,” or that when I talked back in response to their insults they often shouted at me, “Speak respectfully to your parents or well throw you out of the house.” My mother merely evaded the issue by describing this treatment in euphemistic terms; or she would say that her and my father’s behavior toward me was a “mistake,” as if they didn’t realize that it is extremely painful for a kid to have his parents shout such things at him. Of course, I don’t claim that I took it all like a lamb. I would shout insults at my parents, too. For instance, I used to call my mother a “fat pig.” But in the end I always lost the verbal battles because my parents had all the power and I had none; and moreover a kid is far more vulnerable to insults from his parents than vice versa. It would have been easier if I’d had a strong peer–group to which to retreat, but, as we’ve already seen, I was an outcast among my schoolmates. My mother’s implication that I was unable to apologize (which by the way is not true) is ironic, to say the least. What I needed in order to forgive my parents was precisely an apology from them—a good, clean, heartfelt apology reflecting genuine remorse, with acknowledgment that their treatment of me was not due to “mistakes” or “ignorance” but to the fact that they used me as a butt on which to take out their feelings of hostility or frustration. The longer they refused to give me such an apology, the more they built up my frustration and anger toward them. I made this clear to them, but they were just too self–centered and too self–righteous to apologize fully and honestly. What especially used to anger me were my mother’s repeated attempts to portray my resentment of my parents as the result of “that hospital experience” :
“... Some are unable to control hatred, to overcome it. Why?” “Yours, I think, I am convinced, has its source in your traumatic hospital experience.” [229]This was one of the gimmicks that my mother used over and over again in an effort to evade responsibility for her treatment of me, and (along with her usual tendency to exaggerate) it was her motive for dramatizing and distorting the “hospital experience” out of all proportion.
“I’d like to make some comments on my reasons for hating our parents. First, I’ll quote some passages from a letter that mother sent me about Christmas time, 1984. “‘All families have their fights. ... But most of us are able to forgive ... .’ “‘[Your hatred] I think, I am convinced, has its source in your traumatic hospital experience in your first year of life.’ … “‘Somehow you were never able to overcome that embedded distrust of the people around you.’ “I could quote some other accusations from that letter, but the above I think is enough to make the point. Which is, that our parents will not accept any blame for the way they treated me during my teens. Any resentment I have toward them they attribute to there being something wrong with me. ‘That hospital experience’ that mother always likes to dredge up is very convenient for them because it’s something that was beyond their control. Of course, if my resentment of them was caused by that experience, then it remains to be explained why I never resented them before my teens. (By the way, I don’t know how severe ‘that hospital experience’ actually was, but it’s a safe bet that mother’s account of it is considerably exaggerated—you know how she always does exaggerate whenever she is emotionally involved in something, and Dad will generally back her up against any third party.) “When she mentions ‘fights’ in the first passage quoted above, she is referring to my complaints about their having applied to me such epithets as ‘another Walter T_,’ ‘a creep,’ ‘sick,’ ‘mind of a two–year old,’ etc. The term ‘fight’ here is hardly appropriate, since it implies some sort of rough equality of power between the 2 combatants. If a 200–lb bully beats up a 120–pounder you don’t call that a fight, it’s just abuse. The same applies when parents shout the most cutting sort of insults at a 14 or 15–year old kid who is in their power. It is easy for them to talk about forgiveness—they don’t have much to forgive, since they always won what they choose to call the ‘fights’; they finished them by sending me up to the attic or by shouting ‘speak respectfully to your parents or we’ll throw you out of the house.’ Mother’s calling these things ‘fights’ is one of her typical evasions and an illustration of our parents’ self–righteousness. They will admit to having ‘made a mistake’ and things of that sort, but they will never admit the real reasons for their behavior toward me: first, that they were too lazy to make the effort needed to exercise self–restraint; second, they evidently had certain frustrations or irritabilities, and I was a convenient target on which they could vent these. In later years, if they had felt and expressed a real sense of remorse and regret about these things I probably would have forgiven them. But as you can see from the passages I quoted above, their self–righteousness is incorrigible. Far from having any sense of having been in the wrong, they attribute all problems to there being something wrong with me.”[232]At this point in the letter there follows the passage that I quoted above on p. 110, beginning “[A]bout 3 years ago ... .” The letter then continues:
“Certainly [mother’s 1982 apology] conveyed no sense of remorse; and very likely it was something she said merely in order to get me to soften towards them, since her later letter, from which I quoted above, reveals the same old self–righteous attitude. As for Dad, from him I never had any shadow or hint of an apology.”[233]In his answer to this letter, my brother wrote, in late March or early April, 1986:
“I am venturing to discuss our family and our childhood, focussing mainly on your relations with the parents [234] ... .[Although I acknowledge that Mom and Dad performed their role as parents in many respects very stupidly and poorly in relation to you, nevertheless they were quite good parents to me [235] ... . I don’t believe at this point that their motives for treating you badly were the motives of a bully. I have also heard mother’s interpretation of your childhood trauma, and ... I couldn’t help feeling struck by the number of correspondences between the theory and some of the familiar tendencies of your personality [236] ... .[It’s not clear what “theory” my brother is referring to here. He is not learned in psychology.] Anyway—regarding the theory of your supposed trauma as a whole—I have felt for some years that it has, or might have some bearing on your feelings toward the parents. I have also cautioned them against using it as a moral escape hatch, since in some ways their treatment of you (for instance, threatening to throw you out of the house, i.e. to abandon you again) was the absolute worst they could have done. At this they say, ‘if only we had known!’ and their eyes become sorrowful and a little scared. If you have any doubts about their feelings of guilt, you should see them then.[237] ... “This brings me to the point of acknowledging ... that I believe Mom and Dad’s sins as parents toward you were real and not merely products of your imagination. I confess that at first I didn’t think so, and I do still tend to think that some of your complaints are overstated, but I have also been searching my memory and I can recall some scenes that are painful to remember (how much more painful for you!) given my affection for them.[238] ... I don’t think a reconciliation can begin without a full and plain acknowledgment of the parents’ errors—in other words, no more shoving things under the rug.[239] ... Their feelings of failure are mixed up with their feelings of resentment toward you (since you have refused to acknowledge their good qualities along with the bad) [240] ... . Dad told me that once he wrote an apologetic letter to you ... and all he got back was a short reply which he interpreted as spurning his overture and apology [241] ... . I suspect your intelligence and emotional complexity made you a very difficult child—far moreso [sic] than me—for a parent to deal with. ... You remember primarily the humiliations and the threats, but I remember times when mother ... tried to give you sympathy and find out what was making you unhappy. (Although, as must be admitted ... she would have refused to accept the truth had you been able to tell her.) [242] . One of the most common tendencies I have observed is for a parent to try to humiliate a child into behaving in what he considers to be the proper way. It’s the last ugly resort of parental authority and I have seen it clutched at many times in families outside of our own.[243] ... The job is the parents’ to apologize. But I think you are a hard man if you close your heart to forgiveness against the day when they may someday do so.[244] ... I hate to think that at times our family may have organized itself according to the pattern of 3 against 1.[That is mother, father, and Dave against Ted.]”[245]”My brother’s letter was quite well–intentioned and conciliatory, but it nevertheless made me very angry. My anger arose partly from certain passages (not quoted above) of his letter and from certain aspects of his accustomed style of argument that will be dealt with later. But most of all my anger arose from his partial acceptance of my mother’s theory of the “hospital experience,” and especially from the fact that throughout his letter he followed my mother’s procedure of portraying my parents’ treatment of me as well–intentioned but mistaken; whereas it was obvious that their verbal cruelty arose not from good but misguided intentions, but from uncontrolled anger or hostility. My own anger was of course intensified by frustration at the failure of my attempts to get other members of the family to acknowledge the truth about the abuse. Yet there was no doubt that my brother’s letter represented a kind–hearted effort to make peace between my parents and me, and consequently, while I expressed my anger to him, I kept it from getting out of hand. I wrote:
“You son of a bitch. Your letter made me so mad that I was on the point of cutting off all communication with you forever. ... I got over being mad at you—or partly got over it—just in time. “Clearly you don’t realize that every time I bring up that issue and someone says ‘Oh, it’s only cause you were warped by “that hospital experience,“‘ all it does is make me more angry. ...[246] “OK, look, I’m still mad at you. I still haven’t fully got over it. The only thing that prevented me from sending you that letter cutting off all communication for good was the fact that the night before I was going to send it I had a dream that brought to the surface my real feelings toward you—which are soft and affectionate. Since I’m still mad, don’t write to me for awhile. ... Later, when I get over being mad—say after a few months—I’ll write to you again and then you can resume corresponding with me if you like. But don’t ever argue with me about my relations with our parents. ... I flatly refuse to accept any contradiction on this point. No doubt this is unreasonable. But you’re just going to have to humor me if you want to get along with me.”[247]Five days later I wrote my brother again:
“I apologize for calling you a son of a bitch and other harsh language that I used in my last letter. But, you know, I was mad. I’m not mad any more ... . But don’t send me any letters for awhile yet, unless for some urgent reason cause if you start raking up all that old family stuff you may just get me upset again, and having just got over being upset I don’t feel like getting upset again for awhile yet. Later on we can discuss some of these things further if you want to.[248] ... “You say Dad claims he once sent me an apology. I don’t remember it. ... [T]hat’s not the kind of thing I would be likely to forget. ... [A]re you sure that you are remembering correctly what [Dad] told you? ... I’ve noticed that from time to time you make errors of memory in your letters–unless it’s my memory that’s wrong. Example: “In your last letter you wrote ‘When you saw the murdered babies in the Nazi camp ... you vowed to protect me at the expense of your own life...’ “As I remember it, I didn’t refer to ‘murdered’ babies, but to kids who had been reduced to extreme emaciation through starvation. Also, I said that I decided to ’do anything I could to protect you’—I don’t think I said anything about ‘at the expense of my own life.’ If you still have that letter you might look up the relevant passage and see which of us is remembering more accurately.”[249]The letter in question has been preserved, and it shows that my memory was exactly right.[250] It is typical of my brother to get his information garbled. We will see other examples of this later. That my father never gave me an apology is confirmed by a note that he sent me within a couple of weeks of the foregoing letter of mine to my brother. This note dealt with another matter that we will consider later. For the moment, let it suffice to say that he wrote:
“The last couple of years have been painful. Your rejection of us, we feel, is unfair, uncalled for and at the least shows lack of understanding, tolerance or a sense of family.”[251]The self–righteous attitude shown here by my father is hardly consistent with my brother’s claim that he once apologized to me. My brother never repeated that claim. He had probably made it on the basis of a misunderstanding or misremembering of something my father had said. After receiving my father’s note I quoted it in a letter to my brother (April 30, 1986) and commented as follows:
“Their self–righteousness is actually funny! ... Note where the old son of a bitch accuses me of a lack of understanding and tolerance! When I was a kid, if I annoyed him he would insult me in the most cutting way ... and now he accuses me of a ‘lack of understanding and tolerance’!! ... Not that I claim to be understanding and tolerant. But it’s like a thief who steals something from somebody and then accuses his victim of dishonesty. ... “Can you wonder at the fact that I won’t forgive them? If they had ever shown any remorse, any sense of having mistreated me and wanting to make up for it, I might have forgiven them. But ... it is quite clear that they will never change. So you might [as] well give up the idea that there will ever be reconciliation between me and them. “You claim to have seen ‘guilt’ expressed in their faces during discussions of this subject, I don’t believe it! How can you square it with the tone of that letter [my father’s note] ...?”[252]In yet another letter I commented again on my brother’s letter of late March or early April, 1986:
“[Y]ou give a list of traits of mine that you imagine are caused by my supposed ‘trauma’ in the hospital. The trouble with your theory is that you didn’t know me till I was older and already affected by our parents’ mistreatment and by the bad situation in school after I skipped a grade. Most of those traits I did not have as a very young child. Of course, you can always speculate about delayed–action trauma—this psychoanalytic crap is flexible enough so that you can justify anything you want to believe. But since there are clear reasons in my later childhood for my developing such traits, these are the more likely cause. You don’t realize that the atmosphere in our home was quite different during the first few years of my life than it was later. ... Also, after I skipped a grade, I was subjected to certain humiliations in school.[253] ...”There was no further discussion in the family correspondence of my parents’ treatment of me until shortly after my father’s death on October 2, 1990. On October 13 of that year I wrote to my brother:
“I haven’t shed any tears over our father’s death—you know how I felt about him. I must say, though, that I feel very sorry for our mother. All this must be a severe blow to her. I never resented her quite as much as I resented Dad. I had to take a lot of verbal abuse from both of them during my teens, but, while Dad was always rather cold to me during that period, Mother often made up for the abuse with warmth and affection at other times.”[254]On the same date I wrote my mother a letter in which I said practically the same thing and added, “If you’d like to be reconciled and resume correspondence with me, I am willing.”[255] My mother and I did resume correspondence, but the abuse issue was not discussed until January, 1991. About December, 1990, my mother had sent me an autobiography [256] that covered her life up to age ten, together with a letter from my aunt Freda (my mother’s sister) [257] that substantiated her account of the gross physical abuse she had suffered. In a letter of January 15 I commented as follows:
“I read your family history with great interest. ... [O]n a number of occasions in the past when I’ve heard you recount incidents that I myself had witnessed, your stories were very inaccurate through being overdramatized. Consequently I have no rational choice but to be skeptical about the accuracy of your history. I hasten to add that I don’t doubt for a moment that your mother abused you very badly, and I’m even since that seems to be confirmed by Freda’s letter. But for me it necessarily remains an open question to what extent your account is accurate in detail. Of course, quite apart from your penchant for dramatization, anyone’s long–term memories may contain inaccuracies. “One might possibly see a connection between the physical abuse you suffered as a kid and the psychological abuse you inflicted on me during my teens. The psychologists claim that people who abuse their kids are usually people who were abused themselves as kids. I don’t know to what extent this is actually true—there is a lot of B.S. that gets peddled in the name of psychology. And Dad didn’t fit that pattern—he inflicted as much verbal abuse on me as you did,[258] yet I never heard anything that would indicate he ever suffered any abuse himself. In fairness to you I should add that I always felt you were a good mother to me during my early years. It was when I was around 8 years old that your behavior and the family atmosphere began to deteriorate ... . “Actually, though, you judge your mother too harshly. Bear in mind that there are no perfect parents...[259] or perfect children, either. As you have reminded me several times.”[260]In reply to this letter my mother wrote:
“I’m very sorry you have such bad memories of me during your teen years. I guess I just wasn’t the good parent I thought I could be. It’s amazing that you turned out so well in spite of those traumatic scars.”[261]Obviously, my mother’s description of me as “having turned out so well” is inconsistent with the crap that she and my brother have recently fed the media to the effect that the family always saw me as a disturbed sicko. On January 22 I wrote to my mother:
“I should acknowledge that your mother apparently treated you a lot worse than you treated me. (But that still doesn’t excuse the way you treated me during my teens ... .)”[262]On January 30 my mother replied:
“I flinch every time you remind me of your unhappy teen years. Was I that horrible? I’m sorry. Can’t you believe that we loved you very much even when we showed very angry anxious disapproval? I never realized how our insensitivity hurt you.”[263]Observe that my mother persisted in describing their treatment of me in euphemistic terms (“disapproval” ), and still refused to face up to the fact that the abuse consisted of verbal aggression that was intended to hurt. On June 5, 1991 she wrote me:
“Several times in your letters during the winter you mentioned that you would later expand on the hurts I inflicted on you during your teen–age years. I mentioned to you that I winced every time you made this comment in your letters. After that you no longer referred to your adolescent pain. “... If you feel the need to unburden yourself please do so. ... Whatever stupid mistakes we made, Dad and I loved you very much.”[264]She still referred to the abuse as “mistakes.” Maintaining her pretense that her mistreatment of me consisted in well–intentioned errors rather than in outbursts of anger and aggression, she wrote me on June 21:
“I don’t like to make anybody feel bad: (Except, of course, my kids ... in the interest [mistakenly so] of correction and discipline.)”[265]The bracketed “[mistakenly so]” is in the original as written by my mother. On July 5 I wrote her a long letter about my grievance against the family:
“Not long ago you invited me to write to you about my ‘adolescent pain,’ as you called it. I’m going to do so now [266]…’ . “In your note of June 21 you wrote, ‘I don’t like to make anybody feel bad. (Except, of course, my kids when they were young in the interest [mistakenly so] of correction and discipline.)’ “The more you resort to rationalizations and evasions to excuse your treatment of me, the more I hate you. The insults you heaped on me were not honest but mistaken attempts at discipline, they were just uncontrolled outbursts of anger. Often the anger was not even a response to my behavior, since in many cases you would scream at me on the most trivial provocations. You once wrote me that your treatment of me was ‘not malicious.’ It wasn’t calculatedly malicious. But the things you said to me were certainly full of malice. You can’t possibly claim that you didn’t know that the things you said to me would be painful. You said them because you knew they would be painful—your angry outbursts against me were acts of aggression and were intended to cause pain. By no stretch of the imagination can it be supposed that you actually believed this sort of thing to constitute a rational system of discipline. “There is no evidence whatever that you attempted to restrain your temper toward me. I can remember no instance in which you ever apologized for your behavior to me and only one instance in which Dad ever did so. “So quit trying to evade responsibility for your behavior by claiming that what you did was the result of ‘mistakes’ or ‘misunderstanding.’ You were simply using me as a defenseless butt on which to take out your frustrations [267]...”After extensive expressions of grief over my problems with social adjustment, and especially over my difficulty in making advances to women, I concluded:
“In one of your letters you gave me a little lecture about how I should ‘learn to forgive.’ [268] It’s easy for you to preach, especially when you expect to be the beneficiary of the forgiveness. But I don’t notice that you are particularly anxious to forgive your own parents.[269] I hate you, and I will never forgive you, because the harm you did me can never be undone.”[270]I was worked up emotionally when I wrote the foregoing. It would have been more accurate to say that the reason I wouldn’t forgive her was that she had always refused to accept, fully and honestly, responsibility for the way she had treated me. At any rate, my mother answered me on July 12 in a letter full of self–justification and attempts to throw on me the blame for my problems with social adjustment. As usual, she tried to explain everything as a consequence of “that hospital experience.”
“How can parents convince a child that they have always loved him—never, never rejected him? ... Could your terrible feelings of insecurity stem from those traumatic fears of abandonment when you had to be left at the hospital at an emotionally critical stage in your infancy? I remember yelling in anger at Dave because he had the bad habit of teasing you. I remember a couple of bad quarrels with Dave, but he seems to love us and not blame us for ‘shouting’ at him. ... [Y]ou don’t seem to remember how eagerly I welcomed any one that came over to visit you. But you rejected everyone who tried to be your friend. Remember ... Loren [De] Young ... ? ... I could never convince you to be kinder and more tolerant of the many people who made overtures to you. You always arrogantly pushed people away...” “I went back to school and embarked on a new career in my fifties. Why can’t you? I am deeply sorry for whatever way I have hurt you, but I have always loved you... “...[Y]ou would have to ... be a kinder, gentler person, less vengeful whenever people don’t measure up to your expectations.”[271]The foregoing letter was quickly followed by another in which my mother continued in the same vein:
“[S]et aside your tendency to arrogance and bossiness, which probably is a cover up for shyness and awkwardness. And don’t push people away when they make overtures. Be patient! You get angry too easily at slights. Be gentle and kind. ... Be kind, be kind, be kind, and you’ll have plenty of friends. “I love you, dear son ... . Are you going to let memories of adolescent difficulties immobilize you?”[272]Certain pro–forma expressions of love and sympathy notwithstanding, the tone of my mother’s letters was essentially cold and critical. This was the way she answered my cry from the heart, and it was typical of the way in which, ever since my earliest adolescence, she had responded to every attempt I made to discuss any problems I might have. Instead of sympathy I got cold and often unjust criticism. Shortly after receiving these letters, I wrote a note [273] which I kept with the letters and in which I rebutted some of the irrationalities they contain, including the portrait that my mother painted of my personality. I will not bore the reader by reproducing this rebuttal here, but will merely mention a few points as examples.
“She claims they always loved me. Yes, they did love me—in the same way that a small child loves his teddy bear. When he’s in a good mood he cuddles his teddy bear, but when he’s in a bad mood he doesn’t hesitate to kick his teddy bear around.[274] ... “[S]he argues that Dave does not resent our parents for shouting at him. But while they occasionally vented their ill–temper at Dave, they vented it on me frequently. Moreover, I never heard them inflict on Dave the kind of cutting, vicious insults that they inflicted on me [275] ... .”My mother asserts that I “rejected” or “pushed away” various people. For the most part her assertions make no sense. For example, Loren DeYoung (mentioned in my mother’s letter) was one of the high–status boys among my high–school classmates; he was a decent fellow who tolerated me with little or no condescension, but he certainly never made any overtures of friendship to me, nor did I ever in any sense reject him.[276] My mother says she “went back to school and embarked on a new career” in her fifties. Indeed she did. But, characteristically, she didn’t stay with it very long. She became a high–school English teacher but quit after two years because, she said, the job was too stressful. A media report describes her teaching as inadequate,[277] but I don’t know whether it was or not, given the unreliability of the media. My mother wrote, “I am deeply sorry for whatever way I hurt you.” She was still refusing to face up to the fact of the abuse: The word “whatever” indicates that the way she hurt me is something indefinite and unknown, and even casts doubt on whether she hurt me at all. After receiving the foregoing letters from my mother, I wrote my brother an emotional letter [278] in which I begged him to persuade my mother to stop writing to me because I could no longer endure the anger and frustration that she caused me. With the copy of this letter that I kept in the cabin I put a note in which I wrote:
“Concerning the foregoing letter ... : “Quite intentionally, I grossly exaggerated my real feelings. I did this because Dave is so inert and passive that I figured that in order to be sure of getting any action out of him I had best lay it on pretty thick. “Actually I was very upset after reading those two letters from my mother ... . “I don’t know how I ever got born into such a family of incapable, silly fools. When I broke off correspondence with my brother a couple of years ago, I felt so good to be rid of them! I felt clean and free! When, last October, I resumed correspondence with my mother because I felt sorry for her after my father died, it gave me a kind of sick feeling to be coming back into contact with that family again. I would compare it to a scene in the movie African Queen. Humphrey Bogart gets out of the water and is horrified and disgusted to find himself covered with leeches. He sprinkles himself with salt and the leeches drop off, to his great relief. But after awhile he realizes that he is going to have to get back down in the water again, among the leeches. Well, that’s the kind of feeling I had about getting back into contact with my rotten family again. So I’m glad now to be breaking off with that family once and for all.”[279]Having learned through long experience that my brother was inaccessible to reason, I had reluctantly decided to play on his emotions, and it worked. Dave did intervene with my mother. At first, however, he did not do so forcefully enough to stop her from writing to me. Within about three weeks she sent me a letter and three postcards, one of which said, “I am deeply, deeply sorry for having hurt you,”[280] and nothing more. For once, no evasions, excuses, or accusations. It was beginning to sound like a real and honest apology, but by that time it was too late. I wanted no more contact with my stinking family. I sent my brother a second emotional letter [281] in response to which he must have intervened more forcefully with my mother, because she did stop writing to me, apart from one or two minor relapses over the next couple of years.
“[Skillen] was not very old, but too homely to hope for marriage. She developed a maternal crush on me. By that I mean that she became emotionally involved with me as a substitute for the son of her own that she would have liked to have. I hated her. “I believe she was the one who put my parents onto the idea that I should go to Harvard, and I think she impressed them with the high standards I would have to live up to in order to go there. I would get all this crap from my parents, ‘Miss Skillen says this and that and the other. A couple of times it was, ‘Miss Skillen says you’re behaving too immaturely in the classroom. You won’t get into Harvard if etc. etc. etc.’ On a couple of other occasions, when I brought home a report card with all A’s except for one B,[283] my parents sat me down in the living room and gave me a solemn little lecture [in which my mother took the lead], “‘We don’t want you to think that we feel this is a bad report card. Actually, it’s a very good report card. We don’t want you to feel that we’re putting any pressure on you. It’s just that we feel you’re not working up to the level of your ability. We feel that you’re capable of getting all A’s. If you want to get into Harvard, etc., etc.’ “Actually, I didn’t give a f...k about whether I got into Harvard. But I had to pretend to be interested in all that crap just so as not to shock my parents. Actually I did sometimes feel a half–hearted interest in it, but I never had any enthusiasm for it. … “During my last couple of years of high school, I became convinced [correctly] that my parents, Miss Skillen, and some of my teachers were pushing the idea of a scientific career for me not because they had rationally concluded that this was best for me, but because this satisfied their own emotional needs. Either it would vicariously gratify their own craving for scholarly glory, or it would gratify their egos to get their pupil or their son into a prestigious career. Of course, all these people had real affection for me, and they persuaded themselves that they were ‘guiding’ me for my own good. But their motives were essentially selfish. ... “After I’d been in college for a year, I happened to visit the high school ... Mr. H_d, the Assistant Superintendant [sic] ... said to me, ‘You should come and see Miss Skillen some time. It would mean a great deal to her.’ He repeated this a couple of times. Therefore I took satisfaction in NOT coming to see Miss Skillen.”[284]Not only was I expected to be an academic achiever. I was expected never to show any faults or weaknesses in other areas either, because that would have interfered with the pride that my parents—especially my mother—took in me. I’ve already mentioned this in Chapter III (p. 92). It was my mother’s craving for status that was behind the big push to get me into Harvard. I would have preferred to go to Oberlin. Publicly my brother has denied this picture of my parents’ exploitation of my talents. From the 60 Minutes interview:
“MIKE WALLACE: Let me just read a little bit from one letter that [Ted] sent ... SO, GENERALLY, IF I EXPERIENCED ANY FAILURE OR SHOWED ANY WEAKNESS, I FOUND THAT I COULDN’T COME TO YOU FOR SYMPATHY. YOU WERE SIMPLY USING ME AS A DEFENSELESS BUTT ON WHICH TO TAKE OUT YOUR FRUSTRATIONS. I WAS SUPPOSED TO BE YOUR PERFECT LITTLE GENIUS.’ “DAVID KACZYNSKI: Mike, this is not the fam—same family that I grew up in, that he grew up in. This is not the same mother that he’s describing here. This is—this is a fiction or a fantasy.”[285]According to the New York Times, my brother told interviewers that a certain letter from me was an “indictment of [our] parents, accusing them of being ‘more interested in having a brilliant son than seeing that son happy and fulfilled.’” The article continues:
“Was it a valid accusation? ‘No’, David said, ‘I believe he may very well believe that. When he decided to end his career after they invested so much of themselves. ...’”[286]The three dots at the end are in the original; if Dave ever finished his sentence, the New York Times did not report it. Here my brother’s own words hint at his untruthfulness. What does he mean in saying that my parents “invested so much of themselves?” He can’t be referring to financial investment; since I had a scholarship, putting me through Harvard placed no great strain on my parents’ finances; and I earned my own way through graduate school. I certainly did all the academic work myself; my parents didn’t know enough to have assisted me with that even if they had wanted to. Media reports that my mother helped me to understand articles from the Scientific American are ludicrous—my mother doesn’t know as much science as the average fifth–grader. So what did my parents “invest of themselves?” My brother can only be referring to their emotional investment in my achievements, and to the fact that they pushed me during my high–school years. Maybe the reason why he didn’t finish his sentence was that he suddenly realized he was revealing what he didn’t want to reveal. Earlier he had told the FBI:
“TED was interested in attending Oberlin College in Ohio. TED’s parents insisted that TED enroll in Harvard because of the prestige. ... As far as DAVE could recall, his parents insisted that TED attend Harvard, but did not pressure TED into majoring in math.”[287]In a 1986 letter to me my brother wrote:
“The fact of your unhappiness was consistently shoved under the rug, consistently eclipsed (in [our parents’] own eyes and other’s [sic]) by the glory of your intellectual achievements. In effect, they made their child carry the burden, or a good part of the burden, of their self–deceptions.”[288]Further along in the same letter my brother wrote, somewhat inconsistently:
“Once you said that many of the nice things the parents did for us were attributable to the desire to fulfill their ambitions vicariously, but I doubt if this is true when you consider how little shit they gave us over dropping out of the mainstream ... .”[289]Actually, my mother gave me a great deal of “shit” over dropping out of the mainstream, but my brother wasn’t around to see it. I’ll have more to say about that later. One of my father’s closest friends was Dr. Ralph K. Meister. They knew each other for more than fifty years. Investigators working on my case interviewed Dr. Meister concerning my family background, and I have before me a copy of a declaration that he signed for them on February 2, 1997. It strongly supports my account of our family life as opposed to my brother’s, but it is heavily affected by the phenomenon of ‘remembering later years” (see the Introduction, pp. 11, 12, 17, 18) and only with that reservation can I quote from it. Dr. Meister states;
“Wanda put pressure on Teddy John to be an intellectual giant almost from the day he was born. She was obsessed with his intellectual development.”[290]My mother did take an interest in my intellectual development from my birth, but in reality she was not obsessed with it, nor did she put any unusual pressure on me to achieve, until after Miss Frye foolishly told her that I had the potential to be “another Einstein.”
“Wanda longed for the status and the respect associated with the intellectual world. Maintaining an intellectual image for herself and for her family was paramount for Wanda.”[291] “It was as if being a successful intellectual and a good student was all that Wanda wanted him to do. She seemed to have only an intellectual investment in Teddy John.”[292] [True after contact with Miss Frye.] “He was under intense pressure to meet Wanda’s expectations of intellectual achievement and was able to offer resistance to this pressure only to a very limited extent. Teddy John was also afraid to tell Wanda about emotional problems or difficulties he encountered with his peer group because that would have caused a rent in the picture she had of her son.”[293] [Again, this was true only after Miss Frye encouraged my mother to have a grandiose conception of my abilities.] “At ... times, Wanda lost control and verbally abused him.”[294]The fact that my mother had intellectual ambitions may lead the reader to assume that she was the studious, thoughtful, self–disciplined type of person that we associate with intellectualism. In reality, while she was always very careful to maintain a facade of respectability toward the outside world, within the family her behavior during this period was coarse, unrestrained, and slatternly. She disgusted me. As I wrote in my 1979 autobiography:
“[M]y parents allowed themselves to get considerably overweight. My mother’s behind became really enormous. “My mother let herself go, not only physically, but psychologically. She lost her dignity.”[295]
“At age 16, in Fall of 1958, I went to Harvard. I had had no particular enthusiasm for going there, but once I got there it was a tremendous thing for me. I got something that I had been needing all along without knowing it, namely, hard work requiring self–discipline and strenuous exercise of my abilities. I threw myself into this with great enthusiasm. ... I thrived on it. ... “Feeling the strength of my own will, I became enthusiastic about will-power. ...”[296]The foregoing is from my 1979 autobiography. Actually, I think my favorable reaction to Harvard was due at least as much to the fact that it represented a liberation from the sordid environment of my home as to the intellectual challenge that it provided. As long as I was living with my family I found it extremely difficult to exercise any willpower, but when I escaped from that stultifying atmosphere I suddenly discovered, to my delight, that I had plenty of willpower. It is a remarkable fact that over the years—even twenty years later—whenever I returned to live for a time with my family, I felt that my willpower and self–discipline quickly drained away, and I did not recover them until I again removed myself from that environment. In view of my parents’ theory that I had an abnormal fear of being separated from them, it is worth noting that I adjusted to being away from home more easily than many college freshmen do: I suffered from homesickness for about the first two weeks, and then I recovered from it completely and permanently.[297] Thus Harvard was very good for me in certain ways; but in relation to my poor social adjustment it was one of the worst schools that could have been chosen for me. In a letter of May 16, 1991 to my mother I wrote:
“There was a good deal of snobbery at Harvard. Of course there were people there from all walks of life, but apparently the system there was run by people who came from the ‘right’ cultural background. This certainly seemed to be the case at Eliot House, anyway. The house master, John Finley, apparently was surrounded by an ingroup or clique, and the people who got to participate in the Christmas play, for example, always seemed to be of the type who would fit in with the clique. The house master often treated me with insulting condescension. He seemed to have a particular dislike for me. I used to think that this was merely because I made no attempt to wear the ‘right’ clothes or to ape Harvard manners, but now I wonder whether plain old–fashioned class snobbery, in the strict sense of the word, might not have had something to do with it. Not long ago I read ‘FDR: a remembrance’ by Joseph Alsop. Alsop had connections with the Harvard set, and he stated in that book that in 1955 John F. Kennedy was not permitted to become a member of the Harvard Board of Overseers because he was an Irish Catholic. Since I entered Harvard 3 years later, in 1958, it seems probable that a good deal of class snobbery must still have existed at Harvard at that time.”[298](For whatever it may be worth, several classmates of mine who have been interviewed by my investigators have confirmed the prevalence of snobbery at Harvard! [299]) My mother answered me as follows:
“I was angry, so angry, when I read your account of how those ignorant bastards at Harvard snubbed you. ... You must have been a very strong character indeed to put up with those characters, to be angry at your bungling parents, and still be able to do so well academically.”[300]In a later letter (July 5, 1991] I wrote my mother:
“Harvard of course was very good academically, very stimulating intellectually, and it would have been alright for a kid of working–class origin who had good social skills and social self–confidence to start out with. The actual snobs were only a minority. The majority of students were upper–middle–class types and they formed a social environment that was not congenial to a kid of working–class origin, but they were not necessarily snobs, and a kid of working–class origin who had good social skills could have found friends both among the upper–middle–class types and among the minority who were not upper–middle–class. But I had experienced so much rejection both at home and in school that I had very little social self–confidence. As a result, when my first attempts to make friends met with a cool reception, I just gave up and became solitary.”[301]My social difficulties were compounded by the fact that my parents had repeatedly told me that I was “sick”. Of course, I rejected this assessment, but at some level I at least partly believed it, the more so since I was frustrated and often unhappy. In our society unhappiness tends to be equated with sickness, and this was even more true in the 1950’s than it is today. During my later teens and for several years afterward I used to worry that people would think I was abnormal;[302][303] in fact, I often tended to assume that they did see me that way. It is therefore interesting that, in reviewing the records of my teens and twenties, I find very few indications that anyone saw me as having psychological problems; though such indications are not entirely absent. Let’s review all of the records I’ve found that indicate how people outside the family saw my personality. First, the medical records. We’ve already seen (in Chapter III) the comments in my University of Chicago medical records that were based on information provided by my mother. Here are the doctors’ impressions of me based on their personal observation, beginning in February, 1949 (all relevant earlier ones were quoted in Chapter I) [304]:
“February 18, 1949 ... Average size and weight for his age’’ “May 18, 1950 ... Average measurements for his age. Well built, lithe, [illegible] muscle.” “May 8, 1951 ... Husky, alert, young boy—friendly and cooperative.” “April 24, 1952 ... Slightly gangly, wiry boy whose height and weight are close to average for his age. He is quiet, intelligent, controlled and very cooperative. ... Hearing, acute. ... Eyes normal or better.” “April 17, 1953 ... Average size, slender, cooperative boy who seems quite well.” “April 27, 1954 ... Average size [illegible] boy. ... Good general health.” “April 14, 1955 ... slender, intelligent boy, quite cooperative ... Good health generally.” “April 20, 1956 ... Pleasant, rather serious, intelligent boy well into puberty. ... Vision 20/20–2 in each eye. ... Good health.” “June [?] 1957 ... Average measurements, slender, muscular, [illegible] boy ... Vision 20/20 in each eye.” “April 21, 1958 ... Average size, muscular [?] [illegible] boy. ... Vision 20/20.” “September 10, 1959 [when I was hospitalized with mononucleosis] ... alert but somewhat slow to respond, oriented, cooperative. “September 15, 1959 ... patient is a well–developed, young male ... .”I’ve made a point of noting my 20/20 vision because it was reported by the New York Times that one of my high–school classmates, Jerry Peligrano, described me as “bespectacled.”[305] Kids with 20/20 vision don’t wear spectacles. It’s clear that Peligrano has me mixed up with someone else. We shall see later that many of the other stories told about me have similarly been based on mistaken identity. On entering college I had a physical examination at the Harvard University Health Services. The doctor reported that I had good posture, “strong masculine component” (whatever that means), 20/20 vision in the right eye, and 20/15–2 in the left.[306] He also filled out a multiple–choice form indicating his assessment of my personality. His opinion must have been based on an interview with me, though I do not remember this. The form consisted of a list of nine different areas in which the doctor was to rate the student from A to E, A being best and E worst. Here are the ratings he gave me: | 1. Appearance and Manner | B. Good impression created. Attractive, mature for age, relaxed. | | 2. Speech | B. Talks easily, fluently and pleasantly. | | 3. Social Relations | C. Likes people and gets on well with them. May have many acquaintances but makes his friends carefully. Prefers to be by himself part of the time at least. May be slightly shy. | | 4. Athletic Interests and Participation | D. Little ability in organized athletics. May prefer individual or non–contact sports or have inferior physical coordination. At best, he is a spectator. | | 5 Practical Motivations and Life Attitudes | B. Essentially a practical and realistic planner and an efficient worker. Affairs usually run smoothly. | | 6. Aesthetic and Cultural Motivations and Life Attitudes | C. Cultural or aesthetic activity present, but definitely of a hobby nature rather than a primary urge in life. | | 7. Basic Personality Integration | A. Exceedingly stable, well integrated and feels secure within himself. Usually very adaptable. May have many achievements and satisfactions. | | 8. War Service Adjustment | (Left Blank) | | 9. College Adjustment | B. Good prospects for doing successfully in college but may have some minor difficulty either in studies or otherwise. | On the opposite side of the sheet, in a space provided for “Impression of the student as a person,” the doctor wrote:
“Pleasant young man who is below usual college entrance age. Apparently a good mathematician but seems to be gifted in this direction only. Plans not crystalized yet but this is to be expected at his age. Is slightly shy and retiring but not to any abnormal extent. Should be steady worker.”[307]Now let’s turn to my academic records. Report cards for the three years I spent at Evergreen Park Central School have been preserved. The cards list several behavioral traits, to wit: “Maintains a friendly, courteous, cooperative attitude,” “Accepts praise and criticism to improve,” “Is neat and orderly,” “Treats others and their ideas with respect and courtesy,” “Respects law and order,” “Recognizes and carries out his share of responsibility,” “Works without annoying others,” “Respects property,” “Shows growth in self–discipline,” “Arrives at class promptly with necessary materials,” “Begins work promptly,” “Plans and complete work to best of his ability,” “Concentrates on the job at hand,” “Expects only a fair amount of attention,” “Is attentive to directions,” “Uses time to good advantage.” A checkmark in a box next to any one of these items denoted a deficiency in the trait indicated. I got one and only one checkmark in my three years at Evergreen Park Central. It was in the third grading period of fifth grade, and it appeared next to “Concentrates on the job at hand .” This probably referred to a tendency on my part to daydream in class.[308] If my high–school report cards have survived, I don’t have them. I do have a transcript of my high–school record, and it includes a list of behavioral traits, with boxes marked “high”, “medium,” and “low” next to each item. The boxes have been left blank except for my senior year. For my senior year the evaluations are: [309] I take it that the numerals refer to the number of teachers, out of five, who gave me each rating. For example, three teachers out of five rated me as medium on emotional adjustment and two rated me as low. It’s surprising that the ratings for emotional adjustment weren’t worse, considering how unhappy and frustrated I was at the time. In support of my application for admission to Harvard, my high–school counselor, Miss Skillen, filled out a form [310] in which, among other things, she was asked to rate me with respect to seven traits on a scale of I to 9, best being 9 and worst 1. Here is how she rated me:
“In terms of his ability to do satisfactory academic work at Harvard, how would you rate the candidate?8 (exceptionally able) Considering only the student’s interests, work habits and life goals, what are the chances that he will be motivated to take full advantage of the educational opportunities available to him at Harvard? 9 (practically certain) In comparison with his classmates, how would you rate the candidate in terms of energy, vigor, enthusiasm or drive? 9 (outstanding) What are the chances that this student will have personal or social problems which will hinder him from doing college work in line with his capabilities? 8 (very unlikely) In comparison with his classmates, how would you rate the candidate in terms of warmth and attractiveness of personality? 8 (outstanding) In comparison with his classmates, how would you rate the candidate in terms of his sense of responsibility and concern for others? 8 (outstanding) In comparison with his classmates, what is the quality of the candidate’s work in English composition? 9 (outstanding) The form also included the question, “Is there any evidence that the applicant is emotionally unstable? Yes_ No_.” Miss Skiilen checked “No.” The form listed a number of “special circumstances” to be considered in evaluating a candidate, with a box to be checked next to each item. One of the items was, “He has experienced more than normal emotional difficulty in growing up.” Miss Skiilen did not check the box next to this item. Thus she indicated her opinion that I did not have such difficulties. The form provided a space for comments, and here is what Miss Skillen wrote:
“Ted Kaczynski is beginning his third year of high school. We plan to graduate him in the spring of 1958 even though he has only been enrolled here for a period of three years. We have accelerated his schedule, and have encouraged enrollment in summer school so that he would be able to enter college earlier than he had planned. Since elementary school, Ted has been marked by superior ability, extreme versatility, and an intellectual vigor and soundness. His teachers have found him keenly curious, deeply devoted to one vocational goal, but still able to excel in all subjects. We have found him to be first and foremost a scientist in his thinking and in his goals. However, we have also found him to be an accomplished musician, interested in composition and theory of music. He comes from a very modest home, where he is allowed to buy books before anything else, and these factors have been tremendously encouraging to his intellectual development. Of all the youngsters I have worked with at the college level, I believe Ted has one of the greatest contributions to make to society. He is reflective, sensitive, and deeply conscious of his responsibilities to society. He is willing to think originally, and is willing to express his convictions. His only drawback is a tendency to be rather quiet in his original meetings with people, but most adults on our staff, and many people in the community who are mature find him easy to talk to, and very challenging intellectually. He has a number of friends among high school students, and seems to influence them to think more seriously. He has long been interested in Astronomy and is accomplished in this particular phase of science.[311] One of his problems in college will be the large one of channeling his energies and his versatile interests into one major field of interest. He is supported completely by his family as he enters college, and I believe is a person we can recommend most highly and with great enthusiasm for any school which he might wish to enter. He should profit most from the school which can provide him with many subject areas so that he may explore and enjoy the intellectual challenge evident in such a curriculum. “October 16–1957 Lois Skillen, Director of Counseling.” [312]I wouldn’t dream of suggesting that anyone should take the foregoing seriously as a truthful representation of my personality. I think Miss Skillen was rather unscrupulous about the methods that she used to get me into Harvard. But her comments do demonstrate that she didn’t see me as the kind of disturbed sicko that my brother and mother have recently portrayed in the media. If she had seen me that way she wouldn’t have been so enthusiastically bent on sending me to Harvard. (See Appendix 8 for further evaluations by my high school teachers.) In connection with my application for admission to Harvard, I was interviewed by a certain Rudy Ruggles on May 1, 1958. His report included only one sentence that said anything about my personality:
“This boy is obviously young, but he is very well poised, expressed himself well and gave the impression of being a fine boy.”[313]The interview form also included a rating on “personal qualities.” On a scale of I to 6 (1 best, 6 worst), Ruggles rated me 3, “Good above–average boy.” [314] When I first got to Harvard I felt myself under an obligation to try to make friends, because my parents had often criticized me for not being more social. But I soon found that I didn’t fit in with the prep–school types by whom I was surrounded, so I gave it up as a bad job and went my own way, a way that was fairly eccentric by Harvard standards. During my freshman year I used to come to my room after supper and, while taking off the coat and tie that were required in the dining hall, I would mutter a string of curses about the mountain of work I had to do. Then I would force myself to stay up studying until at least 2:00 AM. Fresh linen was delivered to my door each week, but often I neglected to put the sheets on the bed and slept on the bare mattress. My mother had provided me with a suit, tie, sport coat, dress pants, and the like, but she’d given me only two pairs of washable pants, one of which was baggy and the other close–fitting. I didn’t like the fancy stuff and (except in the dining hall ) wore only casual clothes. I wore the close–fitting pants six days a week and the baggy pants on the other day, when I washed the close–fitting pants.[315] I didn’t buy another pair of pants because I was sixteen years old, had never bought clothes for myself (my mother took care of that), and didn’t quite know how to go about it. Eventually, toward the end of my freshman year, the close–fitting pants wore out and I was forced to embark on the adventure of buying my own pants for the first time in my life. During that first year I was in a small dormitory (8 Prescott Street) that was reserved for brighter students, and I was not the only eccentric there. One kid seemingly never washed his hands, since they were always visibly filthy, yet he invariably wore a suit and tie. Another kid habitually told lies, and yet another kid had various problems that we needn’t describe here. At any rate, my parents wrote me that someone had sent them a brochure from the Harvard mental–health services describing counseling available to students.[316] They took this as a hint that I needed counseling and they seemed a little concerned. I wrote them back telling them that I was doing fine, and they did not refer to the matter again. I used to think that the dorm proctor, Francis E.X. Murphy, had sent them the brochure,[317] but this seems doubtful in view of the relatively favorable evaluation of me that he wrote, to which I have recently gained access. Possibly the brochure was sent to all parents of Harvard freshmen as a matter of routine. However that may be, Murphy wrote the following “Resident Freshman Advisor Report” on March 17, 1959:
“A very quiet and retiring young man, Ted works almost constantly on his science courses. He seems to have no interests other than his work and although not unsocial, or unpleasant, isolates himself completely from all his classmates. He is an excellent trombonist, but is reluctant to join any Harvard musical groups. He is very immature and perhaps because of his age (he is only sixteen) he may feel himself apart. He does not seem to mind being alone, and is very independent and well organized. I do not imagine that the prospect of room–mates is pleasing to him, but people who are friendly and reasonably quiet should be good for him. His lack of interest in anything other than science is reflected in the relatively poor grades he received in Humanities and Social Sciences.”[318]That’s the entire report.[319] The statement that I isolated myself from my classmates is not quite correct. It would be more accurate to say that my classmates isolated me. They never invited me to go anywhere with them or do anything with them, they never invited me to their rooms, they showed little or no interest in having conversations with me. As already noted, I did at first try to make friends with them, but they appeared unresponsive; which was not surprising, since their cultural world seemed very different from the one I had come from. This was true even of those who have recently told investigators that they came from a “working–class” or “middle–class” background. At the time, I assumed most of them were “preppies”, because their speech, manners, and dress were so much more “cultured” than mine. There are, of course, people of working–class origin who ape the manners of the upper classes as soon as they get the chance. As for my being “reluctant to join any Harvard musical groups,” on arriving at Harvard l did try out for the band, and was accepted. But before playing even a single note with them I was required to attend a drill session in which we practiced marching in formation for football games (something I had never had to do in the high–school band). I hated it. Since I was also concerned about whether the band would demand too much of the time I needed for studying, I resigned from it. The only other musical group I knew of that I could have joined was the orchestra, and orchestral trombone parts generally are very uninteresting. My teacher, Cimera, had always said that playing in a symphony orchestra would ruin a good trombonist. So much for my freshman year. During my three subsequent years at Harvard I lived at Eliot House. In connection with my applications for renewal of my scholarship, John Finley, Master of the house, wrote two brief evaluations, one at the end of my sophomore year and the other at the end of my junior year:
“Beyond achieving his fairly good record of an A, two B’s and a C at midyears (the first and last respectively in Math. 20 and Physics 12c), Kaczynski’s chief activity is to have grown a wispish beard and to practice the trumpet. [Sic; it was a trombone, not a trumpet.] He is fairly good at it, and the mournful strains float down from the rooms above our house where he lives. He is pretty lonely, I fear, despite efforts of roommates, to whom I have spoken of him. [I was not aware of any “efforts” on the part of my roommates.] One may see him occasionally in the corner of the Dining Hall sitting with his back to the room. He is a year younger than many of his classmates [sic; actually two years] and may yet show the talent that might justify such isolation. Meanwhile, he remains pretty sad. Perhaps his life is brighter to him than it seems to others—I devoutly hope so. “June 7, 1960 J. H. Finley.”[320] “His midyear performance of three A’s and a B (the A’s in Mathematics and Quine’s Logic) begin to justify the curious act of imagination that got him here. For some reason one no longer hears this year the strains of his trumphet [sic] from our top floor, and the wispish beard has vanished. He is still pretty lonely but less friendless than he was a year ago. He turned nineteen only at the end of May and has had to overcome both youth and simple upbringing. His excellent and mounting marks argue high inner strength; he should begin to find himself fully in Graduate School. All very gallant, touching, and memorable. “June 6, 1961 J. H. Finley.” [321]During my junior year at Harvard my faculty advisor was Professor Andrew Gleason of the mathematics department. Unlike many other faculty advisors he did not merely rubber–stamp my course selections, and I had two or three extended conversations with him about my program. When I applied for admission to graduate school during my senior year I asked him for a recommendation, and he wrote:
“My acquaintance with Kaczynski has been rather slight: I have been his advisor but have never had him in class. ... He has always struck me favorably at the personal level.”[322]The rest of Gleason’s note discussed only my mathematical abilities and made no further mention of my personal qualities, so there is no need to reproduce it here. I had recommendations also from two other professors,[323] but they dealt exclusively with my mathematical abilities. During my sophomore year I was talked into becoming a participant (against my better judgment) in a psychological study directed by the late Professor Henry A. Murray. Along with a couple of dozen other Harvard students, over a period of almost three years I went through a series of interviews and filled out many questionnaires.[324] My brief 1959 autobiography was written for Murray’s group. The assessment arrived at by the psychologists would be very useful in determining how people saw my personality, but up to the present (March 14, 1998) the Murray Center at Radcliffe College has refused to release any of the psychologists’ conclusions to my attorneys; and most of the individual psychologists involved have declined to cooperate with the investigators, who to my knowledge have obtained no information concerning any conclusions that were drawn about me. One wonders whether the Murray Center has something to hide. Anyway, all I know at the moment about the psychologists’ conclusions is that I was included in an “ideologically alienated” group that was discussed by Kenneth Keniston in his book The Uncommitted. A note of caution to people who might think they can get information about me by reading Keniston’s book: Statements made by Keniston about his alienated group were evidently intended to describe the tendencies of the group as a whole, and were not meant to apply to each individual member of the group. Many of his statements are not true when applied to me personally. I am speaking of factual statements, not of interpretations or of theories about unconscious motivations. For example, according to Keniston, members of his alienated group reported a “strong sense of cosmic outcastness ...[and] self–estrangement. “[325] I have never had or reported any such feelings. I wrote my mother in 1991:
“One of the psychologists who participated in [the Murray] study, and who interviewed me a few times, was a youngish instructor who lived at Eliot House. He was a member of the house master’s inner clique. Two or three times when I met him at Eliot House I said ‘hello.’ In each case this psychologist answered my greeting in a low tone, looking off in another direction and hurrying away as if he didn’t want to stop and talk to me. I’ve thought this over, and the only half–way plausible [explanation I can think of for this behavior] is that this man didn’t want to be seen socializing with someone who wasn’t dressed properly and wasn’t acceptable to the clique of which he was a member.”[326]The psychologist referred to in this passage was Keniston. I told the same story in my 1979 autobiography,[327] but there my speculative explanation for Keniston’s behavior was that he disliked me. The remaining concrete evidence that I have of the way my personality was viewed in those days comes from my University of Michigan records. I will quote those of my professors’ comments that refer to my personality and omit those that describe only my mathematical ability. However, I will include those comments about my mathematical ability that have also a bearing on my personality; for example, the term “original” was applied to my mathematical work, but originality is in addition a personality trait. 1962–63, report on my performance in Math 602, by Professor Duren; “Showed interest, independence, and originality. He is very much an abstract pruist [sic; “purist” is meant]—I think it is a form of mathematical immaturity. He also seems a little too sure of himself.”[328] 1962–63, report on my performance as a paper–grader for Math 336, by Professor Halpern: “Very cooperative and efficient.”[329] 1963–64, report on my performance in Math 603, by Professor Piranian: “Has imagination.” [330] 1963–64, report on my performance in Math 604, by Professor Piranian: " ... lacks fire.” [331] December 23, 1963, recommendation in support of application for renewal of teaching fellowship, by Professor Piranian: “He can work intensively, and he has a fertile imagination. ... Personally, he is modest and pleasant.”[332] January 13, 1964, recommendation in support of application for renewal of teaching fellowship, by Professor Duren: " ... he ... seemed to think about things in a mature way and to try to understand broad relationships. ... He seems to have some originality, too. ... My main criticism is that Mr. Kaczynski seems to have too high an opinion of himself, too much confidence in his own abilities. For a student at his level, it is unnatural. Otherwise he is a pleasant fellow, easy to get along with.”[333] 1964–65, report on my performance in Math 701, by Professor Shields: " ... original work...” [334] 1964–65, report on my performance in Math 702, by Professor Shields:
“Meticulous work, often quite original.” [335]1965–66, report on my performance in Math 635, by Professor Titus: " ... thorough, confident, talented.” [336] 1965–66, report on my performance in Math 999 (research for doctoral thesis), by Professor Shields: " ... very original man.” [337] February 3, 1966, recommendation in support of application for financial support, by Professor Shields: “Very independent in research—can find his own problems. Mr. Kaczynski is a very pleasant person ... .”[338] Concerning Professor Duren’s characterization of me as overconfident: The year before I took Math 601 and 602 from him, I’d taken Math 212a and b from Professor L.H. Loomis at Harvard, the best mathematics course I ever took. I got only a B in 212a because at the time I was struggling to keep my head above water in Math 250, but the next semester I took no other mathematics course than 212b. I caught up on what I’d missed in 212a, and learned the subject–matter of 212b so thoroughly that apart from the reading–period assignment, I was able to develop all of the material of the course on my own, without reference to any books or notes and without hesitation.[339] When I got to the University of Michigan, I received a document that told me I was to take Math 601 and 602. Since most of the material of these two courses had been covered in 212a and b at Harvard, I asked some professor whether I could omit them. He referred me to Professor Halmos. Halmos was a very distinguished mathematician, author of the definitive text on measure theory, a subject which constituted a large part of the material of Math 601 and 602. When I told him I’d taken Math 212 at Harvard he asked me. “Who taught it?” I said, “Professor Loomis .” “What grade did you get?” “I got an A.” Then he asked, “Are you an expert?” What beginning graduate student, in the presence of the great P.R. Halmos, would have had the temerity to describe himself as an expert on measure theory? So of course I said “No.” “Then, “answered Halmos, “You’d better take 601 and 602.”[340] Duren had gotten his PhD only two years earlier and was just starting at the University of Michigan, and he was teaching 601 and 602 for the first time. Since I very likely knew the material better than he did, it’s not to be wondered at that he thought me overconfident. In general, I probably tended to underestimate my own mathematical abilities, if anything. When I recently gained access to the confidential parts of my University of Michigan records, I was distinctly surprised at how laudatory some of the comments were. I hadn’t thought I was that good. On leaving the University of Michigan, I took a position as Assistant Professor at the University of California at Berkeley. After teaching there for two years, I resigned in order to go live in the woods. A personal letter from John W. Addison (chairman of the mathematics department at Berkeley) to my former dissertation advisor, Allen Shields, has somehow found its way into my University of Michigan records, though it was written two and a half years after I left Michigan.
“Kaczynski did indeed resign effective June 30, 1969. ... He said he was going to give up mathematics ... . He was very calm and relaxed about it on the outside. ... “Kaczynski seemed almost pathologically shy and as far as I know he made no close friends in the Department. Efforts to bring him more into the swing of things had failed.”[341]It’s not clear why Addison described me as “almost pathologically shy.” I was shy, but not that shy. Perhaps he overestimated my shyness because of my failure to mix with other members of the department. However, I failed to mix not only due to poor social adjustment, but also because by that time I had decided that I didn’t want to be a mathematician. I was teaching at Berkeley only to get money to finance my project of going to live in the woods.[342] I considered mathematicians to be very uninteresting people, and I felt I had nothing in common with them. To them, mathematics was Important, with a capital I, whereas to me it was only a game—a game with which I had become bored. It is worth noting that none of the comments on my personality in my University of Michigan records describe me as shy. Yet one professor at Michigan apparently did notice that I was socially withdrawn. Piranian once told me that I ought to attend mathematical conferences because it would be “good for [me] psychologically and socially.” To Piranian the remark may have been merely a casual one, but, though I said nothing, I was mortally offended by it. Ever since my teens I’d been acutely sensitive to any comment that seemed to reflect negatively on my personality, my psychology, or my social adjustment. It was many years before I forgave Piranian for that remark.[343]
“I have decided to quit playing basketball because I keep hurting myself. First I bruised my hand very badly, next I got bad blisters on my feet. Now just the other day I collided with somebody just as he was bringing his arm up to shoot and I got knocked pretty hard under the chin—and the edge of my tongue got caught between my teeth so that I practically bit a piece off the side of it (a small piece) so eating is pretty uncomfortable.”[354]The “somebody” with whom I collided was none other than Patrick McIntosh. I not only recall having a number of conversations with McIntosh, I remember the content of some of those conversations. On one occasion the subject of flying saucers came up. I expressed disbelief in these alien space–ships, but McIntosh was able to state definitely that they existed, because he had seen one. He and some friend or relative of his had once been out at night and had seen a row of lights some distance away. Since McIntosh could think of no other explanation, he concluded that the lights were the windows of a flying saucer. He was dead certain sure of it. On another occasion psychic phenomena were discussed, and I again expressed disbelief. McIntosh countered by asserting that his mother had telepathic powers—she always knew, without having been notified, when relatives were coming to visit. When he took Anthropology 10, Human Evolution, he developed the ingenious theory that “the Nigra” (he was from Southern Illinois, and that was how he pronounced the word “Negro” ) was “an intermediate stage in evolution between the ape and man.” Some allowance has to be made for the limitations of McIntosh’s intelligence. He is a rather dim bulb. He bills himself as an astronomer, but he does not have a Ph.D., though he did formerly work in an observatory. He once complained to me that his advisor at Harvard’s astronomy department had told him, in reference to his C in advanced calculus, “If you want to be an astronomer, those A’s should just come naturally to you.”
“He doesn’t understand,” added McIntosh, “that not everyone is as smart as he is.”Actually, I think the professor understood very well that not everyone was as smart as he was, and for that reason was hinting to McIntosh that he ought to consider some other line of work. But Pat apparently was not quite bright enough to catch the professor’s meaning. According to my investigators, “Patrick has been somewhat disappointed with his professional career.”[355] By this time, perhaps, the reader will have concluded that the fact that I didn’t care to socialize with Pat McIntosh was not necessarily a symptom of abnormality. McIntosh’s buddies in N–43 were brighter than he was, but, like him, they were unimaginative, conventional, suit–and–tie–wearing types,[356] and I found them uninteresting, not to say dull. There were a couple of other fellows in the suite, Fred Ha. and B.Cr., whom I found more congenial and with whom I spent more time.[357] But it is still true that I was generally pretty solitary at Harvard and made no close friends there. Newsweek wrote:
“[Kaczynski’s] bedroom, a single, ‘was the messiest room I’d ever seen,’ McIntosh says. ‘It was a foot or two deep in trash. And it smelled, because there was spoiled milk and sandwiches underneath all that stuff.’”[358]Time quoted McIntosh to this effect:
“Kaczynski’s room was a swamp; the others finally called in the housemaster, the legendary Master of Eliot House John Finley, who was aghast. ‘I swear it was one or two feet deep in trash,’ McIntosh says. ‘It had an odor to it. Underneath it all were what smelled like unused cartons of milk.’” [359]In Chapter V, I quoted in full the evaluations of me that John Finley wrote at the end of my sophomore and my junior year, respectively. It is interesting that he made no reference to the alleged condition of my room, despite the fact that, according to McIntosh, he was “aghast” at it. Of course, one can hypothesize that my suitemates did not call Finley in until my senior year (no evaluation of me was written at the end of that year), but then one has to ask why they waited for more than two years to take action. As a matter of fact, my room was fairly messy, but not beyond what is commonplace for bachelor housekeeping. My bed was often unmade, clothes were thrown over furniture rather than hung up, the desk was covered with disordered books and papers. As a mathematician I consumed a great deal of scratch paper. I discarded it by crumpling it into a ball and tossing it into the waste–basket. When the wastebasket overflowed I kept tossing the paper until one corner of the room was full of it. At maximum size the pile of paper might have covered ten percent of the floor space of the small room. The rest of the floor was clear of trash and other obstructions, except furniture and my foot–locker. There were no milk cartons, sandwiches, or other food remains under the paper. All my life I have been careful to dispose of food garbage properly, and have been careless only about the kind of rubbish that does not breed bacteria or attract vermin. There were rooms at Harvard that were as filthy as McIntosh describes—I saw some—but mine was not one of them. If Master Finley was ever called to look at my room, he didn’t do so when I was present and I never heard anything about it. (See Appendix 3.) McIntosh’s memory has shown itself wrong in a number of other cases. For instance, he told my investigators that “Harvard students were required to wear a coat and tie to class. If you wore a sweater rather than a coat, or forgot to wear a tie, you were sent back to your room.”[360] False. Students were required to wear a coat and tie in the dining halls, but there was no dress code of any kind for classes. I ought to know, because I almost never wore a coat or tie anywhere except at meals. I do not at the moment have documentary proof that coats and ties were not required in Harvard classes during 1958–62, but anyone who doubts my statement should be able to check it out. The New York Times refers to my “annoying trombone blasts in the dead of night”[361] without citing any source. On the next page it cites Pat McIntosh’s reference to my “trombone blasts.”[362] The book Unabomber states, apparently on McIntosh’s authority, that I was “known to play [my] trombone late into the night.”[363] In reality I was always careful to avoid playing my trombone at hours when it would be likely to annoy others. Once and only once I was asked to quiet down while playing the trombone. It was in the afternoon; one of my suitemates, a German named Rudi something–or–other, explained that he was studying for a final exam; I apologized and stopped playing immediately. The reader will please refer to the evaluations by Master Finley that I quoted in Chapter V and note that while he writes of my trombone–playing, he makes no mention of any “blasts” or of playing at inappropriate hours. In Appendix 3, I show that McIntosh erroneously portrayed me as playing the trombone during my senior year. According to Newsweek:
“McIntosh remembers an incident when Kaczynski, angry about something, used soap to scrawl a pig and a rude remark on the bathroom mirror ... . ‘He was one of the strangest people I met at Harvard,’ McIntosh says. ‘He was so intent on not being in contact with people even then.’” [364]Pat McIntosh has me mixed up with someone else, and I can prove it by means of an old letter that has survived. On March 12, 1962, I wrote my parents:
“[R]emember that loony fascist character I told you about in the Suite? Looks like he’s really cracking up—this morning he left a picture of a pig’s head drawn in Soap on the bathroom mirror—and by it he left a note saying: ‘The warlike little pig is watching the fierce ones’—the ‘warlike little pig’ obviously referring to himself. He looks like a little pig.”[365]I now apologize to this gentleman for describing him as a “loony fascist”. His political views were pretty far to the right, but it would not be accurate to describe them as fascistic; and I of all people should have avoided–careless imputations of mental–illness. My investigators have tracked this man down. He’s had a successful career as a university professor and he apparently is highly proficient in his specialty. Very bright people often are oddballs. Pat McIntosh took a photograph of the pig’s–head and later stuck it on the oddball’s door in order to taunt him. I spotted the photo before the oddball did, so I removed it and left it on a shelf in the cloakroom. I was surprised at what seemed to me to be McIntosh’s childishness; but the point here is that McIntosh knew at that time that it was the oddball who had drawn the pig on the mirror. While I was cool toward McIntosh and his clique and held conversations with them only occasionally, the oddball did go to an extreme in avoiding social contact with the others in the suite.[366] So it’s clear that McIntosh’s fuddled memory has got me mixed up with the oddball (and maybe one or two others) until he doesn’t know where one begins and the other ends. It’s evident that many other stories that have been told about me also are based on mistaken identity. To give just three examples: The New York Times quotes Richard Adams, who was in Eliot House when I lived there, as follows:
“He was sallow, humorless, introverted, a guy who couldn’t make conversation. Kaczynski wore non–modish clothes: a kind of unpleasant plaid sports jacket and a tie that didn’t go with it. He didn’t look happy.” [367]No one has ever described my complexion as “sallow”. Moreover, I have never owned a plaid sports jacket. I wouldn’t be likely to forget it if I had, since I’ve never owned but four sports jackets and three suits in my life. It’s apparent that Mr. Adams has me confused with someone else. Newsweek wrote:
“Gerald Bums ... remembers Kaczynski from bull sessions at an all–night cafeteria with a group of math and philosophy majors. He had ... ‘cockatoo hair,’ Bums says. ... The late–night sessions, Bums says, often involved Immanuel Kant ... . “Bums says he got a call last year ... from a mutual friend who remembered Kaczynski’s fondness for Kant.” [368]I’ve never participated in bull sessions at a cafeteria. I’ve never had “cockatoo hair.” I’ve never had the slightest interest in Immanuel Kant, and this can be documented.[369] I’ve read nothing of Kant’s work beyond what I was required to read for the Humanities 5 course at Harvard, and I regarded everything I read in that course as just a lot of crap. It’s obvious that Gerald Burns, too, has confused me with someone else. The New York Times refers to my “odd metronomic habit of rocking back and forth on a chair” [370] as I studied. This apparently is another case of mistaken identity. When studying in my room (not in the library) I had a habit of tilting my chair back and balancing in that position, controlling the angle of tilt with light pressure of my feet on the legs of my desk. In a few cases I pushed my luck too far and fell over backwards. Because I was balancing, I swayed back and forth. My former suitemates have described this as “rocking,” but the term is not apt, because “rocking” implies a rhythmic movement and my swaying was an irregular, non–rhythmic, balancing motion that was anything but metronomic. (See Appendix 3) The reference to my alleged “odd metronomic habit” is almost certainly based on confusion between me and another student of mathematics who did not tilt his chair but rocked his body back and forth rhythmically as he studied. The motion was so rigidly–timed, mechanical, and persistent that it could indeed have been described as “metronomic,” and it made this student conspicuous in the library. Though I remembered only the first name of this man, we succeeded in identifying him. He is now a professor at one of the four or five most distinguished universities in the United States, and he has confirmed to my investigators that he did have the habit I’ve described.[371]
“Mr. Moms recalled that Teddy once showed a school wrestler how to make a more powerful mini–bomb. It went off one day in a chemistry class, blowing out two windows and inflicting temporary hearing damage on a girl. ... Teddy ... later set off blasts that echoed across the neighborhood and sent garbage cans flying.” [374]Newsweek reported:
“[A]ll the brains fooled around with homemade explosives. ... Morris recalls an incident with a schoolboy bomb that broke a window in chemistry class and left a girl with damaged hearing. ‘Somebody asked [Ted] [375] how to put the chemicals together and he told him,’ Morris says. The dumb kid, he went ahead and did it. Ted did not do this. He wasn’t smart enough to say, “This is not good to do.” His personality was not robust. He often got left holding the bag.’’’[376]This passage is so garbled that it isn’t clear who is being referred to in the last three sentences. Anyhow, to set the record straight, I’ll summarize what really happened, as narrated in my 1979 autobiography and in an earlier account [377] that I wrote in the mid–1970’s. Having some time to kill in the chemistry lab one day, I mixed a minute quantity of two chemicals, put half of the mixture on the tip of a spatula, and applied it to a bunsen–burner flame. It made a tiny pop. My lab partner, Rich Wi., having witnessed this operation, took the rest of the mixture, wrapped it in a scrap of paper, and dropped it into an empty crucible that was sitting over a bunsen–burner flame on the lab table behind us, which was occupied by L.N. and Kh.H. There was another small pop. Kh.H became quite excited and asked me what the ingredients of the mixture were. Without stopping to think, I told him. He immediately dumped out his entire supply of the two chemicals onto a piece of paper and began mixing them. The whole quantity might have amounted to a couple of tablespoonfuls. A few of us who were a bit wiser than Kh.H. stood around urging him not to do anything like this in school and not to use such a large quantity of the chemicals. He simply ignored our warnings. I was quite worried by what he was doing, but it would have been a violation of the students’ unwritten code to be a “snitch” and tell the teacher, so I said, “I wash my hands of it,” and turned my back. A moment later, the stuff went off. Kh.H. received no significant injury, no windows were broken,[378] and I never heard that anyone’s hearing was damaged—and if anyone’s hearing had been damaged I undoubtedly would have heard plenty about it. The upshot was that Kh.H. was kicked out of the chemistry course altogether, while my lab–partner and I were suspended from laboratory work (but not from classroom work) in Chemistry for two weeks. Any information that Pat Morris has about this incident is hearsay, because he was not in that class. It should be possible to confirm this by referring to his high–school records, if he allows access to them. As for the statement that I “set off blasts that ... sent garbage cans flying,” it is hyperbole. Once and only once I helped set off an explosive charge in a garbage can. I one day suggested to Dale Eickelman that we should experiment with black powder. He became quite excited. We made up a small charge of the stuff—about equivalent to a large firecracker—and, at Dale’s insistence, we set it off in his parents’ garbage can. The lid was thrown a few feet into the air, but the can itself didn’t budge an inch.
“Ted was so anxious about medical treatment that once, when he and his father found an injured rabbit, he begged that they not take it to a nearby animal hospital. After freshman year at Harvard, while he was home for the summer, he contracted mononucleosis and developed a high fever. A pediatrician urged Wanda to take Ted to the hospital. “Ted was furious at his mother. ‘He was just so argumentative...,’ Wanda said. And I told him, “Look, We have to find out what’s wrong. You have to go to the doctor.”... “Ted did not speak to his parents again until the doctor said his health had improved and he could return to Harvard.”[379]On April 12, 1996, my mother told Investigator #1:
“[Ted] spent that summer [after his first year at Harvard] at home, and contracted a severe case of mono. It took him a long time to get over it, and the family doctor was reluctant to allow Ted to return to school the first semester of his sophomore year. Ted begged and pleaded to be allowed to return, and their doctor finally relented.”[380]I don’t remember the rabbit incident, and I doubt that it ever happened. I did have mononucleosis during the summer following my freshman year at Harvard, but I’m not aware of any reason to describe the case as “severe.” The medical records say that I did “not appear to be in any acute distress,”[381] and that I appeared “mildly ill.”[382] The case was not treated by the “family doctor” but by a Dr. Tanzi [383] who, as far as I know, had never treated any member of our family previously. Dr. Tanzi never expressed any reluctance to let me go back to college. There was no need for me to “beg and plead” —without any prompting from me he told me that I could return to school in time for the beginning of the semester. I was in the hospital for five days,[384] from September 10 to September 15, 1959. On the 15th I was sent home with instructions to see Dr. Tanzi again in a week.[385] I returned on September 21, but apparently was examined not by Tanzi but by a Dr. Greenberg, who sent me back to Harvard with instructions to take it easy for a while.[386] But the important points here are that I was not “furious” about going to the hospital, and I was not “anxious about medical treatment.” I don’t remember having raised any objections about going to the hospital, but if I did so it would have been not because I was anxious about medical treatment but because I was afraid of starting my next semester at Harvard late. I am quite certain that I did not get “furious” over going to the hospital, and that I went at least semi–willingly, since I knew I was sick. Note that the hospital records describe me as “cooperative.” [387] I certainly did not refuse to speak to my parents while I was in the hospital. In fact, they visited me, we had amicable conversation, and I even remember two books that they brought me—Ibsen’s Peer Gynt, and another titled The Last Hurrah (I don’t recall the author’s name). My medical records from this period show clearly that I had no unusual anxiety about medical treatment. Prior to going to the University of Chicago’s Billings Hospital, I had already consulted a neighborhood doctor named Brant or Brandt [388] about the indisposition that later turned out to be mononucleosis. My Harvard records show that I consulted the doctors at the Health Services several times (obviously not under pressure from my parents, since they weren’t around) about relatively minor complaints such as athlete’s foot, a wart, and a sprained ankle.[389] Moreover, I was hospitalized (voluntarily, of course) from May 24 to May 26, 1961 in Harvard’s Stillman Infirmary with some type of respiratory infection that was not very serious.[390] Clearly, therefore, I had no abnormal fear of doctors and hospitals, and my mother’s grossly distorted account of the mononucleosis episode is just part of her effort to portray me as having been warped by “that hospital experience.” At the age of 19 to 20 I had a girlfriend; the only one I ever had, I regret to say. Her name was Ellen A. She was an Evergreen Park resident, not someone I met in college. I went out with her a number of times during the summer following my junior year at Harvard. I saw her once the following summer; that meeting went badly and she broke off the relationship. The breakup had very little to do with the fact that she was a Catholic. The story is told in my 1979 autobiography.[391] My brother, as usual, has got the facts garbled. “Just after [high–school] graduation, David recalled, Teddy dated a girl once or twice, but ended the relationship by expressing exasperation with her Catholic beliefs.” (New York Times) [392] There’s no chance that my brother is referring to another girl here since Ellen A. was the only girl I ever dated before my mid–thirties. My aunt Josephine also has it wrong, since she refers to my “high school girlfriend,” which Ellen A. was not.[393] My mother was even further off when she told Investigator #1 that I “did see one girl named Eileen several times in junior high school.”[394] There is a streak of stubborn stupidity in my mother. Sometimes she gets an error or a misconception stuck in her head, and no matter how many times she is corrected, she keeps repeating the error. For some reason she took a notion that Ellen A.’s name was “Eileen.” I corrected her over and over again, but every time she mentioned Ellen A. she would still call her “Eileen.” As we’ve just seen, she repeated the error to Investigator #1. She used to do the same thing with the word “cholesterol.” Somehow she got the idea that it was “cholosteril”, and she kept pronouncing it that way for years, though I corrected her innumerable times. Eventually I think she did get her pronunciation straightened out, probably because the word was used so much in the media. This perverse streak in my mother has expressed itself in another way that is potentially more serious. This is a point that I want to get cleared up now. When we were in high school, Dale Eickelman once sent me a joke letter, purportedly from Russia. I found his idea highly amusing, and I subsequently sent “letters from Russia” to him and a few other friends of mine. The letters were intended to ridicule the Communist system. Dale also sent me some other joke letters. In one of them he enclosed some Christmas Seals or Easter Seals or the like; there was some joke connected with them, I don’t remember now what it was. In response I sent him a letter in which I enclosed some home–made “seals” of my own that I produced by carving a crude representation of a skull on a bit of linoleum, which I used together with an ink pad to print skulls in a rectangular pattern on a piece of paper. I made perforations between the rows and columns of skulls by pressing the cutting edge of a saw against the paper; thus the “stamps” could be readily torn from the sheet. I even coated the back of the sheet with a water–based glue, so that the “stamps” could be licked and stuck on things. These stamps made a big hit with Dale Eickelman and one or two of my other friends, so I made up some sickle–and–hammer stamps, which I used in conjunction with my “letters from Russia.” Still later I made some swastika stamps, and others that bore the words “Down with [Gd.].” Miss Gd. was a geometry teacher who was hated by many students, including me. Needless to say, neither the sickle–and–hammer stamps nor the swastika ones were expressions of political opinion or of sympathy with Communism or Nazism. They were simply adolescent mischief. One day in geometry class I stuck a sickle–and–hammer stamp on the back of the kid sitting in front of me. A few minutes later Miss Gd., walking down the aisle, noticed the stamp, peeled it off, and gave me a sour look. I was never reprimanded for this incident, nor did I ever hear anything about it from my parents or teachers until a few years later my mother, in the course of some conversation, accused me of having “stuck a swastika on a Jewish boy’s back” in high school. I corrected her, telling her it was a sickle–and–hammer, not a swastika. (I might add that at the time of the incident I didn’t know the kid was Jewish. His mother was Jewish, his father was not, and his name was Chalmers, which is not exactly a Jewish–sounding name.) My mother replied, “Miss [Gd.] said it was a swastika.” I told her that whatever Miss Gd. had said, it wasn’t a swastika, it was a sickle–and–hammer. But my mother, with the stubborn stupidity that I’ve described, kept insisting it was a swastika. Over the years, for some unfathomable reason of her own, she brought up the incident several more times, always insisting that the stamp was a swastika no matter how many times I corrected her. She never gave any reason for adhering to this belief. My brother must have picked this story up from my mother, because he told the FBI:
“[In high school on one] occasion, TED drew a swastika on a piece of paper and stuck it on the back of a Jewish student. Much later on in life TED told DAVE that he resented the fact that everyone overreacted to the swastika incident.”[395]This is absurd. Not only did no one overreact to the incident, they didn’t react at all. What irritated me was my mother’s irrational insistence that the stamp was a swastika when in fact it was a sickle–and–hammer. I want to nip in the bud any notion that I am, or ever have been, anti–semitic. My opinions are not necessarily politically correct. It seems obvious to me that there are statistical differences between the behavior of the members of different ethnic groups. Whether these differences are purely cultural or have also a genetic component is very much an open question, and I don’t pretend to know the answer to it. But every rational person knows that any type of personality or behavior and any level of ability can occur in any ethnic group or race, and therefore I judge people as individuals and not according to the ethnic group or race to which they belong. It’s true that for many years in my youth I resented women. Today I no longer do so—quite the contrary. I consider homosexuality to be a defect. I don’t consider it to be morally wrong, I don’t resent homosexuals, and I have no interest in persuading them to change their sexual habits. I could easily be friends with a homosexual as long as he didn’t make sexual advances to me. But I would still consider his homosexuality to be a defect. This is simply my own private opinion, I have no desire to impose it on anyone else, and I don’t care whether anyone agrees with me or not. ** Chapter VII. My relations with my parents in adulthood By the time I was about 22 years old, verbal abuse from my father had ceased though now and then he made a remark that was, at the least, tactless. My mother no longer was insulting me with imputations of mental illness or gross immaturity, and of course my parents could no longer intimidate me by threatening to “throw me out of the house,” because I was earning enough as a teaching fellow at the University of Michigan so that I didn’t need any help from them.[396] In any case I spent only the summers, and sometimes Christmas vacations, at my parents’ home. But my mother was still abnormally irritable toward me; much less so toward my father and brother. When I came home to spend a summer with the family my mother would at first be all sweetness toward me, but as the summer wore on she would have increasingly frequent and severe outbursts of irritation against me, until by the end of the summer her behavior was simply intolerable and I was glad to get away from her. As far as I can remember, the main reason why I spent the summers with my parents was so that I could use their car to visit nature areas.[397] Of course, staying with them also enabled me to save money. By the time I got my PhD from the University of Michigan in 1967, I had definitely decided that I did not want to spend my life as a mathematician and that I was going to go live in the woods. I accepted a position at the University of California at Berkeley only in order to earn some money for this purpose.[398] I didn’t tell my parents what I intended to do until two or three months before I left Berkeley. When I did tell them, my mother didn’t raise a stink about it (for a while, anyway) because by that time she knew that she couldn’t bully me any more. Besides, as I discovered later, she imagined or had convinced herself that I would only live in the woods for a couple of years and then return to my mathematical career. I left Berkeley in June, 1969 and spent the summer travelling by car with my brother in Canada, looking for a place to settle.[399] Finally I applied for permission to lease a small plot of government land about a mile from the nearest road in northern British Columbia [400]. Then my brother and I drove to Lombard, Illinois, where our parents now lived. The summer was pretty well exhausted, I didn’t expect to do anything on the land I hoped to lease until the next summer, and, at my parents’ invitation,[401] I planned to spend the winter living with them. I wasn’t particularly anxious to stay with them, but I needed to conserve my supply of money. My brother soon went back to Columbia University,[402] where he was a student, to begin his senior year. The British Columbia government took more than a year to act on my application to lease land, and then they denied it.[403] Meanwhile, I spent the summer of 1970 again looking for a suitable piece of land in Canada, though I must admit that by this time I was getting discouraged and wasn’t trying very hard. My brother graduated from Columbia[404] in June, 1970 and spent the summer touring the West in a car with some of his college friends. Then he returned to Lombard, and after staying a short time at our parents’ house, he drove out to Montana in the white 1965 Chevelle that they either gave him or sold him at a low price. He set himself up in a cheap apartment in Great Fails, and, following a period of unemployment, got a job at the Anaconda Company smelter in Black Eagle, across the river from Great Falls. I spent another winter, that of 1970–71, at the house in Lombard. The next spring, at my brother’s invitation, I drove to Montana, and together we bought our little patch of land [405] a few miles from Lincoln. During the two winters I spent in Lombard my mother made herself insufferable. She was finally beginning to grasp the fact that my project of going to live in the woods wasn’t to be just a two–or three–year vacation from my mathematical career—I was giving up all that high–status crap for good. She nagged me incessantly, and often in insulting terms. She kept telling me that she was worried, worried, worried about me, but when I asked her why she was worrying she usually would give me no comprehensible answer. Occasionally, though, she would let out the real reason why she was worrying: she was afraid I wasn’t going to have the high–prestige career on which she had set her heart. She began to resort again to the device that she and my father had used so often during my teens—she would threaten to “throw me out of the house.”[406] At this point the threat was not entirely without weight. I had to conserve my money. It was very difficult for me to find a job. If I were honest about my intentions, no one would hire me as a mathematician, because for that kind of position any company or university wants someone who will keep the job for years, not someone who is just looking for something to tide him over for a few months. I didn’t mind doing unskilled work, but nobody will hire someone with a PhD for that kind of job; they think you’re “overqualified.” I did apply for one or two unskilled jobs, but I soon gave that up because the employers’ reaction when they found out I had a PhD was just too humiliating. Of course, I could have lied on the application forms, but I was unable to bring myself to do this because, for better or for worse, I had been too well trained in early childhood in the principles of honesty. It wasn’t until three or four years later that, from sheer necessity, I was able to overcome my inhibitions about lying to potential employers. The New York Times wrote:
“Living again at home, Mr. Kaczynski kept mostly to his bedroom. Awaiting word on his land application, he did nothing for more than a year. His parents urged him to get a job, not to make money but to give him something to do, to ease his mind. But the effort failed. ... His arguments with his parents over his unwillingness to work intensified.”[407]In the first place, I did not “keep mostly to” my bedroom. In the second place, there was only one thing I needed to ease my mind, and that would have been for my mother to stop her unending, insulting nagging. In the third place, it was only my mother, not my father, who kept pestering me about a job, and she was concerned not so much that I should have some job as that I should have a high–status job. This is confirmed by a letter that I wrote my mother on October 5, 1970, under circumstances that would take too long to explain here:
“Dear Ma: “I had the impression your feelings were hurt when I didn’t want to talk further in that phone call yesterday. I do feel sorry for my poor old ma, so I want to say that all is forgiven. However, in order to clear the air and reduce the likelyhood [sic] of further disagreements, I would like to state some of my grievances and tell you some of the things that irritate me. “The reason I didn’t talk to you yesterday was this: I knew you would ask questions like ‘have you got a job,’ ‘what kind of job are you looking for,’ ‘what do you plan to do next,’ etc. ... I would have to listen to your ‘suggestions’ to the effect that I should get some kind of a high–prestige job. I don’t like to be told I am wasting my mind. You have a way of asking, ‘what kind of a job are you going to look for, dear?’ that makes me squirm, because I know perfectly well what is going on in your mind, even if you don’t mean to express it. It was legitimate for you to suggest once or twice that I should get a high–class job, but over the past year you have raised the subject repeatedly, even though I made it plain that I found it irritating. ... “If you follow the following suggestions it will help improve our relations: ... “Don’t make suggestions as to how I should run my life. If you must make such a suggestion, make it once and then drop the subject—and I mean drop it permanently. ...”[408]Needless to say, this letter led to no abatement of my mother’s nagging. Eventually I did get a job with a temporary agency called “Abbott Temps.”[409] It wasn’t very remunerative, but at least it brought in some money. Yet my mother’s nagging continued without let–up. I quote from a letter that I wrote to my brother in 1986:
“In your letter [410] you mentioned in [our parents’] favor that they took very quietly our respective decisions not to follow respectable careers as they wanted. Ha! You weren’t there most of the time during the first couple of years after I quit my assistant professorship. You wouldn’t believe how much shit I had to take from the old bitch. To take just one example: One evening I had to sit there and listen to a long and extremely insulting tirade from her in which she accused me of causing her high blood pressure and ended by calling me ‘a monster! A monster! An ungrateful monster!’ I took all that quietly and when she was done I went to Dad who was in the bathroom shaving or something and I asked him ‘What do you think of that?’ All he said was, ‘Well, I think maybe you are contributing to her high blood pressure.’”[411]After I set myself up in my cabin in Montana my relations with my mother improved somewhat, probably because they were carried on mostly by letter. Yet there was continuing friction between us. One reason was that my mother, who is anxiety–prone, kept pestering me to write her frequently, because she said she got worried if a few weeks passed without a letter from me. This problem came to a head in the winter of 1973–74 when, as was explained in Chapter IV (pp. 105, 106), my mother threatened to contact the authorities and have them check up on me if I didn’t write her promptly. That led to a break in our relations that lasted for about a year, during which I didn’t write my parents at all. Afterward she was less persistent in nagging me to write home. Another reason for the friction between us was my mother’s habit of sending me unwanted packages. Trouble on this score started between us during my time at Berkeley. My mother began sending me frequent packages filled with candy and sweets. I didn’t like to receive that stuff because it exposed me to a temptation that was injurious to the health, so I asked her politely to stop sending me such packages. She promised to do so, but she continued sending the packages anyway. A second time I asked her politely to stop sending me such stuff and again she promised, but the packages kept coming. The third time I asked her to stop sending the packages, I used harsh language. She wrote back that she would stop sending packages, but she added, “Why don’t you just ask me nicely instead of being mean about it?” I had asked her nicely, twice, but it hadn’t done any good. After I spoke to her harshly, though, she did stop sending me packages—for a while. The problem arose again when I began living in Montana, and it was compounded by the fact that the packages often were too big to fit in my roadside mailbox, so that either I had to walk four miles to Lincoln to pick them up, or else the mailman hung them on the outside of box, with risk that they would be stolen or damaged by rain, since it was inconvenient for me to visit the box more often than once a week or so. Of course, I could simply have ignored the packages and let them be lost, but the waste of perfectly good food or other items made me uncomfortable. My conflicts with my parents, especially my mother, over the packages are recorded in many of my letters that have survived from this period. October 17, 1972:
“DON’T SEND ME ANY MORE MAGAZINES. I mean it.”[412]Spring, 1973:
“Ma: Do not send me anything addressed to ‘Dr.’ T.J. Kaczynski. [I wanted to avoid advertising my level of education.] If you do, I will be very angry and I will call you very insulting names. I hate to have to threaten, but you know that in the past I have asked you time and again not to do certain things, and you still persist, so I have no choice but to be mean about it. For example, I have several times asked you not to send me those throw–aways from Harvard, but you still do it. So that’s another thing; don’t send me any more Harvard throw–aways–if you do I will insult you. I mean it. ... Also, don’t send me any magazines. And don’t send me any packages larger than 6” x 6” x 12”, because they won’t fit in the box. Your permanent attention to these remarks will be appreciated. Thank you.”[413]March, 1975:
“You sent me a Reader’s Digest. Look, stupid, how many times must I tell you not to send me magazines? I have told you over and over not to send them, and you promise not to send them, and then you go and send them anyway! Many times in the past you have made promises about things like that. You keep those promises for maybe 3 weeks and then forget them. Obviously you are incapable of the slightest self–control, even to the extent of simply refraining from sending me magazines. One is compelled to think seriously of pathology. The magazines are a minor point in themselves, but your insane, mindless persistence in sending them is extremely irritating.”[414]My mother used to tell me that if I didn’t want the magazines I could just bum them in my stove, but it wasn’t so simple. In the first place, magazines burned very poorly in my stove; they tended to clog it with half–burned paper. In the second place, burning that kind of paper produces toxic fumes. April 9, 1975:
“I told you not to send me any packages, but you sent me one last winter anyway at X–mas. Look, I only go down to my mailbox maybe once a week–or sometimes not for a much longer time. If a package like that is sent, it sits out on the road by the mailbox in the rain and/or snow for god knows how long, assuming nobody steals it in the mean time. As it happened, my neighbor found that package and brought it up to me. But I don’t care to encourage unnecessary visits from him anyway. Apparently, however, you have an irresistable [sic] compulsion to send me things. So—You can send me packages infrequently, if you make them strictly within the dimensions 4½” x 4½” x 12”. They will then fit in my mailbox. ... If you want to know what to put in the packages that (unlike magazines) will be appreciated, you can send dried fruit ... or UNSALTED nuts ... .”[415]The mailbox was six inches wide, but I reduced the permissible width of packages to four and a half inches for a margin of safety, because I knew that my parents would not adhere strictly to the stated dimensions. November 29, 1975:
“[P]lease don’t send me so many packages, and please don’t send smoked oysters.”[416]December 8, 1975:
“Look, stupid—what in the name of god is wrong with you? I told you I didn’t want you sending me packages—I only made an exception for dried fruit and unsalted nuts in a package not larger than 4½” x 4½” x 12”. And I said such a package would be alright occasionally. Now you are deluging me with this garbage. You sent me oysters and cheese. I don’t like smoked oysters—I threw them out. The sunflower seeds you sent me were salted. ... Now you send me shoes and socks in a package that certainly exceeded 4½ x 4½ x 12. That package could barely fit in the mailbox. ... And it left no room for anything else in the box. Furthermore, in this tiny cabin I have no place to put all this crap. ... You stupid bitch, I’ve told you and told you I don’t want you sending me crap like this. And as for publisher’s catalogs, all I asked was—where can I write to get a publisher’s catalog of paperbacks? I didn’t ask you to send me anything. Now you are sending me package after package of catalogues that I only throw in the stove.”[417]December 24, 1975:
“As for my ‘hair–trigger temper’— ... The reason I get mad at you so much, ma, is mainly because you keep doing over and over again things that I keep asking you not to do. You promise not to do them, then a few weeks later you go right back to your old habits. It gets exasperating.”[418]November 26, 1976:
“Package for Thanksgiving is OK, so is Xmas package. But DO NOT send any further packages without consulting me first. (Except one package of books as listed below) ... But do not send me a package of books more than 4½ inches thick (else it might not fit in the box). ... Do not send a second package of books without consulting me first. Thanks.”[419]December 18, 1976:
“Christmas package received. Thank you. But look, you are starting to slip back into the habit of doing certain things that I’ve told you over and over again are annoying to me. You put some cookies in that package. Remember I said any food packages are supposed to contain only dried fruit and unsalted nuts, unless you get my permission to send something else.”[420]November 12, 1977:
“[l]f you want to send me a package you had better keep it down to the 4½” width. ... Permissible items for package: Dried fruit, nuts, cheese. Anything else—ask me first.”[421]December 17, 1977:
“Thanks for telling me a package is on the way—I’ll no doubt enjoy the goodies. However. No more packages without asking my permission first.”[422]December 30, 1977:
“Remember, no more packages without asking permission ... .”[423]The reader who has had an adequate mother may think I was unduly intolerant of my mother’s habit of sending me unwanted packages. Certainly, tolerance of an eccentricity that is irritating but does no serious harm is a return that one should make for the care of a good mother. But in my case, irritation over the packages was piled on top of an accumulation of resentments from the past: the constant psychological abuse throughout my adolescence, the nagging and insults during my adult life, my mother’s essential selfishness that led her to try to use me as a tool for the satisfaction of her own needs. The package issue was the proximate cause of the break in relations between me and my parents that lasted from 1982 until my father’s death in 1990. Though I’d told them at the end of 1977 that they should send me no more packages without asking me first, they slipped back into the habit of sending me dried fruit and nuts at Thanksgiving and Christmas, and I tolerated this as long as there were only those two packages a year. In the spring of 1982 I reminded them that they should send me no packages without asking first, yet later that year I accepted, by implication, their habit of sending me things at Thanksgiving and Christmas without specific permission:
“[Y]ou asked whether to send me Spanish booklet called ‘Talacain [sic; should be Zalacain] el Aventurero EOFF and Ramirez–Araujo.’ If you were planning to send me a Thanksgiving package as you usually do, you can include the booklet in that.”[424]After Thanksgiving: “I enjoy the nuts, dried fruit, and cheese that you sent for Thanksgiving.”[425] The reader will recall from Chapter IV (pp. 109–112) that in the autumn of 1982 I sent my parents an angry letter about the abuse they’d inflicted on me during my teens; my mother sent me an apology that, though cold and perfunctory, softened my feelings somewhat; and I was on reasonably good terms with my parents until the spring of 1983. Then on May 23 I received from them a package of nuts and dried fruit. I wrote them an irritated letter [426] about it, and in return they sent me a letter[427] in which they claimed that they didn’t remember my ever telling them not to send packages without asking me first. Here is how I described the incident in my journal (translated from Spanish):
“May 25 [1983]. ... Day before yesterday ... I went to my mailbox and found a package of food that my stupid mother had sent me. Although the almonds and dried fruit she sent me would have been useful, the package got me very upset, because I’ve asked her repeatedly—a thousand [428] times!—not to send me any packages without getting my permission beforehand. Of course she promises, and then after a little while she again starts sending me packages without asking if I want them. ... Yesterday I went to Lincoln to send her stupid package [back] to her.”[429] “June 9 [1983]. I’ve received a letter from my parents that says they don’t remember that I ever told them not to send me packages without asking me beforehand whether I want them. And how many times I’ve told them! ... A few years ago I told them this, and a few months later my father sent me a pair of shoes without asking me first whether I wanted them. I complained to him and insisted again that they should not send me packages without asking me first. ...[430]Actually this was not quite accurate. As the letters quoted earlier show, at the time of the shoe incident my parents did have my permission to send me packages of nuts and fruit without asking beforehand. It was later (December, 1977) that I told them not to send any packages without asking; and again in 1982:
“In the spring of 1982 they sent me one or two packages without permission, and at that time I reminded them (in a courteous way) not to send packages without asking me first.[431] Clearly it was a mistake to tell them courteously, because experience has shown me that they forget it or ignore it when I tell them courteously.” [432] (Translated from Spanish.)Since my policy as to what I would let them send me without permission had varied to some extent over the years, it was not so very unreasonable for my parents to get confused and think that it was alright to send me dried fruit and nuts at any time without permission. But my resentment was founded not only on the unwanted package but on the whole history of my relations with my parents. ln my journal I concluded the account of this package incident with:
“I can’t stand my parents any more, not only because of these minor annoyances but also because I remember all too clearly their insults that I endured during my adolescence.” [433] (Translated from Spanish.)There was an additional factor that my journal doesn’t mention. When my parents wrote me that they didn’t remember my ever telling them not to send packages without permission, their letter[434] was so self–righteous that it seemed inconsistent with any sense of remorse concerning the way they’d treated me during my teens; which tended to confirm what I had suspected anyway—that my mother’s apology of the preceding autumn was given only in order to mollify me so that she could get from me the affection that she craved. By this time I was so sick and tired of my parents that I just told them to go to hell and broke off relations with them. My mother, obsessed as usual with respectability, was so anxious to conceal the truth about our family life that after I broke off with her and my father she lied to her sister, telling her that the reason why she and my father no longer went to visit me was that I found it too painful to part from them when the visit was over! [435] Before we leave the subject of packages, I should note that the Washington Post’s report that I once “castigated [my] aunt for sending a package that would not fit in [my] mailbox”[436] is false. Anyone who thinks it is true is invited to ask any of my aunts about it. Freda Tuominen is the only one of my aunts who ever sent me a package in Montana. She once sent me a pocket knife as a birthday present. I thanked her for it and expressed my appreciation of it; then I courteously requested that in the future she should ask me before sending any package, and I explained why.
“[Ted] went back to Lombard, back to his parents’ home. This time, he did not resist their blandishments about work.”[437]I suggest that Robert D. McFadden, who wrote this article, should check his dictionary for the correct meaning of the word “blandishment.” But it’s clear that what McFadden meant was that I took a job at this time only under pressure from my parents. Actually I took the job on my own initiative, and the letters prove it. I’d been playing with the idea of an exploring trip to northern Canada as preparation for a possible sojourn in the wilderness there. Prior to my return to Lombard I wrote my father on February 17, 1978:
“Do you think it likely I could get a job in the spring at that Foam–cutting place [where you work]? Then maybe I could save up some money and be in better position for northern trip.”[438]And on March 8:
“When I asked about getting a job, I had in mind something of a longer term as an alternative to a trip [to Ontario] this summer, so I could get money for a better trip in a more promising region. However, if you can get me a job [at Foam Cutting Engineers] for 2 months, that is also something to consider.”[439]I did take a job at Foam Cutting Engineers.[440] I worked there for a couple of months and then left because of certain relations between me and the foreman (foreperson?), Ellen Tarmichael, of which I will speak later. Within a few days after leaving Foam Cutting Engineers I got a job with a firm that manufactured restaurant equipment, Prince Castle, Inc.,[441] and I worked there until the spring of 1979, after which I returned to Montana with, I think, something like three thousand dollars that I’d saved. The Canadian wilderness trip never came off. At about this time my parents gave my brother and me each several gifts of money totalling (if I remember correctly) some three thousand dollars apiece.[442] Thereafter they gave each of us a yearly stipend of a thousand dollars, which they gradually increased until by 1989 it was fifteen hundred dollars.[443] My mother always took scrupulous care that every money gift to me should be precisely equalled by a similar gift to my brother, and vice versa. Her financial records should prove this, if she allows access to them. It certainly was generous of my parents to give my brother and me these gifts, which saved me the annoyance of having to look for work at intervals, but, lest the reader conceive an exaggerated impression of my parents’ generosity, I point out that they were not inconveniencing themselves. Every member of my immediate family is instinctively parsimonious; we spend money cautiously; we don’t like to spend it Consequently my parents had accumulated considerable sums distributed among several accounts in savings and loan associations, from which they received a substantial income in interest. I don’t know how much they had, but I’d guess that by the time of my father’s death their assets would have amounted to at least three hundred thousand dollars. My brother, who was much more familiar with our parents’ financial situation than I was, wrote me: “[T]he parents ... have more than they can spend”[444] (early 1986); and: “When our inheritance comes due we’ll both be fairly rich anyway, so a few thousand dollars now wouldn’t make much difference ... . “[445] (late 1985 or early 1986). So the fact that my parents were pretty free–handed with their money during the 1980’s does not prevent me from feeling that they both were essentially selfish people. After my father’s death in 1990 there was a brief reconciliation between my mother and me, but it was not a very successful one. There was too much tension between us because of old resentments. How and why I broke off with her in 1991 has already been explained in Chapter IV. At that time I received from her about seven thousand dollars[446] in a lump sum, and thereafter I refused to accept any money,[447] or even any communication, from her.
“Throughout your childhood and even well up into your 20’s you had a severe case of big–brother worship.”[450]The truth of this is confirmed by various statements of my brother’s. The New York Times, on the basis of an interview with him, described him as an “admiring kid brother”[451] who “idolized”[452] me, and quoted him as saying, “I was very strongly influenced by my brother.” [453] In the summer of 1982, Dave wrote me:
“I don’t remember finding it difficult as a youngster to admire you, and I don’t think my will was consciously frustrated by coming under the influence of your way of thinking, since I thought I came willingly, drawn by its intrinsic persuasion. I hope you will appreciate, in light of this, what a significant being you must have represented to me ... . On a personal level, however, I felt a problem arose insofar as it appeared to me I could appear in your world ...[only] by assuming a shape appropriate to this world, but not wholly expressive of my own experience and consciousness. In other words, what I thought of as the openness on my part which made your thought–process accessible to me, was so little reciprocated that I could abide there only by forsaking a certain freedom of spirit.”[454]In brief, my brother was saying that he admired me but felt dominated by me. In 1986 he wrote:
“[Our parents] always encouraged me to look up to you, especially with regard to your intellect ... . One unhealthy side of this, as we’ve discussed before, is that I may have learned to look up to you too much, to take your criticisms too much to heart, and to feel a little over–shadowed intellectually. I think one reason I became ego–involved in our philosophical discussions a few years ago was because I was still trying to establish myself on a plane of intellectual equality with you.”[455]Recently, my brother told Dr. K. that as a child he looked up to me, strove to emulate me, and, as it were, defined himself through his relationship to me.[456] My brother’s admiration for me was complicated by a marked strain of resentment, which seems to have had its origin in several factors, including his sense of inferiority to me, the fact that I often treated him badly when we were kids, and jealously over the fact that our parents valued me more highly than they did him. The conflict between his love and admiration, on the one hand, and his resentment, on the other, was shown in the inconsistency of his behavior toward me. Once my brother was past his infancy, conflicts developed in my own feelings toward him. Initially, I think my resentment probably grew out of the way our parents handled our relationship. Whenever any squabble arose between my brother and I, whenever anything went wrong while we were together, I was automatically blamed for it. From my 1979 autobiography:
“When my brother was 4 years old and I was 12 (if I remember correctly [457]), my father gave each of us a glass bottle with a squirting attachment so that we could ‘fight’ by squirting each other. This was fine until my brother climbed up on a chair and then fell with the bottle in his hand, cutting himself very badly [when the bottle broke]. (It is still painful to me to remember this incident.) Blood came gushing from my brother’s hand at an amazing rate. I screamed and howled for my parents, who came running. They took my brother in the house, but quickly decided that he was bleeding so badly that they would have to rush him to the hospital. ... “Because I had a strong affection for my brother, I was very upset about his injury. At one point, the doctors feared that two of his fingers might be permanently crippled.* (footnote: *But fortunately it turned out alright.), and at that time I offered to give my brother my coin collection, which was my most prized possession. “... Since my brother climbed up on the chair on his own initiative, and since I was 10 feet away from him when he fell, there was no reason why I should be blamed for the incident. Nevertheless, the doctors told my parents that my brother kept mumbling, ‘Don’t blame Teddy! Don’t blame Teddy!’ “The reason is that he knew that whenever anything bad happened when he and I were together, I always got blamed for it. The same thing was true all through my earlier teens: Whenever I got into a screaming match with my brother, or any other conflict, my parents immediately blamed me. If I tried to explain my side of the dispute, my parents would usually cut me short by saying, ‘It doesn’t make any difference. You’re older. You should be more mature.My brother’s effort to save me from blame shows the generous aspect of his feelings toward me. The resentful aspect is illustrated by the following incident. When I was thirteen years old and my brother was five, it was discovered that I had a cyst in my upper jaw that would have to be removed surgically, and in preparation for that operation an oral surgeon extracted one of my upper incisors.[459] As I reminded my mother in 1991, “when I came home with my tooth pulled out, Dave jeered at me for it.”[460] He also showed his resentment by teasing me frequently. For example, he would tell me some lie or tall tale, and then when he had me believing it he would laugh at me for having been taken in.[461] His teasing aroused my own resentment, which led me to harass him verbally, and that in turn increased his resentment, in a vicious cycle. In addition, he had certain personality traits that irritated me.[462] He was an other–directed kid: He ran with a group of boys among whom he seemed to lose his own identity completely, imitating all their ways without holding back anything of himself. Again, he sucked his thumb until he was eight years old. I used to get disgusted watching him at it, and I would rag him about it unmercifully. My mother would occasionally reprimand me for my harassment of my brother or him for his teasing of me, but neither of my parents ever made any serious or consistent effort to bring our constant quarrelling under control. The worst of it was that at this time I was suffering psychological abuse from my parents and from my schoolmates and, being unable to retaliate against them, I probably took out much of my anger on my brother, who was a convenient object for that purpose. Of course, my brother was not so defenseless against me as I was against our parents, since he could turn to them for support and protection.[463] In fact, my brother and my parents often tended to form a common front against me.[464] Considering our conflicts and the family situation in general, it’s surprising that Dave and I retained as much affection for one another as we did. At the age of seventeen I wrote:*’ (footnote: * Just as I often got into screaming matches with my brother, my parents often got into screaming matches with me. Apparently it never occurred to them that they should ‘be more mature.’) This was not the result of favoritism on their part—actually, I was always the favorite son. It was the result of simple laziness. To listen to both sides of a dispute between my brother and I, and attempt to make a fair judgement, would have taken an effort. It was easier to automatically blame the older child and throw on him the burden of keeping the peace.”[458] (The footnotes marked by an asterisk are in the original.)
“My brother and I quarrel a lot, but when we’re not quarrelling we’re pretty friendly and considerate of each other.”[465]And in 1986, I wrote my brother:
“[W]e had conflicts that resulted in resentment, but [on my side] that resentment was relatively superficial rather than deep and lasting.”[466]These passages only hint at the strength and tenacity of my affection for Dave and the way it survived the sometimes bitter anger I felt toward him. But I truly believe that my resentment over our childhood conflicts had dissipated by the time I reached adulthood, and that it left little or no lasting residue in me. (With certain resentments that arose during our adult years, it was a different matter.) On my brother’s side, I think the resentment ran much deeper, but it did not interfere with the excessive adulation that led him to adopt me as a role–model and as a source of values and aspirations. A couple of times during my later teens my mother asked me in an awed voice, “What is this power you have over Dave?” I wasn’t able to give her an answer, because it wasn’t a power that I exercised consciously or intentionally.[467] When my brother was maybe eleven or twelve years old, he used to show off by jumping up and touching the light on the kitchen ceiling. I used to kid him by saying, “No, you can’t do it! You won’t make it!”, and whenever he jumped after I had said that, he would fail to touch the light. He used to attribute this to his own “suggestibility”, and he seemed to take a masochistic satisfaction in it. Eventually, though, he did assert his will and show that he could touch the light even when I told him he couldn’t. This psychological subordination of my brother to me must have contributed in a very important way to his resentment, the more so since I was quite conscious of my own superiority in that respect and, in those days, I probably did not do a very good job of concealing it. As I wrote in 1959:
“I feel superior to my brother in intellectual capacity, and very much in strength of will, even considering the age difference.” [468]Another source of my brother’s resentment against me was the fact that my parents valued me far more than they did him. In a psychological sense I was the most important member of the family, as is indicated, for example, by the fact that my parents saved more than two hundred of my letters but only two of my brother’s; my brother saved a hundred or more of my letters to him, but no letters from our parents. (See Notes on Documents.) My brother and my mother both leaned on me heavily for the satisfaction of their psychological needs, and to some extent my father did so too: When I worked at Foam Cutting Engineers, one of my co–workers, a woman named Dotty, said to me: “Your father talks about you all the time. I think you’re the favorite son.” As I mentioned at the beginning of this chapter, my brother tends to retreat from conflicts and problems rather than confronting them. I don’t think he ever faced up to the contradiction between his affection for me and his resentment of me. Instead of resolving this conflict to his own satisfaction, he pushed the two aspects of his relationship with me into two different and mutually inaccessible compartments of his mind, creating a division that deepened as the years went by. At about the time I reached adulthood there was a great improvement in my relations with my brother. I wrote in my 1979 autobiography:
“I think it might have been when I was around 20 that we began to get along better. Instead of competing, each of us would freely acknowledge the other’s areas of superiority. Since then I have always gotten along very well with my brother.”[469]The “always” in the last sentence is not strictly accurate, since we still did have quarrels at times, but these were rather rare, and I felt from 1962 at least until 1979 that I had basically a very good relationship with my brother. I had learned to exercise self–restraint toward him, and he toward me. I think it was from about 1962 to 1965 that I felt best about my relationship with Dave, but even at that time I think I remember feeling a little regretful that he didn’t seem to reciprocate the warm good–fellowship that I sometimes tried to show him. In the later sixties, a new element of resentment began to creep into my feelings toward my brother: I was disappointed in the way he was turning out. He seemed to me to be weak—lacking in initiative, energy, and persistence. This was not a good justification for resenting him, but I felt a certain degree of low–keyed resentment all the same. This occasionally resulted in behavior on my part that must have been painful to my brother to a degree of which I had no conception at the time. Once, in the late sixties, we watched on television a movie titled “The Strange One.” It was about a sadistic and Machiavellian student (called “Night Boy” ) in a military academy who caused serious harm to various people through his cunning intrigues. Another character in the film was a repellent individual nicknamed “Cockroach,” an aspiring writer who chronicled Night Boy’s exploits and gloated over them. When the movie was over, my brother began to speak gloatingly of Night Boy. I was somewhat repelled, so I teased him by calling him “Cockroach” and comparing him to that character. He got very upset and stormed out of the room. I just laughed at him, pleased that I’d stung him, since I thought he deserved it. Only recently have I come to realize how deeply I must have cut him with that remark.
“I came back to Great Falls ... . David got my mail out of a drawer for me, and said he ‘thought’ that that was all there was for me, but later he found three other pieces of my mail in various places amongst the litter (or, to be more accurate, garbage) in his apartment. I have been cleaning out some of his trash for him, but so far no more of my mail has turned up. At any rate, two important pieces of mail seem to be missing. ... One is my W–2 form from Abbot Temps.”[472]A couple of days later:
“Dave and I have been cleaning out his apartment and he found, somewhere, my income–tax stuff ... .”[473]In June 1973, I wrote my parents:
“I solicited Dave’s assistance and we shovelled about a ton of trash out of his dump—but the sink and toilet still are cesspools, and he doesn’t dare open the refrigerator because when it went on the blink he neglected to take the food out, so that the thing is now filled with an unspeakable stench. ... “Suggestion—tell Dave that unless he keeps his place clean, you will ask his landlord to make him clean the place up. I will give you a report, and if he is delinquent, [you] complain to his landlord.* (footnote: *If the landlord evicts him, it will be a lesson which will probably neaten him up for a long time.) “It might help if Dad writes him a lecturing letter on this stuff ... .”[474]July 9, 1973:
“Dave’s apartment is still terrible. He doesn’t seem to have done anymore cleaning up since I was here a couple of weeks ago. He must have been throwing out most of his fresh trash since then, but I notice that he has gotten careless and the trash is starting to accumulate again around his chair. The toilet and sink are still vile pits of corruption (and I’m not being facetious), and the refrigerator, as I told you, has been ruined by the stuff left to rot in it. The place is pervaded by an odor of garbage—worse than before, I think. “In all seriousness, I think you should try that plan I mentioned to you about threatening to ask his landlord to make him clean it up. I know it is a harsh thing to do, but I really think he needs it. I am pretty certain that nothing less will get him to take any initiative at all in the matter.”[475]My father did write Dave a lecturing letter, and I expostulated with him myself about the condition of his apartment. He answered, “Ted, I’ve tried and tried, but I just can’t seem to help it.” But apparently my father and I did have some effect on him, for, as I wrote to my parents on July 18:
“I have some good news: Dave actually started cleaning up his apartment on his own initiative. I helped, but the project was his own suggestion. Maybe I was wrong in assuming that nagging would do no good. ...[H]e says he cleaned out his refrigerator on his own initiative, but I haven’t had the nerve to open it to see what kind of a job he did. He washed the sinks, toilet bowl, and table, and stove, but a good deal remains to be done: the counter and the floor, mainly. Whether he will do it or not I don’t know, but anyway there has been a big improvement already. He seems to have brightened up some ... .”[476]Despite the condition of his apartment, Dave seemed to be doing well in some ways. By the time of my arrival in June 1971, he’d made at least one good friend (Leon Ne.) And over the next couple of years he made several others. The rugged physical work he was doing at the smelter seemed to agree with him. I complimented him on the fact that he looked wiry and well–conditioned, and he said that he felt he was gaining something positive in a psychological sense from doing that kind of work. The smeltermen had a certain quota of work to do each day, and once they had finished it they could stop working but had to stay at the smelter for a full eight hours. They generally hurried and finished their quota within about four hours and spent the other four hours at various recreations, especially chess. My brother read some books on chess strategy, and through constant practice at the smelter he became a fairly good player—certainly much better than I was. Whereas formerly I’d usually been able to beat him at chess, now the tables were turned and he could usually beat me. This seemed to be important to him. In some other ways my brother was not doing so well. For some reason he seemed rather morose during this period, and he had become addicted to cigarettes. Both the smoking habit and the filthy condition of his apartment were expressions of a lack of will–power and an incapacity for effort that have affected my brother all his life, but seemed to be particularly acute during this period. According to my letter of March 21, 1972, to my parents:
“Before I left for my cabin the last time, [Dave] very willingly promised to pay my [automobile insurance] bill and to get in touch with me if it didn’t arrive, etc. But it seems that when it did arrive he ‘didn’t notice’ that it was from the insurance company until a couple of weeks after it was due. Actually, I don’t resent this on his part—he is very obliging, helpful, and well–intentioned—he just seems to be incapable of doing anything that requires any effort at all, especially anything that requires attentiveness ... . “P.S. Don’t say anything to Dave about my having mentioned his inability to make any effort. He is aware of his failings, but it would hurt his feelings to know I had talked about them.”[477]My brother had majored in English at Columbia and had ambitions to teach English at the high–school level, but he couldn’t get a teaching job because, with his usual foresight, he had neglected to take the necessary education courses. So, in the fall of 1971, he enrolled at the College of Great Falls. Because the zinc operation at the smelter closed down, he was laid off [478] about June of 1972, but by the spring of 1973, he had completed the courses that he needed to get his certification as a teacher.[479] In July 1973, I wrote my parents:
“[l]t isn’t just the filthy apartment. It’s a general incapacity for effort. For example, he hasn’t done anything further about getting a teaching job. He invents rationalizations about not being sure he wants to make the commitment, etc. But on discussion he agrees that he ought to take the risk and make the effort. In principle, he says this, but in practice he does nothing about it. And that is the general pattern of his existence. He is a kind of vegetable. Something ought to be done to try to shake him out of it.” [480]My mother generally defended my father and Dave whenever I criticized either of them, but in a 1976 letter she did make some acknowledgment of my brother’s failings: “Dave tends to be careless and forgetful ... .”[481] An important caveat has to be attached to these statements about my brother’s incapacity for effort and self–discipline. What he lacked was perhaps not so much a capacity for effort as a will of his own. For example, he was a good student,[482] and I believe that (except as a teacher) he always did a good job for his employers, which of course implies effort. But in those situations he was exerting himself, not on his own initiative, but at the behest of someone (teacher or employer) whose authority he accepted and who—so to speak—supplied the will/power that he lacked.[483] My brother has always needed to lean on someone stronger–willed than himself in order to find some direction in life. That is why he has been inclined to hero–worship and has tended to slip into dependence in his personal relationships. Dave’s worship of big brother, and his psychological dependence on him, have already been discussed. During his teens he fell for a time under the influence of Neil D.,[484] a jazz musician from whom he took trumpet lessons. He fell much more deeply under the influence of Dale E.,[485] a high–school English teacher of his, who was probably responsible for Dave’s interest in literature and his aspiration to become a writer. My brother also was very prone to idolize one public figure or another as a kid, and he was constantly identifying himself with various baseball stars. In 1971, when I joined him in Great Falls, his hero was Joseph Conrad. He went so far as to assert that the only good stories ever written were those of Conrad. A little later, he read the superb short story “Of This time, of That Place,” by Lionel Trilling, and, forgetting Conrad for the moment, he maintained that it was the only good story ever written. He saw the protagonist, Ferdinand Tertan, as a hero. About that time he also idolized a country music singer named Johnny Bush. A few years later, in the late seventies, his hero was Willie Nelson,[486] and after that the philosopher Martin Heidegger.[487] In light of the direction that his life has taken since 1990 under the influence of his wife, it is extremely interesting that Dave was unusually concerned with the concept of “selling out” : If an artist, or a hero or potential hero came to terms with the system, Dave saw him as having betrayed his ideals. Thus, he felt that Ferdinand Tertan was a hero because he hadn’t sold out to the “banal.” (At that time “banal” was the word with which my brother labelled practically everything that pertained to conventional middle–class culture.) He theorized that “Of This Time, of That Place” was an expression of guilt on Lionel Trilling’s part for having sold out by following a comfortable career as a professor. In 1985, he expressed a similar hypothesis about Somerset Maugham. Referring to a story by Horacio Quiroga, ‘El Potro Salvaje’ (“The Wild Colt” ),[488] which takes the position that financial success tends to spoil an artist, he wrote:
“[T]he parable rings true to me, and I would be inclined to take Quiroga’s side of the argument against Maugham. In fact, I have a sense about Maugham ... that he secured the very polished expression of things he knew well by relinquishing the more genuine artistic aspiration to explore undiscovered territories. ... I can’t help feeling that he’s given up something precious, and he may even be partly aware of having done so. I wonder if the young man in The Razor’s Edge didn’t exemplify to Maugham—the observer, almost by now merely the reporter—some possibility of a fuller and more serious participation in life that he himself had necessarily had to relinquish in order to enjoy for himself the emblems of success, in order to polish the half–truths of an art which had sealed itself off from transcendence. ...[O]n a couple of occasions I have witnessed parables very similar to Quiroga’s unfolding ... . In my judgement, Willie Nelson, for instance, was once an artist of striking originality and subtlety, displaying an honesty and loneliness and aesthetic spareness that was almost skeletal, and blossoming like some unaccountable flower in a field of the crassest commerciality. Now he does duets with Perry Como. Almost everything he is now seems to have no other meaning than to deny what he was once...”[489]”
“Dave was a trusting and naive teacher who behaved erratically. On one hand, Dave was a lax teacher who gave his students freedom believing that they would not take advantage of his trust, which they did. He did not convey authority and therefore he was incapable of controlling his class. On the other hand, Dave occasionally disciplined students harshly for a minor infraction. For instance, Dave once sent Tim to the principal’s office for putting his feet up on the chair in front of him. Being sent to the principal’s office was a punishment reserved for serious offenses, such as beating up a fellow student. It was not the appropriate punishment for what Tim did. ... “Tim saw how Dave struggled as a teacher. When the principal came into the class to evaluate Dave’s teaching, Dave became nervous and his students did not cooperate. They talked over each other and over Dave. Dave seemed frustrated and overwhelmed. Dave also did not like the administrative bureaucracy ... . He did not like having to modify his curriculum and his teaching style so that it complied with the school’s rigid guidelines ... . “Dave tried to be an innovative teacher. He tried to motivate his students to read literature and talk about ideas, but very few kids responded.”[490]After teaching for two years, my brother left his position and went to stay with our parents again in Lombard, where, for a while, he devoted himself exclusively to creative writing. Needless to say, nothing he wrote during this period was ever published. Then he got a job at my father’s place of employment, Foam Cutting Engineers, and was working there when I arrived in Lombard in 1978. A couple of months later, as a result of the trouble over Ellen Tarmichael (which will be discussed in Chapter X) he left Foam Cutting Engineers and took himself a long vacation trip (I think to the Big Bend area of Texas, though I’m not sure of it), after which he returned to Lombard and found a job driving a commuter bus. He kept this job full time [491] until 1981 or 1982. About 1980 or 1981, he bought a piece of property in desert country in Texas.[492] From 1981 or 1982, he spent the winters on his Texas property and the summers at his bus–driving job, until in 1987 he quit the job in order to live full–time in the desert.[493] Then in 1989 he abruptly left Texas to shack up with Linda Patrik in Schenectady, New York.[494] He has been with Ms. Patrik ever since, working as a counselor of “troubled” youths. It will be observed that my brother has had no stable direction in life, but has merely drifted. From now on, though, I expect that his life will be much more stable, since Ms. Patrik is clearly dominant over him and will provide the direction and consistency that he lacks. Lest the reader form an exaggerated conception of my brother’s weakness of character, I must report that he did eventually improve his housekeeping habits, and he did permanently stop smoking.[495] ** Chapter IX. My brother’s ambivalent feelings toward me My brother was gifted with excellent athletic coordination that enabled him to excel effortlessly at sports that depended primarily on skill rather than strength.[496] For instance, he became ping–pong champion of the eighth grade at Evergreen Park Central School, even though he had never played ping–pong before he entered the tournament! [497] So it is not surprising that he feels at home and confident of himself on the playing–field or the tennis court. But in other contexts my brother tends to be distinctly lacking in self–confidence. This was shown, for example, by his diffidence about building a cabin on his property in Texas. He was not interested in a structure that would impress anyone by its fine workmanship; all he wanted was something that would protect him from the weather and provide a place to store his belongings. Anyone with normal physical and mental abilities can put together such a structure, yet my brother seemed to find it difficult to believe that he could carry out the project. In a letter to me in 1983, he referred to “the off chance I should be successful” in building a cabin.[498] In an answering letter I wrote:
“I don’t have the slightest doubt you could build a good cabin—if you once started the project. That’s the only problem. You would be apt to be so pessimistic about the results beforehand, that you would never undertake the project.”[499]My brother wrote in reply:
“I accept that your assessment of my defeatist [sic] attitude is correct to an extent, especially when it comes to projects involving some patient application of craftsmanship. I explain this combination of laziness and self–mistrust (which qualities seem to feed upon one another) in two ways to myself: (1) A lack of natural aptitude for building and handwork...[500] although I realize it doesn’t take a whole lot of aptitude to throw up a roughly serviceable cabin; and (2) ... .[501] (There followed an elaborate rationalization of the type that is characteristic of my brother.)When he finally did build a cabin three years later, he wrote:
“I just built a cabin for myself with help from the guy who likes health–food. ... I guess the main thing was that I felt terribly uncertain undertaking a project like that on my own. ...[I]t may be hard for you to appreciate the sense of intimidation experienced by someone like me in the face of a project of that type ... .”[502]But it wasn’t only in building or handwork that my brother lacked energy and persistence. Referring to projects of any kind I wrote him 1985:
“I find it rather tiresome that you make promising noises [about projects] and then do nothing. I’m aware of your little problem about procrastination and so forth, but I must say I would find it more agreeable if you would refrain from speaking in promising terms unless, by some chance, you actually had a serious intention of carrying something through.”[503]I believe that my brother was quite right in saying that his “laziness” and his “self–mistrust” fed upon one another. To put it more clearly, I suspect that an inborn lack of energy tended to prevent my brother from achieving good results in things that he undertook, the poor results weakened his self–confidence, and the lack of self–confidence further lowered his energy and persistence, in a vicious circle. In my 1985 letter I continued:
“Please forgive me for offering unasked–for advise [sic], but it does seem to me that your tendency to drop projects ... may be simply the result of a negative attitude about the possibility of success. Carrying one or two things through successfully might result in a more encouraged attitude on your part thereafter. But I apologize for putting my nose into what is none of my business.”[504]Also contributing to my brother’s difficulties with his self–esteem was the fact that, as I wrote to him in 1982, “You have very high aspirations. For you it is not enough to just be as good as others. You have to be someone special.”[505] I myself had always tended to have similarly high aspirations, and this might plausibly be attributed to the fact that our mother with her excessive–craving for status, had inculcated us with a feeling that we had to be outstanding; to be average represented failure. To one who has the necessary energy and persistence, such aspirations lead to achievement; but to one who lacks those qualities they lead to a sense of defeat. Dave’s self–esteem must have been damaged further by the inevitable comparison with his older brother: I had the energy and persistence that he lacked. Moreover, when we were kids, the mere fact that I was older enabled me to do many things that he could not do; our parents, especially our mother, made matters worse by exaggerating my abilities and holding me up as an example to my brother; and I made matters worse still through my verbal harassment of him, which generally took the form of denigration.[506] Under the circumstances, it is hardly surprising that Dave had an ego problem with respect to big brother.[507] This was shown, for example, by the fact that in discussions with me he would never admit he was wrong, or concede a single point even when in order to avoid making a concession he had to adopt a position that was clearly ridiculous.[508] It wasn’t that he didn’t find my arguments persuasive. On the contrary, he found them all too persuasive. As he wrote in 1982:
“You have, I think you must know, an interpretation of the world which persuades by its very power and conviction. ... I don’t think my will was consciously frustrated by coming under the influence of your way of thinking, since I thought I came willingly, drawn by its intrinsic persuasion.”[509]And according to the FBI’s reports:
“DAVE ... noted that a particular characteristic of TED’s debating style was that he placed special emphasis on making his arguments compelling.”[510]Which means, in effect, that my brother found them compelling. This is not an indication of the rational force of my arguments; my brother has little appreciation of rationality. He found my arguments compelling simply because he was overawed by big brother. His sense of inferiority and helplessness vis–a–vis big brother led him to consistently place himself in a position of subordination to me, even though he resented that position. Thus, when we were both learning Spanish during the 1980’s, he repeatedly applied to me for help and—on the surface—was grateful for it. He wrote me:
“Thanks for correcting my errors [in Spanish]. ... Spanish has more cases of the subjunctive that English does, isn’t that so? Generally, I don’t understand them. ... Please write to me again in Spanish, so that I will learn the language better.”[511] (Translated from bad Spanish.) “[W]ould you like to spend part of our time speaking Spanish during your visit? I think it would be a help to me.”[512] “[T]hanks for correcting my Spanish ... .”[513] “Some questions about the Spanish language: Isn’t lo used sometimes as a complement meaning him or even you? ...[etc.]”[514] (Translated from Spanish.)Yet, under the surface, my brother apparently resented my help, even though he asked for it. One evening during his visit to my cabin in 1986 at his request he spent some time reading to me out of a Spanish–language book while I corrected his pronunciation. But according to the New York Times,
“Ted ‘spent some time tutoring me in Spanish,’ David said. ‘He would have me read from some of the Spanish books. I had a sense that he really enjoyed doing that.’ David said he did not relish the role, but went along with it because it seemed to please his brother.”[515]Actually, it did not please me. I found it tiresome, because Dave was an inept pupil who kept repeating the same mistakes over and over. But the important point here is that Dave never expressed to me his negative feelings about the help I gave him with Spanish, and I did not realize that he had such feelings. In other situations also my brother concealed his resentment over his ego conflict with me. In 1988 I sent him an affectionate letter in which I reminisced about his childhood and told him what an attractive little kid he’d been.[516] My brother answered:
“Thank you for your affectionate letter. It meant ajot [sic] to me and I’ll keep it always, as I have a few of your others.”[517]But in his interview with the New York Times, Dave described the letter and then said, “I had the sense that he wanted me to be the little brother.”[518] Of course, he was only projecting his own feeling of inferiority. According to the FBI,
“He noted that TED seemed to think of him (DAVE) as an ‘acolyte’, and TED took for granted that DAVE would agree with and look up to him in all things.”[519]Again my brother was projecting his own sense of inferiority. It was he who placed himself in a position of psychological subordination to me. I by no means wanted him to occupy such a position. In fact, his excessive adulation of me was one of the things that disgusted me about him. But what matters here is the fact that my brother never expressed these complaints to me or in my presence. After I’d apologized for the way I’d harassed him when we were kids,[520] he wrote in a 1986 letter:
“As far as your treatment of me as a child went, Ted, I don’t think it was as bad as you seem to remember. You tended to downgrade me in some respects, but I imagine that’s par for the course among siblings ... .[Note in margin of letter:] [S]ince attaining adulthood, you seemed to have reversed this tendency, and have often been generous with your praise.”[521]Yet I now suspect that even as an adult my brother felt bullied by me.[522] Physically he was bigger than I was, I do not remember ever having raised my voice to him after I was past my teens, certainly I never tried to give him an order, I was not conscious of any other behavior that could have been seen as bullying, and I had no overt power over him. If he felt bullied, it can only be explained by his sense of psychological subordination to me—a subordination that I neither desired nor knowingly encouraged. Except that in very rare cases he had outbursts of anger toward me (for which he later expressed shame), my brother in adulthood seems to have found it very difficult to assert himself against me. A mere suggestion from me felt to him like an order; a mere expression of disagreement felt like a cutting criticism. He was so sensitive in this respect that it would have been virtually impossible for me to avoid wounding him: If I proposed a course of action I was being bossy; if I disagreed with him I was being over–critical. I had realized for a long time that my brother had some such feelings, but owing to his reticence in expressing them I had no idea of their intensity until after my arrest. To illustrate, the New York Times wrote, on the basis of its interview with my brother:
“In adulthood, David remembered an overbearing brother ... who could turn a conversation about David’s term paper into a humiliating demolition of his ideas on Freudian analysis ... .”[523]I remember this conversation. To me it was simply a discussion carried out on an equal basis, in which we agreed on some points and disagreed on others. It did not occur to me at the time that my brother experienced it as a “humiliating demolition of his ideas.” Other indications of my brother’s suppressed anger toward me: According to the FBI, he stated that he felt angry when he read things written by me [524]; and he wrote in 1982, “No one makes me as angry as you do sometimes ... I don’t know why.”[525] (The three dots are in the original.) Yet, as already noted, he rarely expressed this anger.[526] However, my brother often was excessively sensitive to criticism by me of any of his friends,[527] and it is worth mentioning that he was more ready to express resentment of such criticism than he was to express resentment of criticism of himself. For instance, when I stayed with him at his apartment in Great Falls in 1971, we spent an evening with his new friend and afterward I commented to Dave, “He seems like a nice fellow, but maybe a little bit of a blow–hard.” My brother flared up, obviously stung, but he cooled down very quickly—on the surface, at least. Later in 1971 a college friend of his, Denis Db., stopped at the apartment for an overnight visit. I had met Denis once before, and he must have taken a strong dislike to me for some reason, because on this visit he made a series of nasty remarks. For instance, referring to my desire to live in the woods, he said, “Since you want to live like an animal ... .” Each time he made one of these remarks my brother and I glanced at one another wonderingly. From consideration for my brother I refrained from saying anything unpleasant in reply to Denis. My brother never apologized to me for his friend’s behavior, though he was certainly aware of it. In fact, he must have mentioned it to our parents, since they mentioned it to me without my having told them about it. In about 1979, when I was in Lombard, in conversation with Dave I casually referred to Denis’s offensive behavior toward me, and Dave snapped back in a challenging tone, “I don’t remember it!” But clearly he did remember it, because if he hadn’t remembered the incident he would have answered me in a wondering or questioning tone rather than a challenging one.[528] Of course, I dropped the subject. When Dave began attending the College of Great Falls, he quickly made three new friends: K.H. En., Jay Ce. and Linda E.. Linda E. had never been married, nor was she in a monogamous relationship, but she had a five year old boy and, by a different father, a pair of three–year–old twins. She lived on welfare. A few months or a year or two after my brother made her acquaintance, she got pregnant again. At that time she told Dave that she wasn’t sure whether the father was K.H. En. or Jay Ce., but later it was apparently decided that K.H. En. was the probable father. My brother had been hanging around with her quite a bit, but had no sexual relationship with her. Women liked my brother because of the easy–going softness of his character, but they did not see him as a potential lover: He was homely, he was not muscular, and his personality was decidedly lacking in virility and energy. Before Linda E.’s baby was born, my brother had returned to Lombard temporarily. When the baby died at or shortly after birth, my parents wrote me [529] that Linda E. made a tearful phone call to Dave and that he promptly flew out to Montana to comfort her. I began to worry that he might make an ass of himself by getting involved with and eventually marrying her. I felt sure that she was not attracted to my brother as a male, but I was afraid that she might marry him simply in order to make her position respectable, or because he provided a good shoulder to cry on, and that she would subsequently make him a cuckold many times over. So I wrote my parents a letter in which I pointed out that Dave seemed to be getting dangerously close to Linda E. and suggested that they should discourage the relationship.[530] I have to admit that my motive for writing the letter was less concern for my brother’s welfare than disgust at his weakness of character; thus the motive was in considerable part selfish.[531] Anyway, Dave accidentally found out about my letter and wrote me an extremely angry, insulting, and vituperative reply[532] full of wild accusations. This was quickly followed by a second letter[533] in which he apologized and expressed a hope that our relationship would not be permanently spoiled by the things he’d said.[534] Since I was somewhat ashamed of the selfish aspect of my motive for writing to our parents about him and Linda E., I gave him a very mild answer:
“I apologize for meddling and I promise to keep my nose out of your business in the future. On my side, at least, there are no hard feelings.”[535]In his first, angry letter, my brother denied that he had any sexual interest in Linda B. and insisted that his motives with respect to her were purely altruistic. He also said that what angered him most about what I wrote to our parents was the implication that he was weak and needed to be guided for his own good. In his second, apologetic letter, he said that what mainly angered him was the implication of dishonesty on his part in my suggestion that he was “lying” (as he put it) about the nature of his feelings toward Linda E. My brother and I discussed this episode nine years later, in an exchange of letters in 1982. Dave wrote:
“The angry letter I wrote you. Yes, I’m ashamed of it. But ... you didn’t only suggest that I be discouraged from seeing the woman. You also said you thought I was lying when I said my relations with her were strictly non–sexual.”[536]I wrote:
“In the first letter you said that the main reason you were angry was because of the implication that you were weak and needed to be guided for your own good. In the second letter (and also in a recent letter on this subject) you said that the main reason you were angry was that (as you claimed) I was accusing you of ‘dishonesty’ or of ‘lying’ when I suggested that you were misrepresenting the nature of your interest in [Luisa Mueller].” “... I think it was fairly clear in the context of my letter that I was accusing you not of lying but of self–deception. ... “[Even if I had accused you of lying], you probably would have sent me a rebuke in an irritated tone, or perhaps even a moderately angry tone, but you would not have sent me the highly emotional, vituperative, and enraged letter that you did send. “Obviously then, my supposed questioning of your honesty was not what got you so terribly upset. The real reason is the one you permitted to slip out in your first letter. My letter did convey an implication of weakness on your part. Somewhere ‘deep down inside’ you feel weak; consequently that implication touched a raw nerve and you became enraged.”[537]Dave referred to this episode again four years later, in 1986, and then he practically admitted that I’d been right in thinking that he was attracted sexually to Linda.
“When your interference vis–a–vis Linda. E. touched off an explosion, I believe this is how I experienced everything ... I saw you acting as a sort of a surrogate super–ego in the matter of our parents’ highly (though subtly) repressive attitudes toward sex. I suppose I felt that siblings ought to confederate in the struggle with their parents to assert sexual independence ... .[Note in margin of letter:] I acknowledge that this resembles your original account of the episode more closely than mine.”[538]Incidentally, the reason I was so contemptuous of Linda E. was not just the fact that she got pregnant without being married. If a woman chooses to have babies out of wedlock, then as far as I’m concerned that’s her business and I have no desire to censure her. What disgusted me about Linda E. was that she was such a damned animal; she kept getting pregnant without desiring to do so, simply because she was too improvident to take precautions. I don’t think she had any religious convictions that would have prevented her from using contraceptives.
“Last year I had to write Dave about 3 times to get him to pay his share of the rent on our safe deposit box. This year I wrote him twice and he never did pay the $2.50...”[541]Was it just because of my brother’s laziness that he failed to pay me? Probably not: In the last two letters I told him that I was desperately hard up for money, so that literally every penny was important. Yet he never answered.
“... so I got tired of it, took my stuff out of the box, arranged to have the box put in his name only, and sent him some papers from the bank that he has to sign and return. He doesn’t answer my letters—maybe he’s mad at me, though I can’t imagine for what. Anyway, in case he didn’t get the papers from the bank, make sure he knows he has to contact the bank if he doesn’t want to lose his stuff in the box.” [542]Seven years later Dave wrote me:
“The safe–deposit box. I admit I was wrong. I have never complained to you about sticking me with it. But you should keep in mind that you were the one who persuaded me to take it out with you in the first place. And now I am paying for a box I never use, simply because it is inaccessible to me.”[543]Of course, if my brother had answered my letters and asked me to send him his papers from the box, I would have done so, and he wouldn’t have been “stuck” with it. I had been the one who suggested that we should rent the box, but as far as I can remember my brother accepted the suggestion readily. I didn’t have to do any persuading. One evening in 1978 when my brother and I were both staying at our parents’ house, Dave spent some hours drinking beer in his room. By and by he got tipsy enough so that he came dancing out of his room and danced around the living room stark naked, in my mother’s presence. She was embarrassed and said, “Dave! Go put some clothes on!” He danced back into his room, wrapped a blanket around himself, danced back out and pranced around the living room for half a minute or so, then danced back to his room and closed the door; and that was the end of the incident. Some time later I recalled this episode in the presence of my brother and our parents, and mentioned the fact that Dave had been naked. Dave’s memory of the event, not surprisingly, was a bit fuzzy, and he said, “Didn’t I have a blanket around me or something?” I said, “No, the first time you came out naked; you had the blanket on the second time you came out.” Dave seemed to begin to accept this, but then suddenly and for no apparent reason he hardened. It was as if a door had closed: He asserted positively and in an uncompromising tone that he had not come out naked. Since our parents, too, remembered the incident unclearly, they weren’t sure whether to believe me or my brother. The incident was referred to several times over the next few weeks, and my brother continued to deny that he’d been naked. My parents found the situation amusing. I found it so too, but I was also irritated by the fact that my brother persisted in his denial when I knew that he believed I was right. Dave seemed neither amused, nor angry, nor embarrassed about the affair; his tone in stating his denials was hard and smug. Then our parents’ friends the Meisters came to visit. During an evening of conversation with them I mentioned the naked–dancing incident. Dave got careless and responded to my remark in a way that practically amounted to an admission that he had been naked. I was delighted. I jumped out of my chair, slapped the floor, and gleefully exclaimed, “He admitted it! He admitted it!” Everyone was highly amused—except Dave. He appeared neither amused nor embarrassed. Without cracking a smile, he said, “Damn! I admitted it.” He seemed seriously vexed with himself. I discussed my brother’s motive in a letter I wrote him in 1982:
“[Y]ou refused to admit the truth of that anecdote I recounted about the time when you got drunk and came prancing o u t of your room stark na ked. Have you thought about the motive for your denial? Was it embarrassment? That may have been a contributing factor, but I don’t think it’s the whole explanation. For one thing, the incident wasn’t all that embarrassing. For another thing, when you finally admitted the incident accidentally in front of the Meisters, you didn’t seem in the least embarrassed. You just seemed vexed with yourself for having inadvertently spoiled your own little game. For a third thing, you could have just asked me not to remind people of the incident and you know I would have complied with any earnest request of that sort. Was your motive humor? That doesn’t stand up either. It may be humorous at first to pretend that such an incident never occurred, but there is no further humor in persisting in the denial for weeks. Moreover, when you finally admitted the incident by accident, that was an occasion for humor, but instead of laughing about it you were just vexed with yourself. “I suggest that what was happening here was the same thing that was happening when you used to tell me tall tales as a kid. You played that trick simply because it felt good to be ‘one up’ on big brother for a change and in this way also you were taking out your resentment over feeling second–best. ... Of course, I could be wrong in this analysis of your motive.”[544]I was being over–cautious. I don’t think there need be much doubt that my description of his motive was about right. My brother never mentioned the naked–dancing incident in any subsequent letter of his.
“I’m sorry ... to hear that you’re having problems with your health. I hope it’s nothing serious. If you need money for medical expenses, I have a number of thousands of dollars saved up which I would be willing to give you if you had no other recourse for obtaining proper treatment. I know you are estranged from our parents.But I also know they wouldn’t hesitate a second to send you money in case of any genuine necessity. But if you have reasons for preferring not to ask them—and I can certainly understand that, given the state of your relations—please tell me what you need and I’ll try to come up with it.”[546] In a following letter:
“[l]t bothered me to think that you might be foregoing medical care because you were too proud to request or accept help. ... our family ... is fairly prosperous ... I hope you realize that help is available for the asking.”[547]I answered:
“I think my heart is going bad. Question of mental stress. Used to be that I suffered from hardly any tension at all around here. But the area is so f_ked up now that my old way of life is all shot to hell. ...[T]hose Gehring jerks [548] are planning to log off the woods all around my cabin here. “.. .[Y]ou’ll understand that with the way things are around here now I often suffer from tension, anger, frustration, etc.”[549]I then explained that I was much troubled with irregular heartbeats. I continued:
“I wouldn’t be surprised if I just drop dead one of these days. “Actually I’m not really all that concerned about it—We all gotta go some time anyway, so what the hell. On the other hand, I’m not anxious to die any sooner than I have to. ... “P.S. I forgot to mention—I was touched by your extremely generous offer of money. But even if it would have done any good, I wouldn’t take it, not from you.When I took to the woods I made a decision to forgo [sic] financial security, being fully aware of the consequences to be expected with the onset of old age and illness. It would obviously be unfair for me now to accept money from you, who have paid the price of earning financial security.[550] It would be different if I leeched off the welfare dept., since the society that provides welfare is the same one that has f_ked up my way of life in the woods—so why not screw them? ... Also it would be different if I took money from our parents. As you know, I hate them, so why not screw them? But from you I wouldn’t take any money.” [551] My brother replied:
“I appreciate your scruples vis–a–vis my savings. But to balance money against life seems to me absurd. Also, I remember that when I was out of a job you offered to sacrifice your privacy (which I know is very precious to you) in order to help me out.[552] I would certainly grieve if you kicked–off prematurely but it would be far, far worse for me if I thought I could have done anything to help prevent it. “In my opinion, you ought to go to a heart specialist and have a thorough exam. ... “Why don’t you have me request enough money from the parents to pay for an exam? I assume you would hate to do it yourself. I don’t think it would be ‘screwing’ them anyway, since they have more than they can spend ... .”[553]I gave no answer to my brother’s offer, except by remarking that I did not appreciate getting unasked–for advice concerning my health.[554] This was February 18, 1986. During March and April, 1986, Dave and I exchanged some letters concerning my resentment of our parents, passages from which have been quoted earlier in this book.[555] This correspondence inflamed my resentment, and I was particularly galled by the fact that my brother seemed to think that our parents would willingly and graciously give me money if I needed it badly. I felt that they probably would give me money if I were in desperate straits, but I was sure that they would give it grudgingly and on terms that would be humiliating for me. To prove my point, I sent them in April, 1986 a note that read (in its entirety): “I need about $6,000 for medical reasons.”[556] My purpose was to cause my parents pain and reveal their ungenerous nature. I also had some thought of keeping the money to spend not especially for medical expenses but for whatever necessities might arise, but I abandoned that idea because I feared it might constitute fraud and be a legally prosecutable offense. My parents answered as follows. My mother:
“Dear T.J. “Please be more specific. Fill us in with details. “Have you explored the possibilities of public assistance? Medicaid? Social Security disability payments? County Hospital? “Have you any savings left, or health insurance? “Can arrangements be made for monthly payments with doctor and/or hospital? “Let us know what your problem is all about.”My father:
“Can you understand our resentment that you totally disassociated yourself from us yet in time of need call for our assistance!!! “That last couple of years have been painful. Your rejection, we feel, is unfair, uncalled for and at the least shows lack of understanding, tolerance or a sense of family. “Right now we can give you an advance on what we have been sending you yearly. In the meantime, please respond to the above questions.
“Your father”[557]
“The difference between this letter and your very generous response when I merely mentioned that I had a health problem, is quite striking. All the more so considering that you have much less money than they do—as you said yourself, they have more money than they can spend anyway. “Now, I want to make it clear that I do not consider that they owe it to me to send me money. What they owe me has nothing to do with money, and they couldn’t pay it off with any amount of money, no matter how large.”[558]In the same letter I told my brother:
“[Y]ou might object to [what I did] and with some justification. Not that I feel you have the right to intervene in any disputes between me and the parents. But it’s possible you might feel you were in some sense a party to this nasty trick I played on them: For one thing, I was of course relying on the assumption that you would tell them that my heart is prone to act funny; for another thing, you had suggested to me that I should ask them for money; and finally, it was your letter that got me stirred up against them.”[559]I then told Dave that out of consideration for his feelings I was explaining the affair to him so that, if he liked, he could explain it to our parents. I also told him that if they did send me money I would send it to him and he could do with it what he pleased, which I assumed would be to give it back to our parents.[560] My parents did send me a check for six thousand dollars (presumably before my brother received my letter), and I did send it to him, as promised.[561] Undoubtedly he then gave it back to our parents. ** Chapter X. The Ellen Tarmichael affair Let’s begin with two media reports of the Ellen Tarmichael affair. Following a paragraph that gave a badly garbled account of how I came to work at Foam Cutting Engineers in Addison, Illinois, the New York Times wrote:
“[Ted’s] supervisor was Ellen Tarmichael, a soft–spoken but no–nonsense woman who is still a production manager with the company. One employee, Richard Johnson, called her ‘a wonderful boss, the best I’ve ever had,’ and added: ‘She’s always kind–hearted and nice to people. I can see why somebody would get interested in her.’ “Ted Kaczynski became interested in late July 1978. ...[Actually it was mid–July or earlier.[562]] “It was a Sunday, and he had gone for a walk. ‘He happened to see her car,’ David recalled. ‘She was filling the gas tank.[This is not quite accurate.[563]] I don’t know exactly what transpired. He actually went to her apartment and played cards with her and her sister and her [sister’s] boyfriend.’ “Later Ted came home. ‘He was obviously in a good mood,’ David said. ‘He told me he had gone to see Ellen, that they had spent the day together ... and that some gestures indicating affection had passed between them. I was very happy about that.’ ... “They had two dates, Ms. Tarmichael recalled. She said he seemed intelligent and quiet, and she accepted a dinner invitation in late July. It was a French restaurant, David said, and Ted ‘ordered wine and he smelled it [false: no wine was ordered], he made a big deal of it.’ David added, ‘He had a good time.’ “Two weeks later, they went apple–picking and afterward went to his parents’ home and baked a pie. That was when she told him she did not want to see him again ‘I felt we didn’t have much in common besides our employment,’ she said. [This is no doubt true as far as it goes, but it is only part of the truth and by no means the most important part.] “‘Ted did a total shutdown,’ retreating into his room, David said. He also wrote an insulting limerick about Ms. Tarmichael, made copies and posted them in lavatories and on walls around the factory. He did not sign the limerick, but his relationship with the woman was known. [How? I never told anyone about it except my father, brother and mother. It could have become known at the plant only through blabbing by my father, by my brother, or by Ellen herself.] “David confronted his brother. ‘I was very, very angry,’ he said. ‘Part of me was disappointed. He was so close to being integrated in the most primal rite of integration. He had an interest in a member of the opposite sex, and to have him go back to this kind of angry, inappropriate behavior—to the family it was embarrassing, adolescent kind of behavior.’ “David told him to cease the offensive conduct. But Ted put the same limerick up the next day, above David’s desk [actually I put it on the machine he was working with]. David told him to go home. [That is, he fired me, which he could do because he had become a foreman by that time.] ... “David said Ted wrote Ms. Tarmichael a letter that ‘had elements of apology about it.’ But the investigators said the letter, which probably was not sent [it was sent [564]] partly blamed the woman for what had happened and said Ted had considered harming her.”[565]This is how the Washington Post described the affair:
“Sometime before June 23, 1978, Ted wrote saying he needed money. They told him to come work with Dad and David at the Foam Cutting Engineers Inc. plant.”[566]Here is another one of those seemingly minor distortions that the Washington Post no doubt will claim is accidental; yet the slight misstatement seriously misrepresents what actually happened, and, as is usual with the media’s misstatements, it tends to make me look bad. Readers will of course interpret the Washington Post’s statement to mean that I wrote home asking for money and that my parents told me that if I wanted it I would have to come and work for it. In fact, I did not write my parents asking for money; I asked, on my own initiative, whether it was likely that I could get a job at Foam Cutting Engineers. This is proved by the letters that I quoted in Chapter VII, pp. 211, 212. The Washington Post continues:
“Ted Sr. was a manager, and David was Ted’s boss.” [567]Both statements are false. My father was not a manager but a sort of jack–of–all–trades who worked only part of the year fixing the machines, building jigs, and troubleshooting generally. David was the boss neither of Ted Sr. (my father) nor of Ted Jr. (me). When I started at Foam Cutting Engineers my brother was only an ordinary worker. Later he was promoted to foreman of the evening shift—but I worked on the day shift, so that he was not my boss. As I remember it, the shifts overlapped to some extent; the evening shift started at some time in the late afternoon before the day shift left. That was why my brother and I were at work at the same time and he had an opportunity to fire me. Since he was not the foreman of my shift, I was in doubt about whether he had the right to fire me, but Ellen confirmed the firing. I’m not certain that I remember correctly the overlapping of the shifts and the exact authority that my brother had at the moment of the firing; but that my account is approximately correct is confirmed by an entry in my journal that was written on the very day of the firing:
“This afternoon, I went over to where my brother was working, pasted up a copy of the poem before his eyes, and said, ‘OK, are you going to fire me?’ Of course, he did. Wanting to make sure that the firing was official (Dave is night boss and I am on the Day crew) I went into Ellen’s office and asked her if the firing was official. ...[S]he said that ... she would have to uphold the firing.”[568]To proceed with the Washington Post Article:
“Soon after he arrived at the family home, then in Lombard, Ill., Ted had a date with a co–worker named Ellen Tarmichael. Wanda and Ted Sr. were thrilled. After two dates, Ellen lost interest. Ted, in a rage, posted insulting limericks about her at the plant. David had to fire his own brother, a predicament he now sees as ‘foreshadowing what I had to do later’ in turning Ted in to the FBI. Ted locked himself in his room for days.” [569]The last sentence is at best misleading. All members of my family took an angry and accusing attitude toward me after the incident, and consequently, for the next two or perhaps three days, when I was at home I spent most of my time in my room rather than with the family—as I’m sure the majority of people would have done under similar circumstances. Most of the time my door was not locked. Within a few days I went out and got another job.[570] The rest of the paragraph and the following two paragraphs of the Washington Post article are wholly false and reflect only my mother’s inability to distinguish truth from her own fantasies. The next paragraph refers to the letter that I wrote Ellen Tarmichael on August 25, 1978 (the letter is dated) and showed to my family by way of explanation either on the 25th or the 26th:
“Ted came out of the room with several written pages in his hand, his attempt to explain himself. He wrote that Ellen had been intentionally cruel to him. None of them [the family] felt that was even remotely true.[That’s false!] At the end of the missive, he repeated his insulting limerick, said David, ‘like he wasn’t going to take it back. No matter what.’” [571]This is either another lie or another error on my brother’s part. I saved a carbon copy of the letter, and the insulting limerick is repeated nowhere in it.[572]
“she drove me to the apartment that she shares with her sister Liz. Liz was there with her boyfriend George; but they shortly left to play golf so that I had a pleasant conversation of 2 or 3 hours with Ellen. She told me a good deal about herself ... .[S]he has a streak in her personality that would be attractive if it were not so strongly developed; but as it is, I think it repels me more than attracts me; it is a kind of egotistical streak, or a need for superiority and dominance. You would never guess from he [r] usual behavior that she has such a streak; but she told me that when she was a kid (she was the second child in the family) she had a tremendous need to do better than her elder brother ... in all activities whatsoever. In every sport, in school, etc. She would practice and practice a sport all by herself until she could beat her brother. She claims she succeeded so well that she thoroughly demoralized her poor brother. She says that up to a couple of years ago she believed she could do anything. She seems to be conceited about her job and overestimates her importance to the company. She says she intends to be president of the company some day. Yet she says all these things in a gentle and feminine manner, not in a boastful or aggressive way. ... Liz and George had returned ... we all played pinochle until after 11 PM. ...[Ellen] drove me home. When we arrived, I said, ‘Am I being too aggressive if I ask for a goodnight kiss?’ She averted her eyes and moved her head...as if she were hesitating. Then she said ‘alright.’ (I suspect she really had no hesitation about kissing but was only trying to make a certain impression.) Then she leaned over toward me for the kiss and we had a nice big juicy delicious kiss with firm pressure. Now, I am so very inexperienced in these matters that I am in a very poor position to judge, but it did seem to me that she kissed me somewhat aggressively; at least, she had her mouth on mine before I was even ready for it. I said in a soft and rather fervent tone, ‘Oh, I like you!’ She gave the curious reply: ‘You can’t say that. You don’t know me.’ then we said goodbye. I didn’t think much about her reply at the time, but it seems particularly curious in view of a rumor that my father told me about today: It is said that Ellen never goes out with any man more than once or twice.”[578]Actually, I had overheard my father telling my mother the same thing a few days earlier; see below. When I got home (i.e., to my parents’ house) after my visit with Ellen, I went to my brother’s bedroom and told him about my experiences of the day. He seemed oddly unresponsive; he showed no emotion, said little, and asked no questions. I then said, “A few days ago I heard Dad telling Ma that J___ P___ says that Ellen goes out with a guy a couple of times and then you never hear any more about it. Have you heard anything about her?” My brother said he had heard nothing definite, only that there was “something funny” about Ellen in her relations with men.[579] The next day I asked my father about her and he told me directly (as indicated above) that it was rumored that she never went out with any man more than a couple of times. Before my visit with Ellen at her apartment she had been invariably kind, obliging, and friendly toward me, but from the time I showed that I had a sexual interest in her a certain inconsistency manifested itself in her behavior toward me. Now and again she would make a remark that had a certain bite to it, not enough so that it could definitely be called rude, but enough to make me wonder. From my journal:
“July 29 [1978]. Yesterday I took Ellen Tarmichael to an expensive restaurant for supper.”[580]The table conversation was pleasant enough, except that Ellen gave further indications that she had an excessive concern with power, and maybe even a sadistic streak:
“[S]he...said to me that she was a ‘very vindictive person’ and would do anything ‘no matter how underhanded’ to get revenge if she wanted it ... .”[581]When we left the restaurant,
“[S]he...invited me to her apartment, where, she hastened to add, we would not be alone. Actually we were alone for an hour or more as her sister and sister’s—boyfriend were out–to eat. The situation was not such that I could readily make any sexual advances ... . After her sister and sister’s boyfriend returned I had a very boring time listening to a conversation in which I took very little part. Finally, at 12:30 AM, Ellen asked me if I would like to ‘go out for coffee.’ I said yes. So I drove her to a place nearby that she recommended. We spent an hour and a half there discussing various topics. Then I took her home, and, on arrival, asked for a goodnight kiss. I got an even better one than last time. Mouths wide open, tongues rubbing. She started that open–mouth, tongue–rubbing stuff, not me. ... All this might have lasted, say, 3 minutes. Then she said, ‘I think it’s time for you to go home.’ So I did. Though she is very charming and attractive much of the time, by now I greatly dislike her because of her egotism and its consequences; for example: she spent some time bragging about how she was going to become president of the company and how she was in on company secrets and so forth ... . “... She says that Wynn [sic; should be Win] (the president of this 2–bit Foam–cutting corporation) likes me and would like to keep me in the company, or at least is thinking along those lines. She asked me not to tell Wynn that I had gone out with her; because she said that Wynn had suggested to her that she should use herself as bait to keep me around the company; but she had refused. A couple of hours later when this subject came up again, she said that Wynn had only made the suggestion in jest. I don’t know just what the truth of the matter is; I wouldn’t trust Ellen for strict accuracy.”[582]In spite of the fact that I wrote in my journal, “by now I greatly dislike her,” I was still infatuated with Ellen. After our dinner date her behavior toward me became more inconsistent than it had been before. At times she was warm and friendly and seemed to invite my overtures; at other times, for no apparent reason, she would turn so cold that she seemed to be trying to hurt me. Hence I told myself repeatedly that I wasn’t interested in her any more. Undoubtedly I would really have lost interest in her if I hadn’t been so sex–starved, or if I had known how to look elsewhere for a woman. As it was, I remained infatuated. Without revealing the extent of my feelings toward Ellen or the fact that she sometimes seemed to be hurting me intentionally, I discussed with my father and brother her egotistical and disagreeable concern with power. They agreed that she did have such a concern, and my brother attributed it to feelings of inferiority. I answered that I saw no evidence of such feelings on her part. On Sunday, August 20, I took Ellen out to the forest preserves to pick wild apples, from which we were to make pies. Three days later I wrote:
“It now seems clear that from the very beginning of this date she was out to humiliate me, or at least to assert a certain type of superiority over me. This in spite of the fact that I had made it very clear to her that I was very sweet on her. I was at pains on this date to be attentive and agreeable; but she was very cool; not so much so as to bring out any open disagreement, but just the right amount to leave me unhappy and wondering.”[583]For example, when we got out of the car at the forest preserve, instead of walking alongside me, she walked a couple of feet behind. Two or three times I waited for her to catch up and tried to walk alongside of her, but in each case she promptly dropped back again, though I was walking slowly.[584] This was particularly embarrassing to me since there were many people present at this popular picnic spot. When we headed home with the apples, she insisted that we should make the pies at my parents’ house, but that I should first take her back to her apartment so that she could get her car and drive herself to my parents’ house, then drive herself home afterward.
“She insisted on a peculiar way of using her auto and mine [actually, my father’s]; this arrangement was such that I would have no opportunity to ask for a goodnight kiss. At this point I felt that explicit clarification was called for, so I asked her if she was intentionally avoiding a goodnight kiss. After a little hesitation she answered that she was. I then asked further questions...”[585]],”When I thus tried to open to the light of day her indirect and half–covert maneuverings, she became quite tense, and her voice was at first slightly shaky.
... and what she told me was essentially this: She had no sexual interest in me; she said she liked me, but the way and the context in which she said it indicated that it was the condescending sort of liking that one might have for a child or for some other kind of social inferior.” “She claimed she went out with me mainly in order to satisfy her curiosity about me because she had never met anyone like me before. She said a kiss ‘doesn’t mean anything.’ She claimed there was no sex in it when she kissed me. (This seems a little implausible in the case of an open–mouth kiss with tongues rubbing ... .) “During the first part of the date she [had been] cool and a little glum; but ... after she had humiliated me she immediately became quite cheerful and gay for the rest of the day. ... “It seemed to me that during the rest of the day she would occasionally rub in her little triumph by making remarks that were somewhat cutting but not so much so as to bring about any open breach of friendlyness [sic]. For example, I asked her what were some of my unusual characteristics that made her feel I was ‘unlike anyone she had ever met.’ The first one she mentioned was: ‘You are so very lacking in confidence socially.’ (True enough, but not nice to say so, unless after taking special pains to be tactful.)”[586]One thing she told me in the course of that conversation particularly struck me. She talked about some fellow she had gone out with a great deal when she was in college, saying, “I treated him rotten, I even stood him up one time, but he still kept taking me out.” What was remarkable was the relish with which she said she had “treated him rotten.” At the time, I was desperately confused about Ellen and her behavior toward me, but after the dust had settled the explanation seemed pretty clear. To my way of thinking, she was a sexual sadist. Under ordinary circumstances she was a nice, friendly, considerate person; but when she was feeling sexy she got her kicks from hurting men.[587] Probably most men were not seriously hurt by her. After having a couple of dates with her and learning what she was like, they just stopped asking her out. But I was especially vulnerable because of my past history and my inexperience with women. During the latter part of that last date,
“I took pains to conceal my feelings, and remained outwardly cheerful and friendly, though half the time I wanted to cry and the other half the time I wanted to kill her.”[588] “I loved that damn bitch. She knew I had soft feelings toward her and she intentionally used these to lead me on and then she calculatedly humiliated me. “I was so upset by this that for the next 2 nights I was unable to sleep more than 4 hours a night, and, what was worse, I was exhausted by nervous tension. That date was Sunday. Monday I did nothing about it because I was exhausted and had had no time to think things over. But after work I did think things over; I had an overwhelming need for revenge and I decided to get it by persistently needling and insulting her at work.”[589]I hoped I could bring matters to such a pass that the whole nasty business would be dragged out in front of the crew, presumably to Ellen’s great embarrassment.[590]
“I started Tuesday morning by pasting up some copies of an insulting poem that I wrote about her.”[591] “I don’t doubt that I could have made things very unpleasant for her by such methods—except that my weak–minded, self–righteous brother took it upon himself to interfere. Having seen the poem I pasted up, he said he would fire me ... and ’maybe bust your ass, too’ if I did it again.”[592]I asked my brother to listen to my side of the story, but he angrily refused to do so, and let stand his threat to fire me.
“Of course, that was a direct challenge, so I wasn’t just about to back down. This afternoon [August 23, 1978], I went over to where my brother was working and pasted up a copy of the poem before his eyes...,”[593] whereupon he fired me, as described earlier. When I went to Ellen’s office to ask her whether the firing was valid, she seemed dismayed at the situation and was apparently reluctant to confirm my dismissal. In my journal, naturally, I put a negative interpretation on this behavior,[594] but in retrospect I think she was genuinely sorry at what had happened. Despite her description of herself as “vindictive” (see p. 283) I don’t think she was in reality a vindictive person under ordinary circumstances. I think her sadistic streak manifested itself only when she was feeling sexy; it was for her a source of sexual gratification and did not imply any tendency to cruelty in a non–sexual situation.Since my brother had frustrated my retaliation against Ellen, I was choking with anger, and, to make matters worse, my mother and father turned against me too, without listening to my side of the story first.[595]
“[T]hat weak fool Dave has made that bitch’s triumph complete: She humiliates me sexually, she gets me fired from my job, and she causes dissension in my family. I have shed more tears over that cheap whore than I have over anything since my teens ... . “What makes this particularly hard is the fact that it recalls bitter experiences over many years, reaching right back to my early teens ...,”[596] namely, the rejections I had experienced and my complete lack of success with women. I was more choked with frustrated anger than I’d ever been in my life, so I decided to retaliate against Ellen in the only way that remained to me—by attacking her physically. To abbreviate as much as possible the account of a distasteful episode, on Thursday, August 24, I waited for Ellen in the parking lot of Foam Cutting Engineers. When she arrived I confronted her, talked with her briefly, and then left without laying a finger on her.[597] After that my anger was burned out, and since then I haven’t hated her.The next day I went out and got a job at Prince Castle (by that time I’d learned how to lie on application forms), and the same day I wrote Ellen a long letter of explanation, which I did mail. According to the media, Ellen has said that she never received “any correspondence” from me.[598] If she did say that, then she was not telling the truth. A letter is occasionally lost in the mail, but besides the first letter I also sent her a second letter (dated September 2, 1978), and the chance that both of these letters could have been lost in the mail is so slight that we can be for all practical purposes certain that she received at least one of them. Both letters are reproduced in Appendix 9. Why has Ellen denied receiving my letter? Maybe she doesn’t remember it, or maybe she wants to avoid discussing its content, which would force her to address the issue of her behavior toward me. Probably on August 25, when I wrote it, or conceivably on the following day, I showed the letter to my parents as a way of explaining my behavior. They read it and said that now they understood better; the tension went out of the atmosphere and we were reconciled. However, my parents did not apologize for the way they’d reacted earlier. Then I went to my brother’s bedroom (where he spent most of his time when staying at the house in Lombard [599]), and showed him the letter. He too read it, and while he did not apologize explicitly at that time,[600] his manner seemed to indicate that he regretted the way he had reacted; and I was reconciled with him, too. The New York Times stated that “tensions between the brothers continued,”[601] but this is false. In fairness to Ellen Tarmichael I must make it clear that when the whole affair was finished her attitude was conciliatory and even kind. As I wrote in my journal:
“Sept. 1. Yesterday ... my father brought home from Foam–Cutting Eng. a present of home–made cookies from Ellen, for the family. ... I sent Ellen a message through my father: that the cookies were delicious, that I apologize for the tone of my letter, and that I no longer have any hard feelings toward her. Today he said he’d given her the message. He said she seemed pleased and that she said: ‘I think the problem was that Ted and I speak different languages.’”[602]Notice that this passage tends to confirm that Ellen did receive my letter. If she hadn’t received it, then, when my father told her that I apologized for the tone of the letter, she presumably would have answered that she hadn’t received any letter, and my father would have reported that fact to me. Also notice that Ellen failed to face up to the real source of the problem—that she had a streak of sexual sadism.
“I was wrong to fire you and threaten you. I did so in anger because you were behaving badly (which is your own business) and because you caused severe embarrassment to Dad and me. ... But I realized soon afterwards that I should have taken into account how badly you were feeling at the time.”[603] “I think if the manner of your taking revenge against Ellen had arisen in its own isolation, I probably would have responded very differently, though it would be impossible now to know for sure. I hope, at any rate, that I would have responded differently.”[604]There follows a passage in which my brother argues that during the months preceding the incident in question I had been treating our parents badly. It is a passage that I am unable to understand, since it seems to me that during that period my relations with our parents were better than at any other time since I was eleven or twelve years old. My brother’s letter continues:
“When you brought trouble into the workplace (as I conceived it) I guess I just lost my head and my discretion completely. ...[605] I say again that I was wrong to do what I did, although I suppose I have learned (for whatever good it will do me) how thoroughly I can be undone by my bad temper. ...[606] From my point of view, all of this is in the past, though of course I acknowledge the major injury was yours not mine.”[607]These passages show that, while my conduct in the Tarmichael affair was not exactly noble and generous, my brother did realize that there were two sides to the story and that my behavior was at any rate understandable (which does not imply that it was blameless). Yet, if the New York Times and the Washington Post have reported his remarks accurately, he gave them a one–sided version of the affair that made it appear that there was no mitigation for my behavior. This provides further evidence that my brother’s motive for talking to the media about me was not what he claimed, to “humanize” me and decrease my risk of suffering the death penalty. If that had been his motive he would have taken a softer approach, comparable to that of his 1981 letters, which recognized that there were two sides to the story. Instead, he took a hard line and portrayed me in a way that was certainly not calculated to win the sympathy of a judge or a jury.
“I thought I should clarify my access to that last letter of yours—since mother was upset that I opened it. However, she’s often said I was welcome to open their mail. Knowing the issue which had been discussed, I was curious about your reply. So I decided to take her offer literally for once. Anyway, I didn’t want you to think she showed it to me.”[612]This note was in the nature of a postscript (sent in a different envelope) to another letter [613] in which he responded to my letter to my mother. His letter[614] was one of the very few in which he was fairly open in expressing resentment. Earlier, I quoted from it several passages in which he referred to some of the incidents between us, such as that of the safe–deposit box and that of my letter about Linda E. But the part of his letter that interests us at the moment is the following:
“About my adolescent ideas. I suspect you use a mere perjorative [sic] out of your frustration to properly answer them. ...”[615]I had used the term “adolescent” only in the letter to my mother, and had not used it or any other pejoratives in the discussions with my brother. (Though I did use pejoratives in some of my later discussions with him.)
“Anyway, the positivist dogma you adhere to has been long ago discarded.”[616]What “dogma” was he referring to? The position I’d taken in our discussions was hardly dogmatic. I had pointed out two ways in which a verbal formulation could have meaning: (1) It might imply predictions that could be checked against experience; or (2) it might convey emotion (broadly interpreted). Then, if there was another way in which a verbal formulation could have meaning, I invited my brother to explain what it was. If he had done so, I would have considered his argument and perhaps accepted it.[617] But of course he didn’t even try to respond to my invitation, because he had never taken the trouble to try to analyze the meanings of sentences, and moreover he did not have enough confidence in himself to argue with me head on. So he evaded the issue by simply labeling my position as “dogma.” When you can’t answer someone’s arguments and can’t bear to admit he’s right, then, to quote my brother’s own words (suitably corrected), “you use a mere pejorative out of your frustration at being unable to properly answer.” It is remarkable how often my brother attributes to me feelings and reactions that are characteristic of himself. My brother’s letter continued:
“From this position, you can’t talk about much of anything unless you bring in the ‘brain’—and since the positivistic explication of the brain is rudimentary, so the positivistic assumption...”[618]But what assumption was my brother talking about? Several times in his letters he referred to my “positivistic” or “scientific” “assumptions,” without ever explaining what “assumptions” he was referring to, and, of course, any attempt to pin him down on that subject was futile.
“... the positivistic assumption becomes a black box into which you can stick anything too troublesome to think about, and which makes itself voracious toward any thoughts which don’t meet the positivistic criteria is [sic] advance, which in turn it excretes as ‘psychological’ phenomena, unworthy of the name of thought. Can’t you see, though you mean to include all of experience, you’re really working within a closed system?—Anyway, positivism has been discarded by philosophers.” [619]Hardly any of this is responsive to points I’d made, and all of it consists of vague accusations that completely sidestep the main issues that I’d raised: How does one assign meaning to verbal formulations? In particular, have the philosophers satisfactorily dealt with the problem of assigning meaning to metaphysical statements? I had only the vaguest idea of what positivism was, so after my brother had called me a positivist several times, I asked him to explain just what the word meant.[620] He answered that he knew very little about positivism himself,[621] and after that he stopped calling me a positivist, though he continued to accuse me of having unspecified “assumptions.” Needless to say, my purpose here has not been to prove any points about logic or language, but to give a sample of my brother’s style of argument, so that the reader will understand why I found it so frustrating to try to discuss anything with him.
“The point I want to cover in this letter is: your habitual self–deception. ... [I gave several examples of his self–deception, including:] “When you took up teaching, you apparently did so under the illusion that you were going to change the lives of many students simply by expounding your ideas to them. Of course you soon learned better. You are certainly intelligent enough to have realized that a teacher can consider himself fortunate if he exerts a decisive influence on the lives of just a few students in the course of his whole teaching career. Yet you gave up after 2 years because your rosy expectations of influencing students quickly and easily were not realized. Those expectations must have been the result of self–deception. “You recall that letter in which I suggested to our parents that they should discourage you from getting close to Linda F. ... Obviously ... my supposed questioning of your honesty was not what got you so terribly upset. The real reason is the one you permitted to slip out in your first letter. My letter did convey an implication of weakness on your part. Somewhere ‘deep down inside’ you feel weak; consequently, that implication touched a raw nerve and you became enraged. You invented that rationalization about ‘honesty’ because to admit that you were highly sensitive about the implication of weakness would be to admit that somewhere ‘deep down inside’ you feel weak; and that is a highly uncomfortable admission. This I think is a characteristic example of your type of self–deception. “I don’t mean to say you are incapable of entertaining negative opinions about yourself. ... “When it no longer possible to believe that one is what one wants to be in some aspect of life, the easiest thing is to just give up on that aspect of life, saying, ‘I’m no good at this. This isn’t an important thing anyway...’ “You have very high aspirations. ... You have to be someone special. ... But you are unwilling or unable to go through the struggle that it takes to be or do something special. Every time you encounter real difficulties you retreat, saying, ‘That’s not the important thing anyway.’ By this time you have retreated until you have just one thing left...[623] Art, or Philosophy, or whatever you prefer to call it. In this area you can always maintain your illusion of being superior to the common herd, because there are no objective criteria. Whatever happens, you can always persuade yourself that you are more sensitive, or thoughtful, or insightful (or whatever you want to call it) than the common herd. ... “Well, I apologize for all this. All I can say is that these are my opinions, and I’ve been itching to express them for a long time, and my motive is not to hurt your feelings, even though I realize that that will be the probable result.”[624]Rereading this letter now, after a decade and a half, makes me acutely uncomfortable, because I realize how cruel it was. It probably was fairly accurate, but that only made it all the more cruel. What made it worse still was the fact that I was not entirely telling the truth when I wrote, “my motive is not to hurt your feelings.” In reality that was part of my motive, and I knew it at the time. It’s true that I didn’t realize how badly I was hurting my brother. In the first place, I wasn’t aware of the full extent of his worship of me. That was revealed only by statements he made to Dr. K. after my arrest.[625] In the second place, I thought he had by that time largely outgrown his big–brother worship. (Note that I spoke of it in the past tense: ‘Throughout your childhood and even well up into your 20’s you had a severe case of big–brother worship.”[626]) I now suspect that he had only learned to conceal it better. But it is still true that I knew I was hurting my brother, and I did so on purpose. I don’t think the Ellen Tarmichael affair was an important source of my resentment. Instead, I was irritated and disgusted at the silliness and pretentiousness of some of my brother’s ideas; I was frustrated at his evasive style of argument, I resented the fact that he had not turned out to be the kind of person I would have wanted him to be, and I was still very sore about the incident that I mentioned in Chapter IX (p. 257) but refrained from recounting because I find it too painful. Dave gave me a very mild answer:
“I read your letter, and I think it touches on an element of truth, although, as you might expect, there are some items I want to show in a different light. However, I feel I need some time to collect my thoughts, in order to accomplish the task properly. Hopefully, within a month or two I’ll have a long letter to send to you. In the meantime, please be assured that I’m not feeling angry or vengeful.”[627]The mildness of this reply may have been part of what set me to thinking about the way I’d treated my brother when we were kids, and led to my first note of apology to him:
“Dear Dave: “I remember that when we were kids I sometimes would take advantage of my greater size and strength to dominate you physically. Also I sometimes harassed you verbally. I’ve thought about this sometimes and I now regret that I behaved that way. So I now offer you an apology for it; though I suppose this apology is very likely a matter of indifference to you anyway.”[628]Dave answered me with a letter of which the first half now strikes me as beautiful.[629] In that first half, he spoke mainly of his personal relationship with me. In the second half of the letter, he resorted again to the kind of argument that irritated me intolerably—vague, unsupported assertions that did not respond to my points. For example, he accused me of “holding to a rigid, objectifying system,”[630] yet he made no attempt to explain in what way what he called my “system” was “rigid.” You can see how frustrating it is to try to discuss something with someone who, whenever you disagree with him, answers only by asserting that you are “rigid” or “dogmatic.” It seems clear to me now, though, that what Dave was really asking for in this letter was simply acceptance of himself and his way of thinking. Not necessarily agreement, but simply a respectful, accepting attitude. I wasn’t about to accept or respect his crap about philosopher–kings or his attempt to place himself on a superior plane as a member of a “thinking” minority, but I could have given respect and acceptance to his poetic or emotive style of thought. My only quarrel with him was over the issue of whether certain verbal formulations characteristic of that style of thought had any meaningful content other than emotive content, given the absence of any explanation or analysis of how such formulations acquire meaning. And I would have been quite willing to abandon that quarrel if my brother had simply said, “Alright, I think this, you think that; let’s just agree to disagree and drop the subject.” But instead of doing so, he kept irritating me with vaguely–relevant arguments in which he commonly attributed to me attitudes that I’d never held and statements that I’d never made.[631] Yet, his letter was basically conciliatory, and reading it today I see it as a gentle and beautiful plea for acceptance. In it, he intimated that he had been wounded by my earlier letter, for he wrote: “[S]ome of the things you said were painful to listen to and partially disrupted my complacency.”[632] And: “Your letter had a strong effect on me, in the emotional sense ... .”[633] In view of this, I am ashamed of the callousness of my reply. Here are some excerpts from it (FL #265):
“I note ... that you have not denied any of the statements about your motivations that I made. Rather typically, you have sidestepped the issues and resorted to vague generalities which do not directly confront the points I made. But I suppose you will claim that it would be too ‘rigid’ and ‘scientific’ to expect you to confront the issues directly. ... I am not much interested in discussing further with you these philosophical questions, because by this time I am fairly confident that your psychological need for your self–deceptions is so strong that no amount of reasoning will ever get you away from them. Whatever kind of reasonings might be presented to you attacking your position,[634] probably you will dismiss them as ‘rigid’ or ‘scientific’ or by applying some other empty label to them, and you will claim they are based on misunderstanding of your ‘way of thinking,’ the validity of which apparently has to be accepted on faith. ...” “... You said my letter had a ‘strong effect on [you], in the emotional sense,’ and that it ‘partially disrupted [your] complacency.’ This illustrates the fact that you are not in the habit of re–examining your thinking critically, looking for flaws and oversights, and attempting to root out your self–deceptions. If you had been in that habit my letter would not have shaken you; you would have been accustomed to the idea that you might have self–deception in your thinking, and the points I made would have been far from entirely new to you; but perhaps you think it would be too ‘rigid’ and ’scientific’ to critically re–examining your thinking, your motivations, and your possible self–deceptions.”[635]Looking back, I wonder why I answered my brother so callously. The fact that he showed no anger led me to underestimate the extent to which I was hurting him; yet I did realize that I was hurting him, and I knew that the little things he’d done over the years to annoy me (and the one or two things that had caused me real pain) were offset by the generosity he’d shown me at other times. Probably, my irritation against him was exacerbated by the fund of unresolved anger that I’d built up as a result of various frustrations in my earlier and current life. But I now think that my brother, on his side, must have been increasing his fund of anger against me, even though he did not show that anger outwardly and may not have admitted even to himself that he felt it. He answered my letter (FL #265) with a letter (now lost) that was less conciliatory than his earlier one, and I answered in turn with FL #266. The first part of this [636] was as callous as the preceding letter, FL #265. But in the second half [637] of FL #266, I revealed to my brother my love for him to an extent that I’d never done before, and at the same time I revealed a great deal about the nature of that love. I did this by recounting two dreams that I’d had about him. One was the dream I’d had at the age of seven or eight, in which I saw him as emaciated and starving, as described in Chapter II p. 71. The other dream is too long and complicated to be recounted here. Suffice it to say that it showed that my love for my brother was of a paternal or condescending kind—I did not see him as an equal, but as one who needed guidance and protection; and I even gave partial expression to the element of contempt that was in my feelings toward him. In his reply (which has not been preserved), Dave expressed gratitude for the affection demonstrated by my dreams, and said that I cared about him more than anyone else ever had, which quite possibly was true. This was the letter in which he said that he had previously feared that I’d had a hatred for him so great that I could not acknowledge it. (See Chapter II, p. 69.) I was surprised at the degree of gratitude that my brother expressed, and also at the fact that he showed no resentment over the condescending and contemptuous aspects of my attitude toward him. I was softened, and felt badly about the harshness of some of the things I’d said. In later letters, I tried to take some of the sting out of them. For example:
“[l]n regard to the implication in my last letter that I see you as weak, I’d like to qualify that, since you might think the judgement is harsher than what I intend. ... “I received your last letter and note that it shows your usual generosity of character. Instead of being sore over the negative parts of my attitude toward you, you were favorably impressed by the positive parts.”[638]And two–and–a–half years later:
“By the way, as long as I’m on this sort of subject, you’ll recall that exchange of letters we had a few years ago in which I sharply criticized the motives behind your philosophical opinions. ... I tend to get hot and angry in frustrating circumstances, and for that reason my criticisms of you, though they did in a general way represent my real opinions and feelings, were harsher and more uncompromising than they would have been if I’d written about them in a completely calm state. The things I wrote then should have been softened and qualified a good deal.”[639]I also made a point of praising Dave when there was an opportunity to do so. For instance, when he described how he’d dug himself a hole to live in, I complimented him on his foresight in cutting the sides at a slant; [640] and I praised a particularly eloquent passage that he’d written about the religion of the African Pigmies: “I like this passage so well that I have copied it in my notebook. So there you stand amongst all kinds of famous writers whome [sic] I have quoted from time to time in my notes.”[641] Later I wrote:
“For the last couple of years you seem to have been much more communicative in your letters than you used to be. Of course I don’t care for all your letters, but some of them I find quite interesting and enjoyable to read. That your last letter was one of the more interesting ones you can deduce from the length of the reply I’ve written to it.”[642]But all this cannot have healed the wounds I inflicted on my brother with my cutting remarks, and, given his sense of psychological subordination to me, I can easily understand now why he felt I was overbearing.
“The family felt that Ted was projecting his own problems into his brutal critiques of others. He could talk of a madman in the hills in one letter, and Wanda wondered, ‘Is this how he sees himself?’ In another letter he insisted one of David’s friends was schizophrenic and sent letters detailing how David should help his friend.”[646]The “madman in the hills” was one Al Pinkston (now deceased), an obvious paranoiac who believed that the Lincoln area was infested with KGB agents. My neighbor G.W. and I met him somewhere in the Dalton Mountain or Sauerkraut Creek area about December, 1974. The story is told in a letter to my parents, which has survived,[647] and, in more detail, in my journal.[648] There is nothing in either account that suggests that I saw myself as a “madman in the hills.” What is interesting here is that when I told my brother this story, he said that he himself had long been trying to escape from reality, and he envied Al Pinkston for having achieved such an escape. (!?) Don’t ask me to explain it—all I know is that that’s what my brother said! As for the statement that I “insisted one of David’s friends was schizophrenic”, the friend in question was Joel Schwartz, and I did not “insist” that he was schizophrenic. I argued that there was a good chance that the problem of which Joel complained was schizophrenia, or at least had some neurological basis. I did not “detail how David should help his friend,” but merely suggested that my brother might consider advising Joel (directly or through his father) to consult a neurologist or psychiatrist. The reader can judge for himself from the relevant letters, excerpts from which follow: Dave to Ted:
“[Joel] called me ... 4 or 5 times last summer, usually promises to write a letter to me, but never does. A couple years ago ... I loarned [sic] him an essay I had written on condition that he return it by mail within a month or two. However, I didn’t get it back for nearly two years, after repeated requests by phone and mail, and what’s more, he never did get around to reading it. ... “Actually, Joel confesses to having a serious problem, which he traces back to the head injury inflicted on him by his mother.”[649]Dave had told me years before that Joel had a silver plate in his skull because when he was a small child his mother went crazy and bashed him on the head with a hammer. My brother’s letter continues:
“Apparently, he’s been finding it difficult to function in many of the expected, conventional ways. The problem seems to be compounded by a curious sort of obsession he appears to have with it—spending virtually all his extra money, and some of his father’s (obtained on at least one occasion by false pretexts) on a variety of dubious treatments, some at the hands of obvious quacks—for instance, a man who ‘put crystals on… [650] (his) body.’ Needless to say, I’m worried about him, moreso [sic] in that I’ve been unable to make a lot [sic] of sense out of his own description of his complaint, and am left instead only with a variety of peculiar symptoms to consider.” [651]Ted to Dave:
“I’m sorry to hear about Joel. I only met him once, but he seemed like a nice fellow. I wonder whether the head injury is really responsible for his problems, or whether he got a bad gene from his mother?”[652]Ted to Dave:
“I just thought of something. I recently read a book on schizophrenia. It seems that the disease is caused by a certain chemical abnormality in the brain. Apparently they now have drugs that can effectively control the disease except in the most severe cases. You ought to send a copy of that book to Joel’s father. As you know, I don’t approve of all this fancy technology stuff, miracle drugs and so forth, but I hate to think of the poor guy going to creeps who ‘put crystals on his body’ and crap like that when there are drugs that would probably do the trick. ... The title [of the book] is ‘The Schizophrenias—yours and mine’ ... .”[653]Ted to Dave:
“I scribbled that note [about Joel’s problem] at the last minute before sending the letter ... . Of course, I don’t know for a fact that Joel’s problem is schizophrenia, but it does seem rather likely ... .”[654]Ted to Dave:
“I read that a number of normal people, as part of an experiment, signed themselves into public and private mental institutions all over the U.S. They later had some difficulty in getting released, and eventually were all released as ‘schizophrenics in remission’!! [655] ... “As you know, I take a dim view of miracle drugs and all that technological crap, and I would respect someone who made an intelligent decision not to use that stuff—I might well make such a decision myself in such a case—but it is disgusting that people who may be in severe suffering are victimized by crackpot psychoanalysts and people who ‘put crystals on their body’ and shit like that. ...[Y]ou might think whether you can find some way of calling to Joel’s father’s attention these facts about schizos—if you think that may be Joel’s problem.”[656]Dave to Ted:
“I looked for the book you recommended about scizophrenia [sic] in the local library, but I couldn’t find it. As you can imagine, I would be more prone to look for the causes of mental illness in skewered [sic] perceptions or thought processes (or even in the ‘insanity’ of society itself [657]) than in brain chemistry. ... I would point out that society has a vested interest in treating non–conformist behavior as if it revealed something wrong solely with the individual, rather than including the people or the society around him. ...[S]ociety would be more interested in alleviating the symptoms of a ‘problem’ (to make the individual’s behavior more manageable or to refuse coming to terms with the perceptions it entails) than to treat it’s [sic] causes, consequently the empirical methods of behavioral science are tailor–made for promoting society’s interests. ...[T]here is no sharp line dividing mental illness from sanity. Any precise diagnostic tool would have to claim a nearly universal consensus for its implicit theory of reality—when as a matter of fact no such consensus exists. ... What you might call the grounds of belief formation is such a wide–open territory that it would be hard to say that any single peculiarity of belief could be used as evidence for mental illness.[My brother was overlooking the fact that I did not refer to any of Joel’s beliefs in suggesting that he had schizophrenia.] “... After visiting Joel for a week ... I strongly doubt that even most of the hard–core brain theorists would recommend him for chemical therapy. To a large extent, I was relieved by what I found. He has no hallucinations.[Actually, Joel admitted to investigators that he did have hallucinations. For example, he once had a vision of a heart, which he believed was his own, with yellow and black weasel–like creatures swarming around it.[658]] His emotions are fairly even. He is no longer taking crystal therapy (but he is spending a great deal of money on what sound to me like very controversial massage treatments. When I questioned him about them, his descriptions and explanations plunged quickly into a sort of metaphysical poetry that I found delightful and intellectually tantalizing—but without fully quashing my doubts about the efficacy of the treatment. His self–consciousness seemed to be peeking out at me from behind this nebulous cloud of theories, and I truly couldn’t make up my mind whether he was badly deceiving himself or whether in fact his major need was for support and understanding from his friends and family to face an issue of incredible subtlety). When speaking about politics, philosophy, and religion his mind is very sharp and creative, and he has no difficulty expressing or receiving ideas in a way that is easily understandable to anyone who has staked out some similar intellectual ground. ... But in some ways, he struck me far more oddly than ever before. His personal habits are grotesque. For instance, he seems to have a chronically runny nose, and when he isn’t wiping it with his hands, the snots often run down and collect around his upper lip, for example when he is distracted or becomes excited in discussions. He has also developed a chronic cough which he claims is somewhat connected with his nebulous ’problem.’ He claims his sense of time is very poor, but I saw no outward evidence of that. He has borrowed extensive funds from his father, ostensibly to complete his law–school education, but in fact to pursue non–traditional therapies. ... In other, less–easily described ways he has behaved oddly as well, although not so oddly as to tempt me to describe him as crazy rather than simply eccentric. ... ... I confess I’m not hopeful. Maybe he will continue slowly deteriorating as the years pass by. ...” “...[D]o you still think I ought to pursue the possibility of getting chemical treatment for Joel at this time?”[659]Ted to Dave: The objective diagnostic tests mentioned in the book do not claim to determine whether anyone is sane or insane (as far as I can remember, the word ’insanity’ was never used in the book). ...
“As for explaining mental illness on the basis of ‘the “insanity” of society itself’ this is certainly plausible in many cases, since our society often uses ‘mental illness’ as a label to pin on anything it disapproves of.[660] But this is not reasonable in the case of schizophrenia, or at least not in the more severe cases of schizophrenia. Example: some severely schizophrenic children walk awkwardly with their legs wide apart as if they had difficulty keeping their balance; the reason is that to them, the floor appears to be heaving and pitching under their feet. Are you going to argue that the floor really is heaving and pitching and that society is insane for regarding it as stationary? ... My knowledge is of course very limited, but on the basis of what you told me I’d say Joel is a likely candidate for schizophrenia. ...” “In many cases schizophrenia gets worse with time. In such cases, if I remember correctly, the book said it was important to begin treatment early, because later the problem may be more difficult to control. “... On the other hand, specialists may be over–enthusiastic about the use of their own tools, and may exaggerate the benefits of the drugs and minimize the undesirable side–effects. ... Also, there are all kinds of value–judgements involved in whether or not one wants to use such drugs, even if one has already concluded that they will benefit the individual patient in the purely medical sense. I won’t discuss those here—you can make up your own mind.” “... [Y]ou can probably get [that book] through the interlibrary loan service. ... “Okay, once you read that book, you’ll know everything about schiz. that I do, so let’s drop the subject. I get sick of these interminable discussions by letter ... .”[661]My brother, however, seems to have been unwilling to drop the subject, for he responded with another long letter about Joel, from which I quote only the following:
“I did as you suggested and through the inter–library loan system, obtained and read the book you recommended ... . Joel ... claims to feel some time disorientation, and also to feel some dissociation of mind and body—but doesn’t display any other of the major symptoms of schizophrenia that I could tell; least of all does he seem alienated from human relationships (only from society, in a way that is quite explicable and probably justifiable), incapable of affection, self–destructive, hallucinatory, or humorless. ... Perhaps if Joel’s ‘problem’ has some relation to a chemical imbalance, then his intellectual subtlety and brilliance may be one of the effects as well. Would the drugs serve to inhibit ... these positive qualities as well? ...[Y]ou can appreciate the dramatic character of the responsibility I would be assuming if I led Joel into the hands of some doctors who had no way of appreciating the loss their treatment might occasion. ...[W]hereas you would tend to regard Joel’s abstruse philosophizing as belonging to the realm of fantasy, possibly even to the symptoms of a disease, my own viewpoint inclines me to interpret them differently, even as signs of a richer, fuller intuition of reality, indeed, of ‘health’ itself.”[662]I had never even mentioned Joel’s philosophical opinions, much less suggested that they were symptoms of disease. My brother’s letter continued:
“He says he has a problem which he can’t fully explain but which is preventing him from using his talents in life. ... He conveys the impression of someone laboring under a heavy but invisible burden.” [663] (See Appendix 6.)In a letter of which only the first page has been preserved, I wrote:
“I still think there’s a good chance that [Joel’s] problem is schizophrenia. Take his personal oddities like the snots running down his lip. Is there any way of explaining this in terms of emotional [needs] [664] or problems, philosophical attitudes, or anything of that sort? To me it sounds just senseless.”[665]Dave to Ted:
“[Y]ou seem to be ignoring my strong disinclination to accept the concepts which undergird medicine’s view of the brain–mind relationship to begin with, namely, that brain function has a strict causal relationship to thought–processes, and secondly, that brain functions can be described normatively, whether explicitly or not, with the effect that certain non–’common–sense’ points of view get to be labeled as invalid—are in effect regarded as symptoms or phenomena rather than points of view at all. ...[F]ailing a clear–cut syndrome, I’d feel reluctant to put [Joel] in the hands of doctors whom I wouldn’t trust for a minute to appreciate his ‘spiritual’ side, and whose professional narrowness and presuppositions might cause them to do some really dangerous tinkering. Suppose they said, ‘Yeah, he’s a mild schizophrenic.’ So then they begin trying out different drugs on him. Meanwhile, Joel, who feels a great yearning for understanding and communication, feels instead that he’s being treated more like a physical object than a human being. Do you really trust doctors so much that you would feel confidence in their professional, let alone their human judgement when it came to a case as complicated as Joel’s appears to be? Especially when you consider the utterly abysmal historical record of the medical profession in the field of ‘mental health’—from lobotomies to shock treatments to the mostly unwholesome and misguided self–preoccupations that psychoanalysis appears to stimulate. Also, when you consider how fully integrated these nerds are in the (to me) unwholesome value—and economic structures of our present culture.[Sic] ... I don’t think Joel is suffering acutely, or at least not a lot [sic] more than most of us are, afflicted with the craziness and senselessness of this modern form of life.”[666]Apparently referring to my earlier suggestion that he should communicate with Joel’s father, Dave added, “At present, I fear ‘going behind his back’ might be a grave mistake.” [667] Ted to Dave:
“In my last letter I hope I didn’t give the impression that I was trying to persuade you to persuade Joel to get drug treatment ... . “I agree that there is no clear–cut line dividing insanity from sanity, and that ‘mental illness’ often is a mere label pinned on those who don’t act as society demands. Further, I would question whether ‘mental illness’ and ‘insanity’ are even useful concepts—except that they are useful as propaganda tools. On the other hand, when someone is tormented by strange visions and disagreeable feelings that pass through his head owing to a hereditary peculiarity of brain chemistry, it seems absurd to refrain from calling his condition a disease. Many schizophrenics themselves regard their condition as a disease and would much prefer to be rid of it. Note that Joel himself considers that he has a ‘problem’—severe enough so that he has spent a great deal of money on it. On the other hand, it is questionable whether the mildest forms of schizophrenia should be considered as disease, since if I remember correctly what I read, they may enhance creativity and result only in minimal distortion of thought and perception. And, as you remarked, a great deal of irrationality is normal to human beings anyway. “As to the use of drugs—you well know my feelings about the technological invasion of human dignity. In principle one should resist any step toward interfering in the human mind by technological means. On the other hand, here is this poor guy with a problem, looking for help and getting taken for large sums of money by fakes and crackpots, and who could very possibly be helped quite effectively by a drug that would take a kink out of the chemistry of his brain—it seems almost heartless not to try to point him in the right direction. “Besides the foregoing, other questions could be raised about using or not using drugs. Luckily, it’s a decision that I don’t have to make—I have the luxury of being able to just dump the problem in your lap.”[668]If I remember correctly, my brother answered me with a letter (now lost) in which he dismissed everything I’d said about Joel on the grounds that I had unspecified “science–based assumptions” or something along those lines. I was, as usual, irritated by my brother’s rationalizations, but in this instance I kept my temper. Instead of pursuing the subject further, I simply suggested to Dave that he should talk to his friend Dale E. about Joel.[669] (Dale E. had considerable influence over Dave, and at that time I thought he had more common sense than Dave did.) In this series of letters, clearly, I wasn’t trying to tell my brother what action (if any) to take in regard to Joel. I was simply trying to get him to face squarely the dilemma with which he was confronted: His friend was suffering, was seeking help, and could possibly get it from drug treatment; on the other hand, there were various philosophical, sociopolitical, and personal factors that argued against persuading him to seek such treatment. What irritated me was that, instead of facing the dilemma honestly and then making a decision one way or the other, my brother invented rationalizations (some of which were quite irrelevant) for doing nothing. I think what was really going on here was something like this: For obvious reasons, my brother would have found it difficult to approach his friend about going to a psychiatrist or a neurologist. But, at the same time, he didn’t want to feel that he was leaving a suffering friend in the lurch, so he invented rationalizations to justify his inaction. When I persisted in trying to get him to face the dilemma honestly, his ego conflict with big brother came into play, and, in order to avoid what he would have felt as a defeat at my hands, he plunged further into rationalization. My brother visited me in Montana a few weeks after we had concluded our exchange of letters about Joel, and, while he was with me, we again discussed his friend’s problem. Dave attacked my supposed rationalist “assumptions,” and in reference to schizophrenics who saw the floor heaving and pitching under them, he said, “Maybe the floor really is heaving.” I resisted the temptation to argue with him about it, since I knew it was useless.[670] During the same two–week visit,[671] my brother talked about our cousin Nora. He told me that she’d been diagnosed with schizophrenia, and that she was taking drugs for it. He said that she was “almost normal” as long as she was on the drugs, but that she “went crazy” when she tried to do without them. In reference to the fact that Nora was genetically related to us, he added, “Gee, I hope we haven’t got anything like that.” When discussing Nora’s case, he unhesitatingly assumed that schizophrenia was undesirable and raised no questions about the utility of the drugs; he did not say anything about mental illness being caused by the “insanity of society itself,” nor did he suggest that the hallucinations of schizophrenics might be real.[672] What is remarkable is that my brother seemed completely unaware of the inconsistency between his attitude toward mental illness when discussing Nora’s case and his attitude when discussing the case of his friend Joel. It is not uncommon for my brother to express contradictory attitudes or opinions without apparently noticing the inconsistencies involved. I attribute this to his mental laziness. He is so little in the habit of thinking, that even the most obvious contradictions often escape his observation. Thus, it is entirely possible that until he reads this chapter, he will remain unaware of the inconsistency between his attitudes toward mental illness as expressed in his letters, and his recent attempts to portray me as mentally ill, as in his interviews with the New York Times [673], the Sacramento Bee,[674] and on 60 Minutes.[675] He showed there not only that he was ready to conclude I was mentally ill on flimsy evidence, but that he wanted me to be subjected to presumably involuntary “treatment” under conditions of confinement:
“MIKE WALLACE: The Kaczynski family ... want him locked away, and treated...”[676]Compare this with Dave’s response to my suggestion that Joel should be advised merely to investigate the possibility of taking treatment under voluntary conditions. Of course, my brother was lying about me to the media, and at some level he must have realized that he was lying, yet at the same time he probably at least half–believed his own lies. (My mother and brother are alike in that they have no stable set of beliefs, values, or principles. Instead, their attitudes and opinions fluctuate wildly in order to suit their emotional needs at the moment.) Earlier, in 1991, Linda Patrik took two of my letters to her psychiatrist, a certain Dr. Mitchell who (according to Linda) practices “primal therapy,” whatever that may be.[677] According to an FBI report, Dave told the FBI that Dr. Mitchell said that I was “not psychotic, but definitely paranoid and possibly dangerous.”[678] Since my brother often gets his information garbled, it is not at all certain that Dr. Mitchell actually said this, but if he did say it, then it seems to me that he was irresponsible in making such a statement on the basis of two letters that I wrote to my family, when he could not have had any knowledge of the history of my relations with my family (apart from what Dave and Linda may have told him, which he ought to have realized might be heavily biased). To judge from the description of these letters given in the FBI reports, they must have been FL #458, in which I argued in emotional terms that my parents’ treatment of me had contributed to my lack of social self–confidence, and FL#461, in which I asked my brother, also in emotional terms, to persuade my mother to cooperate with my need to break off relations with the family. These letters were discussed in Chapter IV, pp. 126–128, 131. The reader will recall from p. 131 that I intentionally exaggerated my feelings in FL #461 in order to jolt my brother into taking the action I wanted.[679] After my letters had been shown to Dr. Mitchell, either Dave, or Linda acting with Dave’s consent, sent copies of the letters to a physician in Montana whom I had consulted once or twice, and even telephoned the doctor in an effort to have me referred to a psychiatrist. (The doctor, who apparently was sensible enough to realize that this was a case of intra–family vindictiveness and not of mental illness, was unresponsive to their request.)[680] From the 60 Minutes interview:
“LESLIE STAHL: Is it true that you had actually talked about having [Ted] committed? “LINDA PATRIK: We were advised that it was extremely difficult to get someone committed. “DAVE KACZYNSKI: We were told that he had to be a danger, —a —a demonstrable danger to himself or to others ... .”[681]Again, the reader is invited to compare my brother’s attitude here with the attitude toward mental illness that he expressed in his letters about Joel. Notice that all this happened several years before my arrest, so that Dave can’t claim he was trying to portray me as mentally ill in order to save me from the death penalty.
“DAVE stated that on four distinct occasions, TED has displayed a type of ‘almost catatonic’ behavior ... . The first was his withdrawal after a three–week [sic; actually five days] hospital stay when he was an infant. The second was during the journey to begin college at Harvard, when his father noted that TED became uncommunicative and withdrawn for a period of some hours.” [687]My father did not come with me on my “journey to begin college.” Before I was even admitted to Harvard, I made a trip there with my father to look the school over. On the way home, for some reason, I was in a grumpy mood for a few hours and, when spoken to, I gave curt, ill–tempered answers. I was particularly gruff to the stewardess on our plane–ride back to Chicago, because she was very attractive and I knew that since I was only a kid she could have no interest in me. To call this behavior “almost catatonic” is silly. According to the Washington Post,
“One day, as they were planning to hand in their application [to lease a piece of land in British Columbia in 1969], Ted shut down, without reason. ‘I would walk up to him and say, “Well, are we going to do anything today?” And there would be no answer,’ David said.” [688]My brother told the New York Times much the same story,[689] and something similar is perhaps hinted at in a rather confusing sentence of the FBI report.[690] But no such thing ever happened. If Dave wasn’t simply lying, then I can only explain his tale as follows: Because of his extreme psychological dependence on me (see Chapter VIII, pp. 219, 220), he was acutely sensitive to my moods and responses. If I were in a grumpy or uncommunicative mood for a day or two (as happens to most people now and then), my sullen demeanor would take on disproportionate importance in my brother’s eyes. Since he is prone to get his facts garbled anyway (See Chapter XIII, Note 20), it wouldn’t be surprising if, a quarter century after the event, he really believed that I had refused to answer when spoken to. At most there may have been two or three occasions in my adult life when, for a brief period, I have refused to answer when spoken to, and those would have been times when I was extremely angry at members of my family; for example, following the Ellen Tarmichael affair. Refusing to speak is a very common way of showing anger.[691] On the basis of its interviews with my brother and mother, the Washington Post reported:
“[E]very so often [Ted] would shut down, refusing to speak or make eye contact, staring downward, out of reach.” [692]This, again, is false. The closest it comes to reality is this: Many times during my earlier teens (age twelve to fifteen?) after a quarrel with my parents or some outburst of verbal abuse by them, I would go into a sulk and lie on the couch, or on a bed, with my face buried in the cushions or the pillow, perhaps for as long as an hour or two. I certainly could not have been “staring downward” with my face buried in cushions. Often my mother would come to comfort me and stroke my head, and in such case I would sometimes push her away; [693] but sometimes I would voice some of my complaints about the way my parents were treating me, and my mother would promise improvement. But, of course, there was never any lasting change in her or my father’s behavior. If this kind of reaction on my part was abnormal, then I’m certainly not the only abnormal one in the family, because my mother, in middle age, would often go into sulks, lasting sometimes two or three days, during which she would spend most of her time lying on her bed. When spoken to, she would answer either not at all or with some self–pitying whining about how badly the world was treating her.
“When his father saw Theodore’s violent reaction to a rabbit killed during a hunting trip, he gave up the sport.” [694]To my knowledge, my father never hunted but once in his life. Though I was very young at the time, I remember the occasion clearly. Ralph Meister had a friend who owned a farm and often hunted rabbits on it. The farmer once invited Ralph and my father to hunt with him. I went to the farm with my parents but, to my disappointment, I was not allowed to go out with the hunters. Though Ralph and the farmer both had shotguns and my father had only his old .22, my father was the one who killed the rabbit. I was proud of him for it. I persuaded my mother to let me watch while the rabbit was being skinned, and I expressed disappointment at the fact that I wouldn’t get to eat any of it. (The farmer probably wanted to let the meat age for a few days.) My reaction to the death of the rabbit was in no sense violent or emotional, and my father didn’t “give up” hunting, because he had never been in the habit of hunting in the first place. 2. According to the Sacramento Bee:
“Ted preferred classical music by Vivaldi and Bach that ‘had mathematical perfection and symmetry,’ his brother said. ‘I can’t ever recall him singing songs or listening to lyrics.’”[695]This has to be a conscious lie, because throughout my adolescence, through my twenties and into my thirties, one of my favorite pastimes was singing songs to contrapuntal guitar or zither accompaniments that I composed myself. Among the songs that I sang in the hearing of my brother (and I mean that I sang the lyrics, I didn’t just hum the tunes) were “The Wabash Cannonball,” “Battle Hymn of the Republic,” “Tramp, Tramp, Tramp,” an obscene variant of “Billy Boy,” various Christmas carols, etc., etc. When my brother sang, he accompanied himself on the guitar only with chords, and more than once he complimented me on the ingenuity of my contrapuntal accompaniments. Then, one evening in 1979, at our parents’ home in Lombard, he came out of his room carrying our zither and walked into the living room, where I was reading. Without a word he sat down and sang a song, with a good contrapuntal accompaniment of his own devising. When he was finished, I complimented him on the accompaniment. Without acknowledging my compliment or saying anything else, he got up and marched back to his room. Evidently, it was important to him to show that he, too, could compose clever accompaniments. 3. According to the New York Times, after our friend Juan Sánchez Arreola was hurt in an accident:
“David said Ted wanted to do something for Mr. Sánchez, but his solution ‘reveals that in some ways he was out of touch.’ ‘He read about a millionaire who would receive requests for money and decide who to give it to. Ted decided this was the best way to get help for Juan, to pay his medical bills, and he drafted a letter that he sent to me. I was supposed to get an O.K. from Juan and send it to the millionaire. And of course, we never heard. For an intelligent person it seemed so ... extremely naive.’”[696]The millionaire in question was Percy Ross, who then had (and for all I know, may still have) a column that appeared in certain newspapers. People would write him with requests for money. Some very small percentage of the letters were answered in Ross’s column, and the writers of those letters would receive gifts of money for the more–or–less worthy purposes they had described. I didn’t “decide this was the best way to get help for Juan.” I simply couldn’t think of anything else, since I had little money myself. So of course I felt there was no harm in writing to Ross. I was well aware of the fact that the chances of success were very small, and my brother knew that I was aware of it, because in the same envelope in which I sent a letter to Dave, I enclosed a letter that I asked him to give to Juan, in which I wrote, among other things:
“My brother or I will write to this rich man to find out if he will help you to pay your debt, but this millionaire receives thousands of requests and can grant only a few. Still, it will do no harm to write him. Who knows? It’s possible that he may help you.”[697] (Translated from Spanish.)At the time, my brother gave no indication that he thought me “out of touch” or “naive” for writing to Percy Ross. In fact, he wrote me:
“Juan thanks you for your interest in his case. ... Of course, I’ve explained to him that this is just a wild chance, so he shouldn’t get his hopes up. His case, however, is truly unique, since although poor, he is not eligible for public assistance or, apparently, Medi–caid while his application for residency is pending. The millionaire might want to take into account that Juan contributed to our society with his labor for more than thirty years at very low wages ... . Enclosed is a page summarizing the debts. We can get more details if the millionaire shows interest in Juan’s case.”[698]So my reward for attempting to do a good deed (though admittedly at a very long shot) is that now my brother tries to use it to portray me as mentally ill. ** Chapter XIII. My brother’s writing During his high–school years, my brother developed a strong interest in literature, which became a very important part of his life.[699] In conjunction with this, he aspired to become a creative writer. He wrote at least one novel and many short stories, but over a span of two decades he was never able to get anything published.
“Now and then I still send my stories to small literary magazines, but they always come back rejected if they come back at all. It affects my confidence to a degree. Jeez! I’m not even thinking about ‘scorched grass’ anymore—just a nod of understanding. But then I think it doesn’t matter. Instead, I’ll make my writing occupy so wide a territory that the whole world lies within it. That’s the point for me anyway: to learn how I can bring space back into the world, so that I can still live there in my full human dimensions.”[700]Apart from two or three minor pieces between 1969 and 1971, my brother never showed me any of his writing prior to 1988, nor did I ask him to show me any of it. In 1985, I wrote him:
“Something I’ve been meaning to say for some time ... . “Maybe you wonder why I’ve never asked to read any of your stories or other writings. What I want to say here is that it isn’t just a matter of disdainfulness. The reasons why I’ve never asked to read your stuff are, for one thing, the fact that our tastes and attitudes differ considerably reduces the likelihood that I would like your stuff, and increases the likelihood that I would find it irritating. Furthermore, if it turned out that I didn’t like it or considered it to be poor writing, I would be faced with 3 choices: either to praise it dishonestly (which I don’t like to do), or to criticize it more or less freely, which would mean saying things that you might find pretty cutting, or to say nothing at all about it, which tends to imply a negative judgement. “If you ever wanted to send me any of your stuff, I’d read it, with the understanding that if I said anything at all about it I would give an honest opinion ... . The point I wanted to make is that the fact that I’ve never asked to read any of your stuff isn’t just the result of disdainfulness.”[701]My brother answered:
“If I never offered to show you any [of my writing] in recent years, it was more or less on account of the same complicating factors you mentioned. ... I suspect it’s unlikely for a writer to get a good reading from people he knows, even if they’re not being consciously dishonest in the comments they make. I’m not really satisfied with my writing at this stage anyway. But thank you for your offer. Maybe someday I’ll feel very satisfied with a piece of work and decide to send it to you, of course with the expectation that if you said anything at all about it you would speak your mind freely. Given the differences in our points of view, I felt your offer was an extremely generous one.”[702]Three years later my brother sent me one of his stories as a birthday present, with a letter that began:
“Happy birthday! “This year you get a booby prize instead of a real present: one of my short stories.”[703]In the course of reviewing the family correspondence while preparing this book, I’ve had occasion to read the foregoing sentence several times, and every time I do so, my heart aches for my brother. I react the same way when I read his comment (quoted earlier) about wanting just a “nod of understanding.” Dave’s letter continued:
“Seriously, I was pleased with the way this one turned out and thought that you might enjoy it, or at least feel in sympathy with some of the ideas I try to express in it. ... Please, though, feel under no obligation to comment. ... Consider the story as offered strictly for your enjoyment, with the hope that it doesn’t fail completely in that mission.” [704]The story was called “The Raid,” and I thought that parts of it were very well written. All of it was very well written in comparison with what one would expect from an individual chosen at random from the general population. But, in my opinion, the story as a whole was not of professional quality. My brother does not have the instinct of careful craftsmanship, and “The Raid” was marred by a number of small errors in the use of language. Apart from dialogue, the story was written in literary English, and even used (or misused) such relatively uncommon words as “suzerainty,”[705] “matutinal,” [706] “smithy,”[707] and “privy”[708] (as an adjective). In such a context it makes the well–educated reader uncomfortable to see “like” where “as is” should be used,[709] or to find such phrases as “Deborah Tolliver got a sour look on her face”[710] or “the women he’d been privy to observe in his life.” [711] I don’t mean to suggest that a story written in literary English must never contain an “incorrectly” –used word or an “awkward” –sounding sentence. There may be valid artistic reasons for introducing the “incorrect” or the “awkward” into a literary work. The point is that my brother did not use words incorrectly or awkwardly in order to achieve an effect; his errors were simply the result of carelessness, as is indicated by the fact that they merely annoy or distract the reader without contributing anything to the story. Such defects could no doubt be patched up by a good editor; and by working for some time with a good editor, I think my brother could have learned to keep the defects from getting into his stories in the first place. A more serious problem with “The Raid” is that the reader is left wondering what the point of the story is. It is clear that my brother wanted to illustrate the difference between the Anglo attitude toward life and that of the traditional Mexican; but if this is the point of the story, then why bring in the girl who gets pregnant, the yarns of the old frontiersman, or Sheriff Dan’s thoughts about marriage? The story just seems to ramble aimlessly.
“The Raid” was not without its merits. For instance, my brother gave one illustration of the difference between the Anglo and the Mexican attitude that has stuck in my mind ever since as being particularly apt.[712] I probably would have enjoyed reading the story if only because it was a reflection of my brother’s personality—passive and directionless, yet observant and frequently offering interesting comments. But “The Raid” was spoiled for me by my brother’s ambition to be a serious creative writer; since I assessed it as something that presumably aspired to be of professional quality, I was bothered by defects that I might otherwise have overlooked. Because I had told my brother that I would comment on his writing honestly if I did so at all, and because I didn’t want to tell him that he still seemed to be a long way from producing a professional–quality story, I said nothing to him about “The Raid.”I’ve seen only a very few of the many stories my brother has written, but judging from what I have seen I would say that he is much better at writing letters than at writing stories. My brother does have a gift for verbal expression. In his letters he often describes experiences, scenes, people, and feelings quite vividly, sometimes even poetically. When writing a letter, he doesn’t have to weave a plot; the structure of the letter is provided by the experience that he is relating or the concern that he is trying to communicate. I think another reason why his letters are better–written than his stories is that in writing his letters he usually was not trying to write “creatively” but was merely making an un–self–conscious effort to express what was on his mind; hence, he was less apt to be misled by artistic vanity.[713] I’m not sure whether he makes fewer blunders in handling the details of language in his letters than he does in his stories. I am much less conscious of such blunders in his letters than I am in his stories, but that may be only because his letters seem to flow along and hold my interest better than his stories do, so that I tend to overlook any imperfections of detail. I occasionally praised Dave for his letters. Referring to a comment he’d made on the religion of the African pygmies, I wrote in 1983:
“I especially liked the following passage from a recent letter of yours: ...’ the [molimo] [714] ritual demanded something like an attitude of “pretend” that was aware of itself as such. I think of modern religions as tending to become confused in this area, so that the alternative to the empirical interpretation of reality, in drawing near to the empirical, is only usurped by it, so that the religious ideas are transformed as absurd empirical assertions, while losing their poetic life and suggestiveness.’ [715] “I like this passage so weil that I have copied it in my notebook. So there you stand amongst all kinds of famous writers whome [sic] I have quoted from time to time in my notes.”[716]In a 1985 letter [717] that I quoted in Chapter XI, p. 312, I told Dave how interesting and enjoyable I found some of his letters; and in 1987, when he sent me an account of a very interesting trip he’d made to Mexico, I praised him rather generously for the way he’d written it up, as we’ll see in a moment. Yet I wish now that I’d praised more of Dave’s letters, because there were a number of others that did deserve praise, and I failed to give it. About June, 1987, my brother spent a week or two at the home of his friend, Juan Sánchez Arreola, in Magistral del Oro, state of Durango, Mexico.[718] He sent me a long (eleven–page) account of the visit that I found fascinating.[719] Since I thought he was much better at writing that sort of thing than he was at composing fiction, and since I knew he’d been trying unsuccessfully for many years to get something published, I told him in my next letter:
“I read your account of your adventures with the greatest interest ... . Your adventures seemed most wonderful to me—it must have been like stepping into a different world. “I also thought your account was very well written. I assume you will make other visits to Mexico in the future, and after you have accumulated enough material I’ll bet you could publish a book on your experiences. I think there would be a much better market for a book like that than there is for fiction, if you wrote the whole book as well as you did that account that you sent to me, and if it were properly organized and so forth, I don’t see why you shouldn’t be able to find a publisher for it. I thought you did a very good job of characterizing Rosa [720] and some of the other people you described. “I do have a couple of minor criticisms. First, I wonder if it wasn’t unfair to compare Rosa to a child. A little condescending, perhaps. ... “Also, your last line, about ‘a bestial dialectic which filled the earth with intense music while humanity slept,’ [721] struck me as perhaps too lushly poetic to fit in with the tone of the rest of the material. But some people might differ with me on this point. And as I said, on the whole I thought your account was very good.”[722]I now suspect that my brother thought his line about “bestial dialectic” was the best part of the letter and was disappointed that I didn’t care for it. Anyway, he never responded to my suggestion that he should accumulate material for a book. In February or March, 1989, Dave sent me an account of a story that Juan Sánchez Arreola had told him. I reproduce it here in full:
“When Juan’s first child was born, he saw himself facing a problem, in that this was the child of a second marriage and he didn’t know if the Catholic church [sic] would consent to have the child officially baptized. Moreover, Juan was too embarrassed to approach the priest in his own village to discuss the matter. “One day, he left by mule to visit an uncle in another town and, seeing another church in a village in between, it occurred to him that he ought to broach his problem to the priest there, since unburdening himself to a strange priest would cause him less embarrassment. “This priest turned out to be a very old man. He told Juan that there would be no problem having his daughter baptized, but then he asked Juan to explain why he had divorced his first wife. Juan answered that the reason was because she committed adultery. The priest was not entirely satisfied with this and pressed for details, whereupon Juan told the story of how he had gone to the U.S. to earn money, only to find that his wife wrote to him less and less frequently, with diminishing affection. When he returned after some months, he found that she had already attached herself to another man. “‘You seem to be blaming the woman,’ the priest told him, ‘but the fault actually lies with you for leaving her alone.’ “Juan felt quite put out by this remark, since he still sorely resented his first wife’s disloyalty while he had been working hard to improve the fortunes of them both. ‘Why, I might have been gone 20 minutes to fetch firewood,’ he shot back, ‘and she still would have had time to be unfaithful!’ “At this moment, the priest enjoined Juan to be calm and listen to a story that would illustrate the moral of his point. In the priest’s town, a certain couple had married and moved in with the groom’s parents, a practice which was common among the Mexican poor. Two children were quickly produced by this union, but soon the fortunes of the entire family suffered a reversal and the young husband saw himself obliged to go to the U.S. to earn money. “Before long, however, the young man’s father seduced his attractive young daughter–in–law under his wife’s nose, and soon the two of them were living as husband and wife, while the old wife was relegated to the role of a servant. Prior [to] the son’s return, the father abandoned his wife and left with his daughter–in–law and grandchildren to live in some place unknown. “When the son returned and heard the story of what had transpired, he swore to someday kill his father and faithless wife and to reclaim his children. Through distant relations, the mother had learned the whereabouts of her husband and daughter–in–law, but refused to reveal them to her son for fear that murder would be the result. “As months passed, the young man’s rancor subsided and he pleaded with his mother to give him the address only so that he should be able to see his children again. She continued to refuse him until one day she fell alarmingly ill and feared that if she died with her knowledge intact, the family would be separated forever. She told her son to reach under the mattress where she was lying and take out a piece of paper on which was written the address of the faithless pair. It turned out to be the number of an apartment in Mexico city [sic]. “The mother died the next day, and as soon as the son had buried her, he left to find his children. His search led him to a large apartment house, where the first thing he saw was his beloved children playing on the front stoop. The babies in turn recognized him and cried ‘Daddy! Daddy!’ “The old man, however, was alerted by their cries and from an upstairs window drew a bead on his son with a rifle and shot him dead. “Juan is a great story–teller, and if by chance you enjoy these renderings of mine, I’ll send you more from time to time. Quite a few of his stories have to do with the almost demonic power that sex has over some people. His telling is far richer than mine, however. It never comes out like a set story, but more like a surprising piece of inspiration from the more shallow flow of every–day conversation. I suddenly realize that what I’m listening to is almost magical."[723]My brother’s telling of this tale had a few defects of detail (for example, the phrase, “the moral of his point” doesn’t seem to make sense), but these could easily have been patched up, and it seemed to me that on the whole the account was very well done. I wrote Dave:
“I’ve just received your letter that contains Juan’s story. It’s very interesting... “Yes, it would give me pleasure to receive more of Juan’s stories. You recounted this last one very well. If the other stories are as good as the two[724] that you’ve already told me, has it occurred to you to publish a collection of such stories? ... “I’ve read again your rendering of the story, and it seems to me to be excellent. The tone and the language seem to me to be just right for such a story.”[725] (Translated from Spanish.)I concluded by pointing out (I hope tactfully) a few of the minor infelicities of language that occurred in the story.[726] A short while later, my brother sent me, as a birthday present, his rendering of another of Juan’s tales—a considerably longer one that he called, “The Conjurer’s Stone.” This story I thought was really very good, even though it had imperfections of detail that I felt were more important than those of the preceding story. In a letter that accompanied the story, my brother wrote:
“I don’t know if I’m up to the task of compiling a great number of Juan’s stories at this time, but your suggestion still appeals to me and I may put something together in the future. ... “You could, if you want to, help me in two ways. First, if by chance you saved the other two stories, would you mind sending them back to me? [I sent Dave copies of the stories and kept the originals myself.] ... Second, for this and any future stories I send you, I’d appreciate any criticism that may occur to you. I doubt I’ll see every point your way, but meanwhile I’m aware of how difficult it is to read one’s own prose with fresh and objective eyes.”[727]In an answering letter (now lost), I praised “The Conjurer’s Stone” highly and, in compliance with Dave’s request, I gave him an extensive critique of its flaws. He answered:
“I’m glad you enjoyed your birthday present. “Thanks for sending the copies I requested, and also for your long analysis of the writing, which must have taken a good deal of time and effort to complete. I found several of the criticisms helpful, and plan to incorporate them in my revisions. I doubt if you’d enjoy reading the revised version, however, since I find myself unable to agree with you about the use of figurative language in this piece.”[728]My brother then launched himself into an elaborate series of rationalizations intended to justify his use of certain metaphors and similes that I had criticized. If he had simply said that he disagreed with me and was going to retain these figures of speech, I would have been a little disappointed, since I felt that they detracted from what was otherwise an excellent story. But I would not have been irritated. What did irritate me in this case, as in many earlier cases, was Dave’s habit of pretentious rationalization. Here is an example. “The Conjurer’s Stone” included this sentence:
“Even Don Francisco’s eyes sparkled and he showed his few teeth in a face like cracked mud.”[729]I criticized this simile (“face like cracked mud” ) on the grounds that it wasn’t clear what it was supposed to mean. My brother answered:
“If you pay close attention to your reading, I think you’ll notice that equivocal metaphors are used frequently in fiction. The ‘cracked mud’ similie [sic] works on the basis of three comparisons between the old man’s face and cracked mud: the color (gray), the texture (the creases on an old man’s face that would presumably deepen as he smiled); and a quality of opaqueness (Juan finds the old man’s expression opaque rather than transparent at a moment when he is confused, searching for some clue as to why the old men are laughing; in effect, he comes up against his own ignorance in the old man’s sphinx–like demeanor, until a moment later the truth—or at least part of it—dawns on him).”[730]The first two comparisons would have been fine if only my brother had rephrased his simile in such a way as to make it clear that it was the texture of the man’s skin that was being compared to cracked mud. The “opaqueness” comparison is ludicrous, because no reader, no matter how sophisticated and attentive, would be able to divine those meanings in the “cracked mud” simile. Dave’s letter finished off with somewhat of an air of wounded vanity:
“If you don’t mind my making a suggestion, Ted, it would be that you make an earnest effort to enter the consciousness and spirit of a story as it’s written before making up your mind as to how you think it should be written. ... “I have another suggestion, since you’re clearly, and probably with justification a lot [sic] more interested in Juan’s stories than you are in mine. Why not come down and meet Juan ... ? You could hear his stories for yourself, and then consider writing them up in the reportial [sic; “reportorial” is meant] fashion you judge best.”[731]In this case I did a relatively good job of controlling my irritation at my brother’s interminable rationalizations. In my reply, I did point out the evidence of wounded vanity in his letter [732] and I did maintain (not very tactfully, I’m afraid) my position that some of his metaphors and similes detracted from the story,[733] but on the other hand, I told him that on re–reading “The Conjurer’s Stone” I felt less uncomfortable with these figures of speech [734] and I conceded that other readers might respond to them more favorably than I did.[735] Moreover, I said that the story was “damn good” [736] and that I liked it “very well indeed, in spite of my criticisms.”[737] In answer to Dave’s defeatist suggestion that it was Juan’s stories rather than his (Dave’s) rendering of them that interested me, I wrote:
“I think there must be a great deal of ‘you’ in the stories. ... Borrowed plots are common among great writers. ... The effect of ‘The Conjurer’s Stone’ must depend heavily on your retelling, since it could hardly be just a literal translation of Juan’s words. If I or someone else told the story, it might have seemed pointless and uninteresting. As you tell it, the story is effective and the characters live.”[738]I was perhaps laying it on a bit thick here, but not to such an extent that I felt I was breaking my promise to be honest in commenting on my brother’s writing. I did attack some of his rationalizations. (I knew it was futile, but it is my misfortune that I find it extremely difficult to refrain from pointing out the defects in a fallacious argument.) Among other things I said:
“As for making an earnest effort to enter the consciousness and spirit of the story—it’s your job to communicate that consciousness and spirit to the reader—you can’t expect the reader to divine by magical insight what that ‘consciousness and spirit’ is supposed to be.”[739]Predictably, my brother responded with an even more elaborate and defensive series of rationalizations, of which some samples follow:
“[In my last letter] I honestly believe I was defending an honest conviction more than my own ego.[740] ... “I take your admonishment to heart in case I may be resisting the spirit of criticism to some degree. I also feel I should point out, though, that any artist needs to have faith in his own convictions, or it’s unlikely that he’ll ever be able to say anything original or in an original way. The poet Rilke and the artist O’Keeffe both stressed this point very vigorously in offering advice to young artists, emphasizing that it takes courage and sometimes just plain obstinacy to advance beyond mediocrity and technical expertise ... .”[741]But my brother did not need to advance beyond technical expertise; his problem was that he had not yet attained technical expertise. His letter continued:
“You can imagine what would happen if Faulkner or Proust, for instance, handed in one page of their writing to a creative writing teacher. They’d probably be told that their writing has promise, but that it’s unnecessarily unclear, wordy, awkward, and even somewhat pretentious. I’m not so foolish as to suppose I’m anywhere close to their category of talent, but I did feel encouraged that you found my figures of speech less objectionable upon subsequent readings. I hold out the belief that despite some of our strong theoretical differences, you might not have blinked an eye at some of the metaphors in ‘The Conjurer’s Stone’ if you were more familiar with my writing as a whole and if you had placed the story within that overall context [742] ... . “Your observations suggest that you see a writer as a communicator in a fairly simple and straightforward way, so that an intelligent and educated reader needs only to sit back passively, so to speak, and let himself be ‘communicated to...’ . I think you should know that the trend of modern thought is against depicting the artist as a straightforward communicator. ... My own feelings tell me, ‘Why be spoon–fed when you can have the pleasure of freely participating in a work with your own imagination? Why be satisfied with a book that tells you essentially all it has to say in one reading, when another work challenges you to go back a second, third, or forth [sic] time? Why in effect be satisfied with being “told” something, when another work invites you to engage more intimately in the whole creative process?’ [743] ... “Now I don’t mean to convey the impression that ‘The Conjurer’s Stone’ is an extremely ambitious work comparable to others I’ve been alluding to in order to make my case. I’m only trying to suggest that reading is a more subtle and exacting talent than the ‘writer–as–communicator’ model would lead one to believe. Also, I think that having a different theoretical orientation might help you adapt your sensitivities to a wider variety of styles, so that when you come upon a metaphor that isn’t instantly clear, for instance, you’ll be less inclined to conclude out of hand that it’s out of place or poorly done, but instead say to yourself, ‘Aha, he’s calling my attention to something here ...[744] what’s it about?’”[745]Further on in the letter, in an evident reference to my supposed “science–based assumptions,” my brother expressed a suspicion that there was a “logical agenda” behind my criticisms.[746] But he concluded his letter on a generous note:
“Please keep in mind, Ted, that in outlining these arguments and differences, I by no means want to suggest that I don’t value your criticisms and appreciate the effort they’ve cost you. In fact, I value them very highly.”[747]Many readers will have noticed by this time that my brother is a fairly typical representative of a certain class of unsuccessful would–be artists, and shows the characteristic symptoms: He emphasizes “originality” and neglects technical skill (technical skill requires talent and hard work, but the concept of originality is vague enough so that anyone can convince himself that his work is original); he is touchy about criticism—rather than accepting it he invents rationalizations to place the blame on the critic for not appreciating his creations; and he compares himself to great artists who were not accepted, had difficulty being accepted, or might not have been accepted because of the unconventionality and originality of their work. Yet, as I noted earlier, my brother does have a talent for verbal expression, and I think that what prevented him from becoming a good (i.e., professional–quality) writer was simply his weakness of character; or, as a psychologist might put it, the fact that his ego was not well–developed. (Here I use “ego” to mean not vanity, but the directing and organizing faculty of the mind.) Because of it, he lacked the self–discipline to develop technical skill with the details of language, so that his writing was marred by expressions that were grammatically incorrect, awkward, or confusing; he was unable to look at his own work objectively enough to see its good points and its bad points, so as to be able to change what was bad and retain what was good; and I doubt that he could have organized intelligently a book–length piece of writing unless it consisted of a collection of shorter pieces each of which would stand more–or–less independently. Finally, he was unwilling to acknowledge that he was not good at constructing stories of his own, and that, unless he retold stories he’d heard from someone else, he would have done better to write about personal experiences. ** Chapter XIV. My brother’s relations with Linda Patrik; I break off with him I never knew my brother to have a girlfriend, or to go on dates, or to show any sexual interest in girls until, some time during his college years, my mother mentioned to me that he had a crush on a young woman named Linda Patrik whom he’d known in high school. I’ve already described (in Chapter IX, pp. 251–254) how in the early seventies he was attracted to a woman named Linda E. But apart from the two Lindas I don’t believe he ever took even the first step toward a sexual relationship with any female. He never did develop an overt sexual involvement with Linda E.; nor was there any physical relationship between him and Linda Patrik before he reached his late twenties. Until 1986 my brother never said anything to me about his relations with women and I never asked him about them. Intimate personal matters just were not discussed in our family. I won’t attempt to explain his celibacy here, but will mention two facts. First, my brother’s high aspirations seem to have extended to women: From certain remarks that he made I gathered that he did not consider a female attractive unless she was quite good–looking; yet he himself had neither the physical qualities nor the kind of personality that would have made him attractive to women (see Chapter IX, p. 251). Second, he apparently had a fairly serious hang–up about sex. I quote here in full a passage from one of his letters of which I quoted a part in Chapter IX:
“When your interference vis–a–vis Linda E____ touched off an explosion, I believe this is how I experienced everything (regardless of what your true motives might have been)—I saw you acting as a sort of surrogate super–ego in the matter of our parents’ highly (though subtly) repressive attitudes toward sex. I suppose I felt that siblings ought to confederate in the struggle with their parents to assert sexual independence, and in that light I probably considered your letter to them as a serious betrayal, especially serious in that I felt we had both already been damaged by their repressive attitudes, so you ought to have known what the pain was like. What made things worse and more humiliating for me, is that I had already submitted to my conditioning—the inculcated repressions had already conquered my desires (perhaps luckily, all in all) and consequently I experienced the repression as pertaining not only to behavior, but as arousing guilt over the mere occurrence [sic] of sexual feelings.”[748]I answered:
“You assume that I, like you, have, or had, a major problem with guilt over sex. I was really astonished to find you misjudging me so badly. Of course I’m not free of shame over sex—I don’t suppose anybody is in our society—but I never had enough shame over sex to feel that it was a serious problem. Actually, though I knew you were kinda prissy, I was surprized [sic] to learn that you had such a problem with sex guilt as you indicate in your letter. I never felt that our parents’ attitudes toward sex were particularly repressive, neither explicitly, nor ‘subtly’ as you put it.”[749]However that might have been, my brother told me nothing whatever about Linda Patrik. He never so much as mentioned her name to me before 1986, probably because he was afraid that I would make some negative comment about his relations with her. The little I knew about her I learned from my mother, from hearing my brother’s end of a couple of brief telephone conversations that he’d had while we were both at our parents’ house in 1978, and from some of Linda P.’s letters to him. I found these letters one day during the early 1970s when, in my brother’s absence, I was shoveling the garbage out of his dump in Great Falls. They were in a drawer, not lying out in the open, and I knew that he would not want me to read them, but I read them anyway. I do not like to have to confess to this, but I do confess to it, because I mean to tell the whole truth about the relations between my brother and me. As far as I can remember, it is the only thing I’ve ever done in regard to him that was clearly and definitely not fair play, a violation of trust, a breach of the unspoken rules that governed our relationship. Why did I do it? I was full of contempt for him, and when you have contempt for someone you tend to be disregardful of his rights. But contempt was no excuse for violating my brother’s privacy, and, ever since, I’ve been uncomfortable about having read those letters. The letters were not very informative, but they did make this much clear about Dave’s relationship with Linda Patrik: He had a long–term crush on her; his relationship to her was servile; she didn’t seem to have much interest in him as a male, but seemed to like using him as a shoulder to cry on, someone to unburden herself to. Meanwhile she carried on sexual relationships with other men, and my brother knew it, yet he kept mooning after her. The next I heard of Linda Patrik was in 1978, when my brother and I were staying at our parents’ house and he received a couple of phone calls from her. From his end of the conversation, it was evident only that she was inviting him to visit her and that he was accepting the invitation with alacrity. I asked no one any questions about Dave’s relationship with Linda P., but my mother volunteered some very scanty information: It seemed that Linda was having some sort of trouble with her husband—a divorce may have been contemplated—and she had turned to Dave for comfort. I heard not another word about Linda Patrik until my brother visited me in Montana in 1986. At that time I noticed a very large turquoise ring on his finger and asked him where he’d gotten it. He answered that Linda Patrik had given it to him, and that was the first time he ever mentioned her to me. He gave me no information about her, however, and from consideration for his privacy I did not ask for any. I heard no more about Ms. Patrik until three years later.
“I’m returning to Schenectady on Oct. 8 to undertake the experiment of living with Linda. I’ve been in love with her for more than 20 years, so much so that no other woman has ever seriously interested me ...[T]his is a very happy time in my life. So wish me luck.”[750]At this point I decided I’d had about enough of my jackass of a brother, so I wrote him an irritable letter in which I told him I didn’t want to hear from him any more—unless he ever found himself in serious trouble and needed my help, in which case I would do what I could for him. Here is how my brother has described this letter to the media:
“In 1989, David told his brother he had a relationship with Linda and had decided to go to Schenectady, N.Y., to be with her. He also said he expected to marry her.[False. Neither FL #400 nor any other letter of my brother’s in 1989 made any mention of a possible marriage with Linda Patrik.[751]] “‘At that time he decided to end his relationship with me, end communicating with me,’ David said. ‘It was an extremely angry, total surprise to me. He tended to view me as someone who was easily manipulated by others and for some reason he had gotten the notion that Linda was a manipulating female who was using me.’ The accusation seemed particularly bizarre, David said, because ‘he has never met her to my knowledge.’ “One interpretation of his brother’s letter, he said, might be that Ted was disappointed that he would give up the lifestyle they had shared. ‘It may have been just terrible for him to think I would rejoin society,’ David said. ‘I think it goes deeper than that.’ “David said the letter contained ‘a long litany’ of his presumed faults but it added that ‘he did care about me’ and said that ‘I was throwing away my life.’ “‘By marrying?’ he was asked. “‘Sure.’”[752]
“In 1989, Theodore Kaczynski reacted angrily when David wrote to Ted and told him he was planning to marry Linda Patrik, a philosophy professor at Union College in Schenectady. ... Ted had never met Patrik but said she was manipulative.”[753]
“LESLIE STAHL: ...And Ted blamed David for deserting him, by falling for Linda. “MIKE WALLACE: He was devastated when he learned that you were happy with Linda, and that you, of all things, married Linda. “DAVID KACZYNSKI: It was entirely unexpected. He had never met Linda. And I got a letter that was pages and pages and pages long, full of criticisms of Linda, criticisms of me. It was as if I had somehow betrayed him.”[754]
“Nearly 10 years ago [sic], Ted wrote his brother a venomous letter stating, in capital letters, that he never wanted to see or hear from David ‘or any other member of our family’ again. He was angry because his brother was getting married.”[755]Actually, the fact that my brother was going to live with Linda Patrik was only one among several reasons why I broke off with him. My letter was nearly fourteen pages long, and only four of those pages dealt with Dave’s relations with Linda Patrik. Also, the letter nowhere describes Linda as “manipulative.” Apparently Dave or (more likely) Linda destroyed my letter. But maybe my brother would have been more careful in describing this letter if he’d known that I’d kept a copy of it. This was a carbon copy, so there is no question of any errors of transcription. Since the letter is significant, I reproduce all of it here. The first part refers to another story my brother had sent me that was loosely based on one of Juan’s tales.
“Dear Dave:As for ‘Ernesto and the Widow’ [756]—This is a style of story–telling that I dislike. On the other hand, there must be a lot of people who like that kind of story–telling, since that style is much in vogue nowadays [among intellectuals]. I only read the story once, and while reading it I was in a state of irritation at you for reasons that will be explained below; moreover, I was continually interrupting my reading to write comments in the margins. Thus, I was less able to judge how the story flows along than I would have been under other circumstances. Moreover I am, naturally, less sensitive to differences in a form of writing that I dislike than I would be in a form of writing in which I take an interest. So I’m not sure if I can judge the story well. But, for whatever it may be worth, my reaction to the story is as follows.
“Here and there I noticed places where words were used amateurishly or not quite correctly. But apart from that I thought it was a good story—for those who like that type of writing, but not for me. If the little awkward places I mentioned were cleared up, I see no particular reason why the story couldn’t be published. But, while I felt pretty sure you ought to be able to find a publisher for the stories that stuck closer to the material you had from Juan, I don’t know whether you could find a publisher for stories like ‘Ernesto and the Widow.’ The difference is that, while the stories that followed Juan’s material had a note of authenticity—something on the order of folkloric material—‘Ernesto and the Widow’ is obviously a made–up story, merely inspired by an incident you heard from Juan. Of course there are thousands or millions of people in America who want to write fiction and they all think they have something original to say, so there is an abundance of stories offered—far more than anyone wants to read. But there are not so many people who can offer authentic stories from a peasant culture. That’s why I think your stories that stick closer to Juan’s material—with their note of authenticity—have a much better chance of being published than ‘Ernesto and the Widow’, which just doesn’t fit into the same category. “As for the reason why you’ve never been able to get anything published, I can only say this: “The story titled ‘The Raid’, which you sent me some time ago struck me as hopelessly amateurish—both in the details of language and the general outline of the story. If that story is typical of your previous writing, then it’s obvious why no one wants to publish your stuff—it’s just plain bad, by anyone’s standard. ‘Ernesto and the Widow’ is such a vast improvement over ‘The Raid’ that the difference seems incomprehensible. If your previous writing resembles ‘Ernesto and the Widow’ rather than ‘The Raid’, then I suppose that your failure to get anything published is due either to the fact that, as I mentioned, there are more would–be writers than there are readers, or else to the fact that here and there in your writing there appear little awkwardnesses or amateurish constructions. What you need is someone to criticize the details of your language (as I did with ‘The Conjurer’s Stone’) to induce you to develop literary craftsmanship.”[757]I now feel embarrassed at having spoken as favorably as I did of “Ernesto and the Widow.” I don’t have a copy of it now, but I remember it as crap—it simply repelled me. However, it was of a genre—one might call it “modern” —that repels most readers anyway and is attractive only to a small minority of literary highbrows. Since I couldn’t pretend to understand that kind of literature, I gave my brother the benefit of the doubt and assumed that the story was an adequate specimen of its type, apart from the defects of detail that I mentioned. I would have done better to tell Dave simply that I didn’t understand the story and leave it at that, but I suppose my desire to make him feel good was competing with the contempt and irritation that led me to make very cutting remarks at various other places in the letter. Here again my conflicting feelings toward my brother are evident. The letter continued:
“The question is whether you are capable of profiting from such criticism. It seems doubtful. It seems that your vanity prevents you from making any suggested changes except on inessential [758] points—and sometimes even on minor points it prevents you from making changes. Here are two examples from your revised version of ‘The Conjurer’s Stone.’ First, on p. 1, the phrase ‘descend to the street on strutting claws.’ Leave aside the fact that I think the metaphore [sic [759]] is hackneyed. As I carefully explained in my last letter, the sentence is illogical because the buzzards don’t descend on their claws, they descend on their wings. This is just the kind of amateurish linguistic blunder that will discourage an editor from publishing your stuff. It is not an arguable point. The sentence is clearly and plainly illogical, there is no conceivable literary motive for introducing that kind of illogic at this point, and any competent editor would agree that it is simply an amateurish blunder. If you felt you had to retain the ‘strutting’ claws metaphor you could have done so by reconstructing the sentence to eliminate the illogic.[760] I carefully explained in my last letter what was wrong with the sentence, yet you let it stand. “Second. On the last page [761] you have: ‘some of the others began laughing so hard it looked like they might hurt themselves.’ As I explained carefully in a previous letter,[762] this sentence is grammatically incorrect because ‘like’ is not a conjunction.[763] To make the sentence correct you have to replace ‘like’ by ‘as if.’ There is no conceivable literary motive for using the incorrect ‘like’ instead of the correct ‘as if.’ Yet you let the sentence stand. “I can see no motive for your leaving these two incorrect sentences in their original form except stubborn vanity—vanity of the most puerile kind.”[764]This last remark was unnecessarily cruel. Lots of people would show as much vanity–motivated resistance to changing something they’d done as my brother did.
“To argue about metaphors—whether they are hackneyed or not, appropriate or not, etc.—is reasonable, since after all that is a matter of taste. But I suppose you can understand why I get frustrated and irritated when you ignore my corrections of clear–cut and unarguable errors of logic or grammar. “Even when it comes to metaphors—your defence of your metaphors and similes (in an earlier letter) irritated me because—while one can reasonably argue about those metaphors—your arguments were simply silly. You explained all these meanings that these metaphors were supposed to convey—meanings that no one but you would ever guess at or even sense intuitively. “Of course, you have the right to write anything you damn well please. But I’m not going to criticize your work any more because, as I’ve just explained, I find your reactions frustrating and irritating. I do feel that you’ve got something good there in your re–tellings of Juan’s stories, and I would really be very pleased on your account if you could get them published. I would moreover be willing to spend considerable time criticizing the details of your style if it weren’t for the fact that, when you ignore my corrections of clear–cut, unarguable flaws, it just seems futile, and it’s too irritating and frustrating. “More than that. This has been building up for a long time. It’s not just this business of the stories. I find you insufferably irritating in general. You’re certainly not the type of personality I would choose for a friend—I just happened to get stuck with you as a brother. As you know, I have tender feelings toward you, but that’s just because you’re my brother and because of old ties going all the way back to childhood. “Some of your letters are a pleasure to read, but, just as often, they irritate me and make me conscious of an unbridgeable gulf between you and me. It’s not so much a difference of attitudes or ideology—in some respects our attitudes are pretty similar—as a difference of personality. The ideological differences are largely a reflection of the personality differences. You use verbal formulations to satisfy your emotional needs, very often to protect your ego [here, ego = self–esteem], and you frequently insist on verbal formulations that are meaningless (or at least, whose meanings you don’t try to analyze) or contrary to reality, or simply ludicrous. I use verbal formulations in a reasonably honest attempt to describe reality. I am so constituted that I find it difficult to listen to your nonsense without arguing against it. So when you write me some of your silly ‘ideas’ (as you choose to call them) I am faced with a choice: either I restrain myself and make no reply, which is frustrating, or, what is more frustrating, I permit myself to be drawn into writing you one of these interminable letters in which I explain my point of view in detail—though it is absolutely futile, because I know by this time that, wherever your ego is involved, you are absolutely impervious to reason and will resort to the most far–fetched rationalizations to avoid having to make any concession. “A good example occurred a few years ago when I ventured to suggest that your friend Joel might have schizophrenia. I don’t know whether that suggestion was right or wrong, but the point is that your reaction to it was irrational. You tend to take any criticism of your friends, from me, as an assault on your ego. In this case you also took my suggestions as an attack on your ideology; even though I was careful to frame my arguments as tactfully as possible and in such a way as to avoid offending your ideology. Of course you got your back up and became absolutely insufferable. Later, when you came to visit me, in reference to schizophrenic children who see the floor heaving and tossing under them, you said, ‘maybe the floor really is heaving...[765].’ Of course you don’t really believe this—you just make that statement to confirm an ideology designed to satisfy your emotional needs. Where your ego and your ideology aren’t at stake, you take an entirely different point of view. Thus, during that same visit, you mentioned Nora’s case. There—since no friend of yours was involved and your ego and ideology weren’t at stake—you unhesitatingly accepted the existence of schizophrenia, the undesirability of it, and the fact that drugs can bring a schizophrenic back to perception of reality. You also added, ‘Gee, I hope we haven’t got anything like that.’ If you really believed that the hallucinations of a schizophrenic were as real as the perceptions of a sane person, why would you ‘hope we haven’t got anything like that’? “I refrained from pointing out the obvious contradictions in your expressed views because by that time I knew that it was hopeless to try to reason with you on that subject—you would never under any circumstances make any concession. I find that kind of thing thoroughly contemptible and insufferably irritating—though in the majority of cases I refrain from showing my irritation, since it would accomplish nothing anyway. “This has just happened too many times. If you don’t irritate or disgust me in one way then you do so in another. I’ve just had enough of it. My tolerance for irritation was low to begin with, and the older I get, the less I can tolerate irritation. “And now, to top off my disgust, you’re going to leave the desert and shack up with this woman who’s been keeping you on a string for the last 20 years. You write, ‘I’ve been in love with her for more than 20 years, so much so that no other woman has ever seriously interested me.’ You forgot to add the qualification, ‘except Linda E.’ But leaving that aside, I would say that love is one thing and grovelling servitude is another. Judging from the comparatively little that I know of the case, it seems clear that this woman has just been exploiting you. I recall that one time when I was helping you clean out your apartment in Great Falls, I picked a letter out of the garbage on your table and started reading aloud: ‘Dear Linda, Of course it was a blow to learn that you may be falling in love with someone ... .’[766] You got mad and snatched the letter out of my hand.”[767]The reader will notice that I did not tell my brother here that I had once read several of Linda P.’s letters that I had found in a drawer. I would have been ashamed to confess to that. My letter continues:
“But it’s pretty clear what was going on there. She knew you were stuck on her and she knew that she wasn’t much attracted to you as a male. Under the circumstances, the decent thing to do would have been to simply cut off all relations with you. In that case you probably would have forgotten about her eventually and would have found someone else. But she found it more expedient to keep you on a string—to keep hold of your affections while her affections wandered elsewhere. Women like passive, gentle males—but they don’t typically consider them desirable as lovers. Especially when they are younger, women are attracted sexually by dominant, virile males. But they like to have a shoulder to cry on—some gentle, affectionate person to whom they can turn for emotional support. There’s nothing evil in that—but in using you for that purpose, knowing that you were in love with her and that her love was going to go elsewhere, Linda Patrik was exploiting you. She must have realized that it would be painful and humiliating for you when she unburdened herself to you about her love affairs, yet apparently she did so anyway, to judge from that letter. “When she got married, I can just imagine her husband’s amusement when she told him about ‘this poor sap who’s been in love with me for years, and still is, even though I am marrying you.’ Then when her marriage broke up, the first thing she did was run to you for a shoulder to cry on. And you accepted that. Don’t you have any self–respect at all? Apparently not. It’s just too despicable. “So now, after having kept you around as a kind of spare tire for the last 20 years, she’s finally ready to shack up with you. Maybe because she’s getting older and can’t so readily find sex partners any more, maybe for some other reason. Does she love you? I venture to doubt it. I’ll bet you’re the one who is making all the concessions and sacrifices. Thus you’re going up to live with her in Schenectady and she’s not going down to live with you in Texas. It’s safe to say that you two will be adopting her life–style and not your life–style.”[768]I was reasonably sure that Linda Patrik’s lifestyle was more or less conventional middle class, since I recalled that my mother had told me in 1978 that Linda was a professional woman, though I didn’t know what her profession was. It turned out that was right. Linda Patrik’s lifestyle is essentially conventional middle class, in spite of certain gestures toward nonconformity on her part (such as her Buddhist religion and her sexual promiscuity)—quirks that are easily accommodated by modern American middle–class values. The letter continued:
“If you want to find out whether she loves you, try this: Ask her to make some major concessions to your life–style and preferences. For example, ask her to live with you in Alpine. This would be a reasonable compromise, because in Alpine she would have most of the urban conveniences to which she is presumably addicted, yet you would be close to the desert. If she says yes, then probably she really cares about you. If she refuses to consider the possibility of moving down to Texas, or of making any other major concessions to your life–style, then clearly she doesn’t love you but is merely using you as a convenience. “The idea here is not actually to extract concessions from her. For instance, if she agreed to live in Alpine, you could then, if you wanted to, be generous, change your mind, and say, ‘No, let’s live in Schenectady after all.’ The idea of asking for concessions is simply to find out whether she really cares about you or whether she is just exploiting you and wants to have everything on her own terms. “But if I know you, you probably won’t even have the nerve to ask her to live in Alpine. I can pretty well guess who the dominant member of that couple is going to be. It’s just disgusting. Let me know your neck size—I’d like to get you a dog collar next Christmas. I recall your negative opinions about Jeanne’s selfishness in her relationship with [K. H. En.] and I wonder whether your own case is going to be any better. You thought Jeanne was selfish because [K. H.] wanted to stay in Chicago, Jeanne wanted to go to Texas, so of course it was a foregone conclusion that they would go to Texas. How does this differ from your case? At least Jeanne didn’t keep [K. H.] on a string for 20 years before marrying him. “The only thing I’ve really respected in you has been your life in the desert. I especially remember how you returned that beautifully–made spear–point to its original resting place out of respect for the people who made it, and how you crossed the Rio Grande with Juan and shared his risks and hardships. So now you’re going to leave all that just because this female has finally decided to permit you to become her personal property, and I presume that you will now be adopting a more–or–less conventional middle–class life–style. While you’re at it, why don’t you take a few courses and learn to be an accountant? Or better—why don’t you go to law school? I’ve always felt that if a thing is worth doing, then it’s worth doing right, so as long as you’re selling out you may as well go all the way and become a lawyer. “Be all that as it may, I’ve just been disgusted and irritated by you too damn many times. I just can’t take all that crap any more. So from now on, I am just going to cease corresponding with you altogether, and I’ll thank you not to send me any letters of any kind. There’s no question of ill will here—it’s just that I can’t any longer take the frequent irritations that I have from you. You probably don’t realize how often I’ve restrained myself in the face of your irritating traits. That’s the reason for the present outburst of irritation in response to relatively minor irritants; as I said, it’s been building up for a long time. Time after time, after receiving a particularly asinine letter from you I’ve told myself that I ought to cut off correspondence with you, but then I’ve always softened again. But now I just can’t take any more. I realize that it’s partly my fault. It’s true that you’re a fatuous ass and that our personalities are incompatible, but it’s also true that my tolerance for irritation is unusually low. I suppose that one reason why you get me so upset may be the fact that I do care about you. When my neighbor [Butch Gehring] down here chatters along idiotically like the jerk that he is, I just listen noncommittally to his nonsense and then forget it. But when you speak or act like a fool, I find it hard to be indifferent. “You’re still my little brother (unworthy though you are of that honor) and you still have my loyalty, and I’m ready to help you if I can whenever you may be in serious need. But, as I said, I’m not going to write you any more, and I don’t want to receive any letters from you either. If you send me any letters I’ll just throw them in the stove unread. Except: if something really important comes up, you can write to me and get my attention as follows: On the envelope, draw a straight, heavy line under the stamp (or stamps). If you send me a letter with this marking, I will know that it is something particularly important and will read the letter. But don’t cry wolf by putting this marking on an envelope that contains an unimportant letter. If you do so, then I will no longer regard the marking, and you’ll have no way of getting in touch with me if something important comes up. As to what I consider important: If you’re seriously ill, that’s important; if our parents croak, that’s important; if you’re in any kind of serious trouble and need my help, that’s important; and so forth. On the other hand, if you want to justify to me your ideas about writing, that’s not important; if you want to explain your relations with Linda Patrik, that’s not important; and so forth. “I realize that, not knowing very much about the case, I may possibly be wrong about your relations with Linda P. (though I’m probably right), and I don’t doubt that you could be induced to withdraw your threat (contained in your last letter) to send me some of your goofball ideas on language and literature [769] (the last thing I want to hear from you), but it wouldn’t really matter, because if it’s not one thing then it’s another. If you don’t irritate me in this way then you irritate me in that way. “So let’s just call it quits, for the indefinite future. “But remember—you still have my love and loyalty, and if you’re ever in serious need of my help, you can call on me. “—Ted”[770]The letter shows clearly the conflict between my contempt for my brother, on the one hand, and my affection for him, on the other. As for Dave’s claim that I broke off with him “for getting married,” the letter speaks for itself. I will only add that I had actually been hoping that he would get married—to someone who was not in tune with mainstream middle–class values—so that I could have had a niece or nephew. Did I predict accurately the kind of relationship that Dave would have with Linda? I was right on the nose. Well, no, I wasn’t right on the nose—the reality turned out to be even worse than I’d expected. Investigators who have conducted extensive interviews with Dave and Linda have found that she is unmistakably the dominant partner. In fact, at least one investigator went so far as to say that Dave is “utterly dependent” on Linda psychologically. My brother himself told this investigator that ever since his early teens he has regarded Linda as “sacred” (his word). Linda stated that in high school, she and other girls had never thought of Dave as a potential lover—he was only a friend. She never thought of him as a potential lover until he was about twenty–seven or twenty–eight years old.[771] That would correspond to 1977 or 1978. In Chapter XV we shall see that under Linda’s influence, Dave’s attitudes and behavior have been completely transformed. The worst of it is that everything I have learned about Linda Patrik tends to show that she is completely self–centered, and probably ruthless. While I had guessed correctly (more from my knowledge of my brother’s character than from the little I knew about Linda) that Dave would fall under the domination of his wife, I had no idea that she would be as selfish as Linda Patrik seems to be.[772] Linda, moreover, appears to have fairly serious mental problems. She’s been under treatment by her psychiatrist, Dr. Mitchell, at least since 1991, and, reportedly when she was in Paris prior to my arrest and saw newspaper accounts about the Unabomber, she sometimes felt that they were directed at her personally.[773] Linda Patrik was a physically attractive woman who, as a professor of philosophy, occupied a position of fairly high status. Why would she take up with a man like my brother, an unsuccessful would–be writer who had neither good looks, nor virility, nor status, nor, seemingly, anything else that would recommend him to a woman of that type? It is easy to arrive at a plausible guess: She wanted someone whom she could control completely, and from that point of view my brother was ideal. (And, by the way, she doesn’t have to be “manipulative” in order to control him. She can just tell him right out what she wants.) Why, on the other hand, did my brother choose to put himself in servitude to her? Clearly it was an expression of his lifelong tendency to place himself in a position of subordination, to seek someone to look up to and follow, to become dependent. It’s easy to see why he didn’t find me satisfactory as an object for adulation: I didn’t respect his dependence—I wanted him to be independent. Often during my teens, and occasionally in adulthood when I lost my temper, I made my contempt for him all too obvious. Partly for that reason, partly because our parents valued me more than they did him, and partly because of the difference between our respective personalities, he had been gnawed all his life by a resentful sense of inferiority to me. Perhaps equally important, he didn’t choose his subordination to me. As his big brother, I had been imposed on him by chance. In contrast, Linda Patrik was an object of adulation that my brother chose himself. Furthermore—and this would be very important for Dave’s self–esteem—she probably has a certain degree of reciprocal dependence on him, in that she leans on him for a sense of physical security, as is suggested by the following extracts from my mother’s letters:
“Linda is in Greece to teach philosophy. However, when war broke out, classes were cancelled at American University, and she was told to stay put by the American Embassy for the time being because it was too dangerous for Americans to fly out at this time. Americans were asked not to go about much and not to congregate in groups for fear they would become targets for terrorists.”[774] “Dave says she sounds stressed in her phone calls to him, and he’s thinking of flying out to join her. (The college will pay his plane fare.)”[775] “Dave ...[is] in Greece right now ... .”[776]Of course, if there had been a terrorist attack, Dave could have done nothing to protect Linda—he has no fighting skills of any kind—but it must have made him feel like a man for a change to have a woman lean on him for a sense of security. It is easy to form a plausible hypothesis as to the reason why Linda and Dave showed my letters to their psychiatrist; why they tried to persuade a doctor in Missoula to refer me to a psychiatrist, and even discussed the possibility of having me committed to an institution. Knowing Dave, I can be quite sure that he showed Linda my letter (FL #401) in which I argued that she was exploiting him. That letter must have aroused her resentment—all the more because what I wrote was true. The behind–my–back machinations about psychiatrists and mental institutions would have been her way of retaliating against me, and also of driving a wedge between my brother and me so as to eliminate me as a possible rival for his loyalty. Dave would have gone along with her schemes not only because of her dominance over him, but also because of his own deep resentment of me. The truth is that, all his life, my brother’s relationship with me has been bad for him. He probably would have had problems with his self–esteem in any case owing to the inconsistency between his high aspirations and his limited capacity for disciplined effort, but those problems must have been greatly exacerbated by the contrast between himself and his older brother—not to mention his older brother’s cutting criticisms. It would have been better for us both if I had broken off my connection with him at the earliest possible date.
“El Cibolo” must have been written well before Fall, 1990 (that is, at the latest, less than a year after my brother left the desert to live with Linda Patrik), and it is consistently antagonistic toward civilization, especially in its modern form: “He couldn’t...rescue the wilderness. ... Even without entertaining any precise image of the future (spared, mercifully, the sight of paved roads, fences, and power lines [780] infinitely dissecting the miracle of space) ... .”[781]The story also includes a generous dose of bloody revenge and gruesome violence, which my brother treats sympathetically:
“[T]he Apaches let fly their war whoops and the massacre began. It was one of those occasions when a victimized people got the upper hand just long enough to earn notoriety as the aggressor. ...[El Cibolo] cut down several lives with his own strong arm. His garments grew dark and shiny with blood ... . El Cibolo found himself alone among the scattering of bloody and disfigured corpses. But his heart was tranquil ... .”[782]My brother is a vegetarian. When my parents visited me in the early 1980s, my father told me that Dave had become a vegetarian after a fishing trip during which he had gotten sick at the sight of a fish’s death struggles.[783] Even before he became a vegetarian my brother was always squeamish about eating meat. He told me on several occasions that he thought his aversion to meat went back to an incident in which, as a small boy, he had been frightened at the sight of chickens being cut up. When he visited me in Montana in 1986, he mentioned that he thought his vegetarianism might have something to do with the fear of death.[784] Since I was busy with something else at the time, I did not pursue that conversational opening. Now I wish I had done so. It would have been interesting. ** Chapter XV. How my brother’s attitudes changed under Linda Patrik’s influence; why he denounced me to the FBI Let’s look at some of my brother’s attitudes over the years. Over and over again his letters—those written before 1989, when he shacked up with Linda Patrik—show his hostility to the existing system of society. In fact, they express such hostility far more than my letters do.[785] The reader has already seen examples of my brother’s negative attitudes toward present–day society in some of his writings that we’ve quoted earlier. Here are a few more examples:
“The group of us made a visit to Ojinaga, Mexico, and I found myself liking the place very much. ... There is ... a lazyness [sic] about the place which contrasts with American busyness. ...[M]y comparative wealth felt like something to be ashamed of. I bought a beautiful straw hat worth 15–20 dollars in America, for $3, yet the pleasure I ordinarily feel at getting a good deal was complicated by my disgust for the American dollar, and some nebulous image of the sort [of] crimes against decency and proportion which it probably represents.”[786]
“If I had to pick some point of origin for my thoughts, as they presently stand, that origin would probably be your argument against technology. For it was only then that I began to discard the optimistic predilections of naive humanism. And it was important for me to appreciate that technology is not just machines, but a whole method of taking on experience, and moreover, a method which, for all intents and purposes, assumes a will of its own regardless of the human ‘choices’ which arise within its domain.”[787]
“I suppose the tendency to want to cover oneself against every remotely conceivable disaster is a characteristic I retain from my urban life. Perhaps all the different varieties of insurance which people buy reflects this same attitude. ... I expect the basis of anxiety in the urban attitude has little to do with empirical threats, so much as that the empirical threats are manufactured unwittingly to express (and yet to conceal) one’s fear of being ‘naked’ in the world. The sense of being approached by all sorts of future threats, the ultimate of which is death, may be the way people sniff [sic; “snuff” is presumably intended] out, as you suggest, the essential nullity of the promises which draw them all their lives toward the future. Once those promises are seen as being null, then the present loses its justification too ... .”[788]
“There’s one old guy I really enjoy talking to. ... He’d no more go to live in San Antonio or Houston than shoot himself in the head, yet he wants them, or what they represent, in a manner of speaking to come to him. He sort of thinks you can choose the ‘good’ from the ‘bad’, without seriously reflecting on the possibility of achieving that choice, nor questioning whether the so–called ‘good’ by itself might not eventually change his whole life in dramatic and unexpected ways. For instance, he’s an exponent of having our little ranch road paved, and for argument’s sake he likes to count up the number of his eggs that get broken while driving back from town. So much is at stake, and he, of all people, can’t seem to see farther than a few broken eggs!”[789]
“Henry James, talking about electricity: ‘...the white light of convenience that he hated...’”[790]
“[You should expect] at least in my experience and judgement, a far less noxious manifestation of culture in Mexico than in the U.S.”[791] (My brother was referring here to rural and small–town areas of Mexico, not to the heavily urbanized parts.)
“I assume there is a tendency to set up Russia as a straw man to deflect the possibility of introspecting seriously about our own society—i.e., to fuel the more–or–less uncritical assumption that the United States is a ‘free country.’ In other words, we exploit (probably, for the most part unconsciously) the image of Russia as a means of concealing from ourselves the conditions which rule our own way of life just about as rigorously. Viewed in a philosophical way (rather than in terms of private prerogatives which still may exist) our own situation may be more advanced and more hopeless, since our oppressors are not so easily objectified and they act with the subtlety of thought rather than with the awkwardness and crudeness of physical force.”[792]
“I don’t think Joel is suffering acutely, or at least not a lot [sic] more than most of us are, afflicted with the craziness and senselessness of this modern form of life.”[793]
“Naturally [the Mexicans are] not any more reflective than the average person here, and consequently give little thought to what economic development of their country might cost them in terms of their tranquility, the beauty of the countryside, their intimacy with each other and with nature, and even their most prized cultural traditions. I wish I could give you a more optimistic picture, but I suspect that in time the Mexican people will either be debauched by progress or destroyed by the failure of it. At least as long as the population keeps growing rapidly, I don’t see any other possibility.”[794]
“I beg to differ with one of [Lucille Muchmore’s] oft–repeated views, namely that the county road connecting Hwy. 118 with the Terlingua Ranch Lodge needs to be paved. ... “Why anyone who felt the need for a paved road would purposely move to a place that didn’t have one, I don’t know. ... Apparently, some people have fled the crunch of development elsewhere only to realize at a later date that their preference intailed [sic] some cost. Now they would like to have their cake and eat it too ... . “... Now I only wish [Lucille Muchmore] had the consistency to realize that loving the desert truly means loving it as nearly as possible on its own terms.”[795]
“It would be nice to think the organization of our kind of society is gradually breaking down, but I suppose that would be Pollyannaish.”[796]This last extract is from a letter that my brother wrote me in June, 1988. Eight–and–a–half years later he told the Sacramento Bee, “If the government were to put my brother to death, my faith in the system would be shattered.”[797] Whence comes this “faith in the system?” My brother’s attitudes seem to have changed a great deal in eight years! But it doesn’t surprise me. Dave has never had any fixed attitudes, beliefs, or principles. Whatever beliefs or principles he may profess are simply a matter of convenience; as his needs change, his beliefs and principles change with them. He will change his beliefs and principles in order to gain acceptance in a social milieu, to gratify his vanity, to avoid losing an argument, or to justify anything that he has done or wants to do. According to Time:
“‘David is a straight arrow, sensitive and moral...’ notes Father Melvin La Follette, an Episcopal priest and a friend.”[798]Father La Follette would naturally think this, since my brother undoubtedly professed a morality consistent with that of the social milieu to which he belonged in Texas.[799] At other times and places, his moral values have not been exactly what would be acceptable to an Episcopal priest. Back in Lombard in 1978 or ’79, my brother had to take a driver’s test, or had to get his license renewed, or at any rate had to do something or other at a driver’s–license facility. He came back fuming with anger and frustration at the inefficiency of the facility and the long, unnecessary delays he’d had to put up with. As he was venting his complaints, I said in jest, “So let’s go over there some night and throw a brick through their window.” “Okay,” said my brother, apparently in all seriousness, “You wanna do that?” I declined. Needless to say, Dave had neither enough courage nor enough initiative to do it on his own. Once in the spring of 1979, he remarked to me, “I’m not going to worry about morality any more. I used to think that morality was the most important thing in the world, but I’m not going to worry about it any more.” As to his having previously thought that “morality was the most important thing in the world,” I suspect that that had only been some passing fad of his, since he had never talked to me about morality. My brother had a little Datsun car, and at about this same time (1978–’79) he became very dissatisfied with the way his dealer was treating the service agreement—or something along those lines—anyway, whatever the source of his dissatisfaction was, he got angry enough at the dealer that he said to me, “I would seriously consider going over there some night and vandalizing the place.” I mentioned this in a letter to him a couple of years later: “[Y]ou never committed that vandalism against that Datsun dealer as you talked about doing.”[800] How did I know that my brother hadn’t committed the vandalism? He hadn’t told me—I just knew that he had neither enough initiative nor enough courage to do it. I’m referring not so much to physical courage as to the courage to overcome trained–in inhibitions. The inconsistencies in my brother’s attitude toward morality don’t necessarily imply conscious cynicism on his part. I think he believes more–or–less sincerely what he needs to believe at any given moment. I mentioned earlier that he seems to be unconscious of his own inconsistencies. My brother’s letters show that contact with nature was a very important source of fulfillment and satisfaction for him. For example:
“Yes, I do have a lot [sic] more energy when I’m in the desert. Or, to put it another way, a much greater capacity to feel engaged with things. ... It seems like in the city there are always demands which I am fending off with one hand, so to speak. Sometimes I buy cheese, etc. for no other reason than because I don’t want to spend 15 min. cooking rice, whereas in the desert, cooking involved a lot [sic] more ‘trouble,’ but was a positive joy for me. Generally, I think I feel a lot [sic] more ‘inward’ in the city. My senses are kind of muted. ... “Anyway, I find work in the city tends to involve maintaining on–going systems that show no response to me except by breaking down. Negative things happen if you don’t do what is required of you. So my work accomplishes nothing but fending off nebulous disasters (or adding numbers to my bank account). But conversely, for instance, I had an unbelievably good experience digging my hole to sleep in [in the desert]. The impression it made on me was poetic ... .”[801]
“[If I built a cabin t]he lure of indoor comfort would tend to distance me from appreciation of the elements. ... Part of the charm of my present dwelling [the hole in the ground] is that it is serviceable in many ways, but didn’t cost me a penny. There’s a beauty to the perfectly natural warming and cooling effect of the earth. My present dwelling hardly mars the landscape at all, and is surrounded by bushes so that you can’t even see it from close by. Nestled in a sort of burrow, I feel a closer kinship with the way the animals live. ... I have found what you, also, seem to know so well: that with certain reservations, certain small luxuries, the more I simplify my living arrangements the more they seem to please me.”[802] “I’ve been keeping more solitary myself this year, ... in part because I want to learn something more myself from ... the welcoming silence which the desert has been offering to me.”[803]
“I remember dark bird–calls at twilight; a swooping hawk breathing heavily after it landed in a tree one still evening. Having by now mostly overcome my nervousness about sleeping out alone, I enjoyed deep, calm sleeps and awakened in the morning refreshed to greet the bright, open, exquisite faces of the spring cactus–flowers. “The evening of the third day I arrived, with my tongue dragging, at my beloved old campground on the Rio Grande, only to find it virtually doubled in size and crammed almost full with enormous RV’s. Talk about a rude surprise! ... The experience seemed for me like a revelation of sharp despair ... . ... I had to get out of the campground next morning or risk defacing the memories I had so pleasantly stored up ... .” “I took off the next day on a trail I had hiked a few years earlier into the del Carmen mountain range. Here I saw bats at night and tiny humming–birds in the morning. The first evening, there were spectacular thunderheads but only a few drops of rain. ... Higher up, among the surrounding mountain peaks, hawks were visible gliding on currents of air. ...[T]he desert [is] a very safe place to be. Characteristically, I feel alert, calm, and open, which alltogether [sic] I regard as a very enjoyable state of mind.”[804]When my brother came to visit me in Montana in October, 1986, he was on his way back down to Texas after a summer of working as a bus driver in Chicago. Soon after he arrived I remarked that he seemed unusually cheerful. He said that his cheerfulness was due to the fact that he was on his way back to the desert. He added, “If you think I’m cheerful now, you should see me when I’m in the desert!” There is no doubt in my mind that my brother’s appreciation of nature was genuine, and that his times in the desert provided the richest and most fulfilling experiences of his life. Yet when he decided to shack up with Linda Patrik in order to satisfy whatever need of his own (see Chapter XIV, p. 385), he did not hesitate to sell out to the system and betray the wilderness by becoming part of the consumer society that, a short time before, he had abhorred. He had written me at some time between February and April of 1988:
“I found myself drawing parallels to our own society. The cycle of credit and consumption; the addiction to a lifestyle that hinders any fuller self–realization; a resulting spiritual brutalization ... .”[805]“Less than two years later, Ralph Meister informed me by letter that Dave had bought himself a brand new pickup truck.[806] At the same time my brother began wearing forty–five–dollar shirts and other expensive clothing that Linda bought for him.[807] At some point he had electricity installed at his cabin so that Linda could use her computer there, and he put in a driveway.[808] He cut off his beard and long hair, and a published photograph shows him with hair that appears to have been “done” by a professional stylist.[809] (I recall my brother making contemptuous remarks at some point between 1978 and 1981 about rebels of the 1960s who had later sold out and adopted a bourgeois lifestyle. See Chapter VIII, pp. 232, 233.)
“[T]he thought that a family member—our flesh and blood—may have been responsible for harming other people; destroying families, is—it—it brings such deep regret and sorrow.”[810] “[I]f, God forbid, I were in a position to prevent more lives from being lost, I couldn’t do otherwise.”[811] “Certainly my interest from the beginning was to protect life.” [812] “Violence and the taking of human life is not a way to resolve human problems. It can’t work.” [813]As a matter of fact, history shows that it very often does work. Be that as it may, my brother’s explanations of his motive for going to the FBI come across as a string of stereotypical platitudes. It is a curious fact that when my brother describes his feelings with complete sincerity, his speech and writing are never trite or stereotyped; instead, his language is often vividly expressive. But when vanity interferes with sincerity in his “creative” writing, he sometimes uses hackneyed turns of speech. Much more marked is the triteness of his language when he is trying to deceive himself or others about his own feelings; in such cases, his expression often, though not always, becomes distinctly flat and stereotyped. Compare the passages we’ve just quoted with the extracts from my brother’s letters that we’ve reproduced in this and earlier chapters. In face–to–face relations, my brother is generally compassionate, and I indicated at the end of the last chapter that he has sometimes shown himself to be quite squeamish at the sight of suffering or gruesomeness. But I can’t recall any instance in which he ever expressed concern about suffering that he didn’t witness personally and that wasn’t inflicted on anyone he knew. I don’t remember him ever expressing regret at assassinations, disasters, or even the brutality of war. It is certain that through most of his life he has not had any principled opposition to violence. For a brief time after the assassination of Robert F. Kennedy, he expressed fervent admiration for Sirhan Sirhan. He said that he envied Sirhan’s fanatical commitment to a purpose for which he was prepared to sacrifice everything. One evening at his apartment in Great Falls, he casually remarked, “I should become a criminal—of the senseless kind.” (This, of course, was only a fantasy; I knew and I think my brother knew that he would never take any practical steps toward putting it into effect.) After John Hinckley’s attempt to assassinate President Reagan, Dave wrote me:
“Reagan has recovered, I regret to inform you. ... Another bullet hit Reagan’s secretary in the head. Naturally, he’s alright.”[814] (Translated from bad Spanish.)When he visited me in Montana in 1986, my brother expressed satisfaction at the Challenger disaster, even though several astronauts had been killed, because it was a blow to the pretensions of the space program. Knowing him as I do, I am certain that if Dave had known of the Unabomber before 1989, he would have regarded him as a hero. Dave’s claim that he and Linda went to the FBI in order to “save lives” is further undercut by the fact that the Unabomber had promised to stop the bombings if his conditions were met. Dave and Linda must have known about the promise, since it was well publicized. In fact, the New York Times wrote:
“Professor Patrik ... read a surge of news accounts about the Unabomber. The articles told of ... the Unabomber’s promise to cease the bombings if the manuscript was published.”[815]My brother knew that I am reliable about keeping promises and that, if I were the Unabomber, there would be no more bombings as long as the conditions were met. Since the manifesto had already been published, the Unabomber was not to resume his attacks unless the media refused to publish his three follow–up messages; [816] which was unlikely given that they had published the manifesto. In any case, if my brother was worried about that possibility, he could have sent me a message (an anonymous one, if he thought that necessary) stating that he suspected me of being the Unabomber and that he would give my name to the FBI if there were any more bombings. If I were the Unabomber, that would have been an effective deterrent. So why did Dave and Linda denounce me to the FBI? I know my brother well enough to be fairly confident in guessing—to an approximation, anyway—what his motives were. Since Dave’s lack of initiative is such that he doesn’t take decisive action until prodded by someone else, the first impulse would have been provided by Linda. This is supported by media reports, for whatever they may be worth.[817] Linda’s motive likely would have been vindictive: She had probably hated me ever since reading what I wrote about her in my 1989 letter to Dave (FL #401, reproduced in Chapter XIV). Once well embarked on the course that Linda had set for him, Dave would have held to it tenaciously until—barring clear proof that I was not the Unabomber—he ended it by bringing me to the attention of the FBI. This is confirmed by a letter that Susan Swanson (Dave and Linda’s investigator) sent to Newsweek:
“YOUR ARTICLE ON DAVID KACZYNSKI ... conveyed the mistaken impression that he had to be pushed into contacting the FBI regarding his suspicions about his brother, Ted. ... I would like to set the record straight. ...[H]e never waffled or stalled.”[818]Dave was motivated by his tendency to see me as a tyrannical aggressor in any conflict in which I was involved (see Chapter IX, pp. 254–256), and by the (probably unadmitted) hatred that he bore me because of his own sense of inferiority, and because of the fact that, to my shame, I had many times said things that hurt him cruelly. Above all, I think he wanted to exert power over me and feel that he was victorious over me. This does not mean that he had no conflicting feelings about his course of action. On the contrary, his resentful impulses had to overcome his very real affection for me and a strong sense of guilt over what he was doing. This guilt is indicated, for example, by his having tried to get the FBI to conceal permanently the fact that it was he who brought my name to their attention.[819] Apparently he was ashamed of what he was doing. Very likely Linda kept prodding him along, and this would have been important to him in that it provided him with support and enabled him to feel that he alone was not responsible for the action that was being taken. He also turned for support to his friend Dale Es.[820] But, in my opinion, even without any support from anyone, once Dave felt that a decisive victory over big brother was within his grasp, he would have carried the affair through to a conclusion—though without admitting to himself that he was impelled by resentment. Being an adept rationalizer, he would have had no difficulty in providing himself with an unselfish motive. Of course, after the FBI had been contacted, the matter was out of his hands, and from that point on he was simply manipulated by the Feds. His deposition shows how naive he was and how easily he swallowed the FBI’s lies.[821] Though I’m fairly sure that the foregoing reconstruction of what went on in my brother’s mind is more or less correct, I have to admit that it is to a degree speculative, so the reader is at liberty to remain skeptical about it. But we have clearly established in the course of this book that my brother does have a very real and strong (though perhaps unconscious) resentment of me, and we showed a few pages back that a concern for human life was not likely to be the major part of his motive for denouncing me to the FBI. He claims that his motive for representing me in the media as mentally ill is to save me from the death penalty, and the implication is that he is impelled by concern for my welfare, but here again his motives are not exactly what he pretends. It’s quite true that Dave doesn’t want me to get the death penalty, but the reason has little to do with concern for my welfare. He knows very well that imprisonment is to me an unspeakable humiliation and that I would unhesitatingly choose death over incarceration. In his story, “El Cibolo,” he shows that he understands and appreciates this point of view:
“So this, El Cibolo thought, was imprisonment: the denial of every gift, especially beauty and space ... .”[822] “[El Cibolo] would be expecting death hourly, and even supposing the indictment intended exactly what it said, what were the probabilities he could survive the deliberations of a court that was notoriously ruthless in defending the interests of the empire? If justice were a sham, perhaps it was just as well to abbreviate [with death] the inevitable misery and humiliation, for at least now he could be consoled that he went to his grave in the full flower of his dignity and manhood.”[823]Precisely what my brother wants is to deprive me of my dignity and manhood, to humiliate me and bring me low, in revenge for his own feelings of inferiority and humiliation; feelings for which I was partly (but only partly) responsible through the way I had treated him when we were kids and through the cutting things I had said to him on certain occasions in adulthood. He did not want me to die, but that was not from concern for me, it was simply because he is chicken–hearted. As I pointed out at the end of Chapter XIV, he is frightened of the crude and obvious cruelty of death. In his statements to the media he repeatedly mentioned how terrible he would feel if I were put to death; he made no reference to my feelings on the subject. It was his own pain and not mine that he was worrying about:
“‘It would be very, very difficult to live with myself,’ David said, ‘knowing that I had delivered my injured, disturbed brother over to be killed.’”[824] “David, for his part, said he would ‘suffer in the extreme’ if his brother were given the death penalty. “‘I would be plunged into hell for the rest of my life,’ he said, ‘and I don’t think I deserve that.’”[825]But my brother’s motive for lying about me to the media was not only to save me from the death penalty. In fact, that motive was less important than his desire to inflict further humiliation on me. This can be shown in four ways. First: Some of the things he said to the media could only have increased my risk of getting the death penalty. For instance, the fact that I was abused psychologically by my parents would win sympathy for me that presumably would decrease the likelihood of my being sentenced to death, yet we saw near the end of Chapter III that my brother went out of his way to deny that the abuse had occurred, even though he knew very well that it had. Did he do this in order to protect our mother from public embarrassment? If so, then he was weighing our mother’s mere embarrassment against my life or death. Since our mother had clearly wronged me, one would think that she ought to be expected to put up with the embarrassment of having the truth revealed, especially since my life was at stake. In addition, my brother denied our father’s abuse of me, even though our father was dead. If he thought it would be too cruel to our mother to have even our father’s abusiveness revealed, he could at least have had the grace to remain silent on the subject; but instead he described our father as “always generous”[826] and said that “Both parents were warm and nurturing.”[827] There is no way this could have been motivated by a desire either to save me from the death penalty or to protect our mother. Besides denying the abuse, my brother made a number of statements about me that made me look mean and therefore, one would suppose, increased my risk of receiving the death penalty. For example, according to the New York Times, he described me as “overbearing” [828] and “incapable of sympathy, insight, or simple connection with people,” [829] and he accused me of “imperious put–downs.”[830] And, as I showed in Chapter X, pp. 290, 291, he took a “hard line” in portraying to the media my role in the Ellen Tarmichael affair, rather than admitting (as he’d done earlier by implication) that there were circumstances that mitigated my behavior. He claimed he was trying to “humanize” me,[831] but he said only a few things that tended to do that; his portrait of me was on balance repellent and hardly likely to win the sympathy of a jury. Second: After my brother’s and mother’s interviews with the New York Times and the Washington Post, and on 60 Minutes, my attorneys made it quite clear to Dave that by giving media interviews he was not helping but harming my legal position. On October 24, 1996, in Investigator #3’s office in San Francisco, with Dr. K. present, Investigator #3 told Dave that the kind of publicity he was creating was causing me emotional distress to such an extent that it was interfering with my ability to cooperate with my lawyers in preparing my defense. Dave seemed to acknowledge that he heard and understood.[832] Yet in January, 1997, my brother gave another media interview of the same kind as the earlier ones.[833] At this point he could hardly have claimed that he didn’t know he was harming me. Third: Since agreeing to a plea bargain in January 1998, I have been out of danger of the death penalty, On February 22, 1998, my brother gave an interview to the Schenectady Sunday Gazette according to which, “David Kaczynski said his convictions about his brothers mental illness have alienated him from a brother whom he still loves deeply. ‘It seems like every word I speak is a dagger to my brother’s heart,’ he said.” Yet Dave has continued to give interviews to which he lies about me and talks about my alleged mental illness (e.g. People magazine August 10, 1998), even though he no longer has the excuse that he is trying to save me from the death penalty. Fourth: In his media interviews, Dave described events in language that seemed to have been chosen to make me appear guilty. In fact, the prosecuting attorneys in my case quoted his statements to the media several times in their brief opposing the Motion to Suppress Evidence that my attorneys filed on my behalf:
“The truthfulness of the affidavit and its supporting reports is strongly supported by David Kaczynski’s post–search public statements. For example, about two weeks [sic; actually it was twenty days, or nearly three weeks] before David executed his declaration in this case, the Sacramento Bee quoted him as discussing the phrase ‘cool–headed logician’ as follows: ‘I thought, “Who else have I ever heard use that expression but Ted?” No one. It’s got to be him.’ See Cynthia Hubert, Role in Capture Haunts Kaczynski’s Brother, Sacramento Bee, Jan. 19, 1997, at A1 (attached as Exhibit 33). During an interview with the New York Times printed on May 26, 1996, David stated that when he first read the introductory section of the UNABOM manuscript his ‘jaw dropped,’ and he experienced ‘chills,’ because ‘it sounded enough like him that I was really upset that it could be him.’ See David Johnson & Janny Scott, UNABOM Manifesto Horrified Brother, Sacramento Bee, May 26, 1996 (reprinted from N. Y. Times) ... .”[834]Thus it is clear that my brother did not give his media interviews in order to “help” me, but because merely bringing about my arrest was not a sufficient revenge for him—he had to rub shit in my face by subjecting me to public humiliation. Nevertheless—my brother has cooperated with my attorneys by participating in several interviews with them and with Dr. K., and he signed for them a declaration that they used with their Motion to Suppress Evidence. And after one of my attorneys had described to him the miseries of being in jail, Dave wrote me a letter (October 30, 1996) in which he said:
“I both fear and in a gut sense know the effect this must be having on you. I know that I am the immediate cause of this suffering. I’ve passed through periods of denial, in which I tried to convince myself that my actions might even have helped you. But all of that is over now. I have had to glimpse my own cruelty ... . I’m so, so sorry for what I’ve done and for how it hurts you.”[835]My brother is a ship without a rudder, blown this way and that way by the wind. His attitudes, beliefs, behavior, and professed principles change in accord with the emotions of the moment and the influence of the people he is among at any given time. After recovering from the paroxysm of guilt that was expressed in the foregoing letter, he gave the interview to the Sacramento Bee even though, as was noted earlier, he knew that by doing so he was harming me emotionally and interfering with the preparation of my defense. While he was with people who supported me, that is my attorneys, he was overcome with remorse, but when he got back to Linda, Wanda, and their circle of friends in Schenectady—people who probably told him he was a “hero” for denouncing his brother—he regained his nerve and treated himself to another round of rubbing shit in my face with the Bee interview.[836] The fact that my brother both loves me and hates me is not very remarkable in itself. It is not uncommon for people to have strongly conflicting feelings toward one another, or for relationships to alternate between hostility and affection. What is remarkable is the seeming lack of connection between the two aspects of my brother’s personality; they do not seem to be integrated with one another. When he is being friendly with me or generous toward me he speaks and acts as if his resentment did not exist, and it is possible that he is completely unconscious of that aspect of his feelings toward me. At any rate, it seems clear that he is unwilling to face up to it and think about it or talk about it. Though I mentioned in my letters the indications of his resentment toward me,[837] he never discussed the issue and never denied or clearly admitted that he had any such resentment. The nearest he ever came to admitting even that the issue existed was after my first apology [838] for having harassed him when we were kids. He then wrote:
“I thank you for ... your sympathetic understanding of what may have surfaced at times as resentment on my part.”[839]And that was all he ever said about his resentment. It is possible that my brother’s hatred is “dissociated” in the psychiatric sense of the word.[840] But, not being a shrink, I will speculate no further in that direction.
“[O]ne day a reporter came in [to the library] from the Sacramento Bee and asked for an interview and we told him no. Then he asked us for just some general information about you and the arrest, and the town, just for background information. He said that it would be off the record. I said ok, and went to file books as we talked. After a while I heard Mary ask him why he was writing if this was all off record and then he said he had changed his mind and decided to put it on record. We both immediately shut up and then asked him to leave, after we told him what a rat we thought he was. He did then go on to print an article and made it sound like I gave him an interview voluntarily. ... I do not trust the press ... .”[855]Unmistakably conscious lies about concrete facts are relatively infrequent in the media. False statements are extremely common, but it is clear that many of them are simply the result of negligence, and it is often impossible to distinguish the intentional falsehoods from the negligent ones. In the May 26, 1996, New York Times articles about me, I counted at least 42 clear errors of fact, in addition to the two intentional lies that we cited earlier. To give just a few examples: The Times states that my father “loved to go hunting.”[856] To my knowledge he hunted once, and only once, in his life. The Times states that my mother was “familiar with science.” [857] In reality she doesn’t know as much science as the average fifth–grader. The Times states that the car I bought in 1967 was used.[858] In fact, it was new. The Times has my father’s employment history badly garbled.[859] Etc., etc., etc. Other national news sources didn’t do much better than the New York Times. Thus Time Magazine wrote that I had “an outhouse out back” and a root cellar below my cabin, that I had volumes of Thackeray, that I sometimes stayed inside for weeks at a stretch [860] (all of which are false) ... the errors just go on and on and on. The errors we’ve just been citing are probably inadvertent ones that resulted merely from excessively sloppy reporting, since it isn’t clear what motive the media would have for lying in these cases. But when false statements are made that tend to incriminate me, or tend to make me seem repellent or despicable, it is often difficult to tell whether the falsehoods are accidental or malicious. For example, when Time reported that I had “bomb manuals” in my cabin [861] (which is false), were they lying purposely or were they just relaying false information that they had received from some FBI agent? When Newsweek wrote, “Ted continued to take handouts from his brother—a few thousand dollars in money orders over the years,” was the falsehood intentional or only the result of sloppiness in collecting facts? [862] Thus far I have been discussing only false assertions made by the media themselves concerning concrete factual matters. But there also have been falsehoods of other types. One of these types I call the “irresponsible quote.” A newspaper or magazine protects itself from the accusation of falsehood by means of little phrases like, “Jones said...” or “according to Smith ... .” For example, the New York Times wrote: “Butch Gehring ... said he once heard [Ted] complain about his costs rising to $300 from $200 a year,”[863] which is false. The Times also quoted a former neighbor of mine,[Le] Roy Weinberg, to the effect that as a kid I “didn’t play,”[864] a statement so implausible on its face that it should have aroused any reporter’s suspicion. What is much more serious, the Times quoted irresponsible statements that tended to incriminate me: “Stacie Frederickson, a Greyhound agent in Butte, remembered ticketing Mr. Kaczynski—‘a geeky–looking guy’—about 15 times on intercity buses south to Salt Lake City or west to the Coast.”[865] Frederickson’s statement is false. “At a Burger King restaurant next to the bus terminal in Sacramento, Mike Singh, the manager, remembered [Ted]. He was carrying what appeared to be an armful of books. He had a sandwich and a cup of coffee and left. Mr. Kaczynski took a room at the Royal Hotel, next door to the bus station. A desk clerk, Frank Hensley, remembered him because he stayed there periodically in recent years, usually in spring or summer, for three days to a week at a time. He used the name Conrad to sign the registration book ... .”[866] Singh’s and Hensley’s statements also are false. If Frederickson, Singh, and Hensley didn’t simply invent their stories, then they have confused me with someone else. In earlier chapters we discussed many other false statements about me that have been quoted in the New York Times or other national news sources, and—it must be emphasized—there have been so many others (even in the New York Times alone) that it would be impractical for me to try to mention all of them. I haven’t even tried to count them. As experienced journalists, the New York Times’s reporters and staff writers are well aware that, especially in highly publicized cases, there are a great many people who will make statements that are false or grossly distorted, either because they are stupid, or because they want to see their names in the paper, or for some other reason. Yet the New York Times and other national and local periodicals have quoted the uncorroborated words of any jerk who has taken it into his head to talk to the media, and they have done so without warning their readers that the quoted material is highly unreliable. Among the large numbers of unverified statements that are available, do the media select for quotation those that give a story the slant that the editors want? They probably do, though it is difficult to prove it. It is worth noting that almost all of the false statements that have been published about me in periodicals of national circulation have been negative or neutral; only a rare few have been positive. There is yet another way in which the media purvey falsehood, and in this case there cannot be the slightest doubt that intentional slanting is involved. Journalists will make negative statements about an individual that are so vague that there is no way they can ever be definitely proved or disproved, yet by repeating such statements over and over again throughout an article they can give their readers a decidedly false impression of the individual in question. Robert D. McFadden’s article in the New York Times provides an excellent example of this technique. The article appears under the headline, “The Tortured Genius of Theodore Kaczynski.”[867] In reality I am neither tortured nor a genius. McFadden proceeds to assert that in my Montana cabin I “watched dying embers flicker visions of a wretched humanity.” [868] I did nothing of the kind. The next paragraph states that mathematics was the “sole passion of [my] life” and then it was “suddenly dead .” [869] Actually, mathematics was never the sole passion of my life, and my interest in it declined not suddenly but gradually, over a period of years. McFadden then describes my undergraduate days at Harvard as “humiliating.” [870] They had their bad points, certainly, but I never felt that they were humiliating. He describes the lines at the corners of my mouth as “obstinate,” [871] but there is no rational evidence that they have anything to do with obstinacy. In his fifth paragraph, McFadden speaks of my supposed “instabilities”, “obsessions,” and “rigidities” [872] without presenting any rational evidence that I was unstable, obsessed, or rigid, and he goes on to say that I “deteriorated” until my family “did not recognize” me,[873] which is sheer fantasy. The article rambles along endlessly in the same vein. Most of these assertions are so indefinite that it would be virtually impossible ever to prove them false. How would one prove that one has no “instabilities” or that one has not “deteriorated?” The words are just too vague. It might be possible to disprove a few of the assertions if one wanted to take the trouble; for example, I might be able to document the fact that mathematics was never the sole passion of my life. But I would have to devote several pages to this seemingly trivial point, and in doing so I would look ridiculous because I would appear to be making a mountain out of a molehill. I would look even more ridiculous if I tried to prove that I am not “tortured”, since the word was never meant to be taken literally anyway; it was used only for its emotional impact. Yet emotional language and indefinite assertions of the kind used by McFadden, when repeated over and over, can quite successfully portray an individual as a repellent sicko. Needless to say, the New York Times is not the only periodical that uses this technique. The method is applied quite generally in the news media. Before my arrest—that is, before I had the opportunity to compare what I know to be the truth with what the media say—if someone had told me how dishonest the media are I would never have believed it. Since my arrest I have talked with a number of lawyers, investigators, jail personnel, and law enforcement officers who in their daily work have seen the difference between what they have personally experienced and what the media report, and they have all told me that most journalists have little regard for truth and little hesitation about embroidering their stories. As one very able lawyer expressed it to me, “These people are animals—animals!” See Appendix 7. Why do journalists stretch the truth as far as they do? For one thing, the news media are supported mainly by advertising, and to sell advertising space they need a large audience. They know that the public is more attracted by a dramatic story that portrays someone as a hero or a villain than by a sober, careful, balanced account. For another thing, the media are controlled by people who are committed to the system because it is from their position in the system that they get their power and their status. Consequently, the media constitute a kind of cheerleading squad for the system and its values. Journalists who don’t cooperate with the system’s propaganda line are not hired by major news outlets and that is why the news media uniformly support the basic values of the system. It is also why they portray as a villain or a sicko anyone who appears to be a threat to those values. In my case, the FBI quickly succeeded in convincing the media (through dishonest tactics that we will discuss later) that I was probably the Unabomber. Journalists must have realized that my identification as the Unabomber was uncertain, since the FBI is known to have railroaded innocent people in the past, but they knew that they could attract a bigger audience by jumping on the bandwagon and trumpeting to the world the capture of the supposed Unabomber than by publishing a sober account that retained rational skepticism.[874] Moreover, the Unabomber had attacked the basic values of the system in a strikingly effective way; hence, once they had accepted the assumption that I was the Unabomber, the media had to maintain the propaganda line by depicting me as a repellent sicko. During the first months following my arrest I repeatedly asked my lawyers about the possibility of suing some of these people for libel, but they told me that it probably wouldn’t be worth the trouble, because the very volume of publicity about me had made me into a “public figure,” and the libel laws concerning “public figures” made it very difficult for any such person to win a libel suit. The statement I made earlier, that the major news media uniformly support the basic values of the system, may be questioned by some readers who notice that it is not uncommon for the media to criticize various aspects of the system. But there is a difference between questioning aspects and questioning basic values of the system. The media criticize, for example, corruption, police brutality, and racism whenever they appear in the system, but in doing so they are not criticizing the system itself or its basic values, they are criticizing diseases of the system. Corruption, police brutality, and racism are all bad for the system, and by criticizing them the media are helping to strengthen the system. On infrequent occasions the major news media do allow cautious criticism of some of the system’s basic values.[875] But such criticism is expressed in more–or–less abstract terms that keep it remote from the sphere of practical action. The attitude is always, “Isn’t it too bad that such–and–such; but after all we just have to accept it and live with it as best we can.” No one is ever encouraged to do anything that might actually upset the workings of the system.
“‘If you mean to tell me,’ said an editor to me, ‘that Esquire tries to have articles on important issues and treats them in such a way that nothing can come of it—who can deny it?’”[876] —Paul Goodman, Growing up Absurd.Criticisms of the system that appear in the media constitute one of the safety valves that help to relieve the average man’s resentment; and moreover they provide the illusion of independent–minded journalism. Thus they help to deaden the impulse to real, substantial, fundamental dissent.
“The United States acknowledges that government personnel have disclosed to members of the press certain details of the search of Kaczynski’s cabin and of the government’s investigation. Although there is no evidence that these disclosures were made with the intent to influence legal proceedings [ha!], such disclosures were improper and contrary to Department of Justice policy.”[877]FBI Director Louis Freeh and Attorney General Janet Reno must have known about the massive disclosures to the press within a day or so after they began. In fact, Freeh issued the following directive on April 4:
“To protect the integrity of this investigation and prosecution, I am reminding you of our ‘bright line’ policy, and there is to be no discussion with the media regarding any aspect of this case. It is not only distressing to both me and the Attorney General, but to every person who has worked so tirelessly on this matter over the last several years, to read and hear investigative information in the press. It is destructive to provide that information and must not continue to happen [sic].”[878]But the disclosures continued for several days. There cannot be the slightest doubt that Louis Freeh and Janet Reno could have stopped most of the disclosures immediately if they had wanted to, because this was not just a matter of a dribble of information leaking out covertly; the disclosures were on a massive scale.[879] The lawyer who was then representing me, Michael Donahoe, told me that FBI agents involved in the search were openly taking items of alleged evidence from the cabin, showing them to representatives of the media, and explaining (not necessarily truthfully) what they were.[880] Yet Freeh and Reno allowed the disclosures to go on until, on April 17, Freeh issued a statement:
“I ordered an investigation early this month of whether any FBI employees have leaked investigative information from the UNABOM case. ... Unauthorized disclosure of investigative information or other confidential material will lead to immediate firing from the FBI and possible prosecution.”[881]By that time, my attorney Michael Donahoe had already filed a motion to dismiss the charges against me on the grounds that the publicity had irrevocably destroyed my right to a fair trial.[882] In denying this motion, Judge Charles C. Lovell relied in part on the statement of Louis Freeh that we have just quoted:
“Judge Freeh [Lovell wrote] has ordered an investigation, and he has promised dismissals and prosecution for any government officials releasing confidential information.”[883]On August 29, 1996, my attorney Quin Denvir wrote to Robert Cleary, Special Attorney to the U.S. Attorney General and chief prosecutor in my case:
“Dear Mr. Cleary: “On April 4, 1996 [sic; should be April 17], FBI Director Louis J. Freeh issued a directive stating, inter al, that the FBI’s Office of Professional Responsibility was conducting an investigation into the leakage of information regarding the Unabom case and that ‘unauthorized disclosure of investigative information or other confidential information will lead to immediate firing from the FBI and possible prosecution.’ In denying Mr. Kaczynski’s Montana motion regarding the leakage of information, the district court relied upon that statement of Director Freeh. (RT, p. 13.) I am writing to inquire as to whether the FBI Office of Professional Responsibility has conducted its investigation in this regard and whether any FBI personnel have been fired or otherwise disciplined as a result of that investigation.”[884]Mr. Denvir has told me that as of mid–October, 1997, he has received no answer to this letter. It’s obvious that Janet Reno and Louis Freeh never seriously intended to prevent the unauthorized disclosures or punish the agents responsible for them. The disclosures were made with the acquiescence (if not the covert encouragement) of Reno and Freeh, because the Justice Department knew that the warrant for the search of my cabin had been issued without probable cause. By trying me in the media and creating a public presumption of my guilt, they hoped to make it difficult for a judge to suppress the alleged evidence seized from my cabin on the grounds that the warrant was invalid.
“THIRTY–FOURTH WEEK. Dates, from JAN. 8. to JAN. 15 [1943]. “Baby says Ma–ma only to mother and sometimes to aunt. Usually says this when mother appears after not being seen for sometime [sic], or when child is sleepy [sic] or hungry. Will also say it when playing with mother. We think he associates ‘Mama’ now with the proper object. ...[From nine–month inventory of the baby’s development:]
“Does he use any word or sound for a definite purpose? Yes Describe Sometimes says Ma–Ma and sometimes goes uh–uh. ... “FORTY–THIRD WEEK [the week after my return from the hospital]. Dates, from 3/12 to 3/19 [1943] “... When asked, ‘Where’s Ma–Ma?’ baby looks around at mother. ... “FIFTIETH WEEK. Dates, from 4–30 to 5–7 [1943] ... Repeated ma–ma, bye–bye after his mother...” “FIFTY–SECOND WEEK. Dates, from 5–14 to 5–21 [1943] “... He understands: just a minute; come here; how pretty; milk; ni, ni; don’t do that; look; show ma–ma; nice; no, no. ...[From the one–year inventory of the baby’s development:]
“List the words used by the child at one year of age Ma–Ma, Da–da; We’re not sure he understands their meaning, tho when crying he often says ma–ma and we think he’s calling his mother.”Now, was I really screaming “Mommy, Mommy” at the age of nine months, or has my mother’s overactive imagination run away with her again?
“The image still haunts Wanda Kaczynski. She can still see the photograph of her baby son, pinned down on his hospital bed. ... “He was terrified, spread–eagled ... . His eyes, usually normal, were crossed in fear. “A few years later, the family pediatrician showed her and Ted, then 4, the awful photograph the hospital had left in his record. Ted was pinned down so the physicians could photograph his hives. ‘Ted glanced at it and looked away,’ she recalled. ‘He refused to look at it any more. ...’”My mother gave a similar story in (Ra) Oral Report from Dr. K., February 12 and 27, 1997. I do not remember having seen the photograph at age 4. When I was perhaps about ten years old my regular pediatrician, Dr. Francis Wright (whom I remember with respect and affection), showed me the photograph (not in the presence of my mother) and remarked with a chuckle that I was quite a sight. And so I was. I clearly remember that in the picture I was puffy–looking and blotched with hives, and that the expression of my face was glum and not “terrified.” I felt no particular emotional response and did not find the picture difficult to look at. I recall no indication that I was “pinned down,” but I do not remember enough to assert that there was no such indication. The photograph apparently has not survived, so there is no way of resolving the question now. As for the claim that my eyes were “crossed in fear,” Dr. K. told me that my mother told her ((Ra), Oral Report from Dr. K., February 12 and 27, 1997) that my eyes were crossed in the photograph and that they were never crossed at any other time. On February 12, 1998, I asked Dr. K. to confirm this, and she said she did not remember it and could not find it in her notes. On February 18, 1998, I asked Investigator #2 whether he/she remembered Dr. K.’s statement. Investigator #2 responded affirmatively and put it in writing for me: “Wanda reported that Ted’s eyes were never crossed other than in a photo of him taken during the hospitalization as a nine month old.” (Qc) Written Reports by Investigator #2, p. 6. Characteristically, my mother is remembering here only what it is convenient for her to remember. If my eyes were crossed in the photograph there is no particular reason to believe that fear had anything to do with it, since from earliest infancy I had a tendency to have crossed eyes that I eventually outgrew, but not until I was at least six years old. Here are the relevant passages from the Baby Book and the medical records. May, 1942: “.. . Slight strabismus [crossed eyes]...” (Ea) Med Records of TJK, U. Chi., p. 6. (This entry is undated, but its content makes clear that it refers to an examination made shortly after my birth.)
“THIRD WEEK. Dates, from June 5 [1942] to June [illegible] “Eyes cross as he stares hard at lights or bright objects.” (Be) Baby Book, p.73. “FOURTH WEEK. Dates, from June [illegible] to June 19 [1942] ... His eyes seemed to jirk [sic] uncertainly in the direction of the pencil, at the same time crossing and uncrossing. ...” (Be) Baby Book, p. 74.” “TWENTY–SIXTH WEEK. Dates, from Nov. 13 to Nov. 20 [1942] “... Neither we nor doctor can quite decide whether or not baby’s eyes are slightly crossed.” (Be) Baby Book, p. 88. “Dec 27 1948 ... Eyes turn in? ... Teacher has noted that his eyes turn in occasionally when he is reading. Mother has not noted any such thing ... .” (Ea) Med Records of TJK, U. Chi., p. 46.
“While I was still a baby, I’ve been told, I was hospitalized 3 times. Once I pulled a kettle of boiling water over myself. Another time I fell on my chin with my tongue between my teeth, splitting it ... . At one time I became covered all over with swelling ... it was due to an allergy to eggs.” (Ab) Autobiog of TJK 1959, p. 1.In reality, the tongue injury and the scalding must have been much less serious than my mother represented them to be, since I was hospitalized for neither of them. For the tongue injury see (Ea) Med Records of TJK, U. Chi, April 29, 1944, p. 25: “Time of arrival 1:00 p.m. Seen by M.D. 1:15 Sent home 1:50.” As for the scalding, (Be) Baby Book, p. 113 has:
“FORTY–FIFTH WEEK. Dates, from 3/26 to 4/2 [1943] ... Teddy was scalded with hot coffee. After the physician’s treatment the baby quieted down & apparently felt no pain but during the next three or four days he showed signs of having had a shock. He slept a great deal & was quieter than usual.” “That is all that the Baby Book says about the scalding incident. I’ve been able to find no mention of it in the surviving medical records, so I was probably treated not at the University of Chicago hospitals, but by a neighborhood physician (possibly a Dr. Polk, whom I remember from my earliest childhood). The following week, on April 6, 1943, I was taken to the University of Chicago hospitals for a diphtheria–tetanus injection. This could not have been more than eleven days after the scalding, yet the medical record of this visit makes no mention of the scalding or of any apparent injury to the skin. So the burns were probably only first degree. This shows how wildly my mother will exaggerate and dramatize. See (Ea) Med Records of TJK, U. Chi., April 6, 1943, p. 12.
“In 1958, the dean of freshmen, Dean [Skiddy] Von Stade, decided that as an experiment, all of the underage freshmen who were entering Harvard after only three years of high school, in addition to any freshmen who were noted as being particularly gifted, should be housed by themselves in 8 Prescott, away from all of the normal freshmen [!?]. The house was made up of 15 boys, including Ted, and the dorm proctor, Dr. Murphy. “Dr. Murphy had formerly been studying to be a Jesuit priest. Dean Von Stade chose Dr. Murphy to be the dorm proctor for 8 Prescott because he wanted the house to be run like a monastery [!??]. ... “Most of the boys living in 8 Prescott were fairly serious about their academics. They were generally young, bright and eccentric. Despite the fact that many of the boys had unusual qualities, they got along with each other and made friends easily. ... Ted was the one boy in 8 Prescott who did not have any friends. ... “All of the boys from 8 Prescott ate in the Harvard Union along with all of the other Harvard freshmen. In the beginning of the spring semester, someone who worked in the kitchen alerted Dean Von Stade that Ted always ate at a table by himself. Dean Von Stade then asked some of the other boys why they did not eat with Ted.”[888]At this point I find myself obliged to confess to a degree of skepticism. It hardly seems likely that the kitchen help would go to the dean about a student who usually ate by himself. And I doubt that Von Stade would personally have asked the boys about me; instead, he would have requested Murphy to ask them. Harvard deans in 1958 were not in the habit of fraternizing with freshmen. If this tale has any truth in it at all, it’s more probable that Murphy himself talked about me to Von Stade and also to the boys. Why he tells the story in the form he does is anybody’s guess. To continue with the investigator’s report:
“The boys responded [to Dean Von Stade] that Ted was unkempt. They complained that Ted never changed his clothing or showered. The boys said that Ted smelled bad and they did not want to sit near him.”[889]This is implausible. My mother had trained me thoroughly in certain simple principles of cleanliness: brushing my teeth and washing my face every day and showering or bathing perhaps two or three times a week. At the end of the two weeks that I spent at summer camp at the age of thirteen, the counselors told my father that I was the only kid in my group of maybe eight boys who consistently brushed his teeth and washed his face daily. While I was at Harvard I was still firmly under the sway of my mother’s principles and abided by them strictly. I must have showered at least three times a week, because physical training was required that often for freshmen. For much of my first semester I took swimming, and, as if swimming itself wasn’t enough of a wash, showering was required before entering and after leaving the pool. Later I switched to wrestling and after that to a “conditioning class.” Though showering was not enforced, as far as I can remember I always did shower in the locker room after these activities, throughout my freshman year.[890] During my senior year I got to showering so often—almost every day—that I broke out with red blotches on my skin. Not knowing what caused them I went to the Health Service, where a dermatologist diagnosed the condition as “eczema” and said it was caused by my “allergic capabilities’’ and by “over–use of soap and water.” (An entry in my Harvard medical record for January 22, 1962 states that the condition was “eczema on a dry skin basis,” and seems to refer to allergic capabilities, though this last is doubtful due to poor legibility. It does not mention over–use of soap and water.) [891] My investigators’ report on the interview with Murphy continues:
“Dean Von Stade was concerned that Ted was not taking proper care of himself and as a result, was becoming socially isolated.” [892]The implication, that my classmates were isolating me because of my “poor hygiene,” is inconsistent with the evaluation of me that Murphy wrote on March 17, 1959, which we quoted in Chapter V: “although not unsocial, or unpleasant,[Ted] isolates himself completely from all his classmates.”[893] (emphasis added) The evaluation makes no mention of a “bad smell” or anything of the sort. To return to the investigators’ report:
“[Dean Von Stade] told Dr. Murphy that he must speak with Ted about the problem, and tell Ted to clean himself. ... Dr. Murphy went and knocked on Ted’s door. Ted opened the door and when Dr. Murphy entered, he was appalled by what he saw. Ted’s clothes were filthy and there were no sheets on Ted’s bed. ...” “Dr. Murphy told Ted that he had to shower and change his clothing regularly. Dr. Murphy said Ted should change his shirt everyday ... . After Dr. Murphy confronted Ted, he appeared to clean himself up slightly.”[894]I do not recall any such incident. In any case, my clothes were not filthy. It is recorded in my 1979 autobiography that as a Harvard freshman I washed my pants every week.[895] The washing was done in coin–operated machines that were available in the basement of the house next door (which was also used as a Harvard dormitory), and since I could wash several pieces of clothing just as easily as I could wash one, it is hardly likely that I would have failed to do so. (Though I do not actually remember whether I did so or not.) It’s true that I did not change my shirt every day. At a guess I’d say I changed it two or three times a week. It’s true that I wore the same pants for six days in a row and that I often neglected to put the sheets on the bed (see Chapter V). It’s true that I was negligent about clothes. (“I dressed sloppily ... .”[896]) But my clothes stayed pretty clean, since I did nothing rough or dirty in them, and by the standards of the background that I came from they certainly could not have been described as filthy. Would they have been filthy according to Murphy’s exceptionally prissy standard? It’s easy to imagine that they might have been. But if the reader will refer to Murphy’s Resident Freshman Advisor Report,[897] which was reproduced in its entirety in Chapter V, he will see that it contains not one word about “poor hygiene,” dirty clothes, a bad smell, or anything of the sort. If Murphy had really thought that I was as filthy and smelly as he now says I was, it seems incredible that he would make no mention of it in his report. (Note that he told my investigators that the discussion with Von Stade about my isolation took place “in the beginning of the spring semester,” that is, about the beginning of February, so that Murphy would have entered my room and been “appalled” by my “filthy” clothes well before the March 17 date of his report. Also note that the two evaluations of me by John Finley, written near the end of my sophomore and junior years respectively—and reproduced in Chapter V—make no mention of “poor hygiene.” ) The only sense I can make of this is as follows. My dress no doubt was shabby by Harvard standards, and especially by Murphy’s personal standard. But, at the time, Murphy probably did not regard my “hygiene” as bad enough to be a major issue or the principal cause of my social isolation. After my arrest he saw pictures of me in the filthy rags I was accustomed to wear when alone in the woods; and he may have been exposed, for example, to Pat McIntosh’s tale of my “filthy” room at Eliot House. These acted through the phenomenon of “media planting” to exaggerate vastly his memory of me as rather shabby–looking, until he began to imagine that I was as filthy and smelly as he now says I was. “Mistaken identity” may be involved here too. In Chapter V, I mentioned a kid at 8 Prescott Street whose hands were always visibly filthy, and they could hardly have remained that way if he’d ever showered or bathed. This kid may well have had an aroma that in Murphy’s recollection has now become associated with me. That Murphy’s memory is in error here is rendered more plausible by the fact that the information he gave my investigators contains several other errors, one of which, at least, can be clearly documented. Murphy stated: “In those days students usually sent their clothing home in boxes to be laundered.”[898] False. I never heard of anyone sending his clothes home. Students used either coin–operated machines or the student laundry service. Murphy told my investigators that “Gerald Burns was probably the closest to Ted. Gerald was outgoing and he tried the hardest to include Ted.” [899] False. This is probably a case of media planting. In Chapter VI we saw that Burns described to the media his supposed acquaintance with me; but he had me confused with someone else. We find the following in the investigators’ report:
“Dr. Murphy remembers that Ted received a couple of C’s during his first year. Ted’s grades were lower than most of the other students in 8 Prescott, and given the large amount of time Ted spent studying, his grades seemed unusual. Dr. Murphy met with Ted to discuss the grades. Ted did not seem concerned by the C’s and considering that Ted was young and his math and science courses were difficult, Dr. Murphy let the issue drop.”[900]In assessing my Harvard grades one has to take into account “grade inflation.” Over the years, grading has become more and more lenient in our universities.[901] Forty years ago an A meant a good deal more than it does today, and a C was an acceptable grade. As I remember it, shortly after the fall semester grades were released, Murphy complimented me on the fact that I’d gotten two A’s. I grumbled that I was dissatisfied with the two C’s that I’d also gotten. (See the Introduction, p. 8.) Murphy replied, “Two A’s and two C’s at Harvard, that’s nothing to sniff at!” I particularly remember this incident because of his use of the old–fashioned expression, “nothing to sniff at.” And that was all that Murphy ever said to me about my grades. (For those readers who are unfamiliar with the expression “nothing to sniff at” : it is complimentary. Also: Besides A’s in math and German and C’s in two “soft” courses, I got a B− in Gen Ed A; but grades in Gen Ed A were scarcely regarded.) Whose memory is correct here, mine or Murphy’s? Fortunately, the documents enable us to give a clear answer. In the first place, Master Finley of Eliot House referred to my “fairly good record of an A, two B’s and a C” for the first semester of my sophomore year.[902] If a record of an A, two B’s, and a C was considered “fairly good,” then two A’s and two C’s should have been so also, since the average is the same in both cases. More important: Murphy’s Resident Freshman Advisor Report on me was written on a form that included the following item: “Is his academic record so far about right, below expectation, above expectation? (Circle one)” None of the three alternatives were circled, but “above expectation” was underlined.[903] Thus, at the time, Murphy felt my grades were better than he would have expected, which disproves his present claim that he discussed my grades with me because he thought they were lower than they should have been. This shows the value of his recollections about me. One other error can be documented, though in this case it is not certain that the error is Murphy’s. Murphy told the investigators that there were fifteen boys at 8 Prescott Street, and that most of the boys shared a room.[904] But K.M., who lived at 8 Prescott in 1958, stated that there were thirteen rooms. With fifteen boys distributed among thirteen rooms, only two rooms would have been shared, and eleven boys would have had rooms to themselves, which contradicts Murphy’s statement that most of the boys shared a room. Murphy and K.M. can’t both be right. My guess is that Murphy is wrong, since thirteen sounds like a plausible estimate for the number of rooms at 8 Prescott. The question could be resolved by finding out how many rooms 8 Prescott had in 1958. If it wasn’t because of a “bad smell” and “filthy” clothes, why were the other boys cool to my initial efforts to make friends? Some probable factors can be identified. There is, of course, the fact that I was shy and socially awkward, and my attempts at friendliness must have been the less convincing because they were insincere: “I tried to be friendly with the fellows in my dormitory as a matter of duty, not because I liked them.”[905] I always felt that most of the people at Harvard were just not my kind of people, and I tried to make friends with them mostly because my parents had made me feel guilty about not being more social. Probably I was one or two years younger than most of the boys at 8 Prescott Street, and I looked even younger than I really was: “when I was a Freshman at Harvard, the cop who stood outside the door of the Union once told me I looked 14 years old.”[906] I presumably was not made more attractive by the fact that I had a bad case of acne at the time.[907] I made no attempt to change my dress or manners so as to fit in with the Harvard environment; I wore my working–class origin on my sleeve, as it were. “I never had the slightest interest in fine clothes or anything of that sort.” [908] I think the boys at 8 Prescott Street felt that I was not their kind of people just as much as I felt that they were not my kind of people. This may have been as true of those who were of working–class or lower middle–class origin as it was of the others. It seems to me that most such people at Harvard were trying to move into a higher social class. For example, I was amazed to learn from my investigators that Gerald Bums said he was of working–class immigrant background, with a Polish father and a Dutch mother.[909] From his speech, manners, and clothes I had always assumed he was an upper middle–class “preppie”. And “Burns” is obviously not a Polish name. Probably it is a shortened and anglicized version of something like “Bumicki” or “Burynski.” All of which suggests that Burns and his family may have wanted to detach themselves from their ethnic and working–class origin. There may well have been additional factors that contributed to my cool reception by the others at 8 Prescott Street, but for the present I will refrain from speculating about them. N.B. In case the question should arise whether Murphy’s opinion on March 17, 1959 that my academic record was “above expectation” was based on my midyear grades of two A’s and two C’s or on the spring midterm grades: In the first place, the spring midterm grades were not given out until [910] March 27. In the second place, it would have made little difference at what point during my freshman year Murphy evaluated my grades, since they scarcely changed prior to the release of the final grades at the end of the year. My freshman grades were:[911] | | Math 1a | German R | Hum 5 | Soc Sci 7 | Gen Ed (half credit) | | Fall Midterm | A | A | C | C- | Not Reported | | Mid Year | A | A | C | C | B- | | | Math 1b | Pyshics 12a | Hum 5 | Soc Sci 7 A Gen Ed A (half credit) | Spring Midterm | A | Not Reported | C | C+ | C+ | | Final | A | A | C+ | B- | C |
“Senior year, Ted lived in the room next to Patrick and K.M. ... Ted’s room and Patrick and K.M.’s room shared a common wall. Patrick often heard Ted playing his trombone. ... Sometimes Patrick just banged on the wall of Ted’s room to get Ted to quiet down. Ted never complained or protested when Patrick made such a request, and Ted usually stopped playing his trombone.”[916]Unfortunately for McIntosh’s credibility, I stopped playing the trombone altogether after my sophomore year. From John Finley’s evaluation of me written at the end of my junior year: “For some reason one no longer hears this year the strains of his trumphet [sic; trombone is meant] from our top floor. ...”[917] 1c. McIntosh, Masters, K.M., and W.P. throughout their interviews with the investigators depicted me as living in virtually complete social isolation.[918] But in Chapter VI, pp. 176, 178, I showed that I did have some social interaction: Pickup basketball is documented; so is socialization with two suitemates (not belonging to McIntosh’s clique). Also note that Finley wrote at the end of my junior year: “He is still pretty lonely but less friendless than he was a year ago,” [919] which implies that Finley had observed some significant degree of social interaction on my part, probably with Fred Ha. and B.Cr. 1d. McIntosh’s girlfriend L.K.Va. stated that I always wore a suit and tie.[920] The reader will not find it difficult to believe me when I say that I almost never wore a suit and tie except when visiting the dining hall, where such dress was required. L.K.Va. certainly saw me without a suit and tie on various occasions. For example, I clearly remember one evening during my senior year when I left my room naked from the waist up, walked down the hall of the suite, and unexpectedly encountered L.K.Va. She stared visibly at the sight of my bare chest. Incidentally, the man whom I referred to in Chapter VI as “the oddball” did always wear a coat and tie. Mistaken identity? 1e. K.M. stated that Radcliffe women were not allowed in “the Harvard library.”[921] In fact, they were allowed in Harvard’s main library, Widener Library. Anyone who wants to take the trouble should be able to verify this. As far as I know, the only one of Harvard’s several libraries from which women were excluded was the undergraduate men’s library, Lamont Library. 1f. In Appendix I we saw that there was an inconsistency between K.M.’s statement that there were thirteen rooms at 8 Prescott [922] and certain statements of F.E.X. Murphy. Here, though, K.M. was probably right and Murphy wrong. McIntosh and company made many other errors, but since these rest only on my word against that of one or another member of McIntosh’s clique, I won’t take the trouble to review them. 2. There is evidence of “media planting” of memories in the suitemates. 2a. According to the investigators, “When Ted was arrested John [Masters] did not remember who he was even after he learned that Ted had gone to Harvard and lived at Eliot House. Finally [presumably after considerable exposure to the media], John remembered that Ted was his former suite mate.”[923] And, lo and behold, he remembered me just as I had been portrayed by the media! Not exactly surprising. 2b. This one is fun, because we get to play Sherlock Holmes just a little. McIntosh, K.M., and W. Pr. (but not Masters) all refer to my habit of tilting my chair back, and, as they call it, “rocking” (see Chapter VI, p. 183). All three of them say that as I “rocked” my chair I would make noise by knocking against the wall now and again.[924] But, I did not knock into the wall. What happened was that I would lose my balance and the chair would fall forward so that its front legs clunked against the floor. The reader doesn’t have to rely on my word for this. Just stop and think. In a small room, maybe ten feet by ten feet, will the occupant place his desk out in the middle of the floor, where it will be an obstruction? Obviously not. He will place it against a wall; probably under the window, where the lighting is best. That, in fact, is just where my desk was, and my suitemates must have known it; because if they hadn’t seen the interior of my room then, how would they know that it was—as they claim—a foot deep in trash? Everyone agrees that I spent my evenings at Harvard studying. K.M. states explicitly that I was “studying and reading” while I “rocked” my chair in the evenings, and ‘The few times that K____ ventured into Ted’s room, Ted was always sitting at his desk holding a book in his hands.”[925] W. Pr. says that I studied late into the night and that it was at night that I knocked my chair into the wall.[926] From this we deduce what was actually the case, that my chair was in front of the desk when I “rocked” it. Ergo, the desk was between my chair and the nearest wall. Manifestly, therefore, the chair could not have knocked against the wall, and my suitemates (except possibly McIntosh, on account of his intellectual limitations) must have realized this at the time. It can hardly be a coincidence that all three of these gentlemen make the same obvious mistake of thinking that my chair knocked against the wall rather than the floor. One can only conclude that their respective accounts are not independent of one another. Presumably K.M. and W. Pr. were exposed to McIntosh’s story in the media and subsequently imagined that they themselves remembered what they had really heard from McIntosh. Elementary, Watson.
“No matter,” said the horse cheerfully. “I will go to see an impresario of spectacles, and meanwhile I will earn enough to live on.”What he had lived on until then in the city, he himself would hardly have been able to say. On his own hunger, certainly, and on waste thrown out at the gates of the stockyards. He went, therefore, to see an organizer of festivals.
“I can run before the public,” said the horse, “if I am paid for it. I don’t know how much I may earn, but my way of running has pleased some men.” “No doubt, no doubt,” they answered. “There is always someone who takes an interest in such things ... . But one must have no illusions ... . We may be able to offer you a little something as a sacrifice on our part...”The horse lowered his eyes to the man’s hand and saw what he offered: It was a heap of straw, a little dry, scorched grass.
“It’s the most we can do ... and besides...”The young animal considered the handful of grass that was the reward for his extraordinary gift of speed, and he remembered the faces that men made at the freedom of his run that cut zigzags across the beaten paths.
“No matter,” he told himself cheerfully. “Some day I will catch their attention.[939] Meanwhile I will be able to get along on this scorched grass.”And he accepted, satisfied, because what he wanted was to run. He ran, therefore, that Sunday and on Sundays thereafter, for the same handful of grass, each time throwing himself heart and soul into his running. Not for a single moment did he think of holding back, of pretending, or of following ornamental conventions to gratify the spectators, who didn’t understand his freedom. He began his trot, as always, with his nostrils on fire and his tail arched; he made the earth resound with his sudden dashes, to finally take off cross–country at full speed in a veritable whirlwind of desire, dust, and thundering hooves. And his reward was a handful of dry grass that he ate happy and rested after the bath. Sometimes, nevertheless, as he chewed the hard stalks with his young teeth, he thought of the bulging bags of oats that he saw in the shop windows, of the feast of maize and of fragrant alfalfa that overflowed from the mangers.
“No matter,” he said to himself cheerfully. “I can content myself with this rich grass.”And he kept on running with his belly pinched by hunger, as he had always run. But gradually the Sunday strollers became accustomed to his free way of running, and they began to tell each other that that spectacle of wild speed without rules or limits gave an impression of beauty.
“He does not run along the tracks, as is customary,” they said, “but he is very fast. Perhaps he has that acceleration because he feels freer off the beaten paths. And he uses every ounce of his strength.”In fact, the young horse, whose hunger was never satisfied and who barely obtained enough to live on with his burning speed, gave every ounce of his strength for a handful of grass, as if each run were the one that was to make his reputation. And after the bath he contentedly ate his ration—the coarse, minimal ration of the obscurest of the most anonymous horses.
“No matter,” he said cheerfully. “The day will soon come when I will catch their attention.”Meanwhile, time passed. The words exchanged among the spectators spread through and beyond the city, and at last the day arrived when men’s admiration was fixed blindly and trustingly on that running horse. The organizers of spectacles came in mobs to offer him contracts, and the horse, now of a mature age, who had run all his life for a handful of grass, now saw competing offers of bulging bundles of alfalfa, massive sacks of oats, and maize—all in incalculable quantity—for the mere spectacle of a single run. Then, for the first time, a feeling of bitterness passed through the horse’s mind as he thought how happy he would have been in his youth if he had been offered the thousandth part of what they were now pouring gloriously down his gullet.
“In those days,” he said to himself sadly, “a single handful of alfalfa as a stimulus [sic] when my heart was pounding with the desire to run would have made me the happiest of beings. Now I am tired.”He was in fact tired. Undoubtedly his speed was the same as ever, and so was the spectacle of his wild freedom. But he no longer possessed the will to run that he had had in earlier days. That vibrant desire to extend himself to the limit as he had once done cheerfully for a heap of straw now was awakened only by tons of exquisite fodder. The victorious horse gave long thought to the various offers, calculated, engaged in fine speculations concerning his rest periods.[940] And only when the organizers had given in to his demands did he feel the urge to run. He ran then as only he was able; and came back to gloat over the magnificence of the fodder he had earned. But the horse became more and more difficult to satisfy, though the organizers made real sacrifices to excite, to flatter, to purchase that desire to run that was dying under the weight of success. And the horse began to fear for his prodigious speed, to worry that he might lose it if he put his full strength into every run. Then, for the first time in his life, he held back as he ran, cautiously taking advantage of the wind and of the long, regular paths. No one noticed—or perhaps he was acclaimed more than ever for it—for there was blind belief in the wild freedom of his run. Freedom ... No, he no longer had it. He had lost it from the first moment that he reserved his strength so as not to weaken on the next run. He no longer ran cross–country, nor against the wind. He ran over the easiest of his own tracks, following those zigzags that had aroused the greatest ovations. And in the ever–growing fear of wearing himself out, the horse arrived at a point where he learned to run with style, cheating, prancing Foam–covered over the most beaten paths. And he was deified in a clamor of glory. But two men who were contemplating that lamentable spectacle exchanged a few melancholy words.
“I have seen him run in his youth,” said the first, “and if one could cry for an animal, one would do so in memory of what this same horse did when he had nothing to eat.” “It is not surprising that he used to do such things,” said the second. “Youth and hunger are the most precious gifts that life can give to a strong heart.”Young horse: Stretch yourself to the limit in your run even if you hardly get enough to eat. For if you arrive worthless at glory and acquire style in order to trade it fraudulently for succulent fodder, you will be saved by having once given your whole self for a handful of grass. *** Comments The idea of this story is not very original, but I think that Quiroga expresses it beautifully. Somerset Maugham seems to have held a contrary point of view to that of Quiroga’s story. In Of Human Bondage, he has the experienced painter Foinet advise an aspiring young artist: “You will hear people say that poverty is the best spur to the artist. They have never felt the iron of it in their flesh.” With a lot more in the same vein; and this seems to have represented Maugham’s own attitude. Apparently Maugham had some disagreeable experiences with poverty in his youth. But Quiroga, too, seems to have known poverty. In the introduction to the collection of his stories that I have, one of the many occupations ascribed to him is that of “penniless globetrotter,” and he is quoted as having said in Paris: “I would trade [literary] glory for the security of being able to eat three days in succession.” I suppose there’s no way of definitively resolving the conflict. What leads to creativity in one person is not necessarily what leads to creativity in another. ** Appendix 5. FL #264, letter from my brother to me, Summer, 1982 Here is the complete text of (Ca) FL #264, letter from David Kaczynski to me, Summer, 1982:
“Dear Ted, “No, it’s not a matter of indifference to me, and I thank you for your apology, or rather I should say for your sympathetic understanding of what may have surfaced at times as resentment on my part. But I also want to say that I think you may tend to exaggerate your own failings, even as (from my viewpoint) you tend to exaggerate the failings of others. “I’ve given a great deal of thought to your earlier letter, and how to answer it. The whole subject of my essential relationship to my life and my ideas, and of my relationship to you, which naturally must include my understanding of you, and the implications of your fundamental attitudes toward mine, I am sure you must appreciate is all so tremendously complex, that wanting to speak only the truth, I am all but overawed and muted by the many thoughts which occur to me. One way of looking at this exchange comes to me as follows: You had something you wanted to say to me for a long time. I respect the way you said it, coming forth openly as you did, and (perhaps characteristically) I flatter myself to think that you showed respect for me by coming forth as you did, even if some of the things you said were painful to listen to and partially disrupted my complacency. Now that I’m trying to answer your letter, I find that I don’t know what I most want to say to you, although I believe there is something and I can only imagine that some day, sometime, it will resolve itself in cogent expressions. Incidentally, I find myself wondering what the inner motive is for such disclosures. Is it to assure ourselves we live in one world, as much to say that every consciousness is answerable to the same reality? Is it, on the other hand, to dispel the power of another consciousness in order to escape its influence, which otherwise threatens to bind us to its way of looking? I suspect the latter may be true of me with regard to you, which perhaps explains my frequently emotional tone, and takes into account the sibling relationship you refer to. You have, I think you must know, an interpretation of the world which persuades by its very power and conviction. I don’t remember finding it difficult as a youngster to admire you, and I don’t think my will was consciously frustrated by coming under the influence of your way of thinking, since I thought I came willingly, drawn by its intrinsic persuasion. I hope you will appreciate, in light of this, what a significant being you must have represented to me, especially insofar as you had the weight of Western logic behind you as well. On a personal level, however, I felt a problem arose insofar as it appeared to me I could appear in your world (and only then did I begin to think of it as your subjective property, not as the world), by assuming a shape appropriate to this world, but not wholly expressive of my own experience and consciousness. In other words, what I thought of as the openness on my part which made your thought–process accessible to me, was so little reciprocated that I could abide there only by forsaking a certain freedom of spirit. Yet it was within and by virtue of this freedom (I might almost say, “generosity” ) of spirit that I saw myself approaching you at all. Just for an example, I often found myself talking about or doing something with you primarily because I knew you were interested in it. In other words, I engaged myself according to your interests in order to experience your mind and your way of seeing. But I grew aware that the reverse was seldom true. If I raised a topic for discussion or proposed an activity, you tended to participate only after you had evaluated the proposal according to your own prior interests, as if my consciousness were not essentially connected with it, or would not in any case constitute an essential feature of what you had decided to participate in or not. It appeared to me that your world could admit only what was determined in advance to belong to it, and consequently that I could never appear within it as myself. I wanted to say what Hamlet said to Horatio: “There are more things in Heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” Except that you had ways of discrediting any such remark according to your own system. (You wondered why I insisted the land you bought in Canada should meet my needs as well, if I had no strong intention of living there. [David and I had once discussed the idea of jointly buying land in Canada.] Well, I hadn’t made things clear in my own mind. But I think it was because it bothered me to think that you would select land that you thought was also for me, but which you would make little effort to see through my eyes.) . ... [The four dots are in the original.] In terms of our philosophical differences, I often see a similar tendency prevailing, in other words that you confront philosophy and art, or my peculiar understanding of them, from the standpoint purely of your scientific, logical thought–system, with the effect that, except when your vigilance occasionally relaxes, you are able to experience them only as complex projections of a scientific model. I think you draw them into your world in a way that does them injury. You don’t seem to be willing, even experimentally, to let them speak for themselves, much less to jump out of your own world into theirs, if only for a moment to see what would happen. I may be mistaken, but I suspect you have little idea what I’m talking about when I expound my theories. When I criticize science and logic, do you think I fail to understand them as you do? (Maybe I do! If so, please tell me. I don’t mean that I understand them as thoroughly, or in as much detail. But is it your impression that I somehow mistake them in an essential way?) Anyway, it’s my impression that you haven’t really begun to understand my way of thinking and mainly because your way of taking it up even for the purposes of contemplation suggests a deep resistance. Anyway, I wanted to point out what appears to me as misrepresentations of my thought–process in your letter. You said I propose to know things by “feeling them deep down inside.”[That was not at all what I had written to Dave. See Chapter XI, Note 21.] I hope I never said anything like that, at least not recently. Because I am speaking about a thought–process one of whose effects would be to disclose what is ordinarily concealed within the mere seeming immediacy of what we call emotions. Then, you said I wish to deny a definite reality. But I am thinking about a reality that is definite in the sense that it comprises the world in which we all live, and indefinite only in the sense that it disputes an understanding of reality on the basis of the scientific principles of precision and clarity, and the scientific motive of control. “Well, this philosophical subject is a large one, and if I am correct in my interpretation, then you wouldn’t be likely to develop a strong interest in it for itself anyway. I suspect I’ve only said enough to defeat my purpose by increasing your resistance, when what I’d rather do is suggest an approach to thinking so alien to what you are familiar with that you would consider refraining from judging it out–of–hand, by recourse to polarities (thought–feeling; objective–subjective) whose main effectiveness lie in setting up the limits which describe science in the first place. “It strikes me as ironic that we seem to be saying similar things to one another. You, that I’ve taken the easy way out, denying reality in order to preserve my belief in myself against an actual test. I, that you’ve taken the easy way out, holding to a rigid, objectifying system, in order to preserve your world against the contributions of other consciousnesses, mine in particular . ... [the four dots are in the original] or something like that . ... [the four dots are in the original] Well, as I said before, I’m not really satisfied that I know what I want to say yet. Your letter had a strong effect on me, in the emotional sense, but I’m not sure exactly what it’s meant to me, which explains my delay in answering. I took your last note as an assurance of good will, which helped me write at least this much. Please feel free to communicate anything further that occurs to you. “Nothing is really new in the external world so far as it touches me. I’m just dragging through waiting for the next winter on my property. [Dave spent the winters on his property in Texas.] Softball has started up again, and we’re doing much better this year, outscoring our opponents 43–30 (although our record is only 2–2). Ma retired last week and seems to be enjoying herself so far. Both of our parents seem to be in very good health, almost remarkably considering their ages. I hope all is well with you. “Dave** Appendix 6. Interviews with Joel Schwartz Joel Schwartz was quoted as follows in (Ja) Mad Genius, pp. 124–125.
“‘It was his [Dave’s] feeling that his brother mentally went over the edge,’ said Schwartz, who even went with David to visit Ted in Montana in 1974. David had warned that he might be a little ornery. But Joel didn’t see the rough edges. ‘Ted seemed at ease; Dave had warned me he might not be. My memory of him did not quite fit what we all came to see. He was very orderly, meticulous. He was eccentric, but he was engaging at the same time. We had some lively discussions. He was very much into ecology and very angry at the way the world was going.’ But over the years Joel said, ‘David had come to realize something else. There was a madness there, isolation opened him to madness. This is why Dave, I believe, felt that Ted had to finally be brought back to the human community. It was his hope anyway.’ “Schwartz knew David had tried to keep reaching out to his brother even as Ted slipped further away. Yet the relationship between the brothers grew more strained, particularly after David got married. ‘I know Dave wrote many letters that were rebuffed in later years,’ Joel said. ‘Sometimes, with family members, there can be a kind of distance you can’t quite get over.’”The following are excerpts from (Qb) Written Investigator Report #122, Joel Schwartz.
“I have known Ted for two years and have had him in classes in Trigonometry, Physics, and Advanced Mathematics.” “Ted has a sincere interest in his work. Ted needs no prodding. Ted’s main concern is that his program and his work be challenging enough. His family are behind him, but do not push him. He is his own best pusher. He not only spends time on his own doing extra class–related work, but interets [sic] other students in making trips to nearby museums. He has organized several surveying parties in connections [sic] with Trigonometry. They have spent several whole days making rather extensive surveys of areas in some forest preserves nearby.”It is of course expected that teachers will try to give the “right” answers on college recommendation forms for good students, but here R.M.R. is just flat out lying. I made exactly one surveying trip to the forest preserves with some other kids from the trigonometry class. I have only a vague memory of how the trip was organized. The teacher (R.M.R.) may have bestowed on me the (nominal) role of organizer, but I know for certain that I had in practice very little influence over the way the trip was conducted. We spent a few hours on one day surveying the boundary of one small pond, and that was all. I didn’t even participate in doing the calculations and drawing the map of the pond. All that was carried out by Terry L. To continue with R.M.R.’s report:
“[In intellectual achievement and promise Ted is in the] Top 5 of 950 [legibility doubtful] Could be the highest. Its [sic] a close race at the top. “Ted’s performance in activities indicates a rapid comprehension of principles, a readiness to apply them, occasional impatience with details and a small degree of inflexibility when under extreme pressure. He is usually poised and has an extremely stable personality. Evidence of leadership is indicated in item 2. “Ted is mature and is a student who can take responsibilities. I would feel confident that he would carry out any reasonable task he was assigned. I know of no difficulties he is experiencing. His main strength is extreme intelligence. He has completed four years of high school in three. His main weakness is that he is advanced for his age although he fits in well with his classmates. “October 18, 1957. [signed] R____ M. R____”(Fc) School Records of TJK, Harvard, pp. 84, 85; Report by R.K.:
“I have known Ted for two years, and taught him in English II. “Ted’s parents have never evidenced undue concern about grades, only concern over whether he was working up to capacity. When he was in my class, which was supposed to include the superior students of his age group, he did extra work of two kinds: an extemporaneous speech once a week on world problems, and a research paper on archaeology. His speeches showed a thorough grasp of the subject, but the vocabulary he used was over the heads of the other students and he was more interested in abstract principles than in dramatizing his introduction to hold the attention of the other students. This interest in pursuing a question into its intricate depths showed a less extroverted personality than those of the boys who scatter their energies among many extra–curricular activities. Ted’s extra–curricular work is in music, where skill is required. His mind is original and independent, so far ahead and afield that he simply wasn’t present mentally when we repeated routine material. Seating him by the magazine shelves enabled him to go on with his reading about world affairs, and while he was absent due to illness or injury he asked for a book “The Bible as History” which he read because he was interested in archaeology. “His intellectual capacity was first among the 900 students in this school. “Ted’s vocabulary is extensive; his musical ability is high and he has taken college–level work in music although his schedule is already over–burdened. This class in composition meets after school, and in addition he has sufficient leadership to give free lessons on the trombone to a younger member of the band, on Saturdays. He has a laboratory in the basement of his home where he, with other boys, experiments with ‘missiles’ to his mother’s horror. Some of the band members felt last year that if ‘first chair’ in band had not been elective he would have had it. He did well in his contest solo, but had to sacrifice band for science this [year]. “Ted is persistent; when his schedule ruled out band he made arrangements to come in part–time in order to continue playing at public appearances. I think that his very heavy schedule, combining two years in one, has solved all the difficulties he ever had, which involved inattention during review work with other students. “One of his fine qualities might be mentioned: interest in detail and abstraction, in the perfection of skills and the pursuit of questions. His grandfather was called in to plan picture frames for Chicago’s artists; his aunt and uncle were excellent musicians whose careers were cut short by tragedy. His parents are alert and responsible members of this new community. His mother has hung a peg board in the living room, where she places interesting objects and modern art, changing the pictures often so that her boys can become familiar with many. “Ted is a pleasant sort, not eccentric in his appearance or mannerisms. In a school where most students are the children of factory foremen, his vocabulary is his most identifying characteristic. “Harvard or any other school will gain an excellent student in Ted; he is potentially an outstanding scientist and citizen. “I believe that his willingness to study extemporaneous speaking in my class, when his first interest is science, shows that he has broad interest [sic] and the qualities of a good world citizen. “Oct. 28, 1957 [signed] R____Kn____”I won’t bother to identify all the errors in these two reports. Suffice it to say that they were written with the intention of getting me into Harvard rather than in order to give an accurate and balanced picture of me. However, my teachers would not have been willing to stretch the truth to get me into Harvard if they had seen me as the kind of sicko that the media have recently portrayed. (Fc) School Records of TJK, Harvard, pp. 86, 87; report by J. Ob.:
“[I have known Ted] Three years. [He has been] A member of my high school band. “Enthusiastic about everything, but rather crude in his approach to music. Would rather play many notes without thought to quality than to play a few really well. Very responsible toward the organization and the school. Extremely loyal. “He is not a leader, nor is he one to be led. Seems to prefer his own company. Quite independent. “Very high intellectually. Basic intelligence very good. Motivation is high. “Seems to want to do many things. Does not discourage at all. Can be channeled into many things. “An extremely responsible boy. Quiet, clean–cut, efficient. The only weakness is his tendency to be aloner [sic]. “10/28/57 [signed] J____Ob____”I don’t necessarily agree with everything in this report, but at least it seems to be honest. As for J.O.’s remark that I preferred to play many notes without thought to quality rather than play a few really well: I think he meant that I emphasized the ability to play difficult, fast passages instead of putting effort into improving my tone and articulation. If that was his meaning, then he was right. I’m mildly surprised that J.O. didn’t catch on to the fact that the reason why I was a “loner” was that I was not well accepted by most of the other kids.
“August 25, 1978
“Dear Ellen, “You needn’t fear that I’ll bother you again. In this letter I merely want to clear up some loose ends of this nasty affair, because I always hate having anything misunderstood. “When I talked to you in your car as you arrived at work Thursday morning (August 24), you said that when you went out with me the first two times, you “really thought there might be something in it; friendship, or ... .” I seriously doubt whether your statement is true, because your words and actions generally have been so inconsistent. Nevertheless, this statement is probably the only thing that prevented me from attacking you physically. When I got into your car, I intended physical violence of a serious nature—until your statement cast doubt on the conclusion I had reached, that in going out with me you were only using me as a toy, playing with me casually in order to gratify your ego at my expense. “But don’t get excited. You have nothing to fear from me now. The storm is past, and even if I were to learn that you were really using me as a toy, I wouldn’t care to do anything about it. All I feel for you now is a dull resentment. “Possibly you are shocked at the violence of my feelings. Let me explain further. “I was not out looking for any kind of relationship. When I was alone in the mountains I had no desire for women, and was even somewhat repelled at the thought of such involvements. When I was preparing to come back to the city this spring, I felt uncomfortable and worried whenever it occurred to me that I might meet some attractive woman and fall into temptation. “But it was natural enough that I should get interested in you. You have a very pretty face, and your personality and charm easily make up for your defective figure. Especially, there was something in your personality—let’s call it a certain vigor, or life—that particularly appealed to me. “Besides, there were two factors that made me particularly susceptible to your charms at this time. One was my general inexperience with women. (You can well imagine that I had nothing to do with women during the years I was in the mountains; but even before that my experience was very limited.) “Second, there is the fact that the prospect looks very bleak for me at present. When people ask about my plans, I say something vague about Canada and Alaska, but really I have little enthusiasm for any such project. As I remarked the other night, it is getting harder and harder to escape civilization. At the cost of considerable effort I might still find a corner for myself somewhere—but then after a few years I would probably have to watch it being ruined by airplanes, snowmobiles, recreationists, etc., as is happening in Montana. “Since I can never feel that there is anything worthwhile in the kind of existence provided by modern civilization, this leaves me with a very empty prospect in life and nothing to look forward to. It would have been very comfortable to have something to put into this vacuum—such as affection for a woman in whom I thought I saw something I could respect. “What did I want from you? Certainly not marriage. (I say this not from any reluctance to commit myself permanently, but because our interests and aspirations are so different that we could never live together.) Perhaps some form of love affair. But really I had no definite intention about what I wanted from you. It would be better to say that, if I had ever come to feel that you cared for me, I would have found it a great pleasure to give you whatever you might want from me. “I was simply drawn to you and couldn’t resist it, or rather, had no definite reason to resist it. But your ambiguous behavior left me in a very uncomfortable state of uncertainty. Were you playing some kind of game with me? Or did you actually like me? I couldn’t figure out what you were up to. It was not that I felt I needed you. If you had told me courteously that you had decided not to go out with me any more because there was no future in it, I would have been disappointed, but I would have been as much relieved as disappointed, because I would have no more conflict or uncertainty over you, and my mind could just slip back into its accustomed groove. “Still, I had opened my heart to you, so to speak, and had permitted myself to entertain soft feelings toward you. I thought that I would fall in love with you if I ever felt sure that you were ready to have any real affection for me. “I can well understand the statement you made to me Thursday morning, that on that last date it “just struck you” that you had nothing in common with me and that there was no future in anything between us. I felt the same way about you, often. Yet in spite of this I always felt I would be glad to go as far with you as the differences between us would permit. “But the thing that really turned me off at times was the inconsistency and insincerity (or even duplicity, as I would say after that last date) that I was afraid I saw in you. For example: “The answer you gave when I said “Oh, I like you” was cryptic. If you’d been sincere, you might have said something like this: “I’m glad to hear you like me, but I don’t know what to say to it, because I don’t think I know you well enough yet to tell how I’ll feel about you.” “On the second date, when I asked you why you’d agreed to go out with me, you shrugged your shoulders and said coldly, “It just seemed like a good idea at the time.” Almost insulting. “There were other little things like this. But on the other hand, you seemed very ready to go out with me and to kiss* me. And whenever I phoned you, you always sounded as if you were glad to hear from me. “*Don’t tell me there’s no sex in a kiss when you put your tongue out and rub my mouth with it, as on the second date. You started the tongue–rubbing stuff, not me. Do you kiss your father that way? “Before that last date, I had evolved this theory about your motivations: Either you went out with me and kissed me merely because it gratified your ego to exert power over a man through your sex appeal; or else you really did like me, but for some reason found it difficult to express that liking directly; or (as I thought most probable) the truth was some combination of the two. “All this left me in doubt, but I kept hoping that if I persisted you would eventually be more open and honest with me. I thought you might be worth taking some trouble for. “But on that last date, I was forced to conclude that you were intentionally taking advantage of me. I made a special effort to be attentive and agreeable, but you were calculatedly cold from the beginning, retaining just enough friendliness to avoid an open breach. Then there was that silly, transparent deviousness about using two cars instead of one, in order to avoid giving me a chance to ask for a goodnight kiss. It was so obvious that it amounted to a calculated insult, why [sic] couldn’t you just explain courteously that you had decided not to go out with me anymore because you saw no future in it, if that was true? “When we were coming to an explanation, sitting in the car outside your apartment, I was perfectly serious, of course, while you kept smiling and talking lightly, as if the whole thing were a joke to you. And you were very gay for the rest of the day, as if you were cheerful at having achieved your little triumph over me by getting me sweet on you and then throwing cold water on me. You seemed to have taken my soft feelings for you and used them as a tool to make a fool of me. “Finally, your offer to kiss me goodnight just before you went home was an insult under the circumstances. It was as if you wanted to tease me. You didn’t want me, but you wanted to keep me dangling so that you could play with me—so it appeared. “I was mortally offended by all this. The more so because (as you so tactlessly remarked yourself) I am very lacking in social confidence. The trick I believed you had played on me hit me on my weakest and most sensitive side. Also there are other reasons, going all the way back to my early teens, why I am exceptionally sensitive to that kind of insult. “If you had been frank and open with me, you would have retained a friend who would still have had some soft feelings toward you and would have been glad to do you a favor at any time, if you wanted one. As it is, the feelings you leave me with are resentment, disgust, and contempt for you. “After we came to an explanation outside your apartment Sunday, I began to hate you, and from that point stopped being sincere with you. I controlled myself and carefully refrained from showing my resentment, because I wanted to think things over before saying or doing anything. I was consciously lying when I said there were no hard feelings. “You can hardly imagine how upset I was Sunday evening. I got very little sleep that night. It was not until Monday afternoon that I decided what to do. I intended to ride you and insult you at work until I made you uncomfortable enough to fire me. And at that point maybe I could embarrass you by dragging the whole business out in the open in front of the whole crew. Thus the insulting verses Tuesday morning. This is also why I pinched your behind on the way out Tuesday afternoon—under the circumstances it was clearly an insult. “What surprised me was the fact that you seemed conciliatory Tuesday afternoon, and didn’t even complain that I pinched you. Another example of duplicity? For a couple of reasons, I doubt that your conciliatory attitude was sincere. “Be that as it may, Dave’s foolish meddling spoiled my plan. He threatened me, saying that if I posted up any more nasty verses he would fire me and maybe beat me up into the bargain. I hadn’t planned to put up any more verses, but of course I couldn’t back down from a direct challenge, so I posted one up before his eyes and invited him to fire me, which he did. This on Wednesday afternoon. “Dave’s firing me not only deprived me of the kind of revenge I had planned, but it seemed to confirm your triumph over me. The fact that you smiled and took a half–humorous attitude when I asked you whether the firing was official, was an additional insult. And in view of your earlier insincerities, I had no reason to take seriously your show of reluctance to confirm the firing. “Thus I was even more upset Wednesday night than Sunday. I felt utterly humiliated, and was fully determined to wipe out my defeat with violence on Thursday morning. I see no attractive prospects for me in life, so what do I care about consequences? But when you said (without a smile, for once) that you went out with me the first two times because you “really thought there might be something in it,” it seemed to mean that you took me at least somewhat seriously, that I wasn’t just a toy for you. This turned off my anger—permanently. In spite of the fact that I didn’t know then, and still don’t know, whether to believe you. “When I asked you on that last date why you went out with me, first you said you wanted absolutely nothing from me. Then you said, “I just like to go out and have a good time.” Later you said you just went out with me to satisfy your curiosity because you found me such an unusual person. Now you say you went out with me because you “really thought there might be something in it.” How do I know which one to believe? “I wonder whether your insincerity and inconsistency are conscious and intentional, or whether they are instinctive and involuntary. Perhaps a strain of this kind of insincerity runs all through the cultural group to which you belong. “If you were telling the truth when you said you “really thought there might be something in it” when you first went out with me, then I apologize, and am genuinely sorry that I insulted you. “But if you were only toying with me, then all I can say is: Watch it! I’m not the only man with a revengeful streak. Next time you tease such a man you may not be so lucky.
“Ted J. Kaczynski
“Sept. 2, 1978
“Dear Ellen, “I want to offer you my unqualified apology. I am no longer interested in deciding whether you were or were not insincere with me. Either way, I deeply regret that I insulted you, and I am extremely sorry that I took an unpleasant tone in the first letter I sent you. “My only excuse for becoming so excessively upset is that, foolishly, I had come to feel much more strongly about you than I had any right to do. There is something in you to which I respond powerfully, in spite of all our differences. To me you were a ray of sunshine. I didn’t realize myself how badly I wanted you until I was forced to abandon all hope in that direction; I find it much more difficult to get over than I had imagined I would. “If I still thought there were any chance that you could ever care for me, I would do almost anything to win your esteem. But you have made it clear that there is no such chance. To my sorrow, I apparently have nothing to offer that is of interest to you. “I hope that you find your new duties at Foam–Cutting more congenial now, and I wish you the best of luck generally. Again, I offer you my regretful apology.
“Ted J. Kaczynski
“In response to your inquiry, the mitigation investigator whom we retained for your case [Investigator #2], has a very good reputation as an investigator, and Judy [Clarke] and I consider [his/her] work to be very reliable.” (Cg) Note from Quin Denvir to Ted Kaczynski, April 10, 1998.I’m not completely convinced by Mr. Denvir’s assurance. In general, I was not terribly impressed with the investigators who worked under Investigator #2. The majority of them did not seem to be the kind of people who could be relied on for consistent accuracy. For example, a few of them were assigned the task of collating three versions of a document; it was a straightforward and purely mechanical task, yet they made a hash of it. Investigator #2 him/herself seemed less reliable than the young investigators who worked under him/her. In several cases, he/she gave me orally items of information that later turned out to be wrong. To take the worst example, Investigator #2 told me on September 3, 1996, that Linda Patrik had had at least two husbands before she married my brother. On October 8, 1997, Investigator #2 and I went over my written notes of this information, and he/she confirmed orally that Linda P. had had at least two husbands before she married Dave. See (Qe) Investigator Note #2. Later I asked Investigator #2 to give me written confirmation of this item, and what he/she gave me was: “Since college, Linda has been married once before her marriage with Dave ... .” (Qc) Written Reports by Investigator #2, pp. 1, 2. That Linda was married only once before her marriage to Dave is supported by their marriage certificate: (Gc) Marriage Certificate of David Kaczynski and Linda Patrik. I assume that Investigator #2’s written reports were prepared much more carefully than the oral ones, so they no doubt are more reliable. I’ve found no errors in them, but since I usually have nothing to check them against, this means little. I’m quite confident that Investigator #2’s written reports are vastly more accurate and reliable than information from the media. At a guess, I’d say they are significantly more reliable than the FBI’s 302s, but I doubt that they approach the standard of reliability that would be expected from workers in the hard sciences. This applies also to reports from the young people who worked under Investigator #2. I’m sorry I can’t tell the reader anything more definite about the accuracy of these reports, but that’s the best I can do. Investigator #3 seemed to me to be much like Investigator #2 as far as reliability of oral reports is concerned. For example, he/she told me during March, 1997, that on February 27, 1997, my brother asked him/her the following question:
“Do our public comments hurt Ted even though he knows we know they are not true [and] we are doing it to help him?” (Qa) Oral Report from Investigator #3, March ?, 1997.I wrote this down at Investigator #3’s dictation, and there can be no doubt that I recorded it with close to word–for–word accuracy. The investigators knew since sometime in 1996 that I was planning to write a book like the present one, and that I wanted their information for use in such a book. For some technical legal reason, they insisted that they could give me no information in writing until my trial was over. When I expressed misgiving at the fact that I was getting only oral information with nothing in writing to confirm it, Investigator #3 told me at least twice, “We will back you up” with regard to the oral information. My brother’s question that I quoted above was obviously important from my point of view, since it contained an explicit admission that my brother and my mother had lied about me. Yet, when I asked Investigator #3 after the trial to give me written confirmation of this item, he/she gave me only a watered–down version that omitted the crucial words, “we know they are not true,” which he/she claimed were not in his/her notes. One concludes either that Investigator #3’s original report to me was wrong, or else that he/she neglected to record in his/her notes the most important part of Dave’s question. The very few reports from Investigator #3 that I use in this book are noted as coming from Investigator #3.
“Dear Ted: “You have asked me my opinion regarding your long–term memory. We have been associated in the defense of your case for almost two years and have had many opportunities to discuss facts from the past. During that time I have been amazed by your long–term memory. I know no one who has a better memory for long–term details than you do. I discussed this with Judy Clarke, and she said that she thoroughly agrees with me. “Very truly yours, “Quin Denvir