Ted Kaczynski’s Journals

Short List of Available Journals

• Ted Kaczynski’s 1969 Journal

• Extracts from Ted Kaczynski’s Journal Series I

• Ted Kaczynski’s Salt Lake City Journal (1972)

• Ted Kaczynski’s 1974 Journal

• Ted Kaczynski’s 1978 Journal

• Ted Kaczynski’s 1979 Journal

• Journal #1 of 4 from Series VII (1984–1986)

• Ted Kaczynski’s journal that included his plan to disfigure the face of a romantic interest

• Ted Kaczynski’s Oakland California Journal

• Ted’s Notes on his Journals (Feb. 1996)

• Personal diary entries in Spanish (2008)

• Ted Kaczynski’s Journal of Early Crimes

• Notebook X

• Fully Coded Notebooks of Crimes

• Ted Kaczynski’s Notebook

• Ted Kaczynski’s Notebook of Where He Sourced His Materials

• Unknown Journal Extracts

• Self-made calendar check list

The Full List

Quoting Ted:[1][2][3][4]

These are journals that I kept over a span of more than twenty-five years. Some contain accounts of my personal experiences. Some are filled with my thoughts and ideas, and quotations from my reading. Some contain mixed materials. The journals are highly reliable, since they are completely honest and nearly all of the information about personal experiences was written down within a few days of the events.

The journals are divided into eight series, as follows:

• Series I, #1 through #7

• Series II, #1 through #6

• Series III, #1 through #8

• Series IV, #1

• Series V, #1

• Series VI, #1 through #5

• Series VII, #1 through #4

• Series VIII, #1

Series I. Contains ideas and quotations. #6 contains also some personal material, but not overly intimate.

#1. June 7, 1969 to Jan 22, 1970
#2. Feb 1, 1970 to Nov. 19, 1970
#3. Nov 30, 1970 to May 14, 1970
#4. June 7, 1971 to Dec 6, 1972
#5. Dec 9, 1972 to Dec 9, 1974
#6. Jan 3, 1975 to May 19, 1975
#7. Dec 20, 1975 to May 3, 1997

Series II. Outdoor journal — camping out.

#1. June 8, 1972 to Aug 7, 1972
#2. Sept 8, 1972 to Oct 26, 1972
#3. Feb 10, 1974 to Aug 28, 1974
#4. June 5, 1975 to Feb 6, 1976
#5. May 18, 1977 to Jan 26, 1978
#6. June 26, 1979 to Oct 23, 1979

Series III. Outdoor journal — at cabin, but #6 and #7 contain also some camping-out experiences

#1. Dec 1, 1971 to April 22, 1972
#2. April 27, 1972 to Oct 1, 1972
#3. Oct 2, 1972 to Nov 4, 1972
#4. June 24, 1973 to May 28, 1974
#5. May 31, 1974 to Sept 14, 1975
#6. Sept 14, 1975 to Feb 25, 1977
#7. Feb 28, 1977 to April 22, 1978
#8. Jan 25, 1980 to May 18, 1980

Series IV. Outdoor stuff at cabin mixed with highly personal stuff.

#1. June 9, 1979 to June 22, 1979

Series V. Personal experiences, outdoor or city; ideas and quotations; coded stuff (code probably breakable).

#1 June 22, 1980 to Jan 16, 1984

Series VI. Highly personal stuff. #4 also contains ideas and quotations.

#1. Sept 20, 1972 to Nov 12, 1974
#2. July 17, 1978 to Aug 23, 1978
#3. Letters of Aug 25, 1978 and Sept. 2, 1978
#4. Aug 29, 1978 to May 8, 1979
#5. Jan 6, 1975 to March 30, 1975

Series VII. Outdoor experiences, ideas and quotations.

#1. Jan 23, 1984 to March 3, 1986
#2. Sept 14, 1984 to Jan 26, 1993
#3. April 1, 1986 to June 22, 1990
#4. Nov 24, 1993 to Jan 23, 1996

Map

Autobiography

Coded stuff (unbreakable code)

Bb. Notes on My Journals. This is a set of notes commenting on Series I and II of the journals.

Bc. Baby Book. This is a journal, kept by my mother, of the first nineteen months of my life. I think it is reasonably reliable. In the first place, the entries were all made soon after the events. In the second place, the Baby Book contains no indication of my mother’s characteristic exaggerations. In the third place, my mother seems to have been trying to be objective and “scientific” in recording her observations. And in the fourth place, something happened to my mother when I was about eight years old. I think that before that time she had better control over herself and would have been more careful to be truthful than she was after.

Here I am going to confess to—or, to be more accurate, brag about—some misdeeds I have committed in the last few years.

Quoting a cryptography journal:[5]

The first and more complex encryption system, Code # I, is written in a notebook that Kaczynski called Notebook X. Notebook X is composed as a dated journal containing plaintext journal entries intermixed with portions of ciphertext. This system utilizes numerous safeguards, including the use of intentional misspellings and encryption errors, meaningless punctuation, nonsense words, and Spanish and German text intermixed with English plaintext and ciphertext. Kaczynski also chose to omit and add word breaks at random and use nulls throughout his enciphered text....

Kaczynski’s second encryption system, Code # II, is significantly less complex than Code # I. Code # II involves two separate notebooks called Notebook A and Notebook B, each filled entirely of strings of comma-delimited ciphertext numbers. Code # II does not employ as many safeguards as Code # I. However, in order to decipher this system, one requires the entirety of both notebooks and a list of meanings similar to, but different from, the one mentioned in Code # I. This list of meanings was divided into three pages as seen in Figure 5.

Quoting California Uni:[6]

C-2: Checks papers for publication of manuscript; lists hiding places for various articles with maps; list of names at Orvana Mining; serial numbers of guns; location of telephone boxes.

Series I

Journal #1–7

• California Uni. — A Review and Compilation of the Writings of Ted Kaczynski (Section 3) — <harbor.klnpa.org> [now dead]

• Archive.org — A Review and Compilation of the Writings of Ted Kaczynski

• The Ted K Archive — Extracts from Ted Kaczynski’s Journal Series I

Journal #1

• University of Michigan Library — Box 82, Folder 1, Journal series I #1, 1969: K2046F.

• Archive.org — Ted Kaczynski’s 1969 Journal

• The Ted K Archive — Ted Kaczynski’s 1969 Journal

Journals #2–7

Private collection.

Series II

Journal #1–6

• California Uni. — A Review and Compilation of the Writings of Ted Kaczynski (Section 3) — <harbor.klnpa.org> [now dead]

• Archive.org — A Review and Compilation of the Writings of Ted Kaczynski

• Ted Kaczynski’s 1979 Journal

Journal #1

• University of Michigan Library

Journal #2

• University of Michigan Library — Box 82 2 Journal series II #2, 1972 : K2046N

• Archive.org — Ted Kaczynski’s 1972 Journal

• The Ted K Archive — Ted Kaczynski’s 1972 Journal

Journals #3–6

• University of Michigan Library

Series III

Journals #1–4

• University of Michigan Library

Journal #5 — May 31, 1974 to Sept 14, 1975

• California Uni.- Day-to-day account of activities, Missing page numbered 37 C-228 E — <harbor.klnpa.org> [now dead]

• Archive.org — Ted Kaczynski’s 1974 Journal

• The Ted K Archive — Ted Kaczynski’s 1974 Journal

Journals #6–8

• University of Michigan Library

Series IV

Journals #1

• University of Michigan Library

Series V

Journal #1

• University of Michigan Library

Series VI

Journal #1 (1972)

• California Uni. — “Highly Personal Info” C-230 B — <harbor.klnpa.org> [now dead]

• Archive.org — Ted Kaczynski’s Salt Lake City Journal (1972)

• The Ted K Archive — Ted Kaczynski’s Salt Lake City Journal (1972)

Journal #2 (1978)

• California Uni. — C-230 A: “Women and sex”, There are two page 28’s [numbered by T. Kaczynski] — <harbor.klnpa.org> [now dead]

• Archive.org — Ted’s Journal on His Plans to Disfigure the Face of a Romantic Interest

• The Ted K Archive — Ted’s Journal on His Plans to Disfigure the Face of a Romantic Interest

Journal #3. Letters of Aug 25, 1978 and Sept. 2, 1978

• The Ted K Archive — Ted Kaczynski’s Letters to Ellen Tarmichael

Journal #4

• California Uni. — Ideas and quotations C-230 E

• Archive.org — Ted Kaczynski’s 1978 Journal

• The Ted K Archive — Ted Kaczynski’s 1978 Journal

Journal #5

• California Uni. — C-230: Death, Bomb references — <harbor.klnpa.org> [now dead]

• University of Michigan Library — Box 79, Folder 8, Journal series VI #5, 1975: K2003E

• Archive.org — Ted Kaczynski’s Oakland California Journal

• The Ted K Archive — Ted Kaczynski’s Oakland California Journal

Series VII

Journal #1

• University of Michigan Library — Box 79 6 Journal series VII #1, 1984–1986: K2046T

• Archive.org — Journal #1 from Series 7 (1984–1986)

• The Ted K Archive — Journal #1 from Series 7 (1984–1986)

Journals #2–4

• University of Michigan Library

Series VIII

Journal #1

• University of Michigan Library

Prison Journal

• University of Michigan Library — “Personal diary entries in Spanish 2008”, Folder 9, Box 63.

• Archive.org — Personal diary entries in Spanish (2008)

• The Ted K Archive — Personal diary entries in Spanish (2008)

Notes on my Journals

• California Uni. — “Personal Papers” (Notes on journal); manifesto references, encoding references. C-3 — <harbor.klnpa.org> [now dead]

• Archive.org — Ted’s Notes on his Journals (Feb. 1996)

• The Ted K Archive — Ted’s Notes on his Journals (Feb. 1996)

Baby Book

• University of Michigan Library — Box 68, Folder 10 “Bc: Baby book”

Crime Journals

Ted Kaczynski’s Journal of Early Crimes

• California Uni. — C-1: Bombs #1 and 2; vandalism; booby-traps, killing a businessman, government official, scientists. — <harbor.klnpa.org> [now dead]

• Archive.org — Ted Kaczynski’s Journal of Early Crimes

• The Ted K Archive — Ted Kaczynski’s Journal of Early Crimes

Notebook X

• California Uni. — C-229: “Personal experiences, ideas, and quotations”, Not all numbered pages are present. — <harbor.klnpa.org> [now dead]

• Archive.org — Notebook X

• The Ted K Archive — Notebook X

Fully Coded Notebook of Crimes

• California Uni. — A Review and Compilation of the Writings of Ted Kaczynski (Section 3) — <harbor.klnpa.org> [now dead]

• Archive.org — A Review and Compilation of the Writings of Ted Kaczynski

• The Ted K Archive — Fully Coded Notebooks of Crimes

Ted Kaczynski’s Notebook

• California Uni. — C-2: Checks papers for publication of manuscript; lists hiding places for various articles with maps; list of names at Orvana Mining; serial numbers of guns; location of telephone boxes. <harbor.klnpa.org> [now dead]

• Archive.org — Ted Kaczynski’s Notebook

• The Ted K Archive — Ted Kaczynski’s Notebook

Ted Kaczynski’s Notebook of Where He Sourced His Materials

• California Uni. — A Review and Compilation of the Writings of Ted Kaczynski (Section 3) — <harbor.klnpa.org> [now dead]

• Archive.org — A Review and Compilation of the Writings of Ted Kaczynski

• The Ted K Archive — Ted Kaczynski’s Notebook of Where He Sourced His Materials

Misc. Journals

Unknown Journal Extracts

• California Uni. — A Review and Compilation of the Writings of Ted Kaczynski (Section 3) — <harbor.klnpa.org> [now dead]

• Archive.org — A Review and Compilation of the Writings of Ted Kaczynski

• The Ted K Archive — Unknown Journal Extracts

Self-made calendar check list

• University of Michigan Library

• The Ted K Archive — Self-made calendar check list

Series I

Journal #1 (1969)

Dates: June 7, 1969 to Jan 22, 1970

Source: “Journal series I #1, 1969: K2046F”, Folder 1, Box 82, Ted Kaczynski Papers, University of Michigan Library (Special Collections Library). <findingaids.lib.umich.edu/catalog/umich-scl-kaczynski> & <archive.org>

Notes: Three secondary footnotes have been added from Ted’s Notes on his Journals (Feb. 1996)

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June 7, 1969

Among the [white] captives [of the Indians] brought in for delivery [to the English] were some [CROSSED OUT] bound fast to prevent their escape; and many others, who, amid the general tumult of joy and sorrow, sat sullen and scowling, angry that they were forced to abandon the wild license of the forest for the irksome restraints of society. Thus to look back with a fond longing to inhospitable deserts, where men, beasts, and Nature herself, seem arrayed in arms, and where ease, security, and all that civilization reckons among the goods of life, are alike cut off, may appear to argue some strange perversity or moral malformation. Yet such has been the experience of many a sound and healthful mind. To him who has once tasted the reckless independence, the haughty self-reliance, the sense of irresponsible freedom, which the forest life engenders, civilization thenceforth seems flat and stale. Its pleasures are insipid, its pursuits wearisome, its conventionalities, duties, and mutual dependence alike tedious and disgusting. The entrapped wanderer grows fierce and restless, and pants for breathing-room. His path, it is true, was choked with difficulties, but his body and soul were hardened to meet them; it was beset with dangers, but these were the very spice of his life, gladdening his heart with exulting self-confidence, and sending the blood through his veins with a livelier current. The wilderness, rough, harsh, and inexorable, has charms more potent in their seductive influence than all the lures of luxury and sloth. And often he on whom it has cast its magic finds no heart to dissolve the spell, and remains a wanderer and an Ishmaelite to the hour of his death.

— Francis Parkman, The Conspiracy of Pontiac, Vol II, p.237 (Boston: Litle, Brown and Co., 1917) UCB library.

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Acorns ... before the use of Wheat-corn was found out) were heretofore the Food of Men, nay of Jupiter himself ... till their luxurious palats were debauched ... And men had indeed hearts of oak; I mean, not so hard, but health, and strength, and liv’d naturally, and with things easily parable and plain.

—From An “English chronicler of the 17^th century” quoted by Fernaldard & Kinsey in “Edible Wild Plants of Eastern North America” page 161.

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The Following from “The Fog of a Jack Tar; Or, the Life of James Choyce, Master Mariner” Edited by V.L. Cameron. Published by T. Fisher Urwin, Londin, 1897, page 201. In the Falkland Islands, Choyce reports finding 5 men “clothed in seal skins” living in a state of nature, as it were. “Indeed” (says Choyce) “they said they were comfortable enough, and wanted nothing but wives to make them happy; still” [sad mistake] “they wanted to revisit their native countries ...”.

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In a dim way I appreciated how radical a change Greenland had made in me. The transition from the restrictions of life at home, where I was a gear meshing with other gears and spinning on a fixed axis, to the utter freedom of our island, where with Max I was absolute king having only our Eskimo family to consider, had been too gradual to arouse thought.... Among others again, I found that I had lost the spirit of give and take, as though I were in fact a hermit savage. It would be long before I was adjusted again to the restrictions of civilized existence. Patience, a virtue in the citizen, seemed to demand of me fantastic concessions. —William S. Carlson, Greenland Lies North, New York, MacMillan, 1940, page 286.

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Following quote from Fridtjof Nansen, The First Crossing of Greenland Tranlsated by Hubert Gepp, London, Longmans, Green and Co. 1892.

p.179. Referring to the Eskimos on the East coast of Greenland — “a happy and contented race, quite as happy, perhaps, as any to which our thoughts turned across the sea.” So what have 5000 years of civilization done for us?

p.297 “However hard the day had been, however exhausted we were, and however deadly the cold, all was forgotten as we sat round our cooker, gazing at the faint rays of light which shone from the lamp, and waiting patiently for our supper. Indeed I do not know many hours in my life on which I look back with greater pleasure than on these.”

p.353. After Nansen and Svendruphad caught some sea gulls: “Language, in fact, has no words which can adequately describe the satisfaction of the two savages who sat that evening on the northern shore of Ameragdla, and dipped each his hands into the pot, fished out the body of a gull, and conveyed it, piece by piece, head, feet, and all, into the depths of his hungry stomach.”

p.360 “This was the last of these wonderful nights which we had a chance of enjoying before our re-entrance into civilisation.”

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There are few things in one’s experience in the North that are so pleasant to remember as these autumn hunts, when the camp is pitched among a clump of spruce trees at the bottom of some ravine, and when at the end of a day’s hunt you can gather around a crackling fire in the enveloping darkness, for the four-months’ summer day is just over. The occasional howl of a wolf in the near shadow lends an additional romance, especially if, as not seldom happens, the wolves are so numerous and near that the dogs become frightened and gather in a close circle around the fire. Few meals can be more satisfying, either, at the end of a hard day’s work, than a caribou head that has been rotated continuously before the fire until it is roasted through, even to the base of the tongue and the center of the brain. The dreams of boyhood seldom come true, but I am not sure that there is not sometimes as much romance about the reality of such evenings as there was about the dreams of Crusoe-like adventures on desert islands.

—Vilhjalmur Stefansson, My Life with the Eskimos, 1951, page 338.

From the same source, p.38: “One frequently hears the remark that no people in the world have yet been found who are so low that they do not have a religion. This is absolutely true, but the inference one is likely to draw is misleading. It is not only true that no people are so low that they do not have a religion, but it is equally true that the lower you go in the scale of human culture the more religion you find ...”{1}

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September 23, 1969: “By my own definition I would call myself successful if I were a fix-it man in a small village and I was the only one who knew how to fix things there. The world of today is just not a place where you can be successful. There are too many people, too much organization. There’s no satisfaction in doing anything. Things are too sophisticated. — Actor George Sanders, quoted in Chicago Daily News, late Aug or early Sept, 1969.

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From Barttetts Familiar Quotations

John Freeman: “Who may regret what was, since it has made himself himself?”

Ben. Franklin: “They that can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty or safety.”

Dwight Eisenhower: “Neither London nor Abilene ... will sell her birth-right for physical safety, her liberty for mere existence.”

Karl Marx: “Constant labor of one uniform kind destroys the intensity and flow of a man’s animal spirits, which find recreation and delight in mere change of activity.”

Thoreau: “Most of the luxuries, and many of the so-called comforts of life are not only not indispensable, but positive hinderences to the elevation of mankind.” “The man who goes alone can start today; but he who travels with another must wait till that other is ready.” [This makes the following point: the company of other people always restricts your freedom, because people have to accommodate each other to a certain extent, unless they just want to fight.]

Thoreau again: “I never found the companion that was so companiable as solitude.”

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[ADDED LATER: October 18, 1969:]

Herbert Gleason in Saturday Review, October 18, 1969: “But what of the future? Will candidates be sold more and more like packaged goods? Will [political] campaigns end up entirely in the hands of the professional image manipulators? And will the public be casting ballots in proportion to the talent of one of the other groups of image makers on the financial ability of the partisans to buy in time? Probably.

At a two-day conference ... much talk was devoted to the morality of image manipulation ... But in the end the participants — campaign managers, candidates and advertising men — were all there for one purpose: to learn the newest and most effective techniques to insure victory. And the products of these techniques are what we, as voters, can look to in the future.”

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From “Channeling” — an official Selective Service memorandum, July 1965, quoted in “The Babely Academic Plan Recaled”, a pamphlet put out by Center for Educational Change, 305 Eskelman Hall, U. of Cal, Berkeley:

“Selective Service processes do not compel people by edict in foreign systems to enter pursuits having to do with essentiality and progress. They go because they know that by going they will be deferred.” Also see other excellent points made in this pamphlet, such as on page 7. Too bad the authors are probably a bunch of student Communists.

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Following article is very important [ADDED LATER: But I don’t necessarily believe all of it.], but too long to quote here (see especially parts VI and VII): “The Human Race has, Maybe, Thirty-Five Years Left”, by David Lyle; appeared in Esquire Magazine, about 1967.

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From Chic Daily News (or San Times?) a few days ago: “We’d like to continue using DDT. DDT is a terrific control measure. We were forced to comply due to local pressures. DDT is the best killer. *All I’m interested in is saving trees.” (underlining mine) — Example of the attitude typically held by specialists. They generally imagine their speciality to be much more important than it actually is. They are unwilling to admit the importance of any consideration which interfere with the accomplishment of their special mission. Other examples: cops who hate guarantees of civil liberties that make it harder for them to extract confessions; engineers who put freeways through state parks because that’s the shortest, cheapest route; pure mathematicians who persuade themselves, often against all reason, that their particular area of mathematics will some day have practical applications, and who seem to assume that these applications are likely to be used for what they consider to be the benefit of humanity. Unfortunately, our destinies are all in the hands of the specialists who run this machine we have to live in.

 

Oct. 20, 1969: Following story is important: “And Now the News ...” by Theodore Sturgeon in The Vintage Anthology of Science Fantasy, edited by Christopher Cerf, Random House.

 

Oct. 26, 1969: From Vance Packland’s “Naked Society” —

The closing in upon the privacy of the individual comes not only from the outright scrutiny of individuals but also from multiplying rules and regulations and from ever mounting requirements for licenses. There is the new insistence that one be traceable from cradle to grave. Bess E. Dick, … complained to me: “There is a crowding in.” … Today it is increasingly assumed that the past and present of all of us—virtually every aspect of our lives—must be an open book; ... The expectation that one has a right to be let alone—the whole idea that privacy is a right worth cherishing—seems to be evaporating among large segments of our population. … Today, as we shall see, the Bill of Rights is under assault from many directions. Thomas Jefferson’s vow that he had sworn eternal hostility to every form of tyranny over the mind of man has a quaint ring to many people in 1964. Aldous Huxley commented that the classic cry of Patrick Henry that he wanted either liberty or death now sounds melodramatic. Instead today, Huxley contended, we are more apt to demand, “Give me television and hamburgers but don’t bother me with the responsibilities of liberty.”

It is worth noting that Mr. Huxley’s prophetic book, Brave New World ... has been banned from several U.S. schools. Also among the banned is George Orwell’s 1984 ... When the U.S. Commissioner of Education was asked about the banning of these two classics ... he declined to comment because he said he had never heard of either of the books! ... a haunting comment made to me by Representative Robert Kastenmeier ... “Basically I am not hopeful about the pressures that will in time make our country something of a police state.... I sense a losing game.”

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Also many other good points made in this book, too numerous to quote.

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Oct. 27, 1969: A good article: “Eco-catastrophe” by Paul Elrich, in Ramparte, Sept 1969 (courtesy of Planned Parenthood — World Population.) Good despite certain asininities inserted by the author.

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More from Vance Parkland’s “Naked Society”: Packard quotes Justice Brennan:

“Electronic surveillance ... makes the police omniscient; and police omniscience is one of the most effective tools of tyranny.”

p.285.... many social scientists, biologists, and medical scientists have been plunging ahead to explore methods of attaining control. A few years ago, a group of sixteen distinguished scientists were called together by Dr. James G. Miller, psychiatrist and psychologist at the University of Michigan. They concluded: “We must assume the probability of a breakthrough in the control of the attitudes and beliefs of human beings through exceptionally effective educational techniques, drugs, subliminal stimulation, manipulation of motives or some as yet unrecognized medium.” They suggested that the potentialities of this science of mind control far outweigh those of the hydrogen bomb. And so what did they do? They called for funds to help develop a science of human behavior.

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Parkland mentions some of the villains and the startling successes they have achieved in mind control: B.F. Skinner of Harvard; Dr. Jose M.R. Delgado of Yale; Dr. Robert G. Heath of the Department of psychiatry and neurology, Tulane University School of Medicine

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p.294 of Naked Society: A start down the road to forced medication is seen by some in government decisions to fluoridate water. The earlier chlorination of water was simply to purify the water, but fluoridation involves the concept of positive medication through the drinking water available in the areas affected. As one doctor has commented: “Individuals will have no choice but to swallow what the state presents.”

[Here, it is irrelevant whether flouridation may have any undesirable physical effects. The point is that no one should be forced to take this medicine even if he only objects because he is an ornery old cuss who just damn well doesn’t like that new-fangled stuff. Perhaps the next evil is simply the fact that over-organisation force people to be dependent on the water supply provided by society.]

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Chicago Daily News, Oct 14, 1969: A new police command post is using television cameras to keep an eye on the trouble spots in New York ... a windowless room with giant, wall-mounted television screens — a police television network of fixed and mobile cameras … fixed cameras cover City Hall Plaza and will be set up at Times Square, Madison Square Garden and United Nations Plaza. Others will be mounted on trucks and police helicopters ... The pictures flashed on the giant screens also will be videotaped and stored. Thus, a face in a crowd may later be identified. The center will be in operation 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. The television surveillance system evoked memories of the book “1984”, about a police state which featured television surveillance by “Big Brother”. Lindsay played down the police surveillance aspect. He said the system only means “police efficiency”. [It only meant police efficiency in 1984, too. This is an example of how people are sacrificing [CROSSED OUT] more and more of their liberty — just a tiny bit at a time, driblet by driblet — for the sake of physical security.]

[PAGE CUTS OFF] days, schools ask their students to wear gauge masks while attending class. Even so, one school reported that 20 percent of its students suffer from eye, nose and throat ailments.... But the mystique of the belching smokestack dies hard, and the powerful trade ministry still makes no bones about its resistance to slowing production mainly to reduce pollution. And even the politicians admit [PAGE CUTS OFF]

Interesting comments on the psychology of “intellectuals”, as they call themselves: Also from Newsweek, Nov. 3, 1969; in an article on the mental problems suffered by Jap professors as a result of student revolt: “Dr. Shigeta Saito, one of Japan’s top psychiatrists, notes a sevenfold rise in professional patients in his clinic ... ‘Professors tend to be concerned with theory, rather than with actual society’, Dr Saito explains.’ If politicians or businessmen were treated like this, they would know how to cope. The professors can’t’ ... Ironically professors who suffer most actually are, usually those who sympathize with student demands. Indeed, the students save their most virulent scorn for Communist professors, calling them parlor pinkes ... It is an epithet that Dr. Aiba finds largely justified.”

 

Nov. 10, 1969

From Parkland’s “Hidden Persuaders”.

p.63. “the doctor feels a little threatened by the growth of factory-compounded, ready-mixed medicines. The doctors probed revealed deep resentment of drug ads that relegated the doctor to the position of a pill dispenser...” [If even doctors are in danger of being relegated to the position of mere pill dispensers, what is science and automation going to do to lessen man?]

p.52. “easy-does-it, step-saving products devised for the modern housewife. The wives, instead of being grateful for these wonderful boons, reacted in many cases by viewing them as threats to their feelings of creativeness and usefulness.”

p.100: “Mrs. Middle Majority ... lives in a narrow, limited world and is quite timid about the outside world. She has little interest in civic work or the arts, she tends to fall into accepted patterns of conformity readily and feels no need for originality.... extremely restricted world ... very narrow routines ... tends to view anything outside her narrow world as dangerous and threatening ... ‘Her imaginative resources are highly limited,’ ... finds it difficult to manipulate ideas in an original way and is not very adventurous.” [No wonder our freedom is slipping away when so many people are so cowardly, so unimaginative, and perhaps even so stupid, that they don’t even want freedom.]

p.152. Quoting David Riesman “[other-directed] people learn early to accept their directions in the game of leisure and life from their peers ... to whom they respond with radar sensitivity.’”

p.173. Quoting William H. Whyte: “‘A very curious thing has been taking place in this country ... In a country where individualism—independence and self-reliance—was the watchword for three centuries the view is now coming to be accepted that the individual himself has no meaning except as a member of a group.’”

p.185. “It explained that big business, big government, and big unions would tend to level people down to a common denominator where it will be harder for a man ‘to be independent, individualistic, his own boss.’ An upper level of scientists, engineers, and businessmen will pretty much run business and industry. It then explained: ‘They themselves will be more highly trained technically and less individualistic, screened for qualities that will make them better players on the team.... Almost everybody will have to go through extensive psychological and aptitude screening. No longer may the bearded scientist fiddle with retorts in his cubbyhole ....’ Perhaps that day when there would be no place for an individualist to hide was not as far off in the future as Changing Times seemed to assume ... Even there, in research, apparently, they shouldn’t assume they can go off in some retreat by themselves. “Team research” is the coming thing.”

p.206: “Curtiss R. Schafer, of the Norden-Ketay Corporation, explore the startling possibilities of biocontrol. As he envisioned it ... ‘The ultimate achievement of biocontrol may be the control of man himself ... The controlled subjects would never be permitted to think as individuals. A few months after birth, a surgeon would equip each child with a socket mounted under the scalp and electrodes reaching selected areas of brain tissue.... The child’s sensory perceptions and muscular activity could be either modified or completely controlled by bioelectric signals radiating from state-controlled transmitters. He added the reassuring thought that the electrodes ‘cause no discomfort’.”

[Regarding the question of whether all our luxury is worth the price in autonomy, we have this from p.224.]

“Bernice Allen, of Ohio University, ... said: ‘We have no proof that more material goods such as more cars or more gadgets has made anyone happier—in fact the evidence seems to point in the opposite direction’.”

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An important passage, too long to quote here, is Chapt. 3 of “My Neck of the Woods” by Louise Dickinson Rich. Note especially the last 2 words of the chapter. From the same book, p.106: “‘What made you come here in the first place?’ I’d been wanting to know for a long time. ‘I guess I read too many books. I wanted to go some place where there was room and mountains and snow and adventure, and the only jobs I could get in the city were dumb. So I answered an ad in the paper — Well, I got what I wanted all right, and now I’ll never be satisfied with anything else, I guess.’”

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Nov. 11, 1969: From “Can Anyone run a city?” by Gus Tyler, Saturday Review, Nov. 8, 1969: “Municipalities of 100,000 to 299,000 spend $14.60 per person on police; those of 300,000 to 490,000 spend $18.33; and those of 500,000 to one mil-lion spend $21.88. New York City spends $39.83. On hospitalization, the first two categories spend $5 to $8 per person; those over 500,000 spend $12.54; New York spends $55.19. Expanding the economy of a city does not solve the problem; it makes it worse. Several scholarly studies have come up with this piece of empiric pessimism: if the gross income of a city goes up [...]

[PAGE 38 IS MISSING]

[...] does not really want them.” The paper says: “Taylor cited figures showing the spiralling cost of development that forces merger after merger.”

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I maintain that as modern organized societies are presently constituted, people who live in them suffer from a severe shortage of personal freedom. Further, I think it is very probable that individual liberty will gradually disappear completely and permanently.

I begin by explaining my first assertion. I am inclined to think that the kinds of freedom most commonly spoken of and taught in schools (vis, freedom of speech, of the press, of religion, the right to vote, and to have a fair trial, etc.) are more secure now than they ever were (in the English-speaking countries, at least). In fact, there seems to be in progress a renaissance of concern for these liberties. These kinds of freedom are important, but they are important primarily as means to an end; that is, we need them in order to defend our personal liberty. In themselves, they have very little direct influence on our everyday lives; for example, the average citizen in his entire lifetime never needs a fair trial, and he spends very little time discussing politics. His daily life would be changed very little if he had to refrain from criticizing the government or questioning the established religion.

In my opinion, then, it is not the possession of freedom of speech, religion, etc. which constitutes personal freedom. The important aspect of personal freedom is the ability to direct the course of one’s own life, to influence the major events of that life, and to determine the texture of one’s daily existence. This kind of freedom we don’t have. There are a limited number of slots in society into which everyone must fit. Within the limits of our individual abilities, we are more or less free to choose our own slots, but once a slot is chosen, it is extremely difficult to move to another slot. Moreover, seen from what we may call the outsider’s viewpoint, the slots present a depressingly limited variety of alternatives. Take me as an example. It took me 9 years of training to become a mathematician. Suppose I wanted to do something else for a living. If I wanted to switch to another area of science, I would need several more years of training. Moreover, I wouldn’t really be changing slots. As a chemist, for example, I would still be living the same kind of life; only the details of my work would be different. The same objections hold with regard to other fields requiring a large amount of technical training. If I wanted to go into business, there would be 2 main possibilities: a position in a corporation, or a business of my own. I would not be likely to get a position in a corporation because I don’t have the kind of past record they like (for example, no extracurricular activities in college); furthermore, I wouldn’t want such a job because a large amount of social conformity is usually required. As for starting my own business, it would take years for me to save enough capital to do so, and I would have an excellent chance of losing it all. Everybody knows that small business is on the way out nowadays. The other possibilities are unskilled work or work requiring only a limited amount of technical training. In either of these cases, one is condemned to doing extremely boring, routine work, offering no real challenges. Moreover, unskilled work is on the way out because of automation and within a few decades (at most) jobs requiring only a limited amount of technical training will begin to disappear too. In any case, I would have difficulty getting work of that kind because I would be regarded as “overqualified” (That’s a euphemism that means they think you’re too educated to get along with your comparatively ignorant fellow-workers), and my leaving a high-prestige field for a menial job would be considered highly suspicious. Not only is it difficult to change slots, but one’s original choice of a slot may not be as free as it seems at first glance. Presumably a sort of law of supply and demand governs the number of positions open in any given field; also see the selective service memo quoted on p.16 of these notes. Almost any job outside the academic field requires subservience to an eight-hour-a-day, five-day-a-week schedule. Any pre-agricultural savage would regard this as degrading slavery. In fact, I have read that some of the Indians stated this quite explicitly when the white people tried to force them to give up their nomadic ways and take up agriculture. The pygmies of Africa have expressed a similar attitude, if my memory serves me. See a book called “people of the forest” or something like that, by some anthropologist whose name I don’t remember. In any job, most of the important decisions are made by one’s superiors, and even the minor ones have to conform to the policies they set. In short, while the employee follows orders, the preagricultural savage is in business for himself. Some smart-aleck anthropologist is going to pop up now and claim that the preagricultural savage is so bound by tribal taboos and customs that he really is no more free, or even less free, than a modern factory workers. For all I know, this may very possibly be true. I am certainly no upholder of “tribal customs”, and I do not necessarily advocate a return to the stone age. What I am trying to point out is that a man who makes his own living with his own hands from scratch has (if he is free from restrictions of social origin) a kind of freedom that a gear in the modern social machine never dreams of.

[A digression: (I want to make it clear that, whether I am right or wrong in this digression, the point is in no way essential to my argument.) It is open to dispute whether the tribal customs of primitives restrict freedom as much as may be claimed: Did the Indians, for example, really have as many taboos to obey as we do? If some of their taboos seem unreasonable to us, probably many more of our taboos would have seemed unreasonable to them. Another point: My limited knowledge of anthropology suggests to me that among many pre-agricultured savages, the only punishment for deviation from tribal customs was expulsion from the tribe for a certain period of time. If my memory serves me, this was the only punishment inflicted by the tribe for even murder among some (or all?) of the plains Indians. (Personal revenge by the relatives of the deceased might be something else again.) Since pre-agricultural savages are capable of living off the country alone (though they have less security that way) the individual who had a strong dislike for some custom or social restriction could simply separate himself from the tribe. In practice, I gather, this seldom happened. But I cite the case of John D. Hunter, as recorded in his extraordinary book “Manners and Customs of Several Indian Tribes” (... originally published about 1828.) Hunter was a white who was captured by Indians at a very early age, was raised as an Indian, regarded himself as an Indian, and apparently remembered little or nothing preceding his capture by the Indians. At the age of 19 or 20, Hunter had a falling-out with the Indians and went to live all alone. I quote

“the time and labor necessary to procure food for myself was very inconsiderable … Not withstanding this solitude, many sources of amusement presented themselves to me, especially after I had become somewhat familiarized to it … I … took great pleasure in regarding the dispositions and habits of such animals, as were presented to my observations … the conflicts of the male buffalos and deer, the attack of the latter on the rattlesnake, the industry and ingenuity of the beaver in constructing its dam, etc., and the attacks of the panther on its prey, afforded much interest and engrossed much time. Indeed, I have lain for half a day at a time in the shade to witness the management of the ants … the manoeuvrers of the spider … I became satisfied with the loneliness of my situation, could like down to sleep among the rocks, … and almost feel the venomous reptiles seeking shelter and repose under my robe, with sensations bordering on indifference.”

Let this also serve as an answer to those who will claim that the preagricultural savage is a slave to the vagaries of nature and that his life is always one of unremitting toil and terrific hardship — though perhaps it would seem so to us, because we have been brought up to be abnormally soft and flabby. Remember also in this connection that the preagricultural savages who survived long enough to be studied by anthropologists were the ones who occupied the most inhospitable regions — because all the land that was half-way good was taken by more advanced peoples. So the preagricultural savages that we hear about are mostly those who had the hardest lives. End of digression.]

To get back to my subject, in this society, whether one lives or dies is not one’s own responsibility. The important things in life are all taken care of by society. You wont go hungry even if you don’t work, because some welfare agency will feed you. If you get sick, you’re in the doctor’s hands. The risks and rewards of life are all dealt with by society and cannot be combatted by the individual except insofar as he does so by simply following orders. All you can do to prolong your life is: obey traffic laws; eat what the doctors say is good for you; obey orders on the job; etc. None of the decisions you make that require any initiative or intelligence have much chance of preserving your life. They may affect, for example, your financial status, but that is primarily a matter of prestige rather than of physical safety or even comfort.

The whole texture of life is determined by society. Consider all the evils that are imposed on the individual by the system. To mention a few: air and water pollution; the threat of atomic war; overcrowding and traffic congestion; noise; bureaucratic red tape; the draft; destruction of the wilderness; the omnipresence of vulgar, intrusive, manipulative advertising; etc...Furthermore, the individual living independently can at least reasonably attempt to alleviate his hardships. If he is cold he can make a fire or build a better hut. If game gets scarce he can try, at least, to find an area where it is more plentiful. His decisions count; he is not helpless. But what can the individual do about air pollution or overpopulation? Sure, we can complain about it, because we have freedom of speech. We can yak about it all we want, but looking at it realistically, we have to admit that it is a very rare individual who manages through his own personal efforts to even create a significant change in a public matter of this kind. The most we can do is contribute what we can to the cause, knowing that what we personally do is trivial and insignificant. The point I am trying to make here is that the important things in an individual’s life are mainly under the control of large organizations; the individual is helpless to influence them.

And consider all the innumerable restrictions that are necessitated by the complex structure of civilization — restrictions that people are so accustomed to that they don’t even think of them as limitations on their freedom. Some examples: I like to take long walks. On these walks I can’t take a piss when I want to. I can’t sit down if I get tired, lest people think I’m a bum. I am restricted to walking in certain permitted areas, viz, the sidewalks; most of the land area is taken up by private property or by streets filled with cars. In the woods, if you see a little glade that attracts you, you can turn aside and explore it, but in the city you can’t stray from the sidewalks. I often have to stop for traffic lights, which gets irksome if there are a lot of them. I have on several occasions been stopped by cops and questioned as a suspicious character, apparently for being out too early or for walking where there is no sidewalk or in the rain. Busy thoroughfares are so numerous that it is difficult to avoid these [CROSSED OUT: messy] [ADDED later: noisy], smelly places. If I want to go to the woods to walk, I have to drive, and the traffic congestion often makes the drive more troublesome than it’s worth. Perhaps these restrictions don’t worry most people, because most people are too lazy to walk anyway. But here are some more popular activities that are subject to restrictions: For city dwellers — hunting is at best a once-a-year vacation activity; fishing is usually hopeless because there are so many fisherman and so few fish; shooting can only be done at a shooting range — and that just isn’t any fun compared to shooting at tin cans in the field; because of the restrictive traffic laws that congestion makes necessary, car-driving cannot be considered as a recreational activity; horseback riding is out; so are people who like to keep, say, chickens; sailing is out for most people in Chicago because its extremely difficult to get a place to moor your boat. “O.K.” you say, “so you can’t keep a house in the city. Why be so upset about such a little thing?” But it’s not any one restriction that bothers me — it’s the whole pattern of restriction that makes life sterile. About the only activities available, recreational or otherwise, one of the packaged variety — movies, TV, bowling alleys, golf courses, concerts, etc. The individual has little opportunity to determine the structure of his own activities — he has to just choose one of the packages that’s offered. Almost every aspect of our lives is hemmed in by restrictions — what clothes we wear on what occasions, what time of day we have to work, etc. See Vance Packard’s Naked Society. In some passages he describes the problem much more eloquently than I could, though in my opinion his stand is not sufficiently uncompromising.

I have now finished my case for the thesis that liberty in this society today is severely curtailed. I will proceed to explain my assertion that the situation will get worse and that individual liberty eventually will completely disappear forever.

In the first place, of course, there is “progress”, as it is commonly called. The more highly organized society becomes, the more necessary it is that individuals fit smoothly into their assigned places in order to keep the machine working. It is commonly said that scientific and technological progress increases man’s power over his environment. This is true enough, but the power in most cases can only be exercised by large organizations, because the sophisticated equipment required is usually too expensive to be owned by any ordinary individual; and even in cases where individuals can own the equipment (e.g. automobiles, radio transmitters) its use is generally subject to many restrictions and is dependent on facilities provided by society. thus this power over the environment is kept under the control of society and can be used only in the ways that society provides for and under the surveillance of society. Technological advances have the effect of increasing the power that large organizations exercise over individuals, of making individuals more dependent on society, and thus of decreasing the power of the individual. Have computers, for example, increased John P. Doe’s power over his environment? No, but they do help the government to keep a dossier of information about him. How about say, airplanes? Sure, John Doe can fly from New York to Los Angeles (once or twice a year, if he has the money) in a few hours; but his environment in Los Angeles will in its essential aspects be very similar to his environment in New York. It is probably safe to say that an 18^th century person could find more adventure and variety through travel on foot or horseback than a modern man of average financial resources can find through air travel.

Still more dangerous are scientific advances which make it possible to control people’s minds. Scientists have already had great success in controlling animals by means of electrodes inserted in their brains, and these techniques have even been successfully applied to human mental patients. No-one who views the matter objectively can doubt that scientific capabilities in this direction will increase faster and faster, as they do in all other directions. Psychological techniques for manipulating people also are meeting with increasing success. In short, it is obvious that within a few decades, at most, society will have in its hands the capacity to control everybodies minds at will. The question remaining is: will this capacity be used, and, if so, how will it be used?

It seems virtually certain that it will be used, and, if it is used, it doesn’t matter how it is used, because people will be nothing but robots and not humans at all, so who cares what happens to them? The danger that occurs to most people first is that mind-control techniques might be used by cynical, power-hungry, authoritarian personalities to seize control of the country and establish a totalitarian dictatorship along the lines of fascist or communist governments. This kind of thing is probably fairly likely to happen in certain unsophisticated Asian, African, or Latin American countries, and there may be some possibility of its happening in the U.S., but I think it is quite unlikely here. In this country, I think that liberty will be destroyed by ordinary honest or half-honest people, and that the change will come gradually and smoothly without any disruption of the structure of society. Bureaucrats, psychologists, educators, etc. will want to begin manipulating people’s minds “for their own good” or “for the good of society”, and no doubt they will honestly believe that these are their true motivations. In part these will be their true motivations, but there will be other factors as well; e.g. it will gratify their egos to control people, and it will also make their jobs easier. Quite likely the invasion of liberty will proceed most quickly in the “education” of children and the “rehabilitation of criminals and insane people”, and, in fact, the invasion has already been begun by those who attempt to apply psychology in these areas. Mind you, these manipulators don’t usually start with some cynical idea that people’s minds should be controlled or manipulated; they merely start from the premise that children should be brought up to have “good” values, that they should abhor violence, that they should “relate” to other people, etc.”, that criminals should be “cured” and made into “useful members of society”, etc. Of course, people have always wanted to educate their children to have such and such values, but as long as the techniques used to direct children into certain channels are naïve and of low effectiveness, there is no loss of liberty. But when psychological and/or physiological techniques become so effective (as they will in the future) that it is possible to reliably endow each child with a specified set of values, then people will no longer be human — they will just be man-made artifacts. Of course, the majority of educators today, including those who presume to concern themselves with the psychology of their words, would probably be repelled by the idea of having children’s personalities engineered in detail. But this behavioural engineering will be introduced by little bitty stages, so that nobody will think of objecting to it.

First, perhaps, children’s minds will be adjusted so that every single one of them will abhor violence — and how can you argue against that? After all, people who commit crimes of violence kill and maim people! How can you let this continue to happen just for the sake of some silly sentimental idea that children’s personalities should be allowed to grow like Topsy? Next, perhaps, kids will be fixed so as to have a strong motivation to study hard in school. And you can’t argue with that, either. How can you allow a child’s whole life to be blighted by school failure, just because of some irrational, puritanical idea that educators shouldn’t influence his personality? How can you allow those precious intellectual resources to be wasted? Later, kids will be brought up to be more docile, more willing to fit into the place that society assigns to them — and you can’t argue with that either, because it will present all kinds of tragic maladjustments and psychological problems. And so it will go. More and more aspects of the child’s personality will be engineered.

Of course, if they started off fixing kids by some disgusting cold-blooded means like sticking electrodes in their heads or injecting hypnotic drugs into them, people would object. But the means that will be used will simply be highly sophisticated psychological educational techniques, and it will all be done in the name of giving kids “proper values”, improving their “mental health”, and “helping them relate to other people”. Eventually, once this kind of thing has been accepted and has made people docile enough so that they will accept quite a lot, then the electrodes and chemicals will come into use as being more efficient and effective. Most intellectuals won’t object to the gradual introduction of behavioural engineering in education. They would object if the kids were engineered into a type they don’t like; but if the kids are engineered to be more like them (the intellectuals), then they (the intellectuals) won’t object. If the kids are fixed so as to have a greater appreciation of arts and sciences, to be more nonviolent, and all that stuff, the intellectuals won’t think of it as brainwashing, they’ll think of it as progress in education. But once you start manipulating the kids, where will it stop? It won’t stop, because somebody will always find a really compelling reason to start engineering just one more little aspect of the kids personalities; just as lawmakers always find a compelling reason to pass one more law. And the reason really are compelling, because as society gets more and more complicated, more laws become necessary; and for the same reason, more manipulation of people’s personalities will become necessary. It seems people are always willing to give up one more little piece of their freedom in exchange for one more little piece of physical security. [CROSSED OUT: then extinct(?)] Gun control laws are a case in point. Proposals for stricter requirements for drivers licences are another.)

With “rehabilitation” of criminals it will be the same story. No doubt it will start with “rehabilitation” of people convicted of crimes of violence. who, after all, can object to “curing” a murderer of his violent propensities? Then the class of criminals subject to “rehabilitation” will be gradually widened. Eventually, all people will be screened for violent propensities, and those who have them will be subject to compulsory treatment to prevent violent crimes from happening in the first place. And who will object? Would you actually let people be killed just because of your irrational reluctance to have your mind investigated? And besides (they will say) only potential criminals will be subject to treatment, and they are “sick” anyhow. But next, perhaps, anyone with erratic propensities of any kind will be treated, because erratic or irresponsible behaviour of any kind can physically endanger people, even if only accidentally. And so forth. Eventually people will be just biochemical machines.

Once this situation has come about it will last forever,{2} because social turmoil and uncontrolled change will have become impossible. All desire for autonomy will simply be programmed out of people’s minds.

One myth that certain wishfully-thinking intellectuals like to believe in is that people of very high intelligence would be necessary to keep society going and that such people would always be rebellious and hard to control. Actually, there is no reason to believe that individualistic tendencies are an unavoidable concomitant of high intelligence, even though they may tend on the average to accompany high intelligence in our still relatively uncontrolled society. Undoubtedly there exist today many highly intelligent other-directed people. [CROSSED OUT: One point worth noting is that high intelligence and a high degree of hypnotic suggestibility tend to accompany each other.]

Despite the fact that the youthful social and political rebels of today are constantly demanding “freedom”, I don’t think they provide us with much hope. They have always appeared to me to be intolerant and unwilling to look at things from the other person’s point of view. In the unlikely event that they ever gained control of this society, I think they would permit us less freedom than we have now. They too would use mind-control techniques, though they would no doubt use them in a somewhat different way than the present establishment would.

Note: In this little essay I have occasionally made comparisons between modern society and various societies of the past. This is not to be taken to imply that I regard past societies better than the present one. I am not very interested in the past, except in so far as it may be useful for purposes of illustration. My main concern is with the present and future.

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Nov. 20, 1969: Lest the gloomy prognostications above be regarded as merely the ravings of a fevered imagination, I call attention to the fact that a number of highly respectable people share my worries. For example, see Aldous Huxley’s important book “Brave New World Revisited”.

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J. Herbert Hollomon in Saturday Review, July 1, 1967: “Today you and I can buy a house, but we cannot buy an attractive city; you and I can buy a car but we cannot buy an efficient highway; you and I can pay tuition for a son to go to college but we cannot buy an educational system. The public—in the small or large—buys these public goods: school systems, cities, suburbs, road systems, air pollution control systems, airways systems. Today an increasing share of your and my money is being spent for public goods as contrasted with private goods. This is because we live closer together, have become more interacting and interdependent than we ever were before.” (Note: The individual — because one vote is insignificant — has no control over what “public goods” will be provided, and thus an “increasing share of your and my money” is being spent in a way over which we have no control.) Hollomon expresses no dissatisfaction with this situation — and why should he? After all, he is a comparative big shot. He can get his views published in influential journals like the Saturday Review. He isn’t just a helpless pawn; he’s one of the elite that helps to move the pawns.

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November 25, 1969: Chicago Daily News reports recommendations of the National Commission on the Causes and Prevention of Violence: “Among the commission’s recommendations were ... identification of specific violence-prone persons ...”. This, of course, implies [CROSSED OUT: surveillance of persons] some form of surveillance of “violence-prone persons”, as identification alone would be useless as a preventive measure. The next step, no doubt, will be compulsory psychiatric treatment for individuals considered to be “violence-prone”.

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Dec. 21, 1969: From Chicago-Sun times, p.2: “In 10 to 15 years from now every man, woman and child in the [Northern] hemisphere will have to wear a breathing helmet to survive outdoors. Streets, for the most part, will be deserted.... In 20 years, man will live in domal cities. Even now ... there is no more clean air left in the United States ... ‘We have no solution’ ... ‘The people will be inside and all living things outside will be dead. Technology will have taken over completely’ ... for the near future ‘we can see no improvement’” [If everything outside is dead, what do we eat?]{3}

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P.84 of Sun-times, Dec 21: Apparently, office of the Hammond Corporation are required to undergo “sensitivity training.” “You get all these people wanting to make personal contributions to corporate objectives and that is much different than a dedication to personal objectives”.

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Jan 7, 1970: From Driftwood Valley by Thedore C. Stamwell-Fletcher, Who lived for a couple of years in wilderness amongst Indians: “Of all people whom we’ve known, J. and I have decided that we envy these Indians most. For they are free as very few left on this earth are free. They can be independent in matters of material wealth, for the country in which they live supplies their needs if they choose to make it do so. They need have little, or no, contact with the white man. If they desire possessions obtained in the white man’s stores, they can hunt and trap in exchange for them. They can have as good a cabin and as fine a place to live in as we have. The materials and the setting are all there. They can have a healthy and sufficiently varied diet throughout the year if they have the enterprise to obtain it. The hours and days, the months and years, are each man’s to do with as he wills, make of what he desires. And what a country they have to live in! What beauty to look upon! What change of seasons to make life interesting! What new scenes on every side to visit if they grow tired of the old! Deep sheltered valleys for hard cruel winter; big lakes where winds sweep off the heat and insects of summer; great mountains, with new climate and scenery and wildlife, to explore. All this for those who have the intelligence, character, and experience to work for it, and plan for it, and use it.”

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Jan. 20, 1970: From “Indians of the United States” by Clark Wissler, Doubleday, 1966.

p. 126: “The traditions of Indian life had always been for absolute freedom of action, and each community was jealous of this might. Aboriginal United States was a kind of ultrademocracy, every small group functions for itself.”

p.290: the following is quoted from a politician by a group of Mohegans: “The Times are Exceedingly Alter’d, Yea the Times have turn’d everything Upside down, or rather we have Chang’d the good Times, Chiefly by the help of the White People, For in Times past our ForeFathers lived in Peace, Love and great harmony, and had everything in Great planty. When they Wanted meat they would just run into the Bush a little ways with their Weapons and would Soon bring home good venison, Racoon, Bear and Fowl. If they Choose to have Fish, they Wo’d only go to the River or along the Sea Shore and they wou’d presently fill their Cannoous With Veriety of Fish, Both Scaled and shell Fish, and they had abundance of Nuts, Wild Fruit, Ground Nuts and Ground Beans, and they planted but little corn and Beans and they kept no Cattle or Horses for they needed none—And they had no Contention about their lands, it lay in Common to them all, and they had but one large dish and they Cou’d all eat together in Peace and Love—But alas, it is not so now, all our Fishing, Hunting and Fowling is entirely gone ....”

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From Norbert Wiemen’s “I am a Mathematician.” p.271: “... a general breakdown of the decencies in science which continues to the present day. In most previous times, the personnel of science had been seeded by the austerity of the work and the scantiness of the pickings. … Thus, an ambitious man with slightly anti-social tendencies or, to put it more politely, indifferent to spending other people’s money, would formerly have avoided a scientific career as if it were the plague itself. From the time of the war on, these adventurers, who would have started out as stock promoters or lights of the insurance business, have been invading science. The old assumption which we used to make must be discarded. … in the normal course of events we did not expect to meet in our world men who lied or men who intrigued. When I began to emerge from my sheltered life into the scientific confusion of wartime, I found that among those I was trusting were some who could not be held to any trust.”

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I contend that liberty is inconsistent with the nonexistence of evil. Unless men’s minds are engineered or controlled so that everyone wants only what is “good”, there will be some people who will be disposed to evil[1]; and unless people are so closely regulated and watched that it is possible to prevent any unauthorized act before it is committed, then some of these evilly-disposed people will actually commit evil. And if people are so closely regulated and watched, then there is no freedom. Furthermore, there is the problem of deciding what is to be considered “good”. There is no such thing as absolute good. Ask any logician. The word “good” is meaningless until you define it in oppositional terms and your definition of “good” determines your system of values or goals. (In practice it would probably be impossible for anyone to explicitly and completely define his whole system of values.) Different people have different systems of values and different definitions of the word “good”. No system of values is “better” than any other, because when you say that system A is “better” (i.e., “more good”) then system B, you are presupposing some prior definition of the word “good”, i.e. a prior system of values. Unless some uniform system of values is imposed on all people by means of behavioural engineering, there will always be as many different systems of value as there are people. Thus it will be impossible for everything to be “good” from everybody’s point of view. No one group of people can have everything “good” according to its own values, in an organized society, unless it directly or indirectly imposes its will on all other people — and then you have no liberty. It therefore seems clear that you can’t eliminate all “evil” and still have liberty. Some may contend, however, that there are some things we can all agree on as being “evil” and that these things can be completely eliminated without loss of liberty. But there is nothing at all that everyone will agree is “evil.” There are, no doubt, even some people who regard such things as pain and danger as desirable in and of themselves. So you say, if only a tiny minority fails to agree that something is evil, why should that prevent us from completely eliminating that evil? Well, to be absolutely because from evil, you would either have to brainwash the opposing minority into regarding it as evil, or you would have to establish such close surveillance and restraint of the minority that they could inextricably be prevented from perpetrating the evil under consideration. Well, maybe you are willing to do this to a tiny minority; say by brainwashing them this sets a precedent for brainwashing the next “evil” minority. And the process continues. There is always another “evil” that someone regards as intolerable and insists must be brainwashed out of people.

For one thing, many of the sacrifices of liberty are made for the sake of security against calamitous events like violent crimes, dangerous accidents, etc. John Doe reads about Charles Whitman, who killed 13 people or so, and he finds it very frightening. So he favors gun-control laws, because they seem to involve such a minor sacrifice of liberty when set up against frightening things like murders. Actually, John Doe’s fear at reading about Charles Whitman is largely irrational, because, in comparison to the entire population of the country, the number of people killed by mad assassins is infinitesimal. If J. Doe viewed the matter in rational terms, he would set that little sacrifice of liberty on the one hand against, say, an increase of one hundredth of one percent in each person’s chances of living to the age of 60, on the other hand. Viewed in these terms it doesn’t seem quite so obvious that the sacrifice of liberty should be made. Other proposed sacrifices of liberty that fall into this same category are proposals for stricter requirements for driver’s licenses, proposals for requiring governor on all cars to prevent anyone from driving over 60 m.p.h., etc.

Another reason people are willing to sacrifice pieces of liberty for pieces of security or material comfort may be that it is easy to give a rational or seemingly rational reason for measures that provide security or material goods. One can talk about 100,000 more TV sets or 2 years of longer life-expectancy. But liberty is an intangible thing. If you try to argue that liberty actually leads to materialistic benefits, you are usually wrong. Furthermore, it is often easy to give facile but naïve arguments to “prove” that such and such a freedom is useless or foolish.

Examples: Against the 5^th Amendment (or in favour of wiretapping) you hear people say: “If he has nothing to hide why should he object to answering the question (or having his phone tapped?) And if we repealed the 5^th Amendment (or allowed wiretapping) it would be much easier to control crime and Communist subversion.”

In favour gun-control laws: “If the guy doesn’t intend to commit a crime with his gun, why should he object to registering it?”

Still another possible reason that people are willing to trade liberty for security is this: There are a few kinds of liberty that everyone has at least some stake in, but, people being different from each other, most antilibertarian laws affect only a small group of people; e.g. laws against marijuana affect only potheads: gun-control laws affect only those invested in hunting or shooting; a law prohibiting advocacy of communism would affect only the far left; a law requiring “abnormal” people to submit to a compulsory “cure” would affect only that minority regarded as abnormal. The majority is usually willing to support some seemingly sensible piece of legislation which affects only a small minority, but as the number of restrictions keeps multiplying, virtually everyone finds that he belongs to some of the various minorities that are affected. Thus the freedom of the whole population declines. An example: your typical liberal intellectual is quite ready to advocate laws requiring registration of guns. He sees that guns have a destructive potential, and he can’t see why an honest gun owner would object to registration. Bus suppose you suggested to this liberal that every radical speech and evry piece of radical literature should be registered with the polic; or that radical literature should be banned from the mail. He would be terribly upset, and justifiably so. The liberal will probably agree that inciting speeches have a destructive potential, because they have probably been a significant factor in bringing about some of the riots and mob violence of recent years; and he will agree that registration of radical speeches would help police to distinguish between speeches which constitute expression of opinion and those which constitute deliberate incitement to riot. But he will (correctly) object that (1) registration of radical speeches or literature could [CROSSED OUT: correctly] lead to ristrictions on their use or even to their eventual total prohibition; (2) the mere mechanics of having to go through registration procedures would be a significant annoyance to radicals; (3) the registration procedures might later be (intentionally or unintentially) made so complicated as to present a really severe problem to radical thinkers; (4) even if, by some strange magic, an absolute iron-clad guaranty could be given that the registration [CROSSED OUT: procedure] requirement would [CROSSED OUT: UNINTELLIGLBE] never be made more complicated or be followed by any actual restriction or radical speeches or literature, the mere fact that the radical is being watched by big brother is an intolerable intrusion on his privacy and dignity. These same objections can be raised with regard to gun-registration laws, but our dear liberal would pooh-pooh them. He would ive all sorts of rationalizations to show that freedom of speech is more important (to whom?) than the freedom to own a firearm, and even that the freedom to own firearms is actually pernicious. Certainly, the freedom to support radical causes is far more important to the typical liberal intellectual than the freedom to own a gun, and he is so frightened by the idea of physical violence that anything (like guns) which even reminds him of it he regards with abhorrence. He apparently can’t conceive of the idea that some people, with a different set of values from his own, might feel as strongly about their right to own guns as he does about his right to espouse radical causes. He regards with disgust the values of such people and he imagines his own system of values to be in some absolute sense “best”.

I do not mean to imply that liberal intellectuals are worse than most people in this respect. If anything, they are probably a little better. Each little group of people is willing to sacrifice the liberties of some other group of people when these liberties present even a tiny threat to the security of the first group. If we want to keep our liberty, we are just going to have to accept the fact that we will have to pay a certain price in security; furthermore, we will have to agree to pay this price for all varieties of individual liberty, and not just those particular aspects of liberty which are most desired by our own little group.

If this persistent trend toward security as opposed to liberty is to be stopped before our liberty disappears altogether, it seems clear that somewhere we must draw the line and say that we will sacrifice just so much liberty for the sake of security and comfort, and no more. Period. Unless this is done, someone will always be pushing for just one more little bitty sacrifice of liberty for the sake of some terribly desirable objective. I say we should draw this line now. As I have indicated before, I think our liberty is already severely restricted by the structure of society. People will always be wanting to postpone drawing the line because there is something so very important that must be done first. My personal opinion is that the line will never be drawn and that our liberty will finally cease to exist.

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From Newsweek, Jan 26, 1970, p.47: “‘Modern Man’, as Dubos notes ruefully, ‘can adjust to environmental pollution, intense crowding, deficient or excessive diet, as well as to monotonous and ugly surroundings.’ And these adjustments are reinforced by natural selection; so that the human beings who take most readily to regimentation, overcrowding and aesthetic privation rise to positions of leadership and also outbreed their less adaptable fellows. The real spectre that pollution casts over man’s future is not, perhaps the extinction of homo-sapiens but his mutation into some human equivalent of the carp now lurking in Lake Erie’s fetid depths, living off poison.”

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Jan. 22, 1970: Probably the only hope of preserving individual liberty lies in rebellious youth. By this I do not mean to say it would be good for individual liberty if today’s hippies and student rebels ever got control of this country. On the contrary, they are so intolerant of other people’s opinions that they would probably destroy what liberty we have now. However, it is possible that they may shake up the country so much, without getting control of it, that the direction in which society is developing may be changed considerably. I would not attempt to guess what the new-direction of development would be, but it is possible — though I think quite unlikely — that it might be such as to increase the freedom and independence of the individual. It appears that the rebels have already wrought some major changes. Miniskirts, sideburns, and bushy moustaches, originally introduced by junior nonconformists, have now been more or less accepted by what is vulgarly termed the establishment. Even family-type national magazines have become surprisingly daring with regard to sex. In the last few years “socialism” (that term means different things to different people) has become more and more widely accepted as both inevitable and desirable in this country. I see no reason for optimism in these trends. Rather the contrary. There seems to be more and more emphasis on “togetherness” and the individuals supposed obligation to the group. (Sensitivity training; the we-all-gotta-kiss-and-hod-hands-or-the-world-will-blow-up attitude; etc.) The student and minority group rebels keep asking society to do things for them, rather than asking for a situation in which they can be independent and do things for themselves. I see no sign of any movement asking to let each man be his own master in a thorough sense. It should also be noted that economic socialism involving nationalization of industries doesn’t eliminate the power that corporations exercise over individuals — it merely constitutes all the power in the hands of the government. Thus there is no longer even the partially effective system checks and balances that exist in the present half-capitalist society.

The growing tendency to assume Communist countries are benign and harmless as long as we treat them right is dangerous. It is time that neither the Russians nor the Chinese are about to send their armies goose-stepping across Asia. Neither are they likely to make an unprovoked atomic attack on the U.S. Nevertheless, certain facts should be clear to any reasonably objective observer. The first is that Communist values are strictly materialistic. Individual liberty has no place in their ideology, as is made clear by the invasion of Czechoslovakia (despite the Czechs repeated prostrations of loyalty to socialism and to the Soviet Union), and by the repression of intellectuals and artists.
Secondly, it seems nearly certain that the Russians, and absolutely certain that the Chinese, will not hesitate to use mind-control techniques as they become available. Indeed, they have already demonstrated this by their use of propaganda, and of brainwashing in the strict sense of the word (as described in A. Huxley’s “Brave New World Revisited). [CROSSED OUT: UNINTELLIBLE]
Third, even if expansionism were not a part of Communist ideology, we would still expect the Communist leaders to do their best to enlarge their sphere of influence, simply because that is the way national leaders behave. (especially when they are not hampered by Western examples). They would do this by economic and political means, with military presence applied where convenient and reasonably safe. Let’s be extremely optimistic for a moment and assume the U.S. forswears the use of mind-control techniques and the misuse of technology. How could it then expect to compete indefinitely with nations having no such scruples? Once sufficiently effective mind control techniques become established in Communist countries these countries would stay that way.

Bibliography

[**Archivists note:*** This list of books mentioned in the journal is not included at the end of the original handwritten journal.]

Books

Pamphlets

Articles

Extracts from Series I (1969–1974)

Source: A Review and Compilation of the Writings of Ted Kaczynski. California University Archive Source: Part #1, #2 & #3. Plus, here is a work in progress digitizing version.

Notes: These are just short extracts from an FBI document. Some of the emphases or lack of emphases may be in error or added by the FBI.“Contains ideas and quotations. #6 contains also some personal material, but not overly intimate.”

Dates: 1969–1974

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Introduction

Quoting Ted:[8][9]

These are journals that I kept over a span of more than twenty-five years. Some contain accounts of my personal experiences. Some are filled with my thoughts and ideas, and quotations from my reading. Some contain mixed materials. The journals are highly reliable, since they are completely honest and nearly all of the information about personal experiences was written down within a few days of the events.

The journals are divided into eight series, as follows:

• Series I, #1 through #7

• Series II, #1 through #6

• Series III, #1 through #8

• Series IV, #1

• Series V, #1

• Series VI, #1 through #5

• Series VII, #1 through #4

• Series VIII, #1 ...

Series I. Contains ideas and quotations. #6 contains also some personal material, but not overly intimate.

#1. June 7, 1969 to Jan 22, 1970
#2. Feb 1, 1970 to Nov. 19, 1970
#3. Nov 30, 1970 to May 14, 1970
#4. June 7, 1971 to Dec 6, 1972
#5. Dec 9, 1972 to Dec 9, 1974
#6. Jan 3, 1975 to May 19, 1975
#7. Dec 20, 1975 to May 3, 1997

#1. June 7, 1969 to Jan 22, 1970

October 10, 1969

“The ultimate achievement of biocontrol may be the control of man himself ... The controlled subjects would never be permitted to think as individuals. A few months after birth, a surgeon would equip each child with a socket mounted under the scalp and electrodes reaching selected areas of the brain ...”

... I think it is very probable that individual liberty will gradually disappear completely and permanently ... Consider all the evils that are imposed on the individual by the system. To mention a few: air and water pollution; the threat of atomic war; overcrowding and traffic congestion, noise; bureaucratic red tape; the draft; destruction of the wilderness; the omnipresence of vulgar, intrusive, manipulative advertising; etc...Furthermore, the individual living independently can at least reasonably attempt to alleviate his hardships. If he is cold he can make a fire or build a better hut. If game gets scarce he can try, at least, to find an area where it is more plentiful. His decisions count; he is not helpless. But what can the individual do about air pollution or overpopulation? ...The point I am trying to make here is that the important things in an individual’s life are mainly under the control of large organizations; the individual is helpless to influence them ...

... Still more dangerous are scientific advances which make it possible to control people’s minds. Scientists have already had great success in controlling animals by means of electrodes inserted in their brains, and these techniques have even successfully applied to human mental patients ... Psychological techniques for manipulating people also are meeting with increasing success ... Quite likely the invasion of liberty will proceed most quickly in the “education” of children and the “rehabilitation” of criminals and insane people ...

... Sticking electrodes into people’s heads makes us feel squeamish, but what is the difference whether we manipulate a person by sticking electrodes in his head or by educational techniques if both methods are equally effective in engineering his personality? ...

#2. Feb 1, 1970 to Nov. 19, 1970

Page 148

... In my experience, a surprisingly large percentage of the individual’s transactions with the bureaucracy involve some error, delay, or foul up on the part of the bureaucracy.

July 1, 1970: See the “Phoenix Nest” department of the Saturday Review, June 13,1970.

July 4, 1970: Went almost as far north as it is possible to go by road in Alaska only about 50 mi from the Arctic circle.

All the streams I saw had detergent foam in them. The place was mobbed with tourists. Almost every place along the way where it was possible to pull a vehicle off the road there were one or more campers, trailers, or cars parked. Hippies with ostentatious whiskers, tarty girls in skin-tight pants, the whole pile of shit. This makes me want to kill people. It confirms a lesson I have learned elsewhere: there is no place accessible by road where it is possible to get any solitude. Walk half a mile from the road and usually you will find yourself quite alone, because most people are too lazy to walk that far except on a well-marked trail, but anyplace where people can get to without making any physical effort is mobbed.

This is one reason why I hate ...

Page ???

... Though I have had a smoldering and fairly consistent dislike of organized society ever since my middle teens, my hatred of it did not reach full bloom until I was about 24 years old ...

[February 13, 1971]

... It ... seems probable — in fact, almost certain — that in future generations the [OBSCURED TEXT]nine individualist will be eliminated through scientific manipulation of human behavior...

Page 157

... even to the individual himself, except in the trivial matters of wealth and prestige.

Sept. 28, 1970: Not only do rules and regulations continually increase in number; it also becomes more and more difficult to evade them as the efficiency of law enforcement increases. I think a person should have a sporting chance to get away with even murder. I resent the idea that any rule should be so sacred and the power of society so great that it is impossible for it ever to be violated successfully. But eventually technology will probably make law ...

#3. Nov 30, 1970 to May 14, 1970

Page 261

... if you can manage to forget for a time that society is in the process of destroying most of the free country and turning the rest into museum pieces in the form of scientifically managed national parks and national forests.]

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To me, ...

March 25, 1971: Pride and self-respect demand that a person be able to physically resist anything that he regards as an intrusion on his rights, rather than being entirely dependent on society for protection. This requires that he have the physical and mental capacity for violence. Of course, when individuals have the capacity for violence, they may at times hurt people. But to me that risk is a price worth paying for a measure of personal pride and independence. Unfortunately, the capacity for aggression will probably be brainwashed out of people within a few decades, by means of the new mind-control techniques....

... have recently read most of the book “Behavior control” by Perry London. London claims ...

Page 276

... have a crude illusion of wilderness independence and they are satisfied with that. But I want the real thing.

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[April 6, 1971]

... My motive for doing what I am going to do is simply personal revenge. I do not expect to accomplish anything by it. Of course, if my crime (and my reasons for committing it) gets any public attention, it may help to stimulate public interest in the technology question and thereby improve the chances of stopping technology before it is too late; but on the other hand most people will probably be repelled by my crime, and the opponents of freedom may use it as weapon to support their arguments for control over human behavior.

I have no way of knowing whether my action will do more good than harm. I certainly don’t claim to be an altruist or to be acting for the “good.” (whatever that is) of the human race. I act merely from a desire for personal revenge. Of course, I would like to get revenge on the whole scientific and bureaucratic establishment, not to mention communists and others who threaten freedom, but, that being impossible, I have to content myself with just a little revenge.

These days it is fashionable to ascribe sick-sounding motivations (in many cases correctly, I admit) to persons who commit antisocial acts. Perhaps some people will deny that I am motivated by a hatred for what is happening to freedom. However, I think I know myself pretty well and I think they are wrong. Let me explain more fully. It is quite true that I do not fit into organized society, and that I don’t want to fit into it.

It is quite true that even if science were not advancing and the degree of social organization were not easing, I would still resent organized society, and I would still seek all avenues of temporary or partial escape from it — or total escape if possible. But if it were not for the advance of science I would not rebel to such an extent as to risk severe punishment ...

#4. June 7, 1971 to Dec 6, 1972

Page 29

... decisions in question were senseless, the real reason would be that there are criteria superior to the popular will according to which popular will is judged. Popular will can only express itself within the limits that technical necessities have fixed in advance.”

p. 217: “What is at stake here is all of man’s liberty, the liberty to take chances, even to gamble with the death penalty. We see in this loss of liberty the ...

#5. Dec 9, 1972 to Dec 9, 1974

Page 104

... our tour of toy departments, I found that from a third to a half of the merchandise consisted of aggressive toys (war games or guns), racing cars and dolls! ... The two psychologists, both of them parents, buy toys which encourage ... cooperation rather than aggression ... The two psychologists suggest the following considerations when toy shopping: ... is it psychologically desirable?”

I am in certain respects attracted to aggression, mainly because I desire revenge on society at large. Anyhow, I would like to make the following point. Let us assume, for the moment, that hatred and aggression, like pain, are to be considered undesirable in themselves. But this does not preclude their being regarded as appropriate reactions to certain situations. Presumably everyone seeks to avoid physical or mental pain. Yet many people (including me) would not want to be deprived of the capacity for ...

... sophisticated biotechnology.

Dec. 17, 1972

I think I am not unusual in being disturbed by the present state of society and especially by the accelerating erosion of freedom that seems to be clearly indicated for the future. However, it seems that I get considerably more upset about it than most people do ...

Dec. 25, 1972

... About a year and half ago, I planned to murder a scientist — as a means of revenge against organized society in general and the technological establishment in particular ... Unfortunately, I chickened out. I couldn’t work up the nerve to do it. The experience showed me that propaganda and indoctrination have a much stronger hold on me than I realized. My plan was such that there was very little chance of my getting caught. I had no qualms before I tried to do it, and I thought I would have no difficulty. I had everything well prepared. But when I tried to take the final, irrevocable step, I found myself overwhelmed by an irrational, superstitious fear — not a fear of anything specific, merely a vague but powerful fear of committing the act. I cannot attribute this to a rational fear of being caught. I made my preparations with extreme care, and I figured my chances of being caught were less than, say, my chances of being killed in an automobile accident within the next I am not in the least nervous when I get into my car. I can only attribute my fear to the constant flood of anticrime propaganda to which one is subjected. For example, murderers in TV dramas are always caught, there is always the stern, moralizing sermon on their “twisted minds”, they are small and helpless before the judge, surrounded by police, etc., etc., etc. If I ever do work up the nerve to commit such a murder, I will probably have to do it in a kind of suicidal act my vague, of rage — that is, without making any attempt to avoid being caught. It may be that I can overcome my vague irrational fear of [TEXT OBSCURED] consequences only by saying to myself, “Damn the consequences — this is the end.”

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... give us a hint that this may occur in the relatively near future). If you agree that not all laws are good and that disobedience of the law is sometimes justified, you should find this disturbing. And there is more to it than that. Inefficient enforcement of a law — even a law that we would all consider good” and “justified” may accomplish a necessary function, and still leave a certain flexibility that is one of the aspects of freedom. Let’s take a ...

... Proudly he contrasts his ragged self: he who never has acknowledged a superior ... And he turns upon his heel.”

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Viktor Frankel, “From Death Camp to Existentialism” (Beacon, 1963), p.67: “Not only creativeness and enjoyment are meaningful. If there is a meaning in life at all, then there [must] must be a meaning in suffering ... Without suffering and death human life cannot be complete.”

March 31, 1973

There is a point beyond which the desire for revenge against society becomes more important than the desire to enjoy that which is worth while in life.

#6. Jan 3, 1975 to May 19, 1975

...

#7. Dec 20, 1975 to May 3, 1997

December 26, 1976

No one shou1d believe anything my parents say about me, as most of what they say about me is grossly distorted or completely nonsensical. Their view of me, and especially of my motivations, is quite divorced from reality....

March 26, 1977

Though I have a real affection for my younger brother, I would like to record here my opinion that he is a weakling and a self-deceiver, and that his idealogy is silly and superficial

May 3, 1977

My younger brother may be under the impression that his personal idealogy and mine have a good deal in common, but I think this is incorrect. I see very little in his idealogy (so far as I am familiar with it) that I care for ...

April 22, 1977

... Some time ago — (Last Hov. or Dec.) I sublrltted a llatheJlatical paper for publication, and I cDl rather ashcDled of this. Hot because of any idea that the paper will advance technical progress — I feel confident that it will never have any practical applications, direct or indirect — but because it represents, to a certain degree, a personal surrender to one of the escape mechanisms which keep people distracted so that they can forget the purposelessness, subordination, and indignity of life in a technological society ...

Series II

Journal #2 (1972)

Source: “Journal series II #2, 1972 K2046N”, Folder 1, Box 82, Ted Kaczynski Papers, University of Michigan Library (Special Collections Library). <findingaids.lib.umich.edu/catalog/umich-scl-kaczynski> & <archive.org>

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... About the time I got back to camp, the sky began to cloud over again. I put half a cup of lentils, and the mere smidge of rice and barley I had left, in the pot with my porcupine meat, also some sage-brush leaves that I got on my hike, a touch of sugar and salt, and boiled up a good soup.

By the time the soup was done it was raining and pretty chilly, so that hot broth really was welcome! The livers and kidneys were particularly tender. The rest of the meat was neither tough nor tender — just average. I just ate the liver, kidneys, heart, and hind legs — saved the front legs for today. (I only took the heart, liver, kidneys, and legs of this porcupine — that’s most of the meat anyway, and you can get that much without going through the tiresome process of skinning the whole animals. Of course, I always save all the meat when I’m back at the cabin and have better facilities). Then I had mint tea for desert. (I picked some mint on my walk.) By the time I finished supper, the rain had stopped. Actually I enjoyed the rain, because it gave a pleasant sense of defying the elements. I kept warm and reasonably dry under my lean to with a fire in front.

I enjoyed sitting up for a while after dark, just watching the fire. About the same time I rolled up my blankets for the night, it commended raining again. The night was not quite so chilly as the last few nights, and I kept warm and reasonably dry, and slept pretty well, even though I felt rather uneasy about how I was going to cook breakfast the next morning. It rained hard all night with but little intermission. As I feared, this continued in the morning, but the rain was lighter. All the same, I got a good blaze going (one match, match), but of course it takes a good deal more effort to start a fire under such conditions. In an area like this where there’s no birch bark or other ready tinder, you have to cut a piece of sound standing dead-wood, hack off the moist outer layer and then manufacture a pile of shavings, splinters, and chips from the dry inner part....

... I forgot to mention a trick I have used several nights on this hike. Heat up rocks in your campfire, but don’t get them too hot to touch. Then take them to bed with you. They radiate heat for a long time. Meanwhile, put other rocks on the coals and heap them over with ine-needles, humus, and various moist peaty stuff from the forest floor. This will smolder for a long time, and when your first set of rocks gets cold, you will have a new set all ready and waiting.

Later: Just after I finished making pancakes a couple of forest rangers, or Forest Service guys, or whatever the hell they are, showed up with shovels and mattocks. They saw the smoke from my fire (earlier, when I had a big heap of wet wood on it, drying out) and they came to investigate lest it be an incipient forest fire. They said they spent a couple of hours looking for it. I was afraid they would be mad, but they didn’t seem to be disturbed in the least. They stayed around for 15 minutes or so chatting about my backpack trip and such things. It was interesting meeting them and all that, but it kind of spoils things, because on a trip like this one like to think one is out of touch with civilization. Well, after this, when things are wet so that fires are smokey, maybe I will make a point of camping only in deep gulches where my smoke won’t be readily visible — but then, it isn’t always convenient to camp in a deep gulch. Shit.

Sept. 13 The rangers coming yesterday rather spoiled things, and besides that, there was a lot of noise of machinery (loggers I suppose) coming from the north, so I decided to go home this morning, even though the weather was beautiful. Actually, I enjoyed meeting the rangers, after I got over my initial fear that they were going to be angry, but after they left I felt depressed over the incident. If I had merely met another wanderer in the woods, it wouldn’t have spoiled things. People individually aren’t so bad; some of them are even pleasant to associate with. But for me one of the main satisfactions of being out in the woods is getting out of the social machine. What disturbs me is that the agents of machine may watch my smoke and come to check up on me. I had been thinking of building some kind of wigwam of bark and poles in the Trout Creek area and camping there for an extended period this fall — but that is very likely against the rules (and in any case might excite curiosity or suspicion); and if the Forest Service checks up on columns of smoke as small as those from campfires I might be found out, which might result in trouble and embarrassment (But then, maybe the gulch of Trout Creek is deep enough to hide the smoke from even a wet campfire — I’ll have to think about it.) On the positive side, I enjoyed this trip very well until the last day, and it seemed less physically tiring than my previous trips. Maybe I’m getting used to carrying that pack. Although I am thinking in terms of another such trip; but where the hell can I go where neither the Forest Service nor anybody else will come to pester me?

Oct. 21, 1972: The deer season opens tomorrow, and I am out to get a deer....

... Unfortunately, I heard quite a few shots early in the morning. Most of them were fairly far away, but some asshole came down the gulch my camp is in, expending ammunition very indiscriminately. I didn’t see him, but I could mark his progress by the “bang, bang, bang, bang.” Where the hell can one get privacy? Maybe in the wilderness across Route 200 but you can’t hike there directly from the cabin. This feeling of not having anywhere where one can get real seclusion is very depressing. But at least I am glad to say that anyone coming through the gulch would more likely than not miss my camp, since it is in a fairly well-hidden nook. ...

... I aimed and fired. The deer staggered 50 ft or so, then fell dead. I had hit it where I wanted to — in the lungs. I was surprised that the deer didn’t fall immediately, and I was also surprised that the bullet didn’t go through the animal — at least, I found no exit wound....

Journal Extracts #1–6

Dates: Dec 1, 1971 to May 18, 1980

Source: <flickr.com/photos/usmarshals/5712531461>

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Those pigmy berries have just the right balance of sugar and acid, they never seem to pale And they have the most delicate flavor. In fact within 1/2 hour after that meal I was picking and eating more of them in the open woods a few yards from camp Then I picked well over a cup to take back to camp, and I had this with 1 spoon sugar as my supper Today, the 23rt, I had a good day and an eventful one. I hiked down the divide between Stemple and trout angled down into bottom, paid up Stemple the plateau. Along ...

Tuesday June 26, 1979 Series II #6 (3) I started out before dawn this morning and at campsite of mine overlooking McClellan Creek It feels very good to be in the wild country again. I especially value the silence here (It is now so noisy around my cabin.) The only disenable sounds this morning have been caused by the 9 evil jet planes that have passed within any hearing WED June 27, I’ve now camped at another old campsite in the ...

... down the gulch my camp is in, experiencing ammunition very indiscriminately I didn’t see him, but I could mark his progress by the’ bang, bang, bang, bang.” Where the hell can one get privacy? Maybe in the wilderness across Route 200 but you can’t hike there directly from ...

... through all that brush and down timber. Was up at the crack of dawn and hiked the rest of the way to here—that campsite on Landers Forth that I picked out. The more I look this place over, the more I think it will be sufficiently secluded from hunters up on the ridge, if I ever camp here at that time of year. A wonder spot! High above the river, with a view of Red Mtn. Pyramid peak and Castle Rock; Nice grove of trees and a little nill of water. I felt very good ...

... of their finding my camp other (wiser) Makes me about ready to join the ban hunting crowd, just to keep these disgusting twerps out of the woods. Of course, I’d hunt anyway I suppose they are hunting grouse, since the legal season is probably on now. Quite possible they found my grouse and just shot chipmunks or something to vent their frustration. Hear their voices just now.

Sept 12. This morning I did some exploring on N. side of ridge. I had brought some lunch, and I ate it I cant ...

Series III

Journal #5 (1974-75)

Dates: May 31st 1974 - Sept 15th 1975

Source: <archive.org> & <harbor.klnpa.org>

Notes: Day-to-day account of activities. Missing page number 37. Labelled C-228 E by the FBI, and ‘C’ stands for ‘Cabin’ document.

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May 31, 1974: I made, or this time I should rather say rebuilt, another jackknife. It was easy this time, as I had nearly all the essential metal parts. I congratulate myself on having done a lovely job. But it must have cost me nearly a dollar to make the thing, as I broke a 55-cent drill-bit in the process. The pivot holes in the blade I drilled out to a larger size. When the bit broke I put the handle-end of a small triangular file in the chuck of my drill, and found that the end of the file made an excellent bit. I then used two machine screws at the end of the handle, and put epoxy on the threads to keep the nuts from working loose. In order to keep the nuts and screw-heads from digging into the wooden side-panels (which I made of service-berry wood) I embedded segments of a nail in the wood, which brace the nuts and screwheads against the metal panels. From some brass that I saved from a broken clock, I filed a gizmo with a hold in it which I built into the knife in such a way that the knife can be tied to a string. I varnished it. I wanted to thin the varnish to make it soak into the wood, but I had no thinner, so thinned the stuff with some Thompson’s Water-Seal. The main blade of this knife was still functioning which I took it apart to rebuild it, but the bottle-opener and can-opener blades were broken off, and one of the side-panels had come off. Also, the main blade was getting a little wobbly. As I rebuilt it, it has a main blade and a can-opener blade. The can-opener blade was from that old knife that fell apart.

 

June 1: I am getting my stuff ready for a hike in the “back country” (N. of highway 200). Yes, this place is getting [UNCLEAR, POSSIBLY ‘more’] crowded all the time. This morning I was picking wild greens up by Humbug contour road, but had to quit and go home because I heard a pickup truck coming. Again, I remind the reader that for practical reasons it is hard to avoid being ragged and dirty here, and even if I weren’t ragged and dirty, the sight of someone squatting by the roadside picking “weeds” and putting them in a bag would be sure to excite curiosity and questions. Some people aren’t bothered by that sort of thing, but I am not one of them. Also, from the tracks I have seen, it appears that someone has been [UNCLEAR, PROBABLY ‘regularly’] driving along Humbug contour. I seem to be getting hemmed in on all sides by crowded places.

 

June 5: Weather has been unpropitious for starting my hike. Talk about this place being crowded. On the other side of Stemple pass road, between the road and the National Forest land, there is a strip of private land. They have just put up a fence along there with signs: “Keep Out — Private.” Cuts off my access to the National Forest land on the other side.

 

June 24: Yesterday I got back from 2 weeks in the back country. See small notebook. Will probably go back there again soon. My rebuilt penknife (the second one) served me well but got a little rusty. The canvas holster got holes worn through it all over whenever it rubbed by the corners of the pistol. The braided elk-hair strings that I used (on holster, as string on knife, and to hold my keys) held up very well. The string does not hold a square knot well, but half hitches in series work very nicely. Very few mosquitoes around here, compared to the situation on the other side. I have just identified some blue flowers I see growing around here as a penstemon — probably blue penstemon, Penstemon cyaneus. I have looked up those striking little blue flowers that sprinkled the alpine meadows; they are Alpine Forget-me-nots — Eritrichium elongatum. Also, another plant I saw is unmistakeably [sic.] recognisable [UNREADABLE] pictures in the book as Lomatium macrocarpum, or biscuit-root — being in the same genus as the biscuit-root, or [UNCLEAR], Lomatium utriculatum, that I have eaten.

 

June 25: By the way, I got the better of Sears Roebuck on a little deal here. The little hinge-thing on the ash door of my stove broke off, so I ordered a new one. The girl who took the order said they would not charge me for postage on this, so I only paid $1.75 — the price of the door itself. When I got the door, I noticed that it cost them $1.90 postage just to send me the thing. Hope this won’t force them into bankruptcy.

 

June 26: Just took a little stroll around and found the first wild strawberries of the year. They aren't anywhere near ready over on the other side of Copper Creek — severer climate there, I think. [POSSIBLY "This is a lovely little gulch. It's home — and it's good country around here"] too. I would be tempted to spend the summer around here, but I'm getting so hemmed in by civilization around here that I feel compelled to seek the wilder areas on the other side. Yesterday and today there has been machinery working down around where those other people have moved in — I think they're putting in electricity or something.

 

June 27: I thought I heard machinery working up the gulch as well as down it. This morning I found that they have dug a big hole up at that mine and put a fence around it. I suppose they are going to recommence mining operations.

 

Aug. 9: On Aug. 5 I got home from 5 weeks (34 nights, 35 days) in the back country — a very satisfying hike, for which see small notebook. Next day Dave and his friend Joel arrived. They wanted to take a hike, so we took over night hike to lake above Cooper Lake. Nothing worth mentioning about this hike except that (a) Joel is the most helpless creature I ever encountered and (b) I caught 2 very large cutthroat trout — all the meat I wanted for supper. They were very tasty. Had mountain sorrel for salad, of course.

 

Aug 10: Drove to Lincoln to mail a letter today, then drove on to the place on Sucker Creek where I departed for my hikes. There I parked and went to the hill to pick huckleberries. The berries were a little sparse in distribution, but still I got nearly a gallon; about 1/4 cup short. Put 1 1/2 qts. in attic to dry, ate nearly a qt. for dessert after supper. Probably will eat the rest fresh tomorrow.

 

Aug 11: Took stroll up gulch in late afternoon got just [PAGE CUTS OFF] serviceberries. Made the currants into jam and had on some bannock this evening. Good! Have started reconstructing my pack. Big job.

 

Aug. 12: Went up the ridge today with my trusty .22 rifle. This spur seems to be a regular hangout of grouse. Found a whole flock. Shot 2 — one shot each. One of these was full-grown, the other obviously immature. I suppose the big one was the mother of the brood. Hope they will be able to get by without mama. They are pretty big and fly well, so I suppose they have a pretty fair chance of survival. They had been eating serviceberries and grasshoppers. [ADDED LATER "I"] Also got some wild greens — mostly dock. The big bird, after being shot, was unable to fly, but still run well along the ground, so I had to run it down. That rifle seems almost noiseless compared to the pistol, which is quite noisy. Late afternoon I went and dug about 2/3 cup yampa — I have noticed there's quite a bit of it a little way up the gulch. Even some growing right on our lot. So had an all-wild supper (except for a bit of salt and pepper in the soup). A soup of grouse, wild greens, and yampa. (An excellent soup. Yampa is certainly one of the most delicious foods, and the grouse was tender and tasty.) And then I ate that quart and a half of huckleberries that I had put in the attic to dry. The weather has been cloudy, and they had been drying too slowly, so I thought it better to eat them now than risk having them get moldy. A very satisfactory supper. Just had a terrible cloudburst with enormous hailstones.

 

Aug. 14: Yesterday I [PAGE CUTS OFF] got 3 1/2 cups black currants and found an excellent crop of black elderberries. I probably would have had more than a gallon of these last if I had finished separating the berries from the stems — which I did not, for reasons that will appear shortly. In late afternoon I had a fine meal — that little grouse, which was extremely tender and delicious, boiled in a soup with greens, rice, etc., black currant sauce for dessert, and 1/2 cup elderberries eaten raw with milk and sugar. They didn't taste very good raw, but they are supposed to have a high vitamin C content, of which I wanted to take advantage. About a half an hour later I became nauseated, and half an hour after that I puked it all up. Then I experienced nausea, with intermittent vomiting and diarrhea for some hours afterward. What bothers me about this is not so much the discomfort I went through as losing that lovely, delicious little grouse. I ascribe this to the elderberries, because a couple of days ago I ate a mouthful or so of these in later afternoon and was nauseated next morning, though I didn't vomit. So my first act on getting up this morning was to throw out all the elderberries. Donald R. Kink (Wild Edible Plants of the Western U.S.) says of Elderberries: "Some people experience nausea when eating the fruit raw, but cooking renders it safe to all." So maybe I should have saved those berries after all, and tried them as jam. But, really, I don't have much inclination to experiment any further with them just now. Some years ago, I used to eat modest quantities of [ADDED LATER "raw"] elderberries back east, and I don't remember having any discomfort as a result; but there are several species of elderberries and that [CUT OFF, POSSIBLY "must have been a different one."]

 

Aug. 16: Went up the ridge yesterday to look for meat, but got none. Saw several grouse, but they were all very shy. Couldn't find any squirrels cutting down pine cones. But I did find some fine yampa — digging in the meadows on the ridge behind Baldy. It is a joy to wander through these incomparable parks and meadows, and to sit and gaze at the mountains on the other side of [UNCLEAR] Creek. Anyway — I had nothing to dig with but a pointed stick, but I nevertheless got almost a pint of yampa. I had this for lunch along with something over 1/2 cup serviceberries that I found and some civilized food. Large areas of meadows up there are chock full of yampa, but it is practical to dig for it only in a small fraction of this area, because elsewhere the matted grass roots make digging too difficult. Luckily I found some more soft, wet ground with lots of yampa in it. This morning I went up the ridge with pick and spade to get yampa and did much better than yesterday. In a lovely park I scared up a flock of immature grouse, and nearly slew two with one shot each. One of these was so inconsiderate as to get stuck up in the tree when it died and I had to climb for it. A tricky climb. Then I spent at least maybe 4 hours digging yampa, which effort netted me one quart of those tasty roots. I worked shirtless in the sun and enjoyed just being there. I grow fonder of that ridgetop all the time. On the way home I got some wild greens and onion tops, and about 2/3 cup Oregon grapes, from which I extracted a little less than 2/3 cup juice. So I had practically an all-wild supper, which actually served as both lunch and supper, as I missed lunch. First I boiled that quart of yampa, then in the same water I boiled one grouse with the greens and onion tops, and a little salt and pepper. Also, I had a handful of [PAGE CUT OFF] leaves for salad, and, of course, the Oregon grape juice for dessert, with maybe 1 2/3 heaping spoons of sugar in it. That sugar, and a bit of salt and pepper was the only civilized food I had. It was a square meal, and I have maybe 1/2 cup of the boiled yampa left over for tomorrow. The more time I spend in the woods, the better I like it. Also, I brought back a little Alum-root (Heuchera sp.) for next time I get an upset stomach. Alum-root is supposed to cure diarrhea. Forgot to mention that yesterday I finally got around to making those black currants up into jam. Sealed up 2 one-cup jars of it with paraffine, ate the rest last night and this morning.

 

Aug. 17: This morning for breakfast I had mashed yampa mixed with soybean oil (a delicious combination reminiscent of coconut) washed down with cocoa. Then I finished repairing my pack. Now have it in good shape. Next, I went across Poorman Creek (by the devious route that is now necessary) to look for Oregon Grapes. Found that there is nothing like the magnificent crop of these berries that there was last year. But I did get rather more than a pint of them, from which I extracted about 1 3/4 cup juice, and I got some wild onions, wild greens, mint for tea, and a few serviceberries. Scared up some immature grouse but got no chance at them. Lots of grouse around this year! Had a very fine lunch: That [sic.] lovely, tender little grouse, boiled, a soup of ride, barley, lentils, greens, seasoned with wild onions, salt, pepper, and the Oregon Grape juice for dessert.

 

Aug. 18: Yesterday I took advantage of the abundant crop of [PAGE CUTS OFF] [...] right by the cabin and picked a quart in about 15 min. I’ve had enough of black currant jam for now, so I spread these in the attic to dry. Black currants have a strong, peculiar odor. They are good when cooked as jam — up to a point. Then they pall decidedly. Two varieties grow around here — the smooth and the hairy. I consider the hairy slightly better. Some bear has lately been feasting on black currants in this gulch, as I see from his turds. Anyway, after that I took a leisurly [sic.] ramble up the gulch just for the pleasure of it, and I brought back one cup of serviceberries, and a (mature) spruce grouse that I chanced to meet and killed with one shot. I had to make haste in cleaning the grouse and cooking my bannock for supper, as dark was coming on. Washed that bannock down with delicious mint tea and had the serviceberries for dessert. This morning I went running on Humbug Contour. Did 4 miles very comfortably, felt very light of foot even though I haven't run for weeks. Rambling over these hills keeps one in excellent shape. I kept 3 of Yehring's cows running ahead of me most of the way. They ran surprizingly [sic.] well for such lumbering animals. At the end of the road I found a patch of seeds of some member of the mustard family of a kind that I used a little last fall. I gathered some of these, but to gather then efficiently I'll have to go back with my light pack so that I can pull up the whole plants and stuff them in. I also got 1 3/8 quarts of oregon grapes, from which I extracted not quite a quart of juice. And I identified a new plant — one which I've seen often before but never identified — Snowbrush, [UNCLEAR, PROBABLY "Ceanothus sp., sanguineus or] velutinus. Of course I had the grouse in a soup for lunch with greens, etc. Drank the whole quart of O. G. juice for dessert.

 

Aug. 19: Had sore legs from yesterday’s unaccustomed running, so stayed around cabin today. Got about 4/5 pint serviceberries up the gulch, which served for today's fruit ration. Have been having lots of delicious mint tea lately.

 

Aug. 21: For some reason, beans have been affecting me adversely of late. They cause excessive gas, belches of a most repellent flavor, and after some nausea. This all occurs many hours after the beans are eaten. Had no meat the 19^th, so ate beans for supper, and had the unpleasant symptoms yesterday morning. Never-the-less, I walked to the end of Humbug Contour yesterday morning and stuffed my light pack full of those seed-bearing mustard plants. Could have got more if my pack had been bigger, but I got the greater part of the crop, anyway. So I now have a big pile of the stuff drying behind the stove (the weather has been rainy). On the way home I shot a big old blue grouse, one shot. There certainly are a lot of grouse around this year! Also, I found a couple of handfuls of huckleberries still hanging on the bushes and picked just barely short of 1 quart of Oregon grapes. That grouse was big enough for 2 days' meat, so I had just the back legs, wings, and giblets in my soup for supper (with wild onion, yellow monkey flower, rice, noodles) and saved the breast for today, That grouse had a lot of fat on it, and seemed particularly tasty. Oregon grape juice for dessert, of course.

 

Aug. 28: Just got back from 6 nights out — hiked to Granite Butte, for account of which see small notebook. When I got back I observed that there was a fine crop of [ADDED LATER "ripe"] serviceberries on the bush next to the cabin. This bush seems to be the best one around, with regard to both quantity and quality of Berries. So I picked from that bush and the nearby ones, and from the bushes a little way up the gulch, and got not quite a pint of serviceberries, which served as today's fruit ration. I might mention that my home-made machete sheath, Jack knife, and wallet have all been holding up and serving well.

 

Aug. 31: Evening of day before yesterday I saw something very repulsive. I noticed a mouse that was so slow and listless that I concluded it was sick. I caught it by putting an overturned pot over it. Actually, the mouse ran for it good as I brought the pot down, so that its neck was caught under the rim, which killed it. I soon found that I had done that mouse a great favor by killing it. Attached to its underside were 3 or 4 bizarre and disgusting parasites. Each was like a fat brown grub with leathery skin, the largest about the size and shape of the last joint of my little finger — a pretty big parasite for a tiny mouse to carry around. Each had bored a large hole through the mouse's skin and had latched onto the flesh underneath, presumably to suck nourishment from the mouse. Naturally, I burned that mouse and all its parasites.

Yesterday I went out foraging. Got no meat, but I found that the shaggy-manes were out in masses already, and I picked as many as I could use. Also, I got 5 1/2 cups of Oregon Grapes (from which I got a quart of juice), and about a cup of chokecherries, and I took some mountain ash berries to try as jelly. I made about a cup of this jelly. It has a marked bitterness and is not very good on bread. But it tastes pretty good eaten alone — makes a good appetizer to begin a meal. In taste it resembles jellied cranberry sauce. For lunch, of course, I had lots of mushrooms cooked with cornmeal and cooking oil.

This morning I went up the ridge with light pack, spade, and rifle. I encountered a large flock of grouse, which were pretty shy, but I got a young one, anyway; one shot, of course. Just below the first peak east of Baldy along the ridge I found excellent yampa digging and in 2 or 3 hours I got 5 1/2 cuts, no less, of this nourishing and tasty root. Stopped off to get a bag of mushrooms on the way home. The weather had a bit of autumn in it today and I enjoyed just strolling home through those pleasant parks of Douglas fir. There is a joy too seeing new country, as I did so much this summer, but there is also a joy in seeing the same old familiar country over and over again. Anyhow, I had mushrooms-and-cornmeal for lunch, naturally, and some mountain-ash jelly too. I am now making for supper a soup of grouse with mushrooms, a couple of handfuls of greens, a few wild onions, and a pinch of salt; and I am boiling about 3 1/2 cups yampa, saving the other pint or so for tomorrow. Also I have a couple of spoonfuls of mountain-ash jelly for an aperatif [sic.] and I expect to have a pint or so of oregon grape juice (left from yesterday) for dessert. Later: So I had a nearly all-wild supper. Only civilized stuff was a bit of salt in the soup and several spoonfuls of sugar in the O. grape juice and the bit of Mountain-ash jelly. Heavy rain now. I certainly was lucky with the weather. Almost no rain on my recent hike. I just happened to hit the [UNCLEAR] spell between 2 rainy spells.

 

Sept. 1: Snow on top of Stonewall and adjacent mountains this morning. Autumn is coming. [...]

 

Sept. 2: Went running today, down to the end of Humbug Cantown Road, as sual. On the way back I looked for Oregon Grapes but only got a little less than a pint. [...] A good meal. Then a good nap. After that I went up to the little road that goes by the cabin and cleaned out and deepened my little ditches up there. I expect to start looking for employment soon, and while I am gone I want the water to run off the right way instead of washing out the road.

 

October 10: Sketch of my latest misadventures — seems I always have misadventures, of late in my relations with civilization: There seem to [UNINTELLIGIBLE] the woods [UNINTELLIGIBLE] I found employment pretty promptly through a want-ad. Job at service-station attendant at Raynesford. $2.00 per hour. The employer — a salesman type with a huge belly — gave me a lot of B.S. about how much extra money I could make in bonuses for fixing tires, selling air fitters, and the like. I figured he was exaggerating, but the situation turned out to be even worse that I feared — one could make only a negligible amount in bonuses. I did not like the work, and, especially I disliked the boss. Usually he was repulsively oily, and sometimes he was rude. I am not one to stomach rudeness, so I quit — purposely avoided giving advance notice. I just didn’t show up for work one morning. Later I sent him a self-addressed, stamped envelope for him to send my check in, which he did because he had to, though he probably didn’t like it. So I made altogether $226⁰⁰ after taxes — better than nothing, anyway. In the mean time, my Chevelle was getting so bad — it was costing so much to keep it running = that I decided I would have to get something else, transportation being practically a necessity out at Raynesford. As long as I was doing that I thought I would like to get a used pickup, because I wanted to try my hand at cutting posts and poles in the hope of making more money. Also it would be very desirable to be my own boss. Of course the venture was questionable — one hears very conflicting stories as to what kind of money one can make at post-cutting.

But I find it so humiliating and so galling looking for a job (the job-seeker is always more or less in the position of a suppliant) and so reluctant to go back to the big cities (it’s hard to get decent wages in Montana.) And I thought I would gable on it. For $373⁰⁰ plus my Chevelle I got a used pickup [...]

 

Nov. 2: Last couple of weeks I have been cutting posts and paying Glen Williams to haul them to the post yard with his trailer. It’s not very lucrative, but I am earning something, anyway. [...]

 

Nov. 20, 1974: The post cutting business having petered out for me for the present, for reasons which I need not get into here, I got myself a deer tag, though there were only 12 days of the season left. Got my deer on the 18^th, the 5^th day that I hunted. First 4 days there was no show. First 2 days I hunted up around Baldy without seeing deer. Third day I hiked down to the mouth of Cottonwood Gulch, [...]

 

Nov. 21: Straight meat for supper. Venison stew — just Rocky Mountain venison and Rocky Mountain stream water — nothing else, no salt, pepper, or any such thing. Yet it made a most delicious and nourishing stew. Perhaps the best part was the rich broth. This deer had lots of fat on it and the meat was taken from the fat parts. [...]

 

Nov. 22: Had almost nothing but venison to eat [...]

 

Dec. 20: Nearly all-wild lunch today — porcupine bacon, porcupine meat, fir-needle tea (with 3 spoons sugar), handful of raisons for desert.

Winter Solstice: Chinook this morning — snow all melty, balmy temperature. The Chinook, and certain similar winds in other parts of the world, are reported to have a psychologically disturbing effect. It always gives me an urge to get out and move. So I took a walk this morning. Just before I got home there was a sudden change in the weather and I found myself in a blizzard, which has been blowing off and on all the rest of the day.

 

Dec. 22: Went out and got 2 rabbits in 2 or 2 1/2 hours this morning, just around home gulch here. Right here seems to be where the best rabbit hunting is this year. [...]

 

Dec. 23: Took a long hike [...] snow in most places was considerably deepr than at the cabin and I wished I had taken my snow shoes. It was 12° when I left the cabin, but over in the area of the walenness springs it felt much colder. Bet it was around zero. I didn’t have proper foot gear for such weather and my toes got all numb. I stopped off at one of the 2 water cress springs — the smaller one — and got a little water cress — just a handful, as the cold made it inconvenient to get more. It is remarkable that those springs don’t freeze over in such weather. Perhaps the water comes out at a temperature well above freezing. I also got a good gathering of rose hips. I located a porcupine by following its tracks a short way, but couldn’t get it because it was so concealed that I couldn’t get a decent shot at its head, and no amount of banging on the tree would make the sleepy beast stick its head out. I am planning to treat myself food wise, to some extent, on Christmas, and it occurred to me on the way home that (a) I would have but little meat on Christmas if I didn’t kill something before then, and (b) Hunting tomorrow is not likely to be particularly good because clear skies promised no snow (it was a beautiful day); so instead of going straight home I went up in the thickets south of the cabin. As usual, the maze of trails made for terrible tracking, but I followed some of the trails through the thickets for a couple of hours, until at last I had the good fortune to spy a couple of [UNINTELLIGBLE] ears sticking up. I shot the bunny thorugh the head and so will have meat for Christmas. I eat about a rabbit a day unless I have porcupine or something else. Anyhow, all the time I spent made me miss lunch, but I made up for it with an ample supper. While I was out I noticed in an open prairie a lodgepole pine of extraordinary form. It has a straight central trunk like other lodge-poles, but it was short and stunted, and the side-branches were thick and heavy like the boughs of a deciduous tree, so that the tree had a rounded full siloutte.

Dec. 24: Yesterday on my way home I picked up a rabbit trail probably a good quarter mile as the crow flies from the cabin and followed it across our lot into the thickets on the other side where the rabbits hang out. When one trails rabbits, they usually go a good deal, less than a quarter mile (as the crow flies) before the double back, keeping with what is presumably their familiar territory. But exceptions such as the above are not uncommon — sometimes I have trailed them 1/3 or perhaps 1/2 mile as the crow flies. Now I read somewhere — I think in Ernest Thompson Seton’s Leaves of the Game Animals that each snow shoe hare has its own territory within which it stays. If this is supposed to mean that the whole area is divided up like a checkerboard into territories whose boundaries are faithfully observed by the rabbits, then I don’t believe it. Their territories can’t be a quarter mile in diameter, because there are too many rabbits for such large territories. In an area of thicket [...]

 

Christmas Day: Gave myself a Christmas present — I mean in addition to indulging myself food wise. That deerskin belt I made for myself didn’t have a schlimzicket, the schlimzicket being the part that holds the belt down flat after it passes through the buckle. So I made one from a scrap of copper tubing — did a very neat job of it, and put a high polish on it so that it qualifies as an article of jewellery. Copper has that lovely rich color. I just finished making it today, and put it on the belt.

 

Dec. 27: Yesterday, I went and tracked down that porcupine that I mentioned on the 23^rd and killed it with a shot in the head. Cleaned it the same day. It was big and I now have lots of meat on hand.

 

Dec. 29: That latest porcupine was very big and meaty, though not very fat for a winter porcupine. [...]

 

 

New Year’s Day, 1975: Today I went rabbit hunting and got two. First I went up through the thickets [...]

Yesterday I went up on the ridge in an attempt to poach a deer with my .22, since I am now in serious financial straits and want to conserve my food supplies as much as possible. I found a substantial herd of mule deer up there (2 dozen?) keeping a little group of trees between me and the deer I sneaked to within maybe a 100 yeards of them, but could get no closer as there was no more cover between me and the deer. Could nonetheless have got one with my 30–30 or 30–05, but didn’t care to try at that distance with the .22. Later I found myself within about 50 ft. of a deer. The [UNINTELLIBLE].

This, and the fact that it let me get so close, made me wonder if it was sick. I shot it in the chest with a hollow-point bullet. It went a few steps, stood a moment, then keeled over dead. I looked it over and found it had performed a messy-killing. The animal was extremely emaciated and had a large tumor — not much smaller than my fist — on the right side of its face. I just left it for the coyotes, as I felt nervous about handling the meat of such a diseased animal. By the way, an interesting thing happened just before I left for California, which I haven’t yet put in this journal. Glen Williams and I drove up on Dalton Mountain to cut a load of firewood, for which he paid me a few bucks. While we were working, a tall, rugged-looking old fellow of perhaps 50 summers came walking up to us from out of the woods. He gave his name, but I don’t remember it, which is just as well, since I wouldn’t want to blow his cover by revealing it. For convenience, I will call him Mr. Bonaparte. One was immediately struck by the look of suspicion in his eyes. After some commonplace introductory remarks Mr. Bonaparte stated that the battery on his behicle was dead, and he requested us, on our return to town, to stop at a service station where he was known and ask the proprietor to come up with a new battery for him. He described himself as “retired military” and explained that “after being shot at for 20 years” it was about time for a man to “set himself down in the woods for a while”. Mr. Boniparte therefore intended to winter where he was camped, a short distance from where we were working. This led me to suppose that Mr. Bonaparte was a man after my own heart. I informed him that I myself had spent a couple of winters hole up [PAGE CUTS OFF] sympathetic with his intentions. IN this way I apparently won his affection, because he now became decidedly conversational whereas he had previously been somewhat distant. Much of the conversation was of a routine nature not worth reporting here. THe interesting part was a series of astonishing revelations that Mr. Bonaparte made to me in a low, confidential tone — out of the hearing of Glen whom he perhaps did not regard as fully trustworthy. Mr. Monaparte proved to be a veritable mine of secret information on Russian espionage activities in the United States. He commenced with the allegation that [UNINTELLIBLE] Ranch is “crawling with Russian KGB.” He suggested that I ought to report this to the local sheriffs deputy, “but I don’t think he’ll do anything about it anyway — I think he’s kinda chicken.”

He mentioned that there were about 25 KGB agents around Lincoln. Wishing to show polite interest, I asked him what the KGB were doing there, and he said “they’re gunning for MY ass, that’s why I’m up here. But if any of them come up here, they won’t go down again, I’ll guarantee you.”

He went on to describe some of the atrocities committed by the KGB. Most shocking was the fact that the KGB had entered the homes of certain persons and assassinated them, then, putting “this plastic stuff on their faces to make themselves look like the regular people”, they had assumed the identities of the assassinated persons, so that nothing was suspected until the KGB was gone and the corpses were found in the basement.

Mr. Boneparte evidently was well qualified to speak on these matters. By his own account he was formerly a Texas Rnager and the Rangers have been among the [UNINTELLIGBLE] schemes of the KGB. Moreover, it would seem that during much of his military career Mr. Bonaparte was pitted against the KGB. He claimed to be the man who started the Moscow ritos of 1956 in which (he said) the KGB headquarters were torn down. And after certain generals and other highly placed persons had sold ambassadorships to a group of KGB agents, “We cleaned out a nest of them [KGB]. We just cut their throats and sent their ambassadorship papers back to Moscow [...]. It was flattering that Mr. Bonaparte judged me to be worthy of such confidence. Still, the look of suspicion never left his eyes, and I began to feel somewhat uncomfortable in his presence. He was carrying a pistol, and neither Glen nor I was armed. In a lifetime of fighting the KGB, Mr Monaparte might have become over zealous. He might be inclined on insufficient grounds, to suspect Glen and me of being KGB agents, and accustomed to the bloody in-fighting of the espionage business, he might be a little too precipitous in defending himself. I therefore made every effort to seem interested in and concerned about his revelations. Among other things, the KGB has killed 7 or 8 hundred children in the United States; 2 local residents whose appearance was described to me are KGB ; high officials of the Fish and Game Dept. illegally kill elk and sell them to eastern restaurants; the Texas, Wyoming, Tenassee, and other states Rangers are sent to Nepal to train with Nepalese Ghurkas; an air force base recently “cleaned up” had harbored 108 KGB; and Nelson Rockefeller is the only man around who has more money than Mr. Bonaparte. Furthermore, Mr. Bonaparte knows another [PAGE CUTS OFF] worth, namely, 600 trillion trillion dollars. All this information certainly makes the state of the nation seem frightful. Next thing you know, the KGB will make Mr. Bonaparte out to be a dangerous paranoiac and have him confined to an institution.

 

March 27: I am now a regular gold-bonded, certified deer-poacher. This morning was ideal for poaching. Quite cold and windy and poor visibility because of the flying snow. The sort of morning when nobody but [...]

 

March 28: -6° below zero this morning at dawn. Lunch and supper yesterday and breakfast this morning were almost all deer, and I still have enough fat stuff left for more all-meat meals.

 

March 29: I find I was mistaken in describing that deer as lean. It had very little fat layered under the skin. But I found lots of fat around the eyes and ears, around the pelvis, parts of the ribs, and other places. [...]

 

March 30: Yesterday my only civilized food was salt and pepper, 5 dates, 4 heaping spoons sugar, 2 of powdered milk, and half a one of cocoa. Rest was deer, rabbit, fir-needle tea and a sprig of sage brush. This deer is on the tough side, and alas, my poor old teeth are barely up to it. The upper molars get sore around the roots from chewing tough stuff.

 

March 31: Yesterday my only civilized food aside from salt, pepper, and parsley flakes (which didn’t seem to affect the flavour of the soup anyway) was 5 dates, a small can of mandarin oranges, 4 heaping spoons of sugar, 2 of powdered milk, half a one of cocoa. [...] have a visitor, a very old man named [UNINTELLIGIBLE] McCann, with whom Kenneth was talking about the old days; mule and horses and so forth. Kenneth said he always thought he had been born 100 years too late, and McCann said he felt the same way. McCann expressed himself in a much more educated way than Kenneth. Kenneth said he was the last of the real old-timers left around here. Anyway, after McCann was gone, I went and got the venison for the Lees. They seemed glad to get it — in fact, before I mentioned the venison Irene had been telling me that they were running out of meat and she would have to buy some. Of course, my motives were not entirely altruistic. I figured they would offer me some of their surplus garden vegatables. And indeed they did — and fed me a good meal besides — I took home 2 large jars of home-canned sourkraut, 9 or 10 lb. of potatoes, and 3 large stamps. So if you figure that deer — leg as given in barter for the vegetables, I will be getting a lot more free eating for that deer than 3 1/2 days worth. So I sat and played pinochle with the Lees for a few hours, then went home and had a bedtime snack of cold boiled venison washed down with vinegar and sugar-and-water, a tasty drink. This meat was frm the back; it has aged some now and is quite tender, enough for my poor little teeth. Good eating!

 

April 1: 2° above zero at dawn.

 

April 2: Fresh bobcat tracks not far from the cabin this morning. I didn’t bother to trail it far because the snow was so crunchy that I thought there was almost no chance of seeing it. The chipmonks out of hibernation, though it is a late spring — still lots of snow. Have been having some very good steaks of venison, sauerkraut, potatoes, and turnip trimmings (the main part of the turnip I eat now, for vitamins). [...]

 

April 3: Went up on the ridge today to fetch down the rest of the deer meat. It was still frozen solid. When I reached the end of the long climb up the [TEXT OBSCURED] the beauty of the scene. Forested hillsides and bare, open ones. Close to where my venison was buried in the snow, there was a herd of elk grazing peacefully. I cooked some of the foreleg meat today and found it fairly tough, unlike the tender back-meat that I have just finished eating. This may be partly because the meat would probably age more slowly while frozen solid. I am still living mainly on meat and the Lees potatoes. Heavy on the meat.

 

April 6: For the last 10 days, including today, most of my food has never seen the inside of a supermarket. The main exceptions are: the 6 spoons of cooking oil I have used each day since the fat part of the deer ran out (there has still been some fat on the meat I’ve eaten since then), and the can of [UNINTELLIGIBLE] that I have had every other day. The rest has been mainly venison, and the potatoes, turnips, and sauerkraut from the Lees. [...]

 

April 8: Except for the back meat, I have hamburgerized all that venison because it is pretty tough. I now have it all eaten up except a hind leg that I salted and hung up to cure. [...]

 

April 11: My deer meat is nearly gone, so I went hunting today. Brought back nothing but a modest quantity of watercress. But I did track a badger to its den. I have never yet seen a badger, the animal being characteristic of the open prairie rather than the woods and mountains. [...]

 

April 12: Went hunting again today up on the ridge and brought back one grouse [...]

 

April 15: Made a new snowshoe trap from an old belt that was no good as a belt any more. Finally I had a success at trapping! [...] This morning I found a rabbit caught by a forefoot in my trap. Its coat was already turning brown in patches. It made sqeaks of fear having a Donald-Duck tonal quality. I felt very sorry for it, sitting there, far hains no doubt, with its foot in the trap. But I suppose I will soon get callouse to it — I recall having felt very sorry for the first carp I ever shot with an arrow.

Today I went to Helena on the Lincoln Transportation Company truck to get licence plates for my pickup. While there I invested 12 bucks on a meat grinder: Hamburgerizing the tough stuff with a hatchet is very time consuming and chewing it unhambergerized is too much for my miserable teeth.

 

April 16: Today I was out hunting for 5 1/2 hours. There was some snow yesterday, so tracking was good [...]

 

April 18: Using the same method as last time, but in a different place, I trapped another rabbit. So, it worked twice in a row.

 

April 20: Went across Poorman Creek, violating the No-Trespassing signs as is now necessary, to get to the good porcupine country. [...]

 

April 21: Today I ground up my porcupine using my new meat grinder, which turns out to be worthless. By the time I finished — or nearly finished -grounding up that meat, a certain part on the grinder had worn down to such an extent (an incredible extent — there must be something wrong in the qualities of the metal) that the thing is no longer useable. This is extremely frustrating and enraging. Time after time after time things go wrong in one’s dealing with society — one gets cheated, crowded, taken advantage of, tied down with rules, regulations and red tape. And of course one is prohibited from attempting to retaliate. There is a guarantee on the grinder, but I’ve had too much experience with such [UNINTELLIBLE] in the past. You have to send the thing back to the factory. Of course I would have to hike to Lincoln to do that and the postage on a heavy thing like that will be a dollar or more, and then there’s a very good chance that the new replacement will be no better than the old. So after you have sent the thing back and forth a few times, you will have spent price of it in postage and the cost of trip to town.

 

April 23: Spring cleaning today. Have the place all nicely put in order and [UNINTELLIBLE]. This morning I went and got some watercress, then had a first-class lunch: porcupine meat, [...]

 

April 25: A large and stately old tree on the edge of our property, across the stream, just fell. I saw it fall. I figured it was going to fall soon. The trunk was badly split, and there is a heavy snowfall going on right now. The tree was getting heavily laden with snow and I could hear it cracking from time to time.

 

April 26: [UNINTELLIGLBLE] heavy fall of snow yesterday and today [...] Since the temperature was only about freezing, the falling snow was wet and I got soaked to the skin. Still, it was invigorating in a way and I am feeling pretty cheerful sitting here in front of my nice warm stove, even though I don’t have any meat. Oh well, I like beans anyway.

 

April 28: It took me 6 hours of hand hunting to do it, but there’s no shortage of meat now! I got one rabbit, one blue grouse, and one good-sized porcupine. [...]

 

April 30: Good hunting continued again this morning. [...]

 

May 1: May day! Beautiful morning! Lovely blue sky and sunshine for a change. I sneaked across Poorman Creek and cut myself a couple of pieces of straight juniper — one I will probably make into a pick handle, and I thought I might as well get the other while I was there and let it season, so I can use it when needed. Parts of the inner wood are rose-coloured. The wood has a beautiful fragerance. After I cut the wood I went for a short walk, just because everything was so fine outside. Now, unfortunately, it is clouding up again. Wish that sun would stay! May first and still the ground is entirely covered with a thick layer of snow. This is getting ridiculous!

[...] I had a practically all-wild lunch: porcupine bacon, [...] (civilized foods: bit of salt and pepper, 3 spoons of sugar in the fir-needle tea.) This lunch satisfied my hunger thoroughly, which is more than I can say for some of the lunches I have around here.

 

May 3: Spring is here at last! (I think.) Good deal of cloudiness, but the sun is also breaking through a good deal, and, best of all, there is a lovely warm breeze. Later: in the afternoon I went down to see the Lees. I figured they would give me some potatoes that they said last time they were just going to throw out anyway, and they did — 12 or 15 pounds. Also, I wanted to call Kenny Hoeffer about getting a job with him this summer, but all I could get was a busy signal. So played pinochle with the Lees for a couple of hours. Well, fuck it. I don’t need any god damn job. I would just as soon spend the summer back in the hills living on poached venison.

 

May 4: Snow again today, damn it!

 

May 5: Shot a rabbit today.

 

May 6: On a number of recent occasions I have heard the noise of some rodent chewing on things somewhere around or under the cabin: I suspected a certain squirrel as the culprit, but wasn’t sure if it was chewing on the cabin itself or merely on some scraps of plywood I have around. Today, however, I definitely caught that squirrel chewing on the understructure of the cabin. Such behaviour seems uncharacteristic of squirrels. Anyhow out came the old .22 and I plugged it through the chest. Can use the meat. I don’t like to shoot animals by the cabin, because I like to have them come around so I can watch them; but of course I can’t let them eat the cabin out from under me.

 

May 9: [UNINTELLIGLBE] weather the last few days! Rain on wet snow — falling most of the time, snowshoing conditions hopeless [...]

 

May 11: At long last, yesterday and today it didn’t rain [...]

 

May 12: This morning I went to another place and got more onions and dandelions, [...]

 

May 14: The most wonderful weather the last 2 days. [...]

 

May 20: Yesterday with lunch I had a fine vegetable-squirrel soup [...]

 

May 22: Today I am 33 years old. I had my trap set under the cabin because I have had continued trouble with squirrels gnawing on the underpinnings of my cellar. This afternoon on returning from a short walk for wild vegetables, I found a rabbit caught in the trap. This was too bad. I don’t like to kill rabbit at the cabin, because I like to watch them when they come around. Besides, this was a pregnant female that would have produced 3 more bunnies. It had grey summer coat already, though felt still very white. But the meat will be very welcome. The snow is off near the cabin, but there is still enough around to be a great obstacle to any longish hunt and anyhow I have been occupied to some degree in trying to get my [UNINTELLIBLE] out and so forth. Made a trip yesterday to Helena with Lincoln Transporation Co. and got a stupid battery for $10, so truck now [UNINTELLIBLE]. Anyhow I have been hungry for meat — use my jerky very sparingly, as I don’t have much left.

 

May 30: Today I discovered a good patch of bitter root on the face of Baldy, and had a pretty fair quantity of it for lunch, boiled with dried venison, and an assortment of greens [...]

 

June 1: Today I went out a-roving and shot a blue grouse up on the ridge. Access to much of the high county is still barred by snow banks. [...]

 

June 2: This evening I went out salad gathering, took my rifle just in case, and was glad I did because I got a blue grouse. [...] I got my money back on that bad meat grinder and bought one of a different brand, which so far seems to work OK. But it cost me 20 bucks.

 

June 3: Had the most delicious lunch and supper today. [...]

 

June 23: Just recently I was out camping for about 10 days altogether. This trip was pretty much a failure. I was driven home first by sickness (some strange fever that lasted only 3 days), then again by a rainy spell so bad that one couldn’t hunt or do anything so that it wasn’t worthwhile to stay out. Last few days I have been watching a birds nest on the ground in the yard. A few days ago there were 4 speckled eggs in it — now baby birds that are putting on feathers already. Weather has been disgusting ever since late March. Fantastic amount of precipitation — terrible floods in the valley — the road was closed for a few days. I don’t mind heavy rain, but when [PAGE CUTS OFF] keeps up for 3 months with very few clear days, it starts to get you down.

 

July 6: Weather has been fine now for somedays. This morning I went up to run on Humbing Contour Road. On the way back I found a porcupine, which took refuge under some logs. I had no gun, no rope, pack or other convenient way to carry the animal home, and I was unable to get the porcupine out of his refuge. So I blockaded him with logs and sticks in such a way that I figured he could not get out without prolonged effort. I had visions of delicious porcupine meat balls. I went home and got my gun, pack and some matches in case I might have to use fire to get the porcupine out of there. As I was walking back up to Humbing Contour Road again, I saw someone driving up the road in a pickup. That of course screwed up my plans. It would be possible to get the porcupine without being seen by the guy, if I could get across a certain open area without being seen, but the route is ardous, and after running 4 miles, walking five, with almost nothing to eat, I didn’t much feel like undertaking it. I explain again why I am so anxious to avoid meeting people in such situations: for practical reasons I can’t be other than ragged and rather dirty and in other ways my way of life makes me a curiousity — freak. Which doesn’t bother me in the least as long as I don’t have to answer questions about it or be stared at. But, beyond that, having to meet people — civilized people, that is, which is the only kind left — means that I haven’t succeeded in severing connections with organized society (Oh, Kenny Lee is alright, [PAGE CUTS OFF] himself). This, you know, is the crux of the whole matter — I will not be part of organized society. This is both a matter of principle and due to the fact that organized society deprives me of certain profound satisfactions that I have found can be obtained when one severs connections with it — as I have been able to do only temporarily and incompletely, of course. But now I am unable to escape civilization even to the extent that I did the first year or 2 here — things are closing in all around me. The latest being the post-cutting and some Forest Service activities going on in the saddle by Humbug Contour.

 

July 11: Yesterday I found the first wild strawberries of the year — a good 10 days late, [UNINTELLIGIBLE] ordinarily find them by July 1, or before. Today I sneaked past the NO TRESPASSING signs to go on the other side of Poorman Creek. Brought back 1 1/4 cups camas, a couple of squirrels, and some mint. I have been having lots of mint tea lately — I love it. Also I’ve been having salads of Yellow Monkey Flower. No meat but an occasional squirrel. Things seem so closed-in around here now it hardly seems as if there’s any place left to hunt. 3 little successes: (1) I had a blocked skin gland that kept forming plugs of wax. Last few months it usually had a red, irritated appearance, so I thought it should be removed. Doctors are expensive, so I made a small scalpel by cutting a sliver from a razor blade and setting it in a wooden handle. I boiled my instruments, then (this was in May) taking some snow from a lingering patch, I put a snow pack on the spot to partially numb it and reduce bleeding; then I cut out the spot. It healed nicely, no sign of infection, and now it’s just a little pink scab. (2) I found [UNINTELLIGLE] I had a welder cut out one side and cut a 6” hole in another side. I obtained a piece of sheet metal from one of these old cans around here, ut it to shape by a makeshift process, and made a door for the thing. So now I have a nice little stove that I will put in a little hut that I plan to make as a winter camp. Hope it will work OK! (3) In winter I can eat beans OK, but the last two summers I found that [...]. Following a hint I read somewhere, I tried swallowing several small pieces of charcoal, like pills, every time I eat beans. (Charcoal absorbs gasses). This seems to solve the problems completely. At least, I’ve tried it twice, and it worked both times.

 

July 13: Was out today, got caught in heavy rain, shot one squirrel, [...]

 

July 15: Identified a new plant [...]

 

July 17: At last — I have had ample meat yesterday and today. I shot that rockchuck that had taken up residence in my outcrop, because I figured Williams or Mason would be likely to shoot it anyway (and leave it to rot), and I have been hard up for meat. It was pretty fat, and meaty.

For yesterday’s supper I had a stew of [UNINTELLIBLE] a miscellany of herbs, and ground rock chuck meat, then 5 1/2 cups of wild strawberries, the last part of them sweetened with 1 spoon of sugar. Today for supper [...]

The strawberry crop is particularly abundant this year. While I was picking them today I saw some people coming along picking them — I think guests of those Mason cocksuckers. I don’t know whether they had yet seen me or not, but they weren’t looking my way, so I stole away quietly to another part of the field where they wouldn’t see me. The picking was not nearly as good at the new place. Then later, 2 peckers rode by on a trailbike on Humbug contour road, not far away.

 

July 24: This strawberry crop is just fantastic. I keep thinking the crop has reached its peak and will begin to fade out, but every time I go up there the picking seems better and the berries sweeter. [...] A couple of days ago that jerk Glen Williams asked me to go out and work with him the next day. I figured I ought to do it because I am so short of cash, so I did and made 24 bucks, which is unusual because I generally make very little when I go with him. But I didn’t want to go the next day because, first, there was a very good hance I would make much less $ the second day (as usual), second, I had projects of my own in hand that I hated to put off, and third, I find that guy’s company very unpleasant. He is the most insufferable bore — talks almost constantly, droning on and on about inconsequential little affairs of his — he paid so and so much for a bearing and it took him so and so many hours to put it in — and I have to sit their and pretend to listen. He also has a habit of scornfully running down anyone who is so low that Glen can feel superior to him. He got mad when I told him I wasn’t going with him the second day. I guess when I agreed to work the one day he developed fond visions of a semi-vacation for the rest of the few days it will take him to finish this patch of posts. He organizes his work inefficiently and I haven’t yet seen him put in a good square days work, except maybe once. So altogether I find it very unpleasant to work with him.

 

Aug. 1: I identified a new plant today — “butter-and-eggs”, Linaria vulgaris. In recent weeks I have been having some especially good lunches — yellow monkey flower and other herbs for salad [...]

 

Aug. 3: Strawberries are fading now, but I’m getting as many soapberries as I can to use. The berry season is about the only time of year when my appetite for fruit is properly satisfied. Today I went running on Humbing Contour Rd: Saw somebody drive in my direction a long way off so I turned off the road — necessarily into a logged over area. They saw me when they got closer and stopped to watch me, but at least I didn’t have to meet them. While I was out, I found a new edible plant — a member of the mustard family, as I could tell from the seed-pods and the odor of the crushed leaves. …

Evening of the 1^st: I was down at the Lees: After I had gone some distance on the way home I found that their kitten was following me. It must have followed the wrong person by mistake, as it began meowing as if frightened. When I got home I coaxed it into the cabin and gave it some milk, after which it became friendly. I put it outside for the night, thinking to take it home in the morning — and if it wandered off and got lost meanwhile, tough luck. I wasn’t about to let it spend the night in the cabin as I didn’t know if it was housebroken and it had a persistent preference for getting up on my bed. In the morning it was gone. This morning when I got home, I heard something meowing in the brush near the cabin. The kitten, of course, who had spent 2 nights lost in the woods and seemed very disconsolate. After some coaxing I got my hands on it and brought it into the cabin. I gave it some milk, but it only drank a little. It seemed much more interested in getting up on the bed and rubbing itself against the blankets and against me, and it was soon pruning loudly. I then took it back down to the Lees. As soon as I took it outside it began meowing again and struggling to get out of my hands. It gave me a lot of trouble — took flight at things and bolted into the bushes twice, and I got scratched a little. When I finally got it to its home it jumped out of my arms and ran into its box. Soap berries I think are one of the prettiest of berries to look at.

 

Aug 4: Concerning the new edible plant I found yesterday: While picking green gooseberries this morning here in Florence Gulch, I found several more plants of it, and again it comprised about half of my large luncheon salad. [...]

 

Aug 13: Yesterday I went up Field Gultch to get huckleberries. THe berries were just at their peak, the picking was superb, and I brought back a gallon. Also, I got a spruce grouse on the way home. It was such a beautiful and joyous morning to be out! But unfortunately, a short while after I started picking, some people pulled in there to cut firewood. I don’t think they saw me, so I just stayed in my little corner of the logged-over area and kept picking, but of course my fun was spoiled. I had wanted to get two gallons, but the presence of these people made me nervous, so I quit when I had one gallon. I can’t escape the impression that these woods are getting more crowded and frequented around here. Within reasonably convenient distance of the cabin there almost seems nowhere to turn. It gets me upset. But by the time I got home I was in a good mood again because I had a good haul of wild goodies. For dessert after supper last night I had a whole quart of huckle-berries. I had a sumptuous lunch today, a large salad, grouse, home-made bread, [...]

 

Aug 15: Yesterday I went across Poorman Creek to look for huckleberries on nearby hillside [...]

 

Aug 16: Today I found a species of the mint family that I have not previously used — field mint [...]

 

Aug. 17: Today I identified Indian paintbrush, Castillya miniate. Some of these plants I mention that I’ve identified I have very likely identified before, and then forgotten.

 

Aug. 18: I had two salads with lunch today, the usual one and another consisting of the flowering heads [...]

 

Aug. 19: Today I found brook lime much more abundant further up the creek, and I had a large salad of it with lunch. I like it. The weather turned very wet again [...]

 

Aug. 21: Some of the [UNINTELLIBIBLE] potatoes that the Lees gave me last spring were sprouting, so I didn’t want to eat them. Instead, I planted them — some around June 1 [...]

 

Aug. 22: Today I went up on the ridge hoping to get a grouse [...]

 

Aug. 23: I have just identified a mushroom [...]

 

Aug. 24: Another example of the kind of incident that has been occurring so much this summer that it sometimes frustrates me to tears. This morning, despite the cold and wet, I went to get huckleberries near the power-line that runs up Baldy. Just as I came on a splendid patch of berries, I spotted up ahead, on the very crude road that parallels the wire, some guys doing some kind of work connected with the power line. Of course, as usual, I was raggedly dressed and wearing foolgear consisting of the soles of an old pair of sneakers, held in place by elkhide thongs, so it would have been unthinkable to meet them. But I wanted those berries so very badly that I started picking anyway, where they couldn’t see me. But I heard them working closer and closer, and when they got too close for comfort, I left. So I only got one cup of those big fat lovely berries. This kind of thing hardly ever happened the first summer I was here. This summer it seems to happen almost every time I go out, unless I get well away from even the crudest roads, and there aren’t many places left where you can get away from the roads. My supper tonight was just boiled potatoes from my garden, with a few wild herbes thrown in — except that I washed it down with 3/4 of milk and some extra mint tea that I made at lunchtime.

 

Aug. 25: Bulk of my supper is again my own potatoes.

 

Aug. 26: Early this morning I went back to that huckleberry patch. The guys were working elsewhere now so I could pick undisturbed. I spent some hours and got over 5 quarts out of just that little patch. Lovely picking! Also I shot a squirrel up there and got some salad on the way back. My supper tonight only cost me a nickel — for the .22 cartridge for the squirrel (inflation!) it consisted of potatoes from my garden, wild greens, the squirrel, and huckleberries for dessert. This was quite good.

 

Aug. 27: Damn it! Yesterday was a beautiful day — just one beautiful day. This morning — rain again.

 

Aug. 28: There was just that brief shower in the morning yesterday; then the weather cleared up and was fine until evening, when there were clouds and thunder and a touch of rain. I went up on the ridge and shot 3 squirrels and a grouse, one shot each, of course, dug about 1 1/2 pints of yampa, and got a good bagful of onion flowers. Those guys were working on that wire again, so I couldn’t pick huckleberries. Grouse seem to become available on the ridgetops at this time of year, but, apparently, only in fair weather: I had a supper of which nothing was store-bought but a pinch of salt: a salad of yellow-monkey flower and brooklime; a stew of 3 squirrels, onion flowers, my own potatoes, and a small quantity of miscellaneous herbs, and huckleberries for desert. A good meal! Today for lunch I had: salad, bread, oil, legs and back of grouse, and a quart of huckleberries. Yesterday and again today I ate a handful of the berries of red osier dogwood. These are bitter, but nevertheless, mildly pleasant to eat. Weather was nice this morning, but now it's pouring rain again. I have to eat up my huckleberries pretty fast, because they are already beginning to have a fermented smell (perhaps because wet when picked?). Later, I had a large, tasty, and satisfying supper consisting entirely of wild stuff, except for a pinch of salt. The breast of that spruce grouse, salad of brooklime and yellow monkey flower, boiled onion flowers with 2 small puffballs and a small quarterly of wild herbs, mixed in, boiled yampa, soup consisting of the water in which the grouse, yampa and onion flowers were all boiled (each separately); and a quart of huckleberries for dessert. A very good meal!

 

Aug 31: Day before yesterday the bulk of my supper was my own potatoes. Yesterday morning I went out and shot 3 squirrels and for supper I had a wild salad dressed with nothing, a delicious stew of squirrel, potatoes, and a few wild herbs, with a little salt and pepper, and for desert a juice extracted by boiling dogwood berries, to which juice I added 2 spoons of sugar, which made it almost palatable. Wild salad is getting hard to find now. The yellow monkey flower has mostly faded out. There was a good patch of Brook lime up at the old cabin near Himbug Contour, but the cows have trampled through that now.

 

Sept. 1. Gloomy weather, but no rain, and on the whole, fairly pleasant. I went up on the ridge, shot 2 squirrels, gathered a bag of onion flowers, and, pretty far along the ridge, down on a spur ridge, found excellent yampa digging, so that I got I think at least a quart and a half and maybe nearly 2 quarts (haven’t measured it yet). It was a good day and I was enjoying it, until —

As I was getting to think that I had nearly enough yampa, I heard a couple of trail bikes on the ridge. They sounded close, and as if they were coming my way, so I hurriedly got myself and my stuff out of the open meadow and into the woods. (I have already explained why I don’t like to meet people in the woods.) Then I found that in my hurry I had lost the rag I use to pad my hands against the top of my root-digger. The bikes sounded as if they had taken another direction, so I went back to look for the rag. Then suddenly I heard the bikes loud and close again, so I scampered for the woods. Then the bikes went away again.

They never did come into the meadow where I was, but I never did find that rag, though I looked for quite a while in the intervals when the bikes did not sound close. I cannot describe to the reader how terribly this upset me. You may think it a minor incident, but you have to see it in context. I keep working harder and harder to escape from civilization but it keeps closing in more and more until I just have nowhere to turn. This incident took place up on the ridge tops, as far from roads and regular trails as one can get in a one-day excursion from the cabin. Until today, these ridge-tops were the one place where I felt secure from intrusion by this kind of garbage; this area was my last refuge, the last place I could turn to within reach of the cabin. And now... I was so terribly upset that I believe that if those cock-suckers had come into the meadow where I was, I would have shot them. To top it off, after I got home some cucksucker rode right into my yard on a trailbike. I went out there with my 30–30, wondering if I would have the nere to shoot the son of a bitch, and intending at least to scare him, but by the time I got out there he was gone. Later I spiked a big heavy pole across my road to block it, and I painted a Keep Out sign that I will nail up tomorrow.

But I just don’t know what to do or where to turn. I can’t just hole up in the cabin all the time, and there seems to be nowhere left where I can hunt or gather roots or berries without looking over my shoulder all the time to see if the vile emissaries of civilization are about to break in on me. As for returning permanently to civilization — I would rather die. I never thought civilization would close in on me so quickly — I thought this place would be good for a few years yet. But this summer it seems that about every other time I have gone on a long walk I have been frustrated in one way or another by the presence of people. Where did they all come from so quickly?

 

Sep. 3: Yesterday I had an all-wild supper, except for a little salt and pepper — squirrel, boiled onion flowers, and a quart of yampa. But there was little pleasure or satisfaction in it because I am still upset about the wretched occurrence of Sept. 1. I feel like a religious person must feel about the desecration of his church or temple. I found, by the way, that I had 5 1/2 cups of yampa — a little less than I had expected, but still quite a good gathering. This morning I had the other cup and a half for breakfast — mashed and mixed with 3 spoons of oil. The bulk of my supper was my own potatoes. I harvested all my potatoes today, as the plants were badly injured by frost last night, and I found one potato much chewed by a mole. At a guess, I would say I get about 15 lb. Counting what I ate earlier, I might have had a total of 25–30 lb. I suppose thats not bad for a first attempt on a little plot about 11’ x 11’.

 

Sept. 14: Just returned from 9 nights camping out. When I dug my potatoes, I only partly dug up the plants, and I put them back in the ground. Now I find the plants largely killed by frost. I dig about half of them up with a spade and got another 2 or 3 lb. of potatoes. Some are old ones that I missed first time around, but some are little new ones produced by the plants in the mean time.

 

Sep. 15. This journal is about to be deposited in a safe of my own invention. It consists of one of those army-surplus ammo cans that I used for gas cans, buried next to a well-worn path on our lot. One can get into the safe by digging down in the path, there is no vegetation there to be disturbed by digging, and any loose dirt will soon be trodden down into the path, so that the place will remain secret.

Series IV

Journal #1 (1979)

Source: University of Michigan, Ted Kaczynski Papers, Box 105, Folder 6, Ted Kaczynski’s Journal Series IV #1, 1979: K2003A original.

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June 9, 1979

I arrived back at my cabin on June 5. Yesterday morning I went and set my 2 traps in the entrance of a rock-chuck den I had located maybe 1/3 mile from cabin, where they were taking all that rock out before. I went back in late afternoon to check the traps and found I had caught a good-sized chuck. It was strong and I had to exert myself to pull it out of the mouth of its den so that I could knock it on the head. While I was struggling with it, it kept screaming in panic, quite loudly. I felt very sorry for it. This inoffensive animal seemed healthy (no parasites that I noticed{4}) and was probably happy — until suddenly it found its foot clamped in a trap. In the last 2 or 3 years I have been more inclined than previously to regret killing wild animals. However, this chuck makes excellent eating. It had a great deal of fat on it, and (in contrast to all rockchucks I’ve eaten previously) the meat was very tender. Ample supply for 2 days. I made a very tasty soup today by simmering for 4 hours the following ingredients: chuck fat, chuck meat, dried dandelion roots, one heaping spoonful of rice, and a large quantity of wild greens. Some of the greens were of a kind that are not normally very tender, but by boiling them so long I turned them all into a very soft mush. Part of them completely disintegrated, making a thick, green soup. With this I had salad of Erythronium, yellow violet, and sweet cicely.

June 12

In the city I was frequently tormented by a desire for women, but now that I am back in the woods, sexual desire has nearly vanished. That is, the idea of a sexual relationship with a woman is still mildly pleasant to me, but I shrug my shoulders at it and feel that I can take it or leave it, and that it is nothing worth making any great effort or sacrifice for. Yet, only two weeks ago, I was terribly horny. This is one more confirmation of my conclusion that (for me at least) there is no intrinsic need for sex or love — the need only arises in response to certain stimuli, such as the presence of women, on the sexually oriented material in advertising in the media generally; whether one like it or not, one is unavoidably subjected to some of this while living and working in the city.

Now, some 3 months ago, in one of my moments of sexual desperation, I placed an ad in a magazine called The Mother Earth News{5}, saying “Man, 36, has cabin in Montana, seeks women to share very primitive life”. So far I’ve got about 14 replies. Some are pretty fatuous. They give me the impression that very few people are able to think connectedly. However, a couple of them sounded reasonably sensible. So by the time I left Chicago, I had arranged with one woman that she is to come visit me at an unspecified time in the latter half of June. For that reason I’ve been very busy cleaning my cabin.

But now that my sexual desires have subsided, I am having grave misgivings about this arrangement. (I had misgivings even before I left Chicago, but at that time my sexual desire overpowered the misgivings.) I mean, I would be delighted to have a nice little sexual experience, but the trouble is that when this woman comes, my sexual feelings likely will be stirred up to full strength again — and that means too much stress, which I hate. I might fall in love and get deeply entangled, and that would ruin other important plans that I have.

June 14

This morning I went and set traps at another rock-chuck den, the one where I caught a cuck last spring. This afternoon I went back and found, dead in the trap, a baby rock-chuck with not much more meat on it than a red squirrel. Better than nothing, though.

June 15

Just up the hill N. of the cabin, a ruffed grouse has drummed 3 consecutive years, including this year. Since it always drums at the exact spot, I assume it is the same grouse. Last 2 years I tried repeatedly and unsuccessfully to get a shot at this bird. Hearing it drumming this evening I spent, I think, at least 20 minutes sneaking up on it, crawling on the ground, and I finally killed it. But I confess it took me 2 shots to do it. First shot was a clean miss. Second shot just grazed the back of the bird’s neck and stunned it, but that was enough. Distance was maybe 50 feet. I was nervous, since that was my first chance at the bird after so many attempts. Also maybe I’m out of practice. But I expect to do better next time. It saddens me a little to have killed that bird, since he had become practically a fixture of the place; but I need the meat, and meat is hard to get at this time of year.

June 16

Severe hailstorm this afternoon. Did considerable damage to my rhubarb leaves, but relieves recent drought and enables me to omit watering garden this afternoon.

June 18

Went up the gulch today to get mint and greens. Shot a squirrel, but the shot was low and only broke its fore-leg. So in order to get it without spending a second shot, I had to climb 2 trees before I was finally able to knock the squirrel down with a stick. Also shot a ruffed grouse hen. Up by the old cabin, which has now collapsed. I saw a rock chuck.

June 21

Summer solstice. Set traps at chuck den where I caught a baby one earlier this year. Caught another baby one, which seems a little larger than the other. The meat on it might be equivalent to 2 red squirrels. I am now well-supplied with such items as clothing and foot-wear. I mean quantitatively rather than qualitatively, because much of the stuff is either worn, or poorly selected for the woods. It is mostly stuff that I bought for city use in 1978, or stuff that people gave me.

June 22

Today I went up on the flat to see how the strawberries were doing. The crop is not in its prime yet, but I picked a cup of strawberries, which I had with lunch. I also picked a good batch of salsify flowers to make the vegetable in this evening’s soup. While picking berries, I scared up two big male blue grouse. I watched where one of them landed — not in a tree, but on the ground amongst some bushes. I went over there and was able to shoot it — so there is meat for 2 days. I have been eating lots of cooked and raw wild greens.

The skin of that first chuck I trapped was so saturated with fat that I was afraid it would be ruined if left for any length of time. (Fat left on a skin makes it rot.) So I worked it soft and smoked it — though I would rather have waited till I softened a up a couple of deerskins so I could smoke them all together. I assume the smoking will preserve the skin, even though there is a little grease left in it. I wet the skin to test it, and it dried as soft as it was before — so the smoking really works.

Series VI

Journal #1 (Salt Lake City — 1972)

Source: <archive.org>

Notes: FBI Document: C-230 B

1972

Sept. 20

(Actually written on Sept. 18, only recopied here on the 20^th): I have been pretty busy during the day here in Great Falls, running around trying to get various things that I need — felt liners for my boots, materials for repairing my snowshoes, etc. But in the evenings there hasn’t been much to do, so I took to reading Joseph Conrad’s “The Arrow of Gold,” a copy of which has been lying around here. This is supposed to have been his last complete book, and one of his inferior works. But for some reason I felt very refreshed after reading the story — invigorated, and my spirits buoyed up. I still feel that way. This is a little peculiar, since I don’t actually consider the story to have been a good one. In fact I found much of it irritating. I rather disliked the hero and heroine, and the actions of some of the characters seemed highly improbable. While I have no particular objection to romanticism in literature, some of this stuff was really just too lush (Dona Rita is repeatedly described as “having something in her of the women of all time”; phrases like “sublime passion” appeared; and a lot of similar stuff — awful hogwash). As with many of Conrad stories, I found it too long winded and therefore skipped some of the more tiresome passages. Nevertheless, the story struck a responding chord in me, though I didn’t feel this until I had finished reading it. It’s hard to say just what it was, but despite the annoying character of the story (which induced me to insert some sarcastic notes in the margins), there was something there. Perhaps it stirred memories of an adolescent crush — but I do not ordinarily find that refreshing. More likely, I think it was that the story managed to convey an image of a generalized romance — I don’t mean specifically erotic romance (although the romance in the story was erotic), but simply romance in general. And somehow (for me) this romance came through refreshing and clean, despite the presence of a good deal of slushy nonsense. Consider the title “The Arrow of Gold”, and the actual arrow of gold that appeared in the story. Now that is a title enough symbol, certainly, but Conrad nevertheless has made it stick in my imagination and evoke a certain response.

Perhaps I reacted to the story as I did largely because, before taking up The Arrow of Gold, I had been reading to a certain extent in current magazines and newspapers. As usual, I found much of that material sordid and disgusting, and full of propagandistic devices. It may have been the contrast that made The Arrow of Gold seem so refreshing. In any case, I certainly did find it both refreshing and invigorating.

1973

Jan 17

Well, for a little over a month I have been working for a couple of bricklayers here in Salt Lake City. Typically I work about 9 1/2 hours a day, 6 days a week, and it is hard work, too — made harder by the mud, slush, snow, and cold. Yesterday, I got 2 checks back in the mail, with a note from the bank saying that these pricks had insufficient funds to cover them. When I came to work at 6:30 this morning I complained, naturally. So the boss said “Oh, don’t worry about it, those checks will go through alright now,” and gave some excuse to the effect that somebody else didn’t pay him on time. A couple of hours later, he sent me over to do some work on another house, and said he would come over there himself shortly. On the way, I stopped at his and tried to cash these 2 checks. They cashed one, but there wasn’t enough in the account to cover both. That means that another check, which I just deposited, is going to bounce too. I had the bank hold that one check for collection. Then I continued over to that other house. The boss didn’t show up, and I didn’t want to wait all day for him, so I just left him a note telling him that I would not work any more until I got paid, and that I wanted to get paid in cash hereafter. Then I went home. We shall see what the outcome is. I may have to take them to small-claims court, or maybe there is some other agency through which I can apply pressure. (In addition to the 2 bad checks still outstanding, I still have 40 hours pay coming to me for which I still haven’t even got a check yet.) Judging from an item I saw in the paper, I think maybe people can even be arrested in Utah for writing an insufficient-funds check. Of course, all this is very bad for me, because my objective here is to accumulate some money as fast as possible, so that I can go back to the woods. On the other hand, I find it somewhat exhilarating. It is a break from routine, an opportunity to take effective action (at least, I hope effective) on an individual basis — an increasingly unusual opportunity — for most of us in organized society. So I am almost glad it turned out this way. Of course, I guess I wont be so glad if I can’t collect all my money.

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N.B. I eventually did collect all of the above money.

1974

Oct. 1

Some remarks concerning myself and (ugh) women. I have had very little to do with females. There was only one girl whom I ever even kissed. Of course, I have been attracted to many girls. I have concluded that there are two distinct kinds of sexual attraction — call them type 1 and type 2. Type 1 can be characterized as follows: When one looks at the female in question, one’s eyes are riveted on the sexual areas of her body; the sight of her body causes an almost im- mediate tendency to erection; in thinking about her one’s thoughts turn immediately to bedroom scenes; one has no more interest in her feelings or her personal well-being than one would in those of any other 120-lb. load of meat. With type 2, when it occurs in relatively pure form, one’s eyes are attracted equally to all parts of the girl’s body, unless, perhaps, hey are more attracted to her face; One is very slow to have an erection from looking at or thinking about her; In daydreaming about her one’s thoughts take a long time to come around to bedroom scenes, and when these occur they play far from a dominant role. Instead, one dreams of holding her head and telling her one loves her, or of saving her from danger, or of doing things to make her happy. The fact that one is slow to have an erection from such fantasies might tempt one to say that the type two feeling is not erotic. But I would describe it as purely erotic. For one thing, I cannot conceive of my having such feelings toward anyone but a young, good-looking girl or woman. More important, type 2 feels intensely erotic.

When type 2 occurs in highly developed form, one typically gets a kind of electric thrill from the mere sight of the girl. There is often something strangly mysterious about the type 2 feeling, something that seems like an echo from some unremembered past. The feeling is intensely pleasurable, but for me it also has always been painful, perhaps solely because I have never gotten the girl in question.

I think that type 2 never occurs in highly developed form for me (for me, anyway) except when it occurs soon after one has first met the girl; it is not to be confused with the kind of comfortable domestic affection that develops through long association. This last is perhaps not even erotic.

Just four times over a span of 22 years (God! that’s a long time. Makes me feel old) I have experienced Type 2 in something like pure form — and the fourth and last instance must be regarded as a little questionable because it is too recent to be seen in perspective.

Oct 1(?)

For not quite three weeks I have worked as a service station attendant at Raynesford. I quit yesterday because the wages were low, I didn’t like the work, and I didn’t like the boss. During the first few days I was there, until she left to go back to school, there was a college girl working there, about 19 years old, named Sandi Boughton.

Of the four with whom I have been infatuated, she is the only one who could not be [CROSSED OUT: because I have never gotten the girl involved.] considered beautiful. Her face was presentable, but I would say it fell a little short of being even just pretty. Her figure was imperfect, but it was her principal physical attraction. Her body was so lithe, fresh, firm, and vigorous. I learned later that she was something of an athlete. Blond (letter scratched out), blue-eyed, rather on the small side. She was the daughter of a rancher near Raynesford, and she was, I believe, about to commence her second year at the University of Montana. I found her attractive from the start, and after a couple of days I just couldn’t get her out of my thoughts. As usual with a type 2 attraction, the thing was completely senseless. I did not have much in common with her, and she had some characteristics that antagonized me. I will list some of her attractions, but I don’t consider them sufficient to explain my infatuation. I have already mentioned her lithe, fresh body. There was a piquant streak in her personality hinting of masculinity: her athletic pursuits of which I shall say more later) and propensity for driving away from the station with a very heavy foot on the accelerator. (This last antagonized me and attracted me at the same time). Nevertheless her personality as a whole was thoroughly feminine. She seemed to be just a shade cross or sullen at times, but I felt that she was essentially quite gentle and soft. On one occasion I heard her laughing to herself in the most charming, girlish manner ....

Soon after she walked in on the first day, the bosses second-in-command, a muscular, heavily-built married man in his forties, engaged in some horseplay with her — grasped her around the waist from behind and wrestled with her for a few moments. She seemed to enjoy it. I do not doubt that the motive was sexual on both sides, though it may not have been consciously so. In fact, I was rather surprized at the extent to which she was apt to lay hands playfully on some of the males around there. All that, I suppose is probably a reflection of contemporary mores, but it certainly made me feel contemptuous toward her. She never laid hands on me though — probably because of my comparatively aloof and stolid demeanor. She frequently used words like “shit” and “son of a bitch”, and I didn’t like that, either, though it was no doubt just another reflection of current mores. She was not 100% callous about that sort of thing, though. On an occasion that arose in conversation the above-mentioned second-in-command quipped that “Sandi knows what part to put her hand on.” “She seemed somewhat embarrassed and said “God, you guys are so incredibly gross.” Until about the third or fourth day I had nothing to say to her other than strictly business, and “good morning” on coming in at the start of the day. For some reason she usually seemed a little sullen in returning my “good morning.” On the third or fourth morning, when we were the only two on duty, she was sitting on her favorite perch, a pile of tires in front of the station, and I was nearby, sweeping the cement in my usual methodical fashion. She said, “You make it look so easy. I’m always all tuckered out after I sweep this.” Pause. “It’s good for working out your frustrations though.” I remarked that “I get my exercise from running, anyway.” She said something to the effect that “I’ve got to get back in shape. I’ve got to start swimming again.” The conversation then rambled on for a few minutes, with her doing most of the talking, and it developed that she had been a runner on her highschool track team. After a short while my sweeping carried me away from where she was sitting, but when I had finished, I walked back to where she was sitting, leaned on my broom, and said, “If you like exercise, I suppose you like outdoor-type stuff, hiking and so forth.” She assented, but in a hesitant and unenthusiastic way. I mentioned that I had spent the greater part of the summer with a backpack in the Lincoln backcountry. She said she had never really had a chance to try that sort of thing. Then she rambled on again for awhile, doing most of the talking, saying, among other things, that she thought she might like to have a park-ranger type of job, then that she didn’t know what to do (with her life). She said she was an enthusiastic skier, that if she couldn’t ski, then life wouldn’t be worth while or something to that effect. “Cross-country?” I asked. She said “No, downhill,” and said she was inclined to feel that cross country skiing was something for city people who were starved for fresh and open spaces and that kind of thing. She also said she was on the “ski patrol”, apparently some kind of rescue organisation for people in difficulty on the ski slopes. Later she mentioned that she wanted to get a motorcycle. I said “I hate those things.” And then we got into an argument over motorcycles and snowmobiles. The reader knows my attitude toward those things. She defended them, with reservations, saying that they were alright if not used inconsiderately. It seemed that, like most people she did not have a sharp analytical mind — her answers to some points I made were not rationally responsive; essentially she just rambled on following her own train of thought. After a bit I got rather disgusted and began to just stare off into space, making little response to what she said. )That is another characteristic of Type 2; one has occasional rational intervals during which one is nauseated by one’s own folly in being so stuck on some silly girl.) Anyhow, she rambled on for a while in her pleasant voice, not making much sense. She gave what I took to be a little homily on toleration — in this instance toward snowmobiles and the like. She compared it to “when I was in high school and thought differently from the other kids” or was different, or something; but it wasn’t clear to me whether she meant she was supposed to be tolerant of the other kids or whether they were supposed to be tolerant of her. She mentioned that a couple of times, about being “different.” I laughed inwardly at that, because she sounded to me like a pretty standard goody-liberal. That type always think they are “different”, but they are some of the biggest conformists around. This points up another characteristic of Type 2; it seems to have little relation to anything sensible like common interests or attitude or characteristics that one can respect. Finally she closed her monologue with “Oh, don’t mind me, I’m just blathering on.” There were a few more snatches of conversation between after that, and then it was back to just strictly business between us. I thought I detected later a trace of crossness in her speech to me, especially on the last day before she left. Now, if the reader is capable of noticing the obvious, he will have perceived in my detailed reporting of all this unremarkable conversation a clear sign of senseless infatuation. Was she attracted to me? I could answer that question by tossing a coin as well as any other way. I just don’t know. I have been so socially isolated for so long that I do not know how to interpret any indications that may been on that question. But it is probably safe to say that if she was attracted to me it was not to nearly the same extent that I was attracted to her. If she had been that much attracted to me she presumably would have given some sign obvious enough so that even I would have no doubt about the interpretation. Of course, I gave no sign that I was attracted to her, but that is only because I am excessively inhibited with attractive women.

I can’t get her off my mind. She was such a ... well, ray of sunshine that I hunger for the sight of her. Yet I know very well that if I were not infatuated I would not have any respect for her. I am disgusted at my own weakness for her.

Now let’s go back some 22 years, to when I was 10 years old, in fifth grade. There was a little girl in that class named Darlene Curley. She was a beautiful thing with long black hair. (Within a year or two, because she began growing rapidly and because she cut her hair short, she became no longer beautiful, though she was still pretty.) She was also lively, and very saucy. Both because of her sauciness and because of her attractiveness, there was, for a time, a regular feud on between her and all the boys in the class. I hated her (and secretly loved her) just like all the other boys. There is a certain duality in the male that is particularly visible in pre-adolescent boys. They are beginning to be attracted to girls, but they are nevertheless inclined to turn from them in scorn and devote their attention to manly, serious pursuits, like climing trees, playing ball and catching snakes. I think that some of this conflict lasts right through into manhood, though it is often quite submerged. It appears among many primitive tribes who believe a man’s hunting weapons will lose their power if handled by a woman, or that a man must abstain from intercourse with his wife before going on a war expedition.

It appears occasionally in literature, as in Wagner’s Ring Cycle, where it is stated that the Rheingold will confer world power on its possessor provided he forsakes the love of woman. The conflict is that between power and pleasure; or rather, between the austere pleasure of hard, demanding work and the soft pleasures of omen. Because I am particularly attracted to austerity, power, hard work, etc., this conflict is especially well developed in me. Probably it was this conflict, as well as Darlene Curley’s sauciness, that occasional the war between her and the boys. But she was, at that time, one of those females whose attractions were so strong that one is at a loss to explain them. One by one the boys broke down, and I would observe them holding soft, sweet conversations with her. My scorn for these weaklings was absolutely unbounded. I was the stubbornest of the lot, and I still forced myself to hate her long after the others had all softened. I was terribly strongly attracted to her — Type 2 of course — I knew that I was attracted to her, but from sheer stubbornness I would never permit myself to form in my mind the words “I like her very much”. Instead I had sadistic fantasies about her — I imagined myself inflicting all kinds of ghastly tortures on her. Sadistic satisfaction was not what I actually wanted from her — the sadistic fantasies were mearly a tool that I used to crush out my love for her. She apparently was as much attracted to me as I was to her. (Was this, perhaps, the result of my stubbornness in resisting her charms?) She would spend long intervals with her head lying on her arms or her desk, staring at my feet — she did this even after I openly scorned her for doing it. She ceased being saucy toward me and made a number of friendly overtures. I had just two lapses during which I softened toward her. For part of one day I was friendly toward her, and she, of course, toward me. But then, falling back into her old habits, she made one snotty crack at me, and I immediately hardened up again for a long time. Later, for one day, I was again friendly to her, and that time I hardened up again for no particular reason except my own stubbornness. In looking back on that time I feel a sense of fierce triumph and joy at my success in resisting her — and at the same time I experience an acute longing for the pleasure I might have had if I had yielded to her. Even today the name “Darlene” faintly stirs something in me.

The second, and I think the most severe, well-developed Type 2 of which I was victim began when I was 16 years old — a freshman at Harvard and lasted about two years. This girl’s name was Carol Stone Wolman. Blond, blue-eyed, fairly slim build but by no means fragile. She was beautiful in a rather unusual way. Her figure had a serious flaw — her ass wasn’t shaped right — but was otherwise very good. There was something very unusual about her face that is difficult to define. Something teasing and coyly enticing, and at the same time something sensitive. Her mannerisms had that same teasing and coyly enticing air — whether she really was sensitive. I don’t know. I have seen two faces that strongly reminded me of hers. One was the face of 19^th-century slum girl in a book of old “art” photographs. As for the other, there is a well-known Grecian statue of Dionysus; in one hand the god holds a bunch of grapes while a small, young satyr at his side nibbles at the grapes. As soon as I saw the face of that satyr, I was struck by the resemblance to Carol Wolman, both in form and, especially, in expression. But there were differences too fo course. It is curious that, long before I ever saw the picture of that statue, I had associated her in various ways with Greek mythology. Especially, I used to imagine her as a female satyr (which does not exist in Greek mythology, but I didn’t know that) romping and coyly enticing me in some vendant meadow. [CROSSED OUT: We happened to be in many of the same courses but these were always in large lecture halls, and by that age I was already very inhibited with attractive girls, so that it was difficult for me to get both courage and opportunity to speak to her.]

I never saw her wear the least speck of make-up or jewelry. I don’t think she ever did anything to her hair — just cut it and left it in a mop of curls. She was negligent about her clothing — but not ostentatiously negligent as some hippies are. Many young men wouldn’t look twice at a girl like her, but there seemed to be a fairly large class of males who were nearly, or quite, as attracted to her as I was. Anyway, she appeared to have quite a few hangers-on. It certainly galled my pride to be one of a panting mob like that, and this intensified my usual tendency to rebel against feminine charms. But, unfortunately, hers were a little too powerful.

We happened to be in several of the same courses, but these were all in large lecture halls, and by that age I was already much inhibited with attractive girls, so that I found it difficult to get the combination of opportunity and courage necessary to initiate conversations with her.

Actually, on only the second occasion on which I saw her, she sat down next to me in a class and initiated the first conversation between us. After that I don’t think I spoke to her on more than 2 or 3 occasions during the first year and a half of that miserable infatuation. She was certainly attracted to me, or, at the least, interested by me. She certainly noticed how frequently I gazed hungrily at her across one classroom hall or another. From time to time I would catch her looking at me sidelong, but her eyes would flick away as soon as I turned mine toward her. On a few-occasions she took a seat next to mine, as if to give me a chance to open a conversation. On some of these occasions I turned sullen and kept my mouth shut — others took advantage of. On a prior grounds I assume she was not so much attracted to me as I was to her. I suppose she might have been (for some reason I was very attractive to girls from about age 16–19, despite the fact that I had a bad case of acne; a number of good-looking girls made obvious overtures to me during that period). On one of the occasions when she sad down next to me, a curious — I might almost say dramatic — incident occurred. I opened the conversation with some remarks about a tough homework problem (this was a class in number theory) and she gave an answer which indicated a serious mathematical misunderstanding on her part (it seems very few females have any real feel or understanding of technical things). And so we conversed a little until the lecture started. [CROSSED OUT: During] At one point during the lecture she turned her face toward me, smiling and laughing at something that had been said. In response, I turned my face toward her rather slowly, and looked her straight in the eyes, with a perfectly solemn expression. When I did this, her jaw dropped, as if in surprise, her face instantly became serious, and we looked each other straight in the eyes for a few seconds. Then I turned slowly away. That sudden change in her expression was rather astonishing. I don’t know what it signified. At the end of the lecture I just stalked out without making any further attempt to converse with her or even looking at her, because (as so often) I was ashamed and angry at having such powerful and disabling feelings aroused in me by a god-damned girl.

I never spoke to this girl enough to get to know her at all until just after the examinations at the end of my sophomore year. Walking across the campus, I found her sitting under a tree reading the Scientific American. I approached her with some inane remark about an examination, and so we sat conversing — rather I should say arguing — for an hour or so. Within a few minutes (being in a half-angry mood, as so often with her) I managed to get into an argument with her about ethics. I, of course, disclaimed any respect for ideas of right and wrong (and being 18 years old, I did so in rather wilder terms than I would today) and she took the opposite point of view. I was severely disappointed in her, not simply because she believed in ethics, but because all her opinions were perfectly stereotyped goodie-liberal, right down the line. I detected not a trace of that fire or wildness that one might have been tempted to infer from some of her mannerisms and facial expressions. I think she concluded that I was just plain awful, and I don’t believe she was attracted to me at all after that. I was still attracted to her, but nevertheless I think that that conversation was the turning point for me and my interest began to wane from then on. I did subsequently ask her out once (she refused) but that was about the last gasp of that affair. One day it occurred to me that the thought of her hadn’t even crossed my mind for 3 weeks — I was liberated, and glad to be so.

The last time I saw her was just before the end of my senior year. She said “hi”, and I “cut her dead” — i.e., turned away without acknowledging her presence.

The third severe Type 2 from which I suffered occurred when I was 28 years old. The memory of this girl does not stir me at all when I look back, but I think that is because I was exposed to her only for a short period (less than 2 weeks, I believe). While it lasted, the attraction seemed as powerful as the others. This was after I had left Berkeley. I had a temporary job in a kind of mail-order warehouse. This girl was a god-damned greasy wetback spick. She spoke with only a slight accent, so probably had been in the U.S. for a long time. She certainly was a beauty — long, black hair, darkish complexion — her features were not quite so regular as some, but there was something about them that seemed to speak of high biological quality. Her figure was simply exquisite — beautifully formed. Erect carriage, smooth leisurely, graceful walk. Her bearing was dignified, proud, maybe even a bit arrogant. About her personality, intelligence, etc., I know practically nothing, since I never spoke more than a few words to her. I first noticed her thus: I came to work a few minutes early one morning and found her and one of to other employes standing around waiting for things to start. At that period I had been doing chin-ups and push-ups to keep my aims in shape. On that morning I went up to one of the steel warehouse racks, jumped up, caught hold of the bar, pulled myself up, swung my body up and across to the opposite bar, then over and down again on the other side.... I began to notice her — was impressed with her beauty and the dignity of her bearing — and became disgustingly infatuated. Soon thereafter, while I was waiting all by myself in the morning before work, she walked in, and I gave her “good morning.” To my surprise, I was greeted with downcast eyes and a cold, barely audible reply. Was she married? Ha! I took note of her hands, and indeed she wore those telltale rings. Ater that I had no serious ideas of making any advances toward her, but as long as she was there I could not keep my mind — and only with difficulty my eyes — off of her. Fortunately she left that place after I had been there not more than 2 weeks, and then my infatuation faded.

For some romantic literature dealing with the conflict between power and love — or, if you will, between manhood and pleasure — see Joseph Conrad’s Arrow of Gold (the guy who loves, but tries to kill, Dona Rita) and Victor Hugo’s Hunchback of Notre Dame (La Esmeralda and Claude Frollo).

Oct. 7

This latest infatuation is not quite so severe as the others — perhaps because age has rather quieted the intensity of my feelings generally. In this case, in contrast to that awful affair of Carol Wolman, I don’t feel that I need the girl. I.e. If I were to be told that I would never see this Sandi again, it would not bother me very seriously — just make me feel rather wistful. What I have been feeling is this: That to have a love affair with this tirl would be unimaginably delightful. As long as there seems to be any possibility that such a thing could be brought about, a terribly powerful reward is held out before me, and I feel I can hardly refrain from trying to get it, even though it is very difficult for me to make the attempt. Consider: She has been back at Missoula for 2 or 3 weeks, and no particular friendliness had developed between us before she left. I live 80 or 90 miles from her. Thus, for me to make any kind of advance toward her now would amount to confessing a special infatuation. And, of course, I have already mentioned that I am very inhibited with attractive females. So I sweated and panted and got all nervous trying to decide what to do. I liked best the idea of a bold and straightforward approach, because boldness would somehow partially compensate for the shame of being sucked into such nonsense in the first place. So, after a struggle between many misgivings on the one hand, and a kind of contemptuous disregard for all the rest of the human race and its opinions on the other (this latter attitude has considerably increased with me since I came to Montana), I sent her the letter quoted below. I wanted to go to Missoula and deliver the proposition to her in person, but I confess that I didn’t have the nerve to go through with that. Anyhow, she will surely be astonished when she receives the following:

Dear Miss Boughton: I am going to lay before you a rather unusual proposition. For most of the last 3 years I have lived alone in a cabin in the hills not far from Lincoln. Because civilization is crowding in on me too much around here, it is my ambition to find a place in Alaska or northern Canada far enough back in the woods to be safe from civilization for some years at least. If and when I can get such a place, I would like to have a...ah...squaw to accompany me there. My proposition is that we should become sufficiently well acquainted so that you can intelligently consider the question whether you would like to go north with me as my wife.

Lest this proposition seem offensively forward, let me emphasize that I am suggesting only that we get to know one another. The notion of your going north with me would be merely a prospect to be considered at some time in the indefinite future, if things should happen to work out well between us.

From our discussion concerning snowmobiles and trail bikes, which you may recall, I had the impression that you did not fully understand what is to be gained from wilderness life. What the wild country has to offer is neither scenery nor “sport” (though these do play some role), but freedom, independence, purposeful challenge (both physical and mental), and certain other benefits that I do not know how to describe to one who has never tasted them.

I am approaching you because I was strongly attracted to you. There are a few young women around who are hungry for wildness life and would gladly accept my terms. Through a classifed ad I could possibly locate one with excellent qualifications, but if she did not happen to attract me ... well, in that case I would sooner go alone.

Very likely this preposition is far out for you to take seriously. I can just imagine you giggling over this letter with your girlfriends. But that is your privilege, I suppose, and it won’t do me any harm anyway.

In case you see fit to reply to this letter one way or the other, I am no longer at Kibby Korner. (I couldn’t stand that balloon-bellied con-man, Joe, so I quit.) You can write to me at Lincoln, address shown at the top of this letter.

Sincerely yours,

Would I actually go through with that — marry her and take her north with me? I confess my fantasies have often turned in that direction — which just goes to show how sick she’s made me. But it is certainly against my better judgement, and I hope I don’t get sucked into anything so utterly foolish. Still, it is just conceivable that such a thing could happen, and, even assuming the very best, it would cost me certain things that are of very great value to me.

Ha! I wonder what the outcome of this will be! As I’ve already said, I cannot make any rational judgement as to whether she was attracted to me. I am not likely to get an encouraging reply unless she was strongly attracted to me — if she was mildly attracted, that surprising proposition is likely to scare her off.

As soon as I had mailed that letter, I thought, “Christ! Now I’ve done it!” But I soon stopped sweating about it, and I have fallen into an attitude of insolent disregard about the matter, and a feeling that the whole thing is an interesting though potentially embarrassing adventure.

---

P.S. I just noticed under the “Gemini” horoscope in yesterday’s newspaper (the day I mailed the letter) “... you are able to put plans in motion [today] that bring satisfying results...” Ha! Wouldn’t it be fun to believe in astrology?

Oct. 11

One reason I have always found it very difficult to approach girls is that I have been so socially isolated — even more so in recent years than previously — that I don’t have any idea how to go about it, nor do I know how to recognize any but the most obvious signs indicating that a female may find me attractive or the opposite. An example to illustrate this: One evening during my second year at the university of Michigan, I was sitting in the library studying. I noticed that a pretty girl sitting next to me kept looking at the table in front of me for no ascertainable reason. Finally she found some flimsy excuse to address a remark to me, and a conversation ensued. She had no attractions out of the ordinary — she was just another pretty girl — but, being rather sex-starved{6}, I was glad enough to get friendly with her. There was obvious effort on both sides to keep the conversation going, she being considerably more successful in finding things to say than I was.{7} This went on for an hour or so, until it was time for the library to close. We got up to leave. I simply said goodbye and moved to go. When I did this, her mouth dropped open and she looked surprised and hurt, as if I had done something very unexpected. Well, what was I supposed to do at that point? I don’t know. I suspect there is a kind of ritual about these things, a series of more or less conventional stages through which a sexual acquaintance is supposed to progress. Maybe at that point I was supposed to offer to walk her home. I don’t know. I guess I would have done that if I had happened to think of it. I do not now regret having missed that opportunity. Her name was Nancy White.

Oct 15

No answer yet from that girl, so I suppose I’m not going to get one. Not surprising. Still, I would have preferred to get a negative answer rather than no answer at all. As it is, I am strongly tempted to pursue the matter further. It is possible that she was offended, or in a way frightened by my eccentric approach — conceivably an apology and a fresh attempt along different lines might bring a more favourable result. It’s not likely, but I find her so very desirable that I am reluctant to leave any stone unturned. Of course I often feel embarrassed at having made an approach to her of a kind likely to excite ridiculte, but it is interesting that I feel very little embarrassement before her; what makes me uncomfortable is mostly the idea of her telling other people about it all. But the thing which most surprizes me, and which I can’t explain with any confidence, is the fact that the admixture of antagonism in my feelings toward her is so slight. When we were both working at the gas station, I had a few minor revulsions of feeling toward her, but these were few, fiible, and short-lived. Since then, I don’t think I have felt any rebellion at all against my feelings toward her. I fully realize that I would not feel any respect for her if it were not for this erotic infatuation, and I view my own infatuation with contempt, yet, for the present at least, I have no desire to rebel against these feelings, and even if I should get an unequivocal rejection from her, I hardly feel (now) as if I would resent her for it. (My feelings may charge later, of course.) The only explanations I can find for this are (i) the fact that age has mellowed me somewhat — one’s feelings are different at 32 from what they were at 22; and (ii) On the basis of what information I hae, her personality seemed open and generous, without any social competitiveness. Also, perhaps, what I want from her is a little different from what I wanted from (say) Carol Wolman.

I do not particularly want soulful communion; I want to take care of her, be good to her, make her happy; of course I want her love too, physically as well as in every other way. Anyhow, whether it is due to a change in me or a difference in her, this is the one girl I feel I could love with comparatively few conflicting feelings. But it seems pretty unlikely that I will ever have that opportunity. Of course, if I even did marry her or anything like that, it would cost me a great deal. I have become exceedingly fond both of the autonomy and of the mental tranquillity that come with complete solitude.

Oct. 16

All this has stirred up old memories. Last night I dreamed about Carol Wolman. She was a little older, but not much, and it seemed to have enhanced her beauty. The situation was the usual [ADDED LATER: one that it was in real life] — a college classroom — but in the dream she was looking at me more than I was at her. I woke up, or half awoke, after the dream with a very strong, bittersweet sense of melancholy, of regret for lost youth and missed opportunities, centering on Carol Wolman, but with other things dragged in, including something vague and indefinable. I stated before that I fell out of love with her, and that is true, but the memory of that strange face of hers still stirs something, and there are times, just once in a great while, when that echo comes in surprisingly strongly. As much as this Sandi has affected me, she doesn’t quite do to me what Carol Wolman did. I do not think it is any longer possible for me to be affected by any girl the way I was by Carol Wolman. At age 32 these things simply do not have the poignant intensity that they do at age 16 or 18. No doubt I am better off never having been involved with her anymore than I was; still, I felt last night a powerful sense of loss, of something missed, that lingers a little this morning. By now she must be about 34 years old; most likely a lousy housewife, her looks merely suggesting what she was 12 or 14 years ago, with a could of sordid brats whom she is bringing up to be a pain of warped little liberal-intellectual sickies.

Also, that sense of lost youth and missed opportunity is something I fear I am likely to be feeling 10 or 15 years from now with regard to something that is much more important to me than any erotic involvement. I mean the kind of life that I have tasted in these mountains, but which I have never yet been able to live in close to pure form, without interference from civilization — the kind of thing that to me is somehow best symbolized by new-fallen snow and the hunting of snowshoe hares by tracking. At age 32, one is only 8 years from 40, after which one’s health might start to break down at any time. For that matter, it might start to break down tomorrow; and with the economic situation looking very bleak for the foreseeable future, it is not going to be easy to save up the money I will need if I am to try to get that cabin in the far north which would let me lead the life I want. These considerations contributed largely to that strange sense of melancholy that I felt after the dream last night.

Oct. 23

As I mentioned before, I was reluctant to leave any stone unturned in pursuing that Sandi creature, so, a week ago, I sent her the following letter:

Dear Miss Boughton:

No doubt I have made myself look very foolish already, and I suppose I am going to make myself look even more foolish now, but that doesn’t worry me particularly. I haven’t had an answer to my letter, and that amounts to a negative answer. I would appreciate it if you would tell me why your answer was negative. Presumably it was either because you found me personally unattractive or because the manner in which I approached you offended you, or scared you off, or something of that sort. In the first case there is no point in my pursuing the matter further. In the second case, I objectly apologize for any offense I may have caused. My only excuse is that I am extremely ignorant and inexperienced in dealing with women. I simply don’t know the proper way to go about these things. So let me start all over again and give it another try.

It should be obvious by now that I am infatuated with you. Any involvement with women is contrary to my better judgement. But after you left Kibbey Korner I found that I couldn’t forget you, so I said to hell with better judgement — hence my previous letter. If it is agreeable to you, I would like to take you out a few times. Once you get to know me, you may find that you like me or you may find that you don’t. Anyway, I would like to give it a try. As you might guess from my first letter, my interest is of a potentially serious nature. A little casual sex-play is not what I am looking for.

Of course, if you have no interest in me at all, you may as well give a flat “no” for your answer, which will save us both from wasting our time. If you give me a negative answer, or if you do not answer at all, I promise that I will not bother you again, so you needn’t worry about that.

---

No answer yet, so I guess I’m not going to get one to that letter either. I still am reluctant to give up, but now I guess I’ll have to, since I promised not to bother her gain. Funny thing is that I don’t resent her in the least for rejecting me. Oh, well.

Since I have had so very little to do with females, the question [ILLEGIBLE] — to what extent is sex-starvation responsible for the 3 post-pubentel infatuations I have recorded here? Of course it is difficult to answer with certainty. The following is perhaps the best I can do. Supposing I had associated with many different girls and and had had intercourse with some of them: I think I would have had as many or very likely more, infatuations of the sort recorded here, but the girls with whom I became infatuated would have been more appropriate choices for me because there would have been more to choose from. I say this because there is something about an intense, passionate erotic-love relationship that I find very attractive and that I do not believe would be provided by physical sex or even by the less intense kind of affection that would grow up through long association. This last kind of love I would not even be interested in because it would not be worth the price in autonomy and certain other things. Only in the 4 cases recorded here have I found something extra, something powerful enough to tempt me seriously to surrender myself to it. Against my better judgement, of course. I do believe that a more satisfying life is possible for me without any such involvement — yet such things can be so overpoweringly tempting.

Nov. 1

I have dreamed about that Sandi girl a couple of times before, and I dreamed about her again last night. Like most dreams, this one was vague and disconnected. At last we were doing some kind of work together. I was thinking, or hoping, that she might like me, at least a little; but on the whole her attitude toward me was half disdainful, as if my existence were a burden to be only just tolerated. Then she was talking to a big, somewhat overweight fellow in a leather jacket — a motorcyclist type. She had to go somewhere or catch a train or something. It was time for me to go to bed and I lay down, and she went into another room with the motorcyclist to neck with him, remarking on the way that she had about three hours which would be about enough time. I interpreted it to mean that they would probably neck for awhile to work themselves up, then have intercourse, then she would go catch her train. (this seems to represent the fact that to most young people today sex appear to be casual and matter-of-course, whereas to me it is anything but that.) I felt bitter and resentful in the sense of wanting to revenge myself on her in any way whatever. I felt at the same time a firm determination to persist and win her at any cost if at all possible, though I was at a loss as to how to do it. After I awoke I felt for awhile very heavy and melancholy. That melancholy feeling was augmented from another source — as I mentioned before, things are pretty well ruined around here, and there are plenty of difficulties in the way of my getting that cabin in the far north — would still be plenty of difficulties even if I had lots of money. I am just sick of the burden of dealing with people d feel like taking to the woods and seeing how many people I can pick off with my rifle before the cops get me. My infatuation with that girl seems to be getting gradually dulled, but it flares up from time to time, and I think it would come back in full strength if I were to meet her again. With regard to the melancholy feelings mentioned above, it is interesting that despite these I do not feel depressed — i.e., I am quite ready for activity and feel I am functioning at a pretty high level.

It is frustrating. I look at my reflection in my cabin window, and I see a pretty good specimen of a man. Not heavily muscled, but sinewy and hard, with sufficient muscle showing. I am in excellent condition. My facial features naturally are coarser and not so handsome as when I was 19 or 20, but (especially with my beard, which I have let grow again) I look more virile now. I have plenty of brains, aried talents, and a kind of general competence at most kinds of work.

I suppose my personality is pleasant enough when I am with people whom I like and with whom I feel at ease. I see no reason why I might not have been able to win that girl’s love — except the fact that I am so cut off socially from the rest of the human race that I inevitably seem peculiar, an outsider. I don’t know how to talk to girls and find it extremely difficult to make the attempt. By no means do I regret being an outsider — not even for that girl would I want to become one of that mob of monkeys in the technological zoo. But it is so damned frustrating to feel that I am easily a good enough specimen to merit her and yet be unable to do anything about it.

Nov. 7

That damned girl! I thought my trouble was fading, but lately its come back as ever. I went to the library at the University of Montana to look up some mathematical things. I had been intending to do this for some time but had been in no hurry about it. The main reason I went now was because I figured if I were to frequent that place to some extent I might run into her by chance, in which case I could perhaps, if my nerve didn’t fail, get somewhere with her without really breaking my promise not to bother her again. If it were anyone else but me in this situation I would certainly sneer, and produce some caustic humor on the subject. To show how low I have sunk, I bought a new pair of pants the other day just for this expedition. Blue jeans. They are — no, not light (I haven’t sunk that low) — but they are tailored to fit the form much more accurately than the baggy but comfortable work pants I usually wear. They have a nice full-length mirror in the men’s room in that library, and with my figure nicely revealed in jeans and T-shirt, I was obliged to conclude that I have a very well-proportioned physique [ADDED LATER: yeah! a regular Apollo. If I was queer I would fall in love with myself.] rugged and sturdy, no longer to lean as I was in my teens. This made me so confident that (not having met her by chance) I decided I should call on her at her dormitory and politely — even a little humbly — ask her to explain why she rejected me. Then maybe I could persuade her to go out with me once, anyway. Then, I would think, she ought to be attracted to me to a reasonable extent, anyway — I’m in excellent condition, good-looking, intelligent, educated, and capable of exhibiting a pleasant personality. She would have had only a limited inkling of most of these advantages from what she saw of me at that service station.

Anyway, I chickened out as usual and couldn’t go-through with it. It’s so maddening — if I try to phone her or anything like that I completely lose my nerve when it comes to the point of doing it. It was only with difficulty that I could even send that first letter. It drives me nuts. In fact a significant part of my desire to get her now arises simply from stubbornness and frustration. Of course I realize that I might be disappointed once I got to know her — but, on the basis of what I do know of her, she is the only girl toward whom I felt I could (perhaps) give myself without reservation. With Carol WOlman and the others there were always conflicting feelings.

Nov. 8

Went cutting poles with Glen Williams today. Had another good example of how the right woman can make a man foolish. Glen told me — and kept telling me and telling me — about a female hitchhiker he picked up, about 25 years old. Over and over he would say “gee, she was a nice gal, real good looking, the kind you get attached to right quick.” He bought her cigarettes and pepsi, fed her, and apparently suggested to her that she could help him with pole-cutting for a while. Evidently she was hard up — but not that hard up. That Glen — what a dumb jackass! Of course, that Sandi has made me foolish; but the difference is that I know very well she’s made me foolish, whereas Glen seems to be perfectly unconscious of how foolish he looks. He’s married of course, but he gets along very poorly with his wife Dolores. I suspect that the only thing that keeps them together is their little daughter, whom they both love dearly. To judge from what I have seen, Glen often speaks cruelly to Dolores, whereas she seems to restrain herself, probably for the sake of the little girl. But it would be unfair to draw conclusions from that. She may do something at home that bothers Glen. For example, I wouldn’t be overly surprized if she complains about his being a poor provider or throws it up to him. Women may not realize how deeply that could cut a man. (Actually he doesn’t do badly as a provider under the circumstances, having been laid off from his job a couple of years ago. Given the unemployment problems around here, many families in similar circumstances would have been on welfare, but with pole- and firewood-cutting, Glen seems to get by O.K.)

Nov. 10

I have a certain stubborn persistence, a refusal to relinquish hope for any important reward, which to a considerable extent accounts for (a) my success with some of the mathematical problems I have solved, (b) the fact that I have gone as far as I have in seeking out wilderness life, whereas most of the [ADDED LATER: many] other teenage boys and young men who dream of life beyond the pale of civilization never do anything about it,{8} (c) the fact [ADDED LATER: that] I am still panting as madly as ever for that Sandi girl. I drove to Missoula again today, swearing up and down that if I did not have the nerve to personally ask for her at her dormitory, then, at the least, I would telephone and ask her (pretty please) to explain why she didn’t want to have anything to do with me; and then, if the explanation left any room for hope, I would try to persuade her to go out with me once, anyway. But, again I found myself completely unable to do anything so went home quite defeated. I kept my feelings under control until I had built a fire, fetched wood, and otherwise gotten set up for the night. Then I sat down, put my head on my hands, and cried; from a combination of frustration and a bitter regret for what I am missing through my inability to even try to get that girl. I would point out to the reader that since my latter teens I have never shed one tear over physical pain — not even when I scalded all the skin off the top of my foot 3 years ago_ A few years ago when I was having a deep cavity drilled without anesthetic, the dentist remarked 2 or 3 times, “Gee, you’re a hard guy to hurt!” It hurt, alright, but I wasn’t about to let him know it. Yet on account of that girl I just sat and sobbed.

Nov. 11

I don’t feel very badly about at girl this morning; because I guess I have lost all hope of getting her, so that the pressure is off and I just feel wistful about it. Besides, this is a fine morning, with the fresh snow and animal tracks. Still there is an ache. She had aroused such tender feelings in me. To have had her for a wife... oh, I would have been good to her, really. Yet for all that, I know that if it weren’t for sex, I wouldn’t respect her.

Nov. 12

Ever since the latter part of yesterday I think I am entirely cured of that infatuation — though it would likely come back again if I were to meet her again in the relatively near future. It is as I said some time ago in these notes — I don’t feel I need her. I was in a sweat over her only so long as I felt there was some chance of getting her. All the same, this morning I sent her the letter copied below. This letter correctly represents my feelings evening before last, when I returned from Missoula. By yesterday morning, when I actually wrote the letter, those feelings had already begun to fade. This morning, when I sent it, I was laughing over it; but I sent it anyway because it is an interesting adventure and because if she does answer it will gratify my uriosity — besides, it was rustrating to get no response whatever to the first 2 letters, for which reason it will be a satisfaction to get any kind of response to this one. It is a grovelling, bellycrawling letter, but I don’t care. As I have mentioned before, I have achieved a certain degree of indifference to other people’s opinions of me.

Dear Miss Boughton:

I promised not to bother you again, but I am going to break that promise, just once. It is pretty clear that you are not interested in having anything to do with me, so I have given up hope of that. But I want very badly to know why you won’t have anything to do with me. I have had no answer of any kind from you and it bothers me seriously. Please Sandi. An explanation of your attitude toward me would relieve my mind. If you have unpleasant things to say about me, just go ahead and say them right out. You needn’t worry about hurting my feelings — I am enough of a stoic to accept such things with equanimity. And you needn’t worry that an answer from you will encourage me to bother you further. Obviously, it is not going to encourage me to hear why you don’t like me. Look — I humble myself before you — something I have never done before anyone in the past and which I don’t ever expect to do again. I won’t cost you anything to give me an answer, just one.

For reasons that I can’t fully explain, you have stirred my feelings in a way that no girl has done before. If I had had any encouragement from you I no doubt would have fallen passionately in love with you. It may be that you would never have liked me in any case, but possibly I would have done better if I had been able to approach you properly. I have been such a loner for so long that my social skills (which never amounted to much in the first place) have degenerated into virtual nonexistence. I don’t know how to talk to girls, and, what is worse, I am afraid of them. I had been very well satisfied with my solitude, and had come to terms with my desire for women, which had been mostly physical — until I had the misfortune to meet you. It was then that I began to deeply regret my ignorance and incapacity in this direction.

I find it terribly frustrating. You may not have seen it under those shapeless work clothes, but I have a very well-proportioned physique and I am in excellent condition. I have plenty of brains — I am a Harard graduate and spent 2 years as assistant professor of mathematics at Berkeley. (If you feel inclined to doubt that statement, look for my name in the author indices of various issues of Mathematical Reviews — available in the U. of M. library — between the years 1966 and 1971.) I have a variety of talents, and virtues such as persistence, willpower, and a kind of general ability that has made me unusually competent at many kinds of work from mathematics to post-cutting to elk-hunting. I ought to be good enough to win your esteem, yet when I try to do something about it I can only make a fool of myself and earn, probably, nothing but your contempt.

I apologize for any annoyance I have caused you. I would appreciate it very much if you would answer my question this time, even if your answer can consist of nothing but derogatory statements concerning me. Please. Sincerely Yours,

Nov. 19

I am now perfectly cured of that affair, thank heaven!

Journal #2 (1978)

Ted Kaczynski’s journal that included his plan to disfigure the face of a romantic interest

Source: Archive.org & California University Library

Notes: From July 17, 1978, Ted recorded his day to day processing of his infatuation with a woman at his workplace, which includes the journal entry where Ted wrote that after being rejected by her, he planned to mutilate her face with a knife. Ted claimed to have sent a letter to Ellen that he claimed to have also shown his brother and both his parents[10] with the admission that he “intended physical violence of a serious nature”.[11] Plus, Ted wrote in a letter to his brother David in 1981; “My intention was to give her a really vicious beating; and if her face got scarred up a little, so much the better.”[12] Sadly there was no effective intervention made in Ted’s life to set him on a better path and so he went on to kill 3 people and seriously injure many more.

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July 17, 1978: For 2 or 3 weeks I have been working at Foam Cutting Engineers, where my father and brother work (my father got me the job there). The shop superior is a 30-year old woman named Ellen Tarmichael.

She has a beautiful face but a very mediocre figure (too much fat on her ass and thighs). Nevertheless she is very attractive because she has charm; her personality, so far as it is exhibited to the world at large, is very attractive, she is apparently very intelligent, and probably quite competent. The result was that I got infatuated — an unfortunate weakness to which I am occasionally subject. [CROSSED OUT]

I am now cured [ADDED LATER: I thought!] of the infatuation; but the story is interesting and possibly is not yet finished. I wanted to ask her out but suffered from the [CROSSED OUT] inhibitions that usually trouble me when I try to approach attractive women, and the usual problem that I dislike practically all of the usual entertainments — movies, parties, drinking, dancing, etc., etc. Moreover I am so socially inexperienced that I probably give an impression of eccentricity in many social situations through simple ignorance of usual modes of behaviour.

So I figured I would just go ahead and be frankly eccentric and drop in on her unannounced on Sunday (yesterday) afternoon. I knew her address was on a certain Spruce Lane in Glen Ellyn, but I couldn’t find it, so I stopped at a gas station to inquire. A fellow who was there used to live on Spruce Lane and gave me directions to it, but it was so far away that I decided it [CROSSED OUT] was not worth while to traipse all the way over there. If I had been able to walk there I do not know whether I would have had the nerve to actually make that unannounced visit or not; but the matter was taken out of my hands by an astonishing coincidence. As I was walking away from the gas station, maybe 1/8 mile away, the fellow I had talked to [CROSSED] shouted my name. [CROSSED] I turned around and there was Ellen standing next to him. I went back and it turned out that he was Ellen’s brother. I simply told Ellen that I had been coming to pay her a visit, and she drove me to [CROSSED] 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 and by the time she had finished that, I was no longer infatuated. I still find her very attractive, but am convinced that there is such a gulf between us that I could never feel real, sympathy with her. I learned that she is a Catholic (ugh!) and is very bourgeois in her interests and attitudes.

Also she 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. [CROSSED OUT] You would never guess from her usual behaviour 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 (not the brother I met) 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 [CROSSED OUT] 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 [CROSSED OUT] 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 brastful or aggressive way. I took her to a restaurant for supper; there we went back to her apartment (where Liz and George had returned) and we all played pinochle until after 11 PM! (George seemed like a nice guy, but rather flabby physically and mentally. Liz had not quite so pretty a face as her sister [CROSSED OUT] and a much better figure, but seemed less intelligent and had a much duller personality than Ellen, and I suspect she is a nasty bitch.)

Finally I asked Ellen whether she expected me to cut any foam tomorrow, and she said “yes, I was just going to say,” and fortwith she 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 in such a way as if she [CROSSED OUT] were hesitating. [CROSSED OUT] Then she said “alright”. (I suspect she really had no hesitation about kissing but was only trying to make a certain impression) Then she [CROSSED OUT] 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: [CROSSED OUT] “You can’t say that-You don’t know me.” [CROSSED OUT] 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.

July 29. Yesterday I took Ellen Tarmichael to an expensive restaurant for supper. She then 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 [CROSSED OUT] readily make any sexual advances, especially as Ellen, instead of sitting on the sofa where I sat down, sat on the floor nearby, I am sure in order [CROSSED OUT] to avoid encouraging any advances at that time. 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. I pushed her over until she was leaning way back against the [CROSSED OUT] car door (this was my car of course) on the right-hand side and her tit was touching my chest. 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; and what is worse than that, I have a strong impression that her motives for giving me these hot kisses are as much egotistical as they are sexual — that is, because the man is usually more anxious for that kind of thing that the woman, Ellen feels that this gives her a kind of control over the man in such a situation; she gives him a hot kiss to excite him, and when it has gone as far as she wants she stops it; and, I think, she enjoys this as much for the feeling of control that she gets as [CROSSED OUT] for sexual reasons.

As we were driving to the place where we ate, she told me a curious thing. She says that [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.

I don’t believe I will go-out with her again, unless perhaps I get tempted by purely physical lust. I don’t like her at all any more.

July 30. Let me clarify the reasons why I consider Ellen egotistical and hard, if those are the right words. In ordinary conversation she doesn’t seem so except when she is bragging about her job or something related to it. But (with me at least) she will never … let us say … open herself. Examples: When I told her I liked her that first time I was with her, she gave that cold answer I recorded earlier. When I was with her last Saturday I mentioned in the course of saying something else that I was “very much attracted” to her. She answered the other part of what I said but made no response to my statement that I was much attracted to her. At a later part of the same conversation she said that if I had asked her for a date that first time instead of coming over [CROSSED OUT] unannounced, she would have said No, because it is against her policy to have any personal involvements with anyone at work. I then asked her why she said yes the second time I asked her out. She just shrugged and answered coldly, “It seemed like a good idea at the time.” She might at least have said “Because I thought I would enjoy it”, or something like that. Of course, maybe she just doesn’t particularly like me. But then why the sexy kisses? Only 2 explanations present themselves to my mind: Either she is unwilling or unable to express liking for anyone to that persons face; or, what I think is more likely, she doesn’t find me particularly attractive, but goes out with me and gives sexy kisses, exerting her sexual power in a kind of game to gratify her ego. In either case, to hell with her.

Aug 23. Despite the negative conclusions about Ellen that I reached, as stated above I couldn’t help thinking about her constantly, especially since I was exposed to her charms every day at work, and especially since she seamed quite friendly to me. Within a day or 2 after that July 28 date I was as infatuated with her as ever. I always remembered my negative conclusions about her, but I kept hoping those conclusions were wrong [CROSSED OUT], and that she actually was attracted to me but for some reason found it difficult to express this directly. It was easy to hope this because she certainly led me on [CROSSED OUT]. Whenever I phoned her she was always very friendly and receptive, and at the end of the conversation would say “thanks for calling”. For example, the weekend of August 12 I called her; she said she couldn’t see me then because her mother and sister Mary were in town so that she was tied up with family affairs. I offered to call her again the next weekend, and her answer was: “Sounds good! Thanks for calling.” This kind of thing, together with the memory of those hot kisses, naturally made me hope that she really liked me. Since I am extremely inexperienced with women, but by no means deficient in desire for them when exposed to their charms, it is not surprizing that I fell pretty much in love with Ellen on the basis of mere hope. In spite of her failings, I could have loved her deeply if I had had assurance that she cared for me at all.

Well, this last weekend I took her out again. 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 [ADDED LATER: 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. She insisted on a peculiar way of using her auto and mine; 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 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; but I am quite ready to believe that she took no sexual pleasure in it; only egotistical pleasure.)

During the first part of the date she was cool and a little glum; but this must have been calculated, not just the result of being in a bad mood that day, because after she had humiliated me she immediately became quite cheerful and gay for the rest of the [CROSSED OUT] day.

Of course, 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.

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.)

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. (I could think of no other way to get revenge without getting in trouble with the law.) I started Tuesday morning by pasting up some copies of an insulting poem that I wrote about her. (Copy accompanies these notes.)

In coming in in the morning she [CROSSED OUT] had to pass a door where I had one of these pasted up. She came into the plant looking glum. [CROSSED OUT] After “good mornings” were exchanged, one of the women said to Ellen, “You don’t look like it’s a good morning”, and Ellen said, “It isn’t.” A couple of times during the day Ellen’s eyes met mine, and she held my gaze (trying to stare me down?). Needless to say, she dropped her eyes first. Curiously enough, she seemed to make an effort to be pleasant on the few occasions she had to speak to me during the day, and as I was getting ready to leave at the end of the day she almost seemed to make overture to renewed friendliness: Referring to some work I’d been doing, she said, “Is that all from before. It seemed clear that she was conciliatory only for one or more of the following reasons: (1) She wanted to get me sweet on her again as a tool to get revenge for the insulting poem (she once said to me that she was “a very vindictive person” and would do anything [CROSSED OUT] “no matter how underhanded” to get revenge if she wanted it). (2) She felt she had lost the power over me that her sex appeal gave her, and she wanted to regain it. (3) I suspect that she fears or dislikes any open [CROSSED OUT] hostility, and prefers superficial friendliness even when hostility is being carried on at a submerged level.

Now, getting back to the narrative: Just after Ellen made that apparent overture at the end of the day Teusday, as I walked out of the plant, I made a point of passing behind her where she was standing and working, and as I passed, I pinched her on the ass. I intended this as an insult. She jumped, but didn’t look around or say anything. And she seemed pleasant and friendly this morning (Wednesday). But 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 (he is one of the bosses there) and “maybe bust your ass, too” if I did it again. 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, 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. In response to her question, I told her why Dave had fired me. She hesitated for awhile, expressing by words and looks a kind of half-humorous [CROSSED OUT] dismay.

Finally she said that since she had promised to “back up” Dave in his postion as night boss, she would have to uphold the firing. I am sure that her display of reluctance to have me fired was insincere, and probably resulted only from her general reluctance to display hostility in any overt way. If she had really had any reluctance to have me fired, she would have talked o Dave before confirming the firing — she knew Dave only fired me on her account, and if she’d told Dave she prefrred not to have me fired, he might not have any desire to be “backed up” in the firing. Of course, it is only natural, under the circumstances, that she should be glad to have me fired. I am merely pointing out the insincerity of her show of reluctance.

Thus, that weak fool Dave has made that bitch’s triumph [CROSSED OUT] 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 — ordinarily, I rarely cry over anything.

What makes this particularly hard is the fact that it recalls bitter experiences over many years, reaching right back to my early teens; right back to the time when, at the age of 13, I was foolish enough to phone a female classmate and ask for a date. Needless to say, I was turned down-After having skipped a grade, I came to be merely a freak; certainly not someone to be taken seriously by any self-respecting girl.

I have always been strongly attracted to women, but have usually been rejected by them. Women don’t like freaks, even freaks who are intelligent, capable, good physical specimens, and able to be personally agreeable. Well, that’s OK. If they don’t want me, that is their privilege. But this Ellen bitch has used me for a toy.

You understand, what bothers me here is the humiliation, not the need for a woman. I can get along very well without women.

One of the many advantages of living alone in the mountains is that one never meets any women. Consequently, one doesn’t think about them. Not only do I not desire women when I’m alone in the woods, but I am actually repelled by the idea of getting involved with them. Before I came down from the mountains to the city this last time, I was seriously worried about the possibility that I might fall into temptation and get involved with some woman. And you see, that is exactly what happened, and in the worst possible way.

There is only one way left to wipe out this shame, and that is with blood. Tomorrow I am going to get that bitch and mutilate her face.

Aug 26. (Sat.) Last Thursday morning I drove to the plant and parked in the lot, waiting for Ellen. When she arrived, I ran over to her car, said I wanted to speak to her briefly, and told her to move over so I could get out of the rain. This she did slowly and grudgingly, and I got into the drivers seat. I carried with me a knife concealed in a paper bag. I began by saying that she had intentionally humiliated me on Sunday. In the brief discussion that followed, she said that the reason she had been so cold on Sunday was that it “just struck her” at the beginning of the date that there was nothing between us no future in anything between us, because we had nothing in common. She also said that the first 2 times she went out with me she did so because she “really thought there might be something in it; friendship, or …” I had then, and still have, grave doubts about the truth of this last statement, because she has often seemed insincere in the past, and because the statement is contradicted by things she said earlier. Nevertheless, the statement cooled my anger, because if true, it would mean she was not just using me as a toy. So that was the end of that.

All I feel now about the whole thing is a kind of wistful melancholy about the whole affair, brought on by the thought of what a woman with some of Ellen’s best qualities might have meant to me, if she’d been sincere, and if we’d had some common aspirations. I sent Ellen a long letter explaining everything from my point of view.

Ted Kaczynski’s Letters to Ellen Tarmichael

Dates: August 25^th & September 2^nd 1978

Source: Ted’s book Truth versus Lies, archived in boxes 66 & 67 of the Ted Kaczynski Papers special collections archive, at the University of Michigan. And also archived here: <thetedkarchive.com/library/ted-kaczynski-truth-versus-lies-original-draft>.

Notes: From July 17, 1978, Ted recorded his day to day processing of his infatuation with a woman at his workplace, which includes the journal entry where he says that after being rejected by her, he planned to mutilate her face with a knife. He claimed to have shared these letters between Ellen, his brother and both his parents. The letters included such statements as “I intended physical violence of a serious nature”, but sadly there was no effective intervention made in Ted’s life to set him on a better path and so ultimately he went on to kill 3 people and seriously injure many more.

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Letter #1

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 leam 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 worth while in the kind of existence provided by modem 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 any more 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 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

Letter #2

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

Journal #4 (1978–79)

Dates: Aug 29, 1978 — May 8, 1979

Source: <https://archive.org/details/ae.-teds-journals_202303/Ted%27s%201978–79%20Journal/mode/1up?view=theater>

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1978

Aug. 29^th

For several months past now I have experienced from time to time a desire for death. I have been feeling ever since, say, last fall that I have nothing left to hope for in life. My home country (as I now consider it) in Montana is being ruined gradually, and, while I might still be able to find wilder places, there is nowhere I could feel safe from civilization. There’s no place airplanes don’t fly. Worse than that, even if I lived in the very wildest spot in North America, it would gall me to know that my very life depends on the decisions made by the cocksuckers in Washinton, Moscow, and Peking. For instance, in case of atomic war, there’s no place I could be sure of avoiding radiation. Where would I be safe from radiation in the event that “peaceful” atomic energy were misused? I read in one place that Caribou in the far north have 12 times as much strontium 90 in them as domestic animals, because they eat fallout-contaminated lichens. At another time I heard of possible excessive levels of mercury in seal meat.

It is not any possible danger to my life, in these things, that by itself upsets me. Very likely I run a greater risk of dying from some natural tick-carried desease when I camp out alone in my Montana hills. That is nature and there would even be certain dignity in dying that way. But to die from radiation or some other form of civilized pollution would be a humiliation. It would gall me to be the helpless victim of the cocksuckers who are pushing all this technology crap. So, its not a question of preserving my life and health; getting out of the power of civilization has long since become an end in itself for me.

By now I have practically lost all hope of ever attaining this end. There my happiness in my Montana hills is spoiled every time an airplane passes over or anything else happens that reminds me of the inescapability of civilization. Life under the thumb of modern civilization seems worthless to measure and thus I more and more felt that life was coming to a dead end for me and death began at times to look attractive—it would mean peace.

There was just one thing that really made me determined to cling to life for awhile [sic], and that was the desire for—revenge—I wanted to kill some people, preferably including at least one scientist, businessman, or other bigshot.

This actually was my biggest reason for coming back to Illinois this spring. In Montana, if I went to the city to mail a bomb to some bigshot, Dick Landberg would doubtless remember I rode the bus that day. In the anonymity of the big city I figured it would be much safer to buy materials for a bomb and mail it. (Though the death-wish had appeared, it was still far from dominant, and therefore I preferred not to be suspected of crimes.)

As mentioned in some of my notes, I did make an attempt with a bomb—whether successful or not I don’t know. In making a second bomb I have only barely made a start; because during the last few weeks I was too busy thinking about Ellen Tarmichael to make much effort in other directions.

Anyhow, before I got involved with Ellen my only definite intention was to support myself for awhile — very likely till next spring — by working at Foam-Cutting Engineers; using my spare time to build a bomb or 2 or 3 or invent other means of killing or maiming bigshots. Following that I had a vague intention of taking to the woods — either in Montana or in some wilder place — and, from ambush, murdering snowmobilists, motorcyclists, outboard motor users, or the like; in the end shooting it out with the authorities and not permitting myself to be taken alive.

I didn’t feel as badly about this miserable prospect as you might think; I merely took it with a kind of dull, stoical determination — a kind of tough, stoical hopelessness.

But this affair with Ellen has done strange things to me. In the first place, it aroused in me hope — a hope for something worthwhile. Perhaps foolishly, I did hope that I might win, if not her love, then at least a reasonable amount of affection--physical sex too, of course, but it would have been more important to have her care for me than have physical sex with her. I could have got by with just holding her hand if necessary, if I thought she really cared for me. Of course, kissing her was immensely pleasurable, an [scan cuts off] the thought of having intercourse with her was probably the most intense sexual fantasy I ever had.

Anyhow, Ellen provided me with something to hope for that I felt was really worthwhile; because, in spite of all her faults, I felt (and still feel) that there is something worth while in Ellen, that most women don’t have. (Making an effort to be objective, I confess that my infatuation with that woman probably makes me greatly exaggerate whatever it is [if anything] that she has.)

So hope, which was nearly dead in me was revived by Ellen. I didn’t realize how much she meant to me until all my chances with her came to an end. I thought that, once I had no more hope of her, my mind would quickly slip back into the state it was in before I met her. So far that hasn’t happened.

For one thing, after I got over my anger at Ellen, all anger and hatred seemed to fall away from me. I no longer hate anybody at all. I’d still kill a big shot if I had a convenient opportunity, but it would be a matter of principle, not a gratification of anger or hatred. Thus, the one thing I’d had to look forward to before I met Ellen, namely, revenge, is gone. More-over, my dull, stoical, stubbornness seems to have been broken by my ardent feelings toward that woman.

Ever since the end of that business with Ellen I have been filled with a terrible sense of desolation. NOT depression in the usual sense: I have no inclination to sleep too-much; my greatest solace [scan cuts off] doing a little more than usual); and I often have an urge to go out walking, even though I don’t exactly feel restless. When [UNINTELLIGBLE] do-pressed I rarely have any urge to cry; but now I’ve been crying very often when I’m by myself and often have to fight to keep tears back when other people are present. This is an active, poignant unhappiness.

It’s not only due to my disappointment over Ellen, but to a lack of any good prospects before me. But of course this whole reaction was set off by the business with Ellen.

The last day or so I have definitely desired death. But I want to go back and die in my home hills in Montana — the only place where I’ve experienced any real, lasting happiness, except in early childhood. I’d like to kill a few people before I die, as a matter of principle. (At present I feel no hatred.).

Aug. 30

Still feel desolate, but not so badly as last few days. I keep thinking of Ellen in daytime and dreaming of her at night. Still feel she offers something that I value enough so that I’d willingly put up with all her faults if I could have her. Even though it all seems senseless. Feel very nostalgic about Foam-Cutting Engineers; I guess mostly because of Ellen.

Sept. 1

Yesterday I felt extremely bad again. But when I got home from work in the evening I was very much cheered up because my father brought home from Foam-Cutting Eng. a present of home-made cookies from Ellen, for the family, [scan cuts off] this meant she had any interest in renewing relations with me; but still it put some hope into me, however distant and ill-founded. As a result, I felt fairly cheerful for about 24 hours. 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.” But this seemed to confirm her lack of interest in having any type of relationship with me; and consequently I again feel as bad as ever.

In a way this desolate feeling seems incongrous since my health is good — better than before. My colitis (gut problem) has pretty well disappeared, very likely because I’ve now been regularly getting enough vegetables in my diet, for an extended period. Also, my ragweed hayfever seems to have miraculously disappeared. I never had it in Montana (no ragweed there, I guess) but back in the midwest I had it fairly badly every year. But this time, with the hayfever season [UNINTELLIGBLE] over, I’ve had only faint traces of the malady, so far. But what good is health when I have nothing left to hope for?

It has occurred to me to earnestly search for some other woman to replace Ellen — but I feel too discouraged at the very outset. For one thing, women who have a spark of something to make me think them worth while are not common. For another, if I found one, would she have any use for me? There is no one, it seems, with whom I have more than a very limited amount in common. Even the comparatively independent thinker Jacques Ellul believes in Art, Philosophy, and all that crap. I believe in nothing. Except by purely [scan cuts off] hedonistic degenerates, everyone believes in some stereotypical ideology. I believe in nothing. Whereas I don’t even believe in the cult of nature-worshippers or wilderness-worshippers. (I am perfectly ready to litter in parts of the woods that are of no use to me—I often throw cans in logged-over areas or in places much frequented by people; I don’t find wilderness particularly healthy physically; I don’t hesitate to poach.)

The trivial pleasures of hedonism bore me. I’m glad I don’t believe in anything; but it puts me beyond the pale, so to speak. I could have a woman with whom I had only one or 2 points in common, but she probably wouldn’t want me. Even a bigger obstacle is my social awkwardness and ignorance.

For instance, Ellen told me that asking a girl to a fancy restaurant is something you don’t do for a second date — it comes later. I hadn’t even realized that the unwritten code of dating was that complicated. Thus, the task of finding a woman good enough to make me forget Ellen seems so difficult and chances of success so poor that I have little inclination to try it.

Sept. 2

Felt more desolate than ever today (Saturday). Did much crying in my room and was continually fighting back tears when not alone. Yet I walked around a good deal. Strolled over to the park to look out over the pond, as I so often did when love-sick over Ellen. Ran 5 miles in good time this morning, but what good does that do me? I thought I was too old to get so badly infatuated, but I am far more miserably love-sick over Ellen than I’ve ever been before over any female; even Carol Wolma never affected me like that when I was 17. I won’t try to decide how much this is due to Ellen’s qualities are [scan cuts off] summer when I first met her. If Ellen would accept me, I would gladly devote the rest of my life to her.

Sept 4

Yesterday morning I found that my sense of grief and elation had disappeared, unexpectedly. Since then I have felt alright. But I still think about Ellen frequently, and would be hot after her again if I thought I had a chance. I guess I’m still in love with her. But not miserable over it at present. This morning I timed myself on a 5 mile run and was amazed to find I did it in about 30 min. and 15 sec, as close as it is possible to time it with that watch.

Sept 16

By now I have entirely gotten over that affair with that damned Catholic bitch, Ellen.

“In ethics he [Antisthes] was driven to individualism, to the denial of social and national relations, to the exclusion of scientific study and of almost all that the Greeks understood by education. This individualism he and his followers carried to its logical conclusion. The ordinary pleasures of life were for them not merely negligible but positively harmful inasmuch as they interrupted the operation of the will. Wealth, popularity and power tend to dethrone the authority of reason and to pervert the soul from the natural to the artificial. Man exists for and in himself alone; his highest end is self-knowledge and self-realization in conformity with the dictates of his reason, apart altogether from the state and society. For this end, disrepute and poverty are advantageous, in so far as they drive back the man upon himself, increasing his self-control and purifying his intellect from the dross of the external. The good man (i.e. the wise man) wants nothing: like the gods, he is auTapJOs (self — sufficing) ...”
--Encyclopedia Britannica (1954 edition), in the article “Cynics.”

Sept. 30

From Victor Hugo’s “Les Miserables”, Fantine, Book 3, Chapt.5: “the cat ... had the esteem of the republics of antiquity; it was the incarnation of liberty in their sight ...”

(compare Kipling’s Just So stories: “Still I am the cat who walks by himself, by his wild lone”)

From “Bloody end of Meeker’s Utopia”, in American Heritage Book of Great Adventures of the Old West, p. 318:

“The agent outlined his Utopian dream to the principal chiefs [of the Utes] ... plans ... to raise their standard of living ... mills, orcchards, wood plants, coal mines, and a railroad ... Bu Jack [a Ute chief.] had an irritating way of asking loaded questions ... He wanted to know if the high living standard of the whites was worth all the work and worry they had to put into it. He asked if white men enjoyed working as much as the Utes enjoyed their lordly leisure of hunting and fishing and riding their ponies ....”

From the same Amer. Herit. book, section titled “Ballad of Cynthia Ann”, p.100.. “the Colonel himself hadn’t a doubt of the identity of that blond girl of thirteen among the Comanches. Promptly he had offered to buy her freedom; proudly Pahuaka replied that members of his tribe were not for sale. The Colonel then asked to speak with the girl ...

Now the girl, in Indian dress, walked slowly out of the group and toward him, her eyes on the ground. At the Colonel’s feet she sat down, as a modest Comanche girl does before a man ...

The Colonel spoke, coolly, kindly. Her family had been hunting for her for years. Her playmates remembered her. Her place waited for her, and a warm welcome....

She raised her eyes.... In that long glance he saw the Llano—the endless level of the highlifted short-grass plain, ... Even the blue of those eyes was like the Llano sky, ...

He dropped his own startled gaze. It’s no use, he knew.... they went, and they let her go back ... For there is no fugitive so difficult to pursue as the freed will of a woman ...”

[Romantic nonsense, of course, but this (and other evidence) indicate that women, too, take well to wilderness life if introduced to it young enough. Of course, her reluctance to return to whites may have been [scan cuts off] attachment to the people she had lived with for years, than to wilderness life. But obviously she did not find that life miserable — even for the squaws whose life hass sometimes been depicted as very bad.]

Oct. 15

Here’s a good sick-joke:

From Grzimek’s “Animal Life Encyclopedia,” vol 8, article “Domestic Chicken” by M. Luhmann, p.65:

“The keeping of fowl on a large scale operation is largely mechanized.

This stupid last remark completely misses the point. When mankind lives under the same conditions as the chick (we are already half-way there!) no doubt we, also, will receive “the best possible care and treatment.”

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Lately I have been somewhat in contact with the Chairman of the Da Pa. Unit of Friends of the Earth [scan cuts off] with the idea of joining that organization — not because I think such organizations do any good but because there might be a chance I could meet some people in that organization who would share my antitechnological views. I still keep trying at times with faint hope of starting an antitechnological organisation.

Oct. 19

From “A Dynasty of Western Outlaws”, by Paul I. Wellman, p.188.

“It should be stated that the outlaws of the West, after the first post-Civil War period, were almost without exception cowboys. And it should be further explained that this was in nowise due to any inherent criminal streak in cowboys ...

... it was a result of the lives they led, and the resentments they held, chief of which was the way in which barbed wire and settlements were constantly restricting their ranges to smaller and smaller dimensions, thus depriving them of their livelihood, and more importantly, their way of life.”

Nov. 21

From “Geronimo”, by Angie Debo, Univ. of Oklahoma Press, 1976, Preface, p.xi, describing Geronimo:

“He had an active intellectual curiosity and a capacity for original thought. He was hard-headed and practical-minded, ruthless in competition, stern and unbending in his judgements, unrelenting in his hatreds. But he was kind and affectionate to his family and constant in his friendships, and his love for his mountain homeland was the unchanging sentiment of his life.” (emphasis mine.)

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Since the chances of stopping technological progress (even temporarily) seem so slight I wish that there would be an all-out atomic war intensive enough to exterminate the human race.

Nov. 23

Ever since early September, I have, during a substantial proportion of the time, suffered from a powerful craving for women — enough to make me quite unhappy and sometimes very miserable. I suppose this is partly because, for the first time in 16 years, I had a little taste of the delights of wom.an with that catholic bitch Ellen, and partly because in this society one is constantly subjected to reminders of sex whether one likes it or not. {For example, the majority of the songs played on the radio where I work are about sexual love.) What I suffer from is not merely a desire for genital sex {that would be relatively easy to handle), but a craving for sexual love. For example, the sight of a married couple often makes me achingly envious. What excites me more than the idea of intercourse is the idea of lavishing tenderness and affection a woman who accepts it joyfully. The second time I kissed that catholic bitch, what I enjoyed even more than the hard kiss was the interval of a seconds between the end of that kiss and the time when she dismissed me, during which interval I was gently brushing my parted lips against hers; to me at least this was full of tenderness. (In what spirity that perverted bitch took it, I don’t know.)

Yet I feel practically hopeless about the possibility of ever getting a worthwhile woman. Not primarily because of the scarcity of worthwhile women, but because of my own incompetence in that kind of thing.

Nov. 26

From “The Wolf” by L. David Mech (a scientific work), p.298. Writing of a wolf raised in captivity:

“our wolf Lightning escaped when eleven months old. She roamed the neighborhood for half the night with our dog and a young German shepherd they had picked up somewhere. When she returned home about 1:00 A.M. and I fastened her back to the chain that held her to an artificial life, she was a different animal. She suddenly began to struggle fiercely to escape.... she had finally gotten a taste of what it was like to act as her heritage had dictated, to be wild and free.

“As I watched Lightning straining desperately at her chain, pacing, whining, and jumping frantically, I suddenly realized how very wrong it is to try to tame a wolf.”

One might apply the last remark to human beings, since it would appear that, as yet, not all of us are genetically domesticated.

Nov. 28 (continuation of Nov. 23 entry)

The fact is that I am practically a social cripple in that area. In some areas I have good social skills. For instance, when I am interviewed for a job I usually make a very good impression. Older people usually seem to like me, and on the few occasions in my adult life when I have become acquainted with small children I have made a big hit with them. But in dealing with what sociologists would (I suppose) call my “peer group”, I am usually very unsuccessful. It has not been until recent years that I have come to fully realize how much this disability has cost me. It is about the only important area in which I am not capable, yet I now believe it has fundamentally altered the whole course of my life.

Because I enjoy solitude anyway, I used to think I had lost little by not being able to get along with my peers. I would simply keep to myself, and was well satisfied with that.

It is hard to say what would have happened if I had not suffered this disability. Of the possibilities that occur to me, these are the extremes: On the one hand, I might never have learned the value of solitude; being solaced and entertained by social pleasures (especially sexual ones) my dissatisfaction with organized society might never have become sufficiently acute so that I would have the courage to try to break away from it or rebel against it. In that case I would have missed what I consider to have been of greatest value in my life. I am glad my life has not taken that course.

On the other hand it is possible that, if I had had no social disability, I would still have taken essentially the same course in life that I actually have taken, and I would have been much more successful at it. For instance, when I drove through Canada looking for a place to buy land for a cabin, I found it extremely difficult to make inquiries because I was too embarrassed to admit to people that I just wanted to go off in the woods and live as a hermit. Thus I made only a fraction as many inquiries as I could have made. Had I been less shy, I might have found what I wanted. Also, in a project of that type, it would have been extremely useful to have one or two partners.

If a group of 2 or 3 had once established themselves in a remote area and had come to know the country, they could easily split up afterward, if they wanted solitude.

Then there is my wish to start an antitechnological organization. Since I do well at most everything else, if it were not for my social disability I probably would have done well in attempting to start such an organization. Of course, the chances of success for such an organization are no doubt remote, but if there is any chance at all I would seem to have lost it by my inability to be accepted by a group.

Finally, of course, my disability has resulted in the problem that I am now suffering from so acutely — I rarely meet any unattached women, and when I do, I don’t know how to approach them. Only recently have I come to feel that this is an enormous loss.

I want to make it clear that I have no desire for membership in a group for its own sake — but the ability to be accepted by my “peer group” would have been highly useful as a means to certain ends, as indicated above.

Dec. 24

As the reader of my various notes will realize by now, I have a tremendous fund of hatred. This fund is increased with every new difficulty that organized society imposes on me — such as noisy jets. The frustrated craving to have a woman to love has of course tended to stir up this hatred. Just lately, some personal events (not directly the fault of organized society) have added to my hatred to the point where it is very [scan cuts off] to overflowing. I want to get back to Montana in the Spring before I start killing people, but I am so close to the edge that I may bust loose and start killing at any little minor annoyance.

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My statement that I don’t get along with my “peer-group” should be clarified. It is not that I get into conflicts with them — that very seldom happens. In fact, in the 2 factories where I have worked this year, I even got the feeling that I was liked, in a mild way. But never accepted as one of the group. For example, a couple of weeks ago some of the people at work agreed, while I was present, on some kind of outing in which they would go bowling and then do-something else. It would never occur to them to invite me to join such an outing. Of course, I don’t bowl anyway, but they didn’t know that. It would never occur to them to ask me whether I bowl. It is time that my only interest in joining any social group would lie in the hope that, if I had some social life, I might meet some unattached women. I have hardly any common interests with any groups I’ve encountered, and I have a strong taste for solitude. But I seem to be excluded from all social groups automatically, before they have any idea what my interests or preferences are; the bowling business described above is an example. Men rarely seem to take me seriously as a potential friend, equal, or comrade; women rarely seem to take me seriously as a potential boyfriend. Their attitude toward me often seems to contain an element of condescension.

This formerly did not bother me much; in fact I tended to take a certain pride in being an arch-loner. But ever since this craving for a woman has come on me, I have been feeling more and more bitter over the fact that my enforced solitude seems to exclude me irrevocably from sexual affection, and even from plain physical sex.

Presumably because of that delicious taste of Ellen Tarmichael’s lips that I had, this episode has been much worse than the period of horniness that I went through in ‘74 or ‘75 or whenever it was that I went to California for a couple of months. On that earlier occasion the craving was more physical, and less intense, and seemed less hopeless because I was younger, and my health was better, and perhaps also because the situation was such that I did not get so forcibly reminded of the fact that I seem somehow to get automatically excluded from all social relationships ...

At the age of thirty-six years, I have never been in bed with a woman, have never had any kind of love-affair, and have kissed only two women on a sexual basis. This in spite of the fact that I have always desired women very strongly (earlier, in a purely physical way; later I desired sexual love). Only when I was living my solitary life in the mountains was I free from the craving for women. But never before was it as bad, for any extended period, as it is now.

---

When I was young I used to view the desire for women as a weakness, as something that merely tended to distract me from aspirations that I considered more important. I still take this view (at least to some extent), but only in a detached kind of way; At present it has no emotional force with me. I have a desperate desire for sexual love with a woman.

So much so that I even did something that I consider degrading, namely, I signed up with 3 dating agencies — without any favorable result. From one II he not yet had a reply. From another I got a list of names and phone numbers, and from codes indicating interests I concluded that only one of the women on the list might be suitable for me. I called her and she just said she was no longer interested in introductions. From another I got 2 names at different times. First time I called the lady 3 times, got no answer, so gave up, because at the time I was suffering from an uncomfortable affliction in my shoulder which did not encourage me to be ambitious. Second time I called the lady and took her out too lunch. She was unattractive and her interests and attitudes were too far from mine.

When I was younger, my feelings toward other people tended to be callous. In recent years I have been getting very soft-hearted and compassionate about certain things. Things like blood and death do not excite my sympathy very much — perhaps because I am not particularly afraid of these things myself. This woman just mentioned above provides example of the kind of thing that strongly excites my sympathy; in fact I often get an acute stab of compassion when I think about it.

I think she was quite nervous (perhaps she had rarely orr never had dates in recent years — she might have been around 30 years old.) Mostly she did not show any nervousness — but just twice, through some tremor of voice and hand, I thought I had a glimpse of a strong (but mostly well-controlled) nervousness in her. (I was experiencing that kind of nervousness myself.) After I brought her home from lunch she invited me to come in. Her invitation was rather cold — she said with aa shrug, “You can come in if you like, I don’t care.” But it seemed obvious that the coldness was the result of her fear of having her feelings hurt by a refusal — she knew she was unattractive. Though I didn’t want to, I accepted the invitation merely to avoid hurting her feelings. I sat with her in her home for a couple of hours, and there I concluded she was not as unattractive as she’d seemed at first. She was certainly intelligent. There was some overlap between her interests and attitudes, and mine.

Looking her over I came to the tentative conclusion that physically she was average or slightly better; she looked so horrible only because of her clumsy attempts to dress herself up. She absolutely reeked with a strong perfume, and in her home the same scent was present in such strength as to be absolutely nauseating. She had too much make-up inexpertly applied. She wore clothing such as an old lady would wear, and this was so shaped as to give a blocky look to her figure — which was rather full but I think properly proportioned. (If she had just put on any old pair of pants with half-way decent fit I think she would have revealed the lines of a reasonably good figure.) She occasionally laughed in a way that made one think of an old woman. She had two cats that she referred to as her “children”.

When I finally left, her last words were “See you soon.” But she seemed almost to choke off the last word, as if she suddenly remembered that she had no reason to assume I would ever call her again. My heart goes out to this poor woman, especially when I think of her diffidence when she invited me in, and the way she said “See you soon” when I left. From my own experience, I can well imagine what her feelings may be. The deep yearning for affection from a man’ the humiliation that this yearning involves in view of the fact that she is unable ever to attract a man; the bitter thought that some accidental characteristics of hers have excluded her from something precious that most other people do have during some period of their lives; perhaps a frustrated feeling that she could give so much to the right man — if only he would accept her.

I have felt so sympathetic toward this woman that I have even considered asking her out again, just to make her feel good. But, aside from the fact that I would find it burdensome to do this, I am afraid I might only hurt her by encouraging false hopes. It has occurred to me to write to her and advise her how to make herself more attractive — she’s really not too badly endowed physically and could be mildly attractive, perhaps, if she stopped making herself horrible with her clothing, perfumes, and certain mannerisms. But such a letter would be sure to hurt her feelings cruelly, and might not do her any good anyway. So I don’t know what I can do except just feel sorry for her.

1979

Jan. 28

About 2 1/2 weeks ago my awful craving for a woman went away rather abruptly. Not that I lost interest in sex, but the intensity was very much relieved. There followed a kind of nausea or disgust with the whole thing. This was not primarily a disgust with women, but a nausea at the intensity of the feelings I had been having. As I get older, I more and more dislike experiencing violent or stressful emotions. I more and more prefer tranquility and peace.

This disgust at violent emotions does not result from the need to retain rational control over myself — I feel my rational control is stronger than ever, so that I have no hesitation about relaxing and acting in an uninhibited way (as my family will tell you) when I can prudently do so; because I know I can clamp down the control again whenever I want.

The disgust at violent emotions results from increasing aversion to the stress involved — even the stress involved in intense pleasure.

I mentioned somewhere before in this set of notes that I had been interested in the organization Friends of the Earth. The Raymond Mostek whom I’d been in touch with in this connection finally decided that the local chapter of FOE was no longer fuctioning, and he suggested I join the Audabon Society. I have no respect for Aud Soc. (Little old lady bird watchers who want so-called “wilderness” that is cared for like a garden.) But I joined anyway because (a) I thought I might find some people there who might be inclined toward my anti-technological views. (b) I was curious to see how such organisations functions, (c) at that time, being still hungry for women I also took into consideration the chance (only a small chance, I felt) that I might meet some suitable woman there.

About a week after the intensity of my craving relaxed, I attended my first board meeting of the Dupage Aud. Soc. A week after that I attended a general meeting of the Dupage Aud. Soc. I found all this quite interesting, even though I gained no-respect for the opinions of the people involved. It is not completely clear to me why I found it so interesting — but I think it is partly because one often reads in the paper that this or that organization has done such and such; but I’ve never known anything about how such organizations function; now I’ve been learning a little.

Anyhow, there were just six people at the meeting, including me and ... a beautiful, charming young girl (maybe 19 years old?) who was serving as secretary and taking notes. I also met her at the general meeting. She seems inclined to be friendly. Since meeting her a second time, my thoughts turn on her a great deal. Perhaps this will result in another round of stressful sexual feelings for me. Still, I can hardly say that I regret meetng a creature full of such bright and cheerful charm.

---

From “Assassination and Political Violence: A staff report of the National Commission on the Causes and Preventions of Violence”, prepared by James F. Kirkham, Sheldon Levy, William J. Crotty. Page 4.

“A second category is assassination for the purpose of terrorizing and destroying the legitimacy of the ruling elite in order to effect substantial systemic or ideological change. Such assassination may be directed against high government officials or against mid-level officials to undermine the effectiveness of the central government at the local or provincial level. When such terror is directed toward a chief of state, the assassin may accomplish part of his goal even though the attempt is unsuccessful. For example, the members of the group which set out to assassinate the Czar in the 1880’s realized that they had no realistic chance of short-term success in changing the basic political structure of Czarist Russia. They pointed out, however, that if they forced the Czars to retreat into their palaces or surround themselves with guards, the symbolic separation of the leaders from their people would, in the long run, undermine the legitimacy of the Czarist government.

“Our studies show that this kind of assassination is effective in achieving the long-range goals sought, although not so in advancing the short-term goals or careers of the terrorists themselves. Our studies show that, at least in modern history (post-1850), it cannot be said that in the long run any terrorist group was unsuccessful, except in those countries such as Soviet Russia and Nazi Germany where the ruling elite was willing to use massive counter-terror to suppress potentially terroristic groups. Once a terrorist group is well established, the only effective response is either counterterror or agreement to the basic demands of the terrorists ....

“Terrorists often correctly perceive that their greatest enemy is the moderate who attempts to remedy [I would replace “remedy” by “palliate” here] whatever perceived injustices form the basis for terrorist strength.” [Note this in connection with my contempt for conservation groups (even though I am at the moment a member of one!), consumer protection groups and other groups that attack the superficial inconveniences of life in the technological society without attacking that form of society itself.]

The above conclusions sound hopeful to me, because, if correct, they seem to suggest that a comparatively small group of people can change the course of history if sufficiently determined. But I wouldn’t be too confident about this without examining the evidence on which they (the authors) base their conclusions.

Still, if only I could start an anti-technological terrorist group! Any kind of effective anti-technological group! But that would require meeting a lot of people, picking out the right ones, and fending them with enthusiasm for the idea; that is, it would require considerable social skill — and the social area is my one weak point.

As mentioned before, my motive for originally becoming interested in Friends of the Earth was the hope that I might meet there some ecological fanatics ripe for anti-technological ideas. Doesn’t look as if I’ll meet many bunch in Audubon Society.

Jan 31

The people where I am now working (Prince Castle, Inc.) seem pretty nice. I mildly like most of them, and I don’t strongly dislike any of them. On principle I ought to hate some of them, and [CROSSED OUT] in fact I would have hated them, and would have wanted to shoot them, if I had met them under different circumstances. For instance, one fellow is a snow-mobilist; another fellow (from Pakistan) is ambitious to make money in unlimited quantities by going into business and he wants to see his country “developed.” However, these 2 fellows have pleasant personalities and I like them whenever I am not thinking about the bad characteristics mentioned above. There is no real contradiction here; no one thinks it very strange if a soldier fraternized with an enemy one day during a truce, then shoots him dead the next day in battle. The fact that you find someone’s personality pleasant may be overcome by other factors.

THere is a fellow where I work who comes from India, named [PAGE CUTS OFF] very competent mechanically, but otherwise he seems rather stupid. Especially, he is socially stupid for instance, he once asked me, “You like me?” and beamed with satisfaction when I said “yes”, in the belief that he had received an honest answer. I find him mildly annoying because he pushed himself on me. I make an effort to avoid hurting his feelings because he is very unhappy, homesick, and hungry for friendship. He is 34 years old, comes from a large, close family group, and seems to find it very difficult to get along without the emotional support that apparently he is accustomed to getting from these people. I also get the impression that he does not get along well with the brother-in-law in whose house he is living. He continually talks about going back to India as soon as he saves up the money he wants. He sometimes cries at work, and once he talked about suicide. He says he writes letters to his friends in India, but most of them don’t answer. (This seems to confirm his social stupidity — very likely all these “friends” were people who didn’t like him half so well as he imagined they did.)

On the other hand, [CROSSED OUT] despite his weaknesses, he has characteristics worth respecting. He takes pride in [CROSSED OUT: himself, his work, his physical strength, and himself {TEXT OBSCURED}] his ability to work well, in his physical strength, and in himself generally, in this aspect he rather reminds me of myself. He has a sense of humor that is well-developed though somewhat peculiar by American standards. He has, well, more life in him than the average person I’ve known.

He says to me things like — “You my friend! You good! I not forget you!” To earn all this gratitude I’ve done very little more than simply tolerate his advances, with an effort to avoid hurting his feelings.

Another interesting character where I work is the foreman, Joe Cimmamusti. He is a 22-year old Italian who has been in this country something more than 4 years. More so than Ashok, he has more “life” (as I’ve called it) in him than most people do. He is tempremental — he readily shouts at his workers and occasionally gets insulting. But he cools down quickly, and when he is in a good mood his personality is so engaging that most of his workers like him in spite of his tantrums. He has mediocre analytical intelligence but good intuitive intelligence. He has a warm smile, is a natural leader, and probably is very attractive to women.

He somehow acquired a high opinion of my intelligence on the first day, and I have gotten along well with him ever since. He has occasionally spoken to me in a somewhat irritable tone, but he has never shouted at me or spoken insultingly to me. I get the impression that he has a particular respect for me. (But of course one can easily deceive onself about such things.)

Feb. 5

It seems that Art (who is Joe C.‘s second-in-command at work) is going to be transferred to a somewhat more responsible position. Today, Joe offered me Art’s job, which would raise my pay from 4.50 to 5.00/hour and give me more interesting work. However, I told Joe that I may quit and go back to Montana next summer, and as I expected, he said he couldn’t give me the job in that case because he needs somebody that he can be sure will stay. He looked as if his feeligns were somewhat hurt.

A couple of months ago I was offered a job in the quality control department, inspecting toasters — this also would be $5.00 an hour. I accepted, but they kept stringing me along without actually transferring me to the other job. After Joe made me this offer, I asked the quality control chief about my inspection job. He told me it is “absolutely certain” I will get the job, but he couldn’t tell me when.

When I told Joe I might leave this summer, I said it was in confidence; but it’s possible he might break that confidence and let others know, which might prevent me from getting the inspection job. But I don’t care a hell of a lot now, because it’s not likely that I’ll stay there more than another couple of months anyway.

Unless something definite happens to tempt me in another direction, it is my intention to start killing people this summer.

Feb. 7

Yesterday Joe again brought up the question of that job. He said the job was mine if I could tell him I intended to stay. I told him I couldn’t make any promises. He said “Well it was a [UNINTELLIGBLE], “anyway” and seemed quite disappointed. I think he feels bad about it — I think he takes it personally, in a way. I don’t mean he’s angry — we’re still on good terms. Today he told me he’s given the job to someone else.

To tell the truth, I feel heartsick having had to turn down that job. I would have liked very much to accept it. [CROSSED OUT: For one thing, I have to go and get my revenge (or as much revenge as I can get). For another thing, I won’t accept the indignity of living my life as a member of technological civilization.] But of course I couldn’t accept it, because for one thing, I have to go and get my revenge (or as much revenge as I can get); and for another thing, I won’t accept the indignity of living my life as a member of technological civilization.

(By the way, my thought that Joe might break confidence and tell about the likelihood of my leaving seems to have come true; because Dominic asked me today if it’s true I’m going to quit, and if Dominic knows, it’s likely the whole world will soon know, because Dominic is a scatterbrain and I doubt that he can keep a secret. But I don’t resent it.)

Further explanation as to why I can’t commit myself to staying at the job for a long period: I find it extremely burdensome to be tied to a clock — the rigid schedule seems to leave me with insufficient time to do other things that I have in mind. I don’t mind the work itself, but I do find it a strain to have to meet the approval of a supervisor, keep up a good state of work in the face of frustrations like missing tools or lack of materials, and that sort of thing. The only thing that makes this slave-work tolerable to me is the knowledge that I can quit any damn time I please. If I felt that I was committed to being “responsible and keeping the job, then I would feel trapped.

When Joe offered me that job, in view of the nature of the job and what he said about it, his offer seemed to imply not only an appreciation of my ability, but also an acceptance of my personality. THus, the biggest reason I feel so very badly about having to turn down the job is that I feel as if I have turned down an offer of friendship. See remarks on p.17 of these notes to know why this should affect me.{9}

The idea of becoming an accepted and respected member of the social group where I work is certainly very tempting. (But these people are slaves{10} to the system. To be one of them, I would have to be a slave too. Of course that is out.)

I don’t recall ever having had any strong feelings of this type before. It seems strange that these social feelings should come on me so strongly now. But I think I see some of the reasons: If I carry out my intentions about killing people, then I face death myself in the near future (I won’t be taken alive if I can help it.). So it’s natural that I should feel badly when I see slipping away my last chances at certain great pleasures that I have almost completely missed in life (social pleasures and women). Also, going out with Ellen T. seems to have stirred up a lot of dormant feelings. And, by chance, at Prince Castle I seem to have encountered a group which is more acceptable to me than the average group and which seems to accept me better than the average group does. Moreover, there is the fact that, ever since I left the academic world 10 years ago, my attitude toward the human race has been getting less negative. For nearly all the university people I met, I had a deep contempt, mostly because of their pretension, their self-deception, and the fact that I had no use for their values. As for working people, I have no use for their values either, but they are certainly not pretentious, and, if they have as much self-deception as intellectuals it is not obvious to me. Also, it seems to me that working people are more tolerant of individual differences than intellectuals are. Intellectuals are inclined to regard every deviant as “sick”. Finally, the difference in intelligence between intellectuals and working people appears to me to be not nearly as great as the intellectuals like to believe. I have met far more personalities for whom I have some respect among the working peope than among intellectuals or bourgeois types. It appears to me that, generally speaking, intellectuals are more firmly under psychological control by society than are working people.

Feb. 25

In the Jan. 28 entry of these notes, I suggested that [CROSSED OUT] my encountering that pretty girl (Lisa Zebrowski) at Audubon meetings would result in another round of stressful feelings for me, and I was right. I met her again at a meeting on Feb. 13. I had the strong impression that she was going out of her way to be friendly to me. In fact, I had no doubt about it. I am usually very cautious about concluding that a female finds me attractive, because it is uncomfortable to be disappointed. But in this case I thought it was perfectly clear. So yesterday I asked her out. Her answer was “thank you, but I don’t think my boyfriend would like that.” Actually, as soon as I heard her on the phone I had misgivings, because her voice (bright and friendly it seemed to me before) sounded dull and uninterested even before I asked her. Even her enunciation seemed sloppy on the phone, though when I met her previously it was quite clear.

I simply don’t understand all this. It seemed so obvious that she was trying to get friendly with me. How can one tell whether a woman likes one? — that is, whether she is likely to say “yes” if you ask her out. This case, and some previous cases (such as Ellen Tarmichael and the Debbie whom I met in California [in I think 1975 — referred to in some of my earlier notes] make me wonder whether any female (other than Ellen Arl{11}) has ever found me attractive. I mean, if this girls behavior (and behavior of girls in a few previous cases) doesn’t mean what I thought, I am forced to ask myself whether all my interpretations of other people’s behavior toward me are miscalculated. Do the majority of the people I work with mildly like me, as I had assumed, or do they merely tolerate me? Was I mistaken in assuming that Joe’s offer of a job working closely with him implied that he accepted me in a personal way? Maybe the offer was purely the result of cold calculation in my ability and intelligence.

During my twenties (in spite of the fact that I had had a girlfriend for a while — Ellen Arl) I had pretty well given up hope of even having a girl, and consequently I did not find the lack unbearable. I certainly did suffer considerably from sexual frustration, but I was hardened to it, and resigned. When I was alone in the mountains, I was mostly free of the desire for women. But, coming down from the mountains and into contact with women again, I somehow no longer felt so hopeless and resigned about sex, especially after I found (in Calif. 1975 I think it was — see earlier notes) that I was much better able to overcome my shyness and make advances toward women.

Now I am full of grief and frustration over all this; not only over the fact that I can’t get a woman, but over the fact that I can’t clearly comprehend the reasons why I am never able to get a woman. In mathematical work, I have sometimes encountered a fairly simple problem; the solution seems straightforeward. Yet somehow the answer keeps coming out wrong, even though you work it out over and over again. This causes a terribly frustrating sense of perplexity. (Of course, in mathematics there is always a way out — you just go through the troublesome process of writing out your proof in complete, rigorous, formal detail; the formal system of mathematics will then locate your error for you.)

I get this same feeling of frustrating perplexity with regard to women; though I’m 36 years old I’ve never had a girlfriend (except Ellen Arl, and she turned out to be rotten) and while I can conjecture some possible reasons for this, none of them seem fully convincing and adequate. One reason that most women might not form any attachment to me is the fact that my attitudes an dvalues are so far out that most women might consider these objectionable. But the only 3 women in my age group who have even had even an inkling of my extreme attitudes were Carol Wolman{12}, Ellen Arl, and Ellen Tarmichael. In other cases, I’ve never even got started with the girl — never far enough for her to know I had any remarkable attitudes. I mean, I don’t just go around telling people that I hate organized society and view all ideas of ethics with contempt.

Or do women find me physically unattractive? I don’t see why they would. I’m not bad-looking. Once, a few years ago, when I was waiting in a car to pick up my mother after work, her young, married female co-worker walked by. According to my mothers report, this girl asked her, “is that your son waiting in your car?” My mother said “yes”, and the girl said, “He’s very nice-looking.”

Am I too skinny for women? ...

Is it my mannerisms or the way I present myself to people? ...

Until recent years, I ascribed my lack of success with women mainly to the combination of shyness and stubborn pride.{13} ...

... Sometimes I get the feeling that I am the victim of some strange jinx — that there is an unalterable law of nature which states: “T.J. Kaczynski will never get a woman”. (Of course, I don’t for a moment believe such nonsense; but sometimes I get that feeling.) Every stroke of chance that might have brought me a woman has forestalled by some other stroke of chance....

Just to be sure there is no mistake about it, I want to explain that my craving for women does not result from any need for love as such, for security, or companionship, or any such thing. (This is demonstrated by the fact that I usually had very little desire for women when I lived alone in the mountains.) My craving for women is as follows.

When we fantasize an intense pleasure, and feel that there is a possibility of making the fantasy a reality, we are tempted to think about this pleasure more and more until our desire for it is apt to become irresistable. The idea of sexual love is of course intensely pleasurable. When I come down from the mountains and meet women, I am reminded of sex and presented with the possibility that I might have a relationship with some woman. Then, too, there are the constant sexual stimuli that our society disseminates through advertising, radio, etc. The result is that my ascetic tendencies soon break down, and sexual desire partly takes control. The fact that my desire for women is even stronger now that when I was in my teens and twenties is, I think, explained by two factors. One is hope; that is, during my twenties, I tended to feel that it was more or less impossible that I would get a woman ...

... other factor is that during my teens and to a lesser extent during my twenties, the dominant role that ego{14} plays in my personality made me very resistant to the self-surrender involved in sexual love. But the repeated assaults of sexual desire over the years gradually broke down the resistance of my ego, so that now I am all too ready to experience tender feelings toward women. Of course (for reasons that I won’t enter into here) sexual love is far more pleasurable than physical sex alone, so, now that I am ripe for sexual love, I suffer more from desire than I did in my teens when I craved only physical sex, most of the time.

March 6

Yesterday, instead of going to work, I phoned in and said s quitting. It was terribly hard for me to do this. But I had to t, for the following reasons. I will not fritter away my life as a pawn of the system. And I have to get my revenge. Also, I am so tired of stress and struggle — making a bomb (buying materials separately at different places, working on it secretly in my room, etc.) is an ordeal; I have to force myself to do it, and it takes a lot of forcing. It would be the same with planning out and executing any other means of murdering a big-shot{15} safely. It is especially hard to summon up the energy to do these psychologically difficult things when one works 8 hours a day. I have nothing to look forward to in life but that purposeless round of getting up every morning, going to work, coming home again, eating, going to sleep, and getting up for work again the next morning. (Maybe there would still be something better I could still strive for, some corner of the world where there’s still some wilderness, or other things, but again, I’m so terribly—tired—of struggling.) For these reasons, I want to get my revenge in one big blast. By accepting death as the price, I won’t have to fret and worry about how to plan things so I won’t get caught. Moreover, I want to release all ay hatred and just go out and kill. When I see a motorcyclist tearing up the mountain meadows, instead of fretting about how I can get revenge on him safely, I just want to watch the bullet rip through his flesh and I want to kick him in the face while he is dying.

You mustn’t assume from this that I am currently being tormented by paroxysms of hatred. Actually, during the last few months (except at a few times) I have been troubled by frustrated hatred much less than usual. I think this is because, whenever I have experienced some outrage (such as a low flying jet or some official stupidity reported in the paper), as I felt myself growing angry, I calmed myself by thinking—just wait till this summer! Then I’ll kill! Thus, what I’ve been feeling in recent months is not hot rage, but a cold determination to get my revenge.

But I want to be in my home or hills in Montana, not here in the city. Death in the city seems so sordid and depressing. Death in these hills—well, if you have to die, that’s the place to do it!

However, it would have been very tempting to just hang onto my job at Prince Castle indefinitely, even though I have nothing to look forward to. The truth is, I don’t want to die!

And, while I see no prospects for myself, who knows what might turn up? I might even get lucky and find a suitable woman for myself, hopeless as that seems. (That doesn’t fit in with my plans, but the temptation would be so powerful... well, it might even be worth it.)

The trouble with letting things drift along at Prince Castle is this: If I am going to roam around in the Montana hills making murderous raids, as I plan, I’ll have to have reasonable health and physical ability, and I’ll want, if at all possible, to have most of the summer ahead of me when I start. Preferably I should return to Montana in spring, and I’d be very reluctant to delay it beyond the middle of the summer; if I delayed beyond that point, I’d want to put it off till next year. And the trouble with that is — what if my health goes bad? I don’t feel I can trust my health too well any more. The status of my blood pressure is open to doubt. I have irregularities of heartbeat that seem associated with periods of nervous tension.

... What if tension and blood pressure give me a crippling stroke or heartattack? What if the arthritis spreads to my knees next year? I have been putting off my revenge for years. If I put it off another year it could possibly be too late — that is, I could possible get too broken down physically to do it the way I want to. And if I want to go back to Montana next spring, I felt I shouldn’t delay quitting my job much longer, because I want to have time to finish making a bomb, to write down on paper some of the things that are on my mind, and to do some other things...

... By quitting my job, I’ve made myself again an outcast, a good-fornothing, a bum — someone whom “respectable” people can’t view without a certain element of suspicion. I can’t feel comfortable in this respect until I get away into the hills again — away from society.

Besides, in quitting I feel as if I have signed my own death -warrant. Drifting along indefinitely in that job would have been the path of least resistance — and that, in a way, was the only thing remaining between me and the finish of everything. Now the path of least resistance is simply to go back to Montana, and once I’m there, I’ll kill, because, as I decided before I left Montana, if I ever went back there I’d have to kill, because I had too much accumulated anger over the inroads of civilization. I’m not likely to change my mind and go looking for another job — job hunting is a great ordeal for me, and so is adjusting socially to a new job. so it seems nearly certain now that it’s back to Montana, and then — the end.

It would have been better if I had never met Ellen T. and had worked in some big, anonymous factory where I would never get to know anyone. Then I could take all this stoically, as I used to. As it is, my social and sexual feelings have been stirred up in such a way that I feel a terrible sense of loss....

March 8

I still feel acutely miserable. (Not depressed — I follow my urge to go out running and walking, and I spend a good deal of time writing down my thoughts — I don’t hope too much.)

... Because my feelings of a certain type have been stirred up, I have been reviewing my past life. I am feeling so much grief and bitterness over it, that I conclude the social rejection I’ve usually endured ever since age and consequent sexual frustration, cut much deeper than I formerly realized. By the time I was out of high school I was hardened to social rejection, so that I did not find it acutely painful; yet now that my memories and feelings are stirred up I feel very bitter about it.

... I feel full of acute grief over the fact that I have never experienced sexual love, and that there is almost no chance now that I will ever have it —

March 9

From “Assassination and Political Violence”, by Kirkham, Levy, and Crotty. cited before on p.24 of these notes: p.93:

“Presidential assassination is, for the overwhelming majority of Americans, the equivalent of parricide. Most Americans felt after the assassination of John F. Kennedy that they had lost a member of their own family, almost always their father. They had responded similarly to the death of President Roosevelt.

“Many not only compared their sense of loss to the death of their fathers but expressed a more profound sense of shock, loss, and deprivation than they had felt at the death of their own father. Two-thirds of those interviewed complained not only of depression, but of almost unbearable nervousness and tension. One-half of them could not eat or sleep.”

[to me, this seems difficult to believe. If it is true, I find it profoundly despicable. And it shows what a powerful grip propaganda has, in being able to put across so effectively this image of the president as father. How can anyone possibly believe that the public is capable of making national decisions on public issues? On the leaders, either, since the leaders too, nearly all of them, in a democracy, are immersed in the mass of propaganda and swallow it whole. (Since the leaders themselves [not only in politics but in all fields] are slaves of propaganda, they are all the more able to make the masses believe in it.)

To me the president is just some jerk who makes a lot of decisions that I resent.

---

From The Coming Dark Age, by Roberto Vacca (a specialist in compters and systems research), Transl. by J.S. Whale; Doubleday, 1973.

P.13: “Jay W. Forrester of the Massechusetts Institute of Technology, has shown that in the field of complex systems, cause-to-effect relationships are very difficult to analyse: hardly ever does one given paramater depend on just one other factor. What happens is that all factors and paramaters are interrelated by multiple feedback loops, the structure of which is far from obvious...”

P.199: “As H.J. Eysenck has argued very plausibly, the conscience that defines what is evil and prevents us from doing it does not derive from a learning process but from a conditioning process”.

In otherwords, people believe in “right” and “wrong” because they are brainwashed, not because they have made some supposedly rational decision about morals. Of course this should be qualified: Some of our behavior that appears moral probably results from biologically built — in predispositions. In this category we could include such things as loyalty toward family and friends, and pity toward a fellow-human (but only if this fellow — human poses no threat to us!). Also, very likely, incest taboos are of biological origin, if one believes the evidence cited by Vitus Droscher in They love and kill.

---

Now I will have something to say about the question of why sexual love is so much more attractive than physical sex alone.... there are two distinct kinds of sexual feeling. Let’s call them S-feeling (for soul-feeling) and B-feeling (for body-feeling). By B-feeling I mean simple physical sexual lust. By S-feeling I mean something like sexual love, that is, in connection with the S-feeling one, desires to look long into the woman’s eyes, to communicate with her on an intimate level, to have an intimate psychological communion, to feel that your souls touch, that sort of thing.

... But one must not confuse S-feeling with ordinary friendship or companionship or sympathy such as occur between persons of the same sex. There is a special titillation and intensity about S-feeling that does not appear in ordinary friendship; S-feeling is of a different character from ordinary friendship, and usually occurs between persons of opposite sex.*

* When I was a small boy my feeling for Adam Krokos (see my autobiographical notes) was probably an S-feeling, but not too intense. On very rare occasions since then, I have experienced flickers of S-feeling toward other males. Other than that, I have experienced S-feeling only toward females....

April 7

I just can’t stand living with my parents. They turn my stomach. I find them both irritating and repulsive. You ask why I am living with them? Some time ago I found myself an apartment at an acceptable price. (This wasn’t too easy, since apartments are expensive around here.) I stayed there less than a month, because some stupid woman in the apartment below mine would play her radio at night and keep me awake.

... there are so many ways in which dealing with people is a strain for me. But worse than that, suppose I took another apartment and had a noise problem there too? It would be just too much. (Of course, the manager will always assure you that the place is quiet, but you can’t trust that.) so I figured it was best to just stay with my parents, even though they disgust me.

April 30

I have written this before in some of my other notes, but just to remind the reader, I’ll write it again: No one should believe anything my parents say about me, because their view of me is hopelessly distorted.

May 5^th

A couple of months ago I came across a book in the Library titled “The Gellar Papers”. It is about certain people, notably one Geller, who can supposedly bend metal, read people’s thoughts, and stuff like that, under conditions that would seem to preclude any obvious explanation in terms of the known laws of physics. Of course, there is always a lot of that junk in the popular press, but what is remarkable about this book is that the papers in it are written by people who are represented as having prior backgrounds and excellent credentials in the hard sciences. Moreover, the papers are written in very temperate terms, and the authors give no obvious evidence of having an emotional attachment to “far-out” beliefs. I had always assumed that all this telepathy stuff was a lot of crap, and the undisciplined character of most of the stuff that is printed about “psychic” phenomena, flying saucers, astrology, Atlantis, etc., etc., certainly gives ample justification for the opinion that most of this is only believed by certain people because it satisfies their emotional needs.

However, since the physicists and other hard scientists responsible for the papers in this particular book seem to have no prior commitment to telepathy or other crackpot beliefs, I am forced to think again. Naturally, this is uncomfortable for me, since no one likes to change his habitual assumptions.

The book strongly suggests that, by application of will, certain individuals are able to mobilize some force not comprehended within the present knowledge of physics and chemistry. Such a suggestion must be viewed with great caution. Such a large part of human mental functioning can be explained in terms of physiology and neurology that there are strong grounds for the supposition that all human mental functioning is based on physics and chemistry. (See, for example, The Nervous System by Peter Nathan.) Thus, one thinks of the following explanations for the book, which would not require anything outside the realm of physics as we now conceive it: (1) The book is a very cunning hoax (I have not gotten around to checking up to see whether the scientists really exist.) (2) The scientists writing the book fabricated the whole thing for reasons of their own such as money. (Fanley Mowat, formerly Canadian Government biologist, wrote book called “Never cry Wolf”, which he represented as an account of his personal experiences in studying wolves, but according to wolf expert L. David Mech, Mowat’s book is largely a fabrication, and gives a false picture of the wolf.) (3) The scientists writing these papers were not consciously dishonest, but their emotional needs caused them to give a highly distorted presentation. (4) The observed phenomena resulted from known physical forces combining or operating unknown ways to produce very remarkable effects.

However, none of these explanations seem likely. Of course, there is always the possibility of some explanation I haven’t thought of. Still, this book has caused me to reluctantly accept the probability that there is some force operating of a kind that is not currently known to physics.

But experiments of the kind described in the book will probably lead some people to jump to unwarranted conclusions enough associations established by popular literature. It should be remembered that we know only what has been established by careful experiment, unverified reports being usually worthless. For instance,

(1) The careful experiments reported in the book provide no evidence for the existence of flying saucers, lost continents, precognition, re-incarnation, ghosts, or gods, or for the validity of the predictions of popular “psychics” reported in the newspapers. (Twice I wrote down predictions of astrologers in physics for the coming year, as reported in the newspapers; then I checked them again a year later. The rate of success of the predictions was so poor that I probably could have done better myself on the basis of common sense. On the other hand, if these “Geller papers” are on the level, it ought to make us give closer attention to other putative “psychic”-type phenomena, so as to see which ones actually have something to them.)

(2) These Geller papers do not provide evidence for a life after death. According to Peter Nathan’s “The Nervous System” and other books on brain research, practically all the sensations, emotions, thoughts, memories, perceptions, etc. — in short, practically everything we experience, has been shown to be dependent on the functioning of certain parts of the brain. For instance, if one part of the brain is destroyed, certain memories are lost. If another part of the brain is destroyed, the patient permanently ceases to show any evidence of ever feeling angry. If still another part of the brain is destroyed, then the patient ceases to show any evidence of ever feeling any emotion whatever. And so forth.

The obvious conclusion is, that if my whole brain were destroyed, I would thereafter experience nothing whatever.

Still, it is true that, if the human mind is capable of mobilizing some force not currently known to physics, then this raises the possibility that some aspect or attribute of the mind might persist after destruction of the physical brain, since the physical brain (so far as we know) operates according to the laws of physics. However, the experiments reported in the “Geller papers” do not provide any evidence that such a thing actually happens.

The rather tenuous possibility raised by the Gellar papers that I might experience something after death makes me a little hopeful and a little uneasy. On the one hand, it would be nice if life in some form did not have to end, but on the other hand I am displeased by any possibility of being plunged into some experience that I can’t predict, control, or rationally prepare for. On the whole, I would prefer to be absolutely certain that I would experience nothing after death. Of course, this feeling is somewhat colored by religious propaganda about heaven and hell, since I’m amoral and impenitent and would surely go to hell according to Christianity. Of course, I don’t believe in that stuff, and “the Geller papers” gives no evidence or even suggestion in favor of it, but naturally (having read so much literature from earlier times which accepted traditional Christianity) I can’t help being slightly affected emotionally by the fable of hell.

Well, in regard to any possibility of experience after death, the word is... courage! I am attracted to William Henley’s famous poem, “Invictus,” though I consider it a little too vainglorious.

May 7^th

From “1978 Sports A field Outdoor Almanac”: “Radio tracking of wildlife is breaking new ground in wildlife research. It is estimated that between 3000 and 10,000 animals are wired for sound today, and their movements are being monitored on special computerized receivers ....

“Wildlife scientists estimate that within the next five years a nationwide network of automated recording devices will not monitor yearly travels of major species of migrating birds.....”

Of course, this sort of thing makes me violently angry. Not that I imagine it does any harm to wildlife, you understand. What angers me is simply the fact that the technological society knows everything and controls everything. Even in the remaining so-called “wild” areas, it is no longer possible to escape from “the system”.

---

But I haven’t yet finished my discussion of the book, “the Geller Papers.”

(3) Probably one of the things that attracts many people to the belief in so-called “psychic” phenomena is this: They imagine that these things provide some kind of escape from the mechanistic view of the human mind that is indicated by scientific results, and they may also imagine that these phonomena promise some kind of free will, — ability to avoid control by “the system.”

There is no reason to suppose that the “Geller papers” provide any evidence in favor of free will or a non-mechanistic view of human nature; nor do they indicate any limitations of the scientific method.

Science never claims to know everything. The business of science is, by useful, disciplined observation and experimentation, to construct formal, educative models of various aspects of human experience, that will enable human organization to predict and/or control certain aspects of human experiences.

Since past observation and experimentation is limited, scientific models must be continually revised and/or extended as our information comes to light. This does not mean older models are proven worthless. What it does mean is that older models are replaced by newer models that are either more accurate, or applicable over a wider range of conditions than the older models.

Thus, scientific models continually provide wider, more detailed, and more accurate pictures of reality. The classic example is the replacement of Newtonian mechanics with relativistic mechanics.

If the “Geller Papers” are on the level, then they seem to indicate that science is about to come to trips with some new force or some new class of phenomena. The probable outcome I think is this: science will eventually bring under control these new phenomena, just as it has brought under control such formerly mysterious phenomena as electricity, radiation, etc. “Psychic” phenomena, if they exist, probably have their own laws, which science will come to understand. “Psychic”” phenomena will then be “harnessed”, and turned into tools of “the system”, which tools will be used to control individuals, and also the physical world; just as science has turned other classes of phenomena into tools of the system.

Even if science is for any reason unable to analyse psychic phenomena, it still is probable that these phenomena will be turned tools of the system. Note that Geller is essentially a conformist and (apparently) uses his powers only for purposes approved by the system. If Geller-type powers turn out to have practical utility (as they probably will), then it is safe to assume that The System will organize programs for the following purposes: A. To deterrmine the most efficient ways of utilizing psychic powers for the purposes of the system; B. To identify persons having psychic powers at the earliest possible age; C. To devise special programs for the training and socialization of persons having unusual psychic talents, so as to guaranty that they will use their powers “for the good of society” (i.e., for the purposes of the system) rather than for “irresponsible” (i.e., individualistic) purposes.

If the “Geller papers” are on the level, then it is quite possible that, thirty years from now, we may have government-employed psychics wandering around checking up on our thoughts to make sure we aren’t planning to do anything illegal.

May 8^th

From things that I have written in some of my earlier notes, some people may assume that I tend to idealize hunting-and-gathering societies. This is not exactly true. Let me explain my view of these societies. They have the following good points:

Because a nomadic hunting-gathering society is more or less egalitarian and has very few members as compared to a modern society, each adult male can significantly participate in the important decisions, rather than having these decisions arbitrarily imposed by some vast system.

If a nomadic hunter-gatherer prefers he can wander off by himself, in which case he gets to make all his own decisions. (Example: According to Elizabeth Marshal Thomas’s “Harmless People”, the bushman Short Kwi spent most of his time off in the Veldt, away from the others, talking with him only his immediate dependents, Viz, his wife, daughter, and mother-in-law.)

I suspect that this freedom would make serious rebellion a rare thing in nomadic hunting band. But, if a member of such a band does feel a need to rebel against or escape permanently from his group, he has a much better chance of success than a member of today’s world — encompassing technological society, simply because a hunting-gathering band is a very small and weak society, compared to modern societies. This, in fact, is the biggest reason for my preferring primitive to modern societies — small, weak society means individual is comparatively strong and significant; whereas individual in modern society is totally impotent and insignificant.

Some people imagine primitive hunters must be crude, bestial, or degraded. I have argued against this elsewhere. It can be argued that primitive hunters have more of what we call “noble” qualities than modern man. But, whether this “noble savage” idea has any truth to it or not, it is of minimal interest to me, because, to me, all of mankind (with possible rare individual exceptions) is contemptible. It is true that recently I’ve come to be more tolerant of human failings, but I am still strongly aware of these failings, and despise them, even though I may feel friendly toward certain individuals exhibiting those failings. The failings to which I principally refer are irrationality, unclear thinking, and inability to liberate oneself from values and assumptions that one has been trained to accept. Some people imagine that modern man are more liberated from the “official” value of their society than are men of traditional societies. To one like me, who is a social outsider, this is not so clear, since, to a real outsider, it is obvious that most of those who imagine themselves to be nonconformists are really slavish conformists. (Imagine people who believe in racial equality, sexual equality, nonviolence and the transcendent value of art and philosophy, describing themselves as nonconformists! Do they imagine that they invented these ideologies themselves?) However it may be that there really is more psychological freedom in today’s society than in a hunting society, because our society is transitional: traditional psychological controls are breaking down, while the far more effective psychological controls that technique is providing have not yet come close to being fully supplemented. I wouldn’t venture to say which kind of society offers more psychological freedom, not having any personal experience in a hunting society. Also, it is possible I may even be wrong in assuming that a hunting society provides more physical freedom, because, not having lived in such a society, I can’t be absolutely certain.

In any case, even the most primitive society carries in it the seeds of what I consider evil, since all societies have the potential for eventual “progress” toward civilization. Thus I am more inclined to wish that the human race would become extinct.

Now, considering hunting and gathering as an economic form — this I do idealize. By this I mean that I would rather make my living by hunting, gathering plant foods, and making my own clothing, implements, etc., than in any other way I can think of. Here I do have some personal experience to go on.

Journal #5 (Oakland California Journal — 1975)

Dates: Jan 6, 1975 — March 30, 1975

Source: <archive.org>. Original source: <harbor.klnpa.org> [now dead].

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... Jan 6, 1975. Have come to Oakland, Calif. To see if I can find more lucrative work than seems to be available in Montana …

Feb 27 [1975]: It is an interesting fact that over the past few months women have been on my mind a great deal. For most of the time that I was living alone in Montana, I had few thoughts of sex – If you don’t see women, or pictures of them, then you don’t think about them. However, for some little while before I took that gas station job (see other notes), I had been thinking more than usual about women-though still not enough to cause much discomfort. The noteworthy point is that I thought not so much about physical sex as about love and all that kind of mushy stuff. I thought ow nice it would be to have squaw to share my life in the woods-especially if I could get up to Alaska or some such place. But it didn’t get really bad until I got infatuated with that damned little bitch at that service station (see other notes).

After I got even that, I still felt a strong desire to get some woman. Since coming to Oakland I have begun to feel almost desperate for women. I go running around Lake Merritt to keep in shape (I seem to run faster than practically anybody else I have seen running there-ha!) and there are quite a few females who run there too. And some f them are so beautiful!

Oh! I always did have a soft spot for athletic women. They are so lithe, shapely, firm, vigorous, fresh ... Oh! Oh! Oh! They give me a big hard on. Now, when I shaved off my beard after coming down from the mountains in January, I left a little postage-stamp moustache under my nose, just to see what it would look like. It rather caught my fancy, so I decided to keep it. It must make me very handsom--or something must have increased my sex appeal; since coming to Oakland I have twice been approached by homosexuals; and as for women--well, though I am generally shy, with women; I have never been shy about treating myself to a good eyeful of goodlooking girls. Now, ordinarily when one looks over a woman when passing her on the street her eyes will at most meet yours for an instant, then flick away and stay away. In the past it has only rarely happened that a female under these circumstances has looked me in the eye and held my gaze. But in the last four weeks in Oakland it has happened several times that women have returned my gaze. Moreover, two of them--girls whom I had never seen before--said “hi” to me as I passed. (Both good-looking.) And another one (very good-looking) gave me a big smile (that one was running around Lake Meritt and I was running in the opposite direction). Another one (very good looking) I believe smiled at me, but that one was not clean-cut and I’m not sure. Nothing like that ever happened to me before--I can’t quite explain it. When I was in college some good-looking girls showed they were attracted to me, but I don’t recall ever having been greeted or smiled at by perfect strangers (girls) on the streets. (Wait, I do recall one exception to that a few years ago.) No, they weren’t whores--most of them looked clean-cut and innocent. I would have liked to make the acquantance of these lovelies, but didn’t have the nerve to just pick them up on the street like that, and didn’t know how to go about it anyway.

Well yesterday I applied for a crummy job at a MacDonald’s restaurant. There was one other applicant being interviewed-a good-looking girl probably in her early twenties. She mentioned to the interviewer that she was seriously involved in roller-skating, roller-derby, or something-- I don’t know what it’s all about. I thought she was very attractive. As I said, I tend to have a soft for athletic females. The situation was not suitable for commencing a flirtation ... Now, by chance, I happened to spot this girl walking down the street. I quickened my pace to catch up with her. When I pulled up with her, I said “Hello — weren’t you applying for a job at MacDonald’s yesterday?”

She was obviously pleased by my attention and became very chatty and friendly. I walked with her to the YWCA, where she was staying, and stood in front of it talking with her for a few minutes. I left with her name (Debbie Hechst [spelling conjectural]) and phone number, which she gave cheerfully at my request. I called her twice today intending to invite her out to supper, but both times the desk at the YWCA said she was out, so I’ll have to try another day. I like her! So far, anyway. Attractive dark hair, no disgusting makeup, nice ... well, never mind for now. But I found it very easy to approach this girl: even though I had no special reason to think she would like me. I was nervous about it, of course, but not so much so as to give me any real difficulty. Perhaps I am not really so inhibited with attractive women as I thought. Formerly I had mixed feelings about women — I was much attracted to them but at the same time resented them and scorned involvement with them. My difficulty in approaching them perhaps was partly just a matter of having never really made a consistent, determined effort to get a girl — with at least half my mind I wanted to avoid females anyway. There were other factors too, but it would be too much trouble to explain them just now. Lately, however, my attitude toward attractive females has changed — I tend to have friendly feelings toward them, and little resentment. I think this is to a considerable extent the result of my life in the mountains, but its too much trouble to explain that right now. Anyway, I have lately felt quite confidently determined to get a girl by one means or another, and that is very helpful. So we shall see what happens with sweet Debbie — maybe nothing will come of it; maybe something very pleasant.

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March 1; Further report on above: I certainly do not understand what makes females tick. Today I called that girl and asked her to have supper with me. She seemed rather cool about it. She seemed rather cool about it. She said she had to train this afternoon [ie. train for skating] and that she was often too tired to do anything after training. She said I should call back at 4 o’clock and she would let me know then. I called at 4 o’clock and she didn’t answer. Presumably she was avoiding the call. She was so cordial when I spoke with her on the street that I had not the slightest doubt that she liked me. And yet …? O.K., you say, maybe she really was just tired from training. But if she like me, you would have thought she would have hinted that she might like to hear from me some other time, even though it wasn’t convenient just at present. Instead, she was cool about the whole thing. I just don’t understand how women operate. Of course, it is very disappointing — I found her very attractive. But, interestingly, it did not bruise my ego very much, I suppose because I am so pleased with myself at having been comparatively bold in approaching this girl (the sort of thing I always used to find excessively difficult). Also, I don’t resent her very much for it. But I am certainly puzzled.

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Naturally I won’t call her again.

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March 2: Postscript on the above: The note below I composed in my mind for amusement; contemplating it, I was so pleased with my own sparkling wit that I wrote it down and sent it. I don’t suppose she’ll like it much, but that’s okay, since I don’t intend to pursue her any more anyway.

Dearest Debbie:

Obviously you don’t want to go out with me at all. I called you back at 4 o’clock, the time appointed by you, and you declined to answer. I was utterly crushed. I ran and got my razor, intending to cut my throat, but I couldn’t go through with it because I couldn’t find a container to catch the blood in. I wouldn’t want to spill it all over the floor. So I guess I’ll just pine away and die of unrequited love, you cruel thing. Just to show that I’m selfless and noble and forgiving I’m going to remember you in my will. I’m leaving you my .30–30, my yo-yo, my six-point elk horns, and my jock strap.

This last item should be laundered thoroughly before use. Also, I’m leaving you some advice that your mother should have given you: Never speak to strange men on the street.

Yours forever more,
Ted Kaczynski

underneath the signature I drew a picture of a broken heart.

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Note: About 10 days after the above, I passed this Debbie on the street — on the opposite side of the street, however. I think she noticed me, but she avoided looking my way. She was probably wondering whether I was a dangerous nut or only a harmless one. But I don’t mind!

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March 19: Have just got back to my cabin. Found job market extremely bad in Oakland and my money had almost run out... But I did bring back one particularly pleasant memory from California, anyway. In connection with my current attack of lust, I joined the Sierra ingles, a section of the Sierra Club, in the hope of meeting some females with outdoor interests...I did go on 2 hikes, Saturday and Sunday, just before I left...The great majority of the women on these hikes were not good-looking enough to interest me...I had much enjoyable conversation with a young woman maybe 25 years old in the car in which I rode to and from the hike...Trina (last name Enderlein, as I later learned). It turned out she was from Montana (Missoula) ... She had a very pretty face; her figure was only so-so, but she had loads of charm...it is amazing how the most inane remark can sound fascinating when it issues from the laughing lips of a pretty young woman with sparkling blue eyes shining with animation.

Her “you’re an idiot” was so uninhibited and spontaneous and positively good-humored that I remember it with particular pleasure. Actually, I have no evidence that she found me attractive particularly; I had previously observed her in conversation with a group of about 3 other guys, and she was just as lively with them. Still, she clearly enjoyed my company on that ride, and what could be more delightful than to light up the eyes of a charming young woman with one’s sparkling wit?

Of course the cynic, the pessimist, the misanthrope might be so churlish as to question whether the adjective “sparkling” was fully justified. But she liked it, and that’s what counts. She told me that she worked in the advertising business, to which I replied, “So you’re one of those villains who manipulate our minds”. She got rather defensive about it, answering that “I’m giving you input and you can do what you want with it.” But she was defensive only momentarily, and we were immediately on good terms again. Of course, her answer was no more than a facile way of avoiding the issue, but so what? She was very pleasant company, so what do I care about her ability (or lack thereof) as a philosopher? It may surprize the reader to learn that I have never before done that sort of thing with a girl. For nearly 13 years I have had almost nothing to do with females. Before that the only one I had much to do with was Ellen Arl, and she was no good. Physically she was sufficiently attractive to be interesting, but personality-wise I found her irritating more than anything else. She had no-sense of humor (I don’t remember ever hearing her laugh) and I never had a conversation with her that could be described as really relaxed, lively, friendly, and convivial. How I wish I could have pursued matters further with Trina! But I was leaving the next day. I now wish I had stayed on another couple of weeks, though that would have been cutting it too close for comfort money-wise. Still, if I could have gotten just one kiss from those inviting lips … Oh well. It feels good to be back in my cabin, but there are no women up here and I don’t know when I will ever have another chance to meet women. I feel unhappy about it — I am nearly 33 years old, and in a few more years I may be too old to get young, attractive women. And I have now decided that women are an experience I do not want to miss.

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March 30: After the last few days back at my cabin I got over my desire for women. Hasn’t bothered me since. We’ll see whether it stays that way.

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Series VII

Journal #1 (1984–1986)

Source: archive.org & University of Michigan Library, Box 79, Folder 6.

Notes: The one outlying date of ‘1983’ was I think a mistake by Ted. The FBI labeled this journal: K2046T.

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Original English & Spanish

Series VII
#1

Notebook
#2-2-88

Series VII, #1

Enero 23 de 1984.

Durente la noche de enera 21–22 hizo un poquisimo de nieve; asi, fui a cazar. Hace pocos dias qui di un paseo por encima de la colina que esta al norte de mi cabena y vi el rastro de una liebre junto a un declive fuerte pero curto – lugar algo pintoresco. El rastro era viego y no considere que valise la pena sequirlo, pero me enseno que habia liebres alli. Durante la parte temprena del invierno yo habia recorrido dos veces (si mel no me acuerdo) aquella vecindad sin encontrar ni una sola huella de liebre. Creo haber mencionado en ulganx parte de mis apuntes la hipotesis de que las liebres se muevun en el invierno desde los lugares bajos cuesta arriba. Sea como fuere, es Seguro que, desde hace como dos meses, pocas o ningunas liebres habitaban la ladera norte de la colina que está al norte de mi cabaña, y que ayer cuando las cacé allí, había muchas, segán demotraton las huellas, y el hecho de que matase yo cuatro de ellas con poco trabajo. Además, recogí algún berro a la primera Fuente donde crece esta Buena hierba, y mientras que regresaba a casa, encontré el rastro de un Puerco espín. Lo rastreé y maté. Era una hembra de tamaño mediano o algo menos. [CROSSED OUT: Así, ahona tengo mucha] Tenía buana cantidad de manteco. Asi, tengo ahora much a carne, de lo cual me agrado, ya que antes de ayer, durante …

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“I think that for a true man it is the lowest depth of shame to submit tamely to wrongs” — speech attributed to Gaius Memmius by Gaius Sallustius Crispus, Jugerthine War, 31, 16 or thereabouts

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See the cuse of Eunice Williams, in Stolen by the Indians, by Dorothy Heiderstadt, David McKay Co., New York, 1968, pp. 10–16.

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“Caesar’s suggestion that they [certain ringleaders in the Catiline conspiracy] should be imprisoned for life in Italian towns was even more contrary to custom than their summary execution: to Roman sentiment it would seem an intolerably severe punishment.” — Introduction by S.A. Handford to “The conspiracy of Catiline”, in Jugurthine War and Conspiracy of Catiline, by Gaius Sallustius Crispus, Penguin Books, 1979, pp. 170–171.

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Se supone por lo común que nuestra Sociedad es más “humanitarian” que la “bárbara” Sociedad de los antiguos Romanos, porque a los que desobedecían la ley, los Romanos les imponían muchas veces una Muerte doorosa, crucificándolos o echándolos a bestias fieras, mientras que la Sociedad moderna solamente los pone en la prisión,donde las pandillas les infligen, en muchos casos, el estupro homosexual o otras humillaciones. Pero, si el señor Handford puede creerse, el pasaje citado más arriba parece enseñar que no toda Sociedad convendría con el concepto moderno de lo humanitario. A mí mismo me atemorizaría enos la idea de una Muerte penosa que la de una vida bajo el dominio brutal y humillante de las pandillas en una prisión moderna.

Febrero 3 de 1983

Huy salí al amanecer y fuí a recoger berro a las dos fuentes mejeros donde crece esta Buena herba; las cuales son las más lejanas, siendo la más cercana la quelrinde poco berro. Al acercarne a la major Fuente, descubrí que estaban cortándose los árboles de aquella vecindad vi de lejos las cepas y los troncos recién cortados y oí los horribles gemidos y gruñidos de las máquinas Aquella Fuente era un sitio muy bonito — ahora quizás esté arruinada — no sé, no fui a averi — guarlo. Fui la otra Fuente — la más lejana de mi cabaña — recogí algún berro, y volví a casa entrist — ecido.

Febrero 4

No he comido carne durante cuatro días, con inclusión de hoy. Hace muchos días que no cae nieve. Por lo tanto, en la parte temrano de la tarde, asenté unas trampas junto a una madriguera que supe que la frecuentaba un ardilla. Al anochecer volví allí y hallé ol ardilla agarrada or las trampas. !Pobrecito! Pero necesito la carne.

Febrero 5

Hoy Sali al amanecer y subi el cerro. Tuve poca esperanza de conseguir carne; fui prinoi palmente a hacer ejercicio y refrescarme el amla con la naturaleza. Coge mucho esta bellisima mallana – el cielo azul, los rayos del sol en la parte temprana de la manana, los prados pardos – pues le mayor parte del suelo esta descubierto, especialmente en las laderas que dan al sur, porque a fines de diciembre, durante unos pocos dias calurosos, se deshelo la mas de la nieve, y desde entonces ha caido poca nieve, de manera que, sobre la mayor parte de la tierra, no solamente es possible andar sin raquetas, sino que se puede prescindir de las botasde invierna y llevar zapatos de verano. Jamás he visto tan poca nieve aquí en esta época del año. Pero el suelo todavía está helado y duro, y la temperntura de mañana era de unos veinte y tantos grados. …

… primera perdiz a través de una abertura entre las ramas, estondo ocultada la mayor parte del ave, salvo el pecho, adonde quese dirigir la bala. Pues, disparé, y la perdiz, al parecer, voló, y pensé — !Joder! La he perdido — Pero luego me dí cuenta de que caía del árbol al suelo otra perdiz,mal herida. La cogr y marió en seguida en mis manos, …

Febrero 8

Hoy al amanecer subí la montaña,principalmente para hacer ejercicio y gozar del buen tiempo, y también con algún pensemiento de consiguir carne,si por ventura tuve una oportunidad. Pero, sin tener en cuenta lo que más conviniese para obtener carne, si por ventura tuve una oportunidad. Pero, sin tener en cuenta lo que más conviniese para obtener carne, me dirigí a un lugar cercano a Ethel Gulch, que y o no visitaba desde hacía nucho,solamente orque quise verlo otra vez. Fue un agradable paseo al sol hasta que alcancé el lugar adonde iba. Allí hallé un nuevo camino que se había hecho a través del bosque, y a lo largo de el nuevas cepas, raices de árboles arrancadas del suelo, y de trecho en trecho montones de racién cortadas vigas. Al paracer, había algo así como una tregua durante los tres años (si eran tres — nome acuerdo con seguridad) cuando hacían el RARE (Roadless Area Review and Evaluation). Después de concluido eso, parece que han ido cortando los árboles y hacienda caminos con más rapidez de lo que yo habría supuesto. Despues de que hube recorrido una arte del nuevo camino me dirigi derecho a casa; no tuve ganas e asearme más aquella mañana. Pero al bajar el cerro que esta al sur de mi cabaña, me desvié un tanto y atravesé la Adera del dicho cerro ue da el sur, porque a menudo se encuentran llí perdices azules. Al pasar por un sendero de venado (quiero decir un sendero hecho por los venados que andan por allí) y acercarme a un gran abeto, desde detrás del tronco donde no la pude ver, se echó a volar una perdiz,y se posó en un árbol muy cercano. El ave estaba muy nerviosa; siguió moviéndose y hacienda un sonido coma un bajo cloqueo; el cual señala que unoperdiz está nerviosa y está por volar. Metí un cartucho en mi rifle, y después estuve quedo, aguardando lo que hiciera el ave; porque si me hubiese movido,es bien probable que habría volado la perdiz. Pero al paco rato volo sin embargo, lo cual no me sorprendió. Pero bajo no muy lejos, aunque no pude ver exactamente dónde lo hizo. Fui a ver si por casualidad podría Volver a encontrarla. Por ventura lo logré, y aunque voló el pájaro antes de que yo la viese, esta vez logré ver aproximadamente donde se posó. Manteniéndome los ojos calvados en el sitio, me acerqué despacio en línea recta. A medio camino, espanté a otra perdiz, que voló. No obstante, proseguí hasta llegar cerca de donde supuse que estaba la perdiz. Entre las ramas de un gran abeto, eché de ver una forma algo anormal. La miré mientras que avanzaba yo lanamente.?Seguramente a es la cepa de una rama muerta? … Quizás un ardilla mirándome … y de golpe me dí cuenta de que era la cola de la perdiz que buscaba yo. !Son tan difíciles de ver cuando están quietas entre las ramas! Pues, moviéndome con cuidado, alcancé una Buena posición para itrar, apunté, y disparé. La perdiz murió en seguida, pero — !cosa inusitada! — el ave quedó pegado en las ramas, de manera que tuve que trepar el árbol para alcanzarla.Al principio, tuve dudas de poder treparlo; tuvo como 18 pulgadas de diámetro,y por los primeros diez o doce pies, uningunas ramas salvo unas pocas pequeñas, muertas, y secas. Así, me sorprendio que yo trepase el árbol rápoida y fácilmente,agarrando con los dedos o la corteza fragosa o las ramitas muertas

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como subí, y me quedé con carne para dos días, poco más o menos.

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Febrero 10

Anteayer tome una media pinta de guisantes hendidos (split peas) con intención de ponerlos en agua para que se empapasen para el día siguiente.Y aquello guisantes me dieron tantos …

… me puse a cocer los guisantes — o lo intenté. Pero los cocí por cinco horas, más o menos, y se negaron a tornar blondos y tiernos. (Hay algunos dias, de vez en cuando, .. cuando parece imposible cocinar debidemente as judías, las habas, o los guisantes. Horace Kephart dice que no es possible cocinar bien las judías donde la altura exceed 5000 pies. Aquí es la altura 4800 pies. …

… además de la pérdida de tiempo, el cocer tanto los guisantes me constriño a gastar demasiado leña.!Joder! Pero ahora estoy bueno y bastante content.

Febrero 12

Subí el cerro para hacer ejercicio.En un bosque de pequeños pinos encontré una bandada de pájaros cuya belleza me impresionó. …

… Grosbeak, Pinicola enucleator. Es bien possible que yo haya visto este pájaro antes de ahora, pero no me acuerdo de haberlo visto, de manera que debe de hacer varios años que no lo veo.

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Día de San Valentin. Hace dos días que no como carne. !Qué dieta tan mala! No sería tan mala si comiese yo judías, pero el mal suceso que tuve con los guisantes …

… pero sin embargo tuve Buena ventura y conseguí dos liebres. Recogí un tanto de berro ala Fuente cercana, pero no obtuve mucho; pareció como si algún animal (quizás venados) …

February 15

“Catiline, when he saw his army routed and himself left with a handful of men, remembering his noble birth and the high rank he had once held, plunged into the serried mass of his enemies and fought on till he was pierced through and through … Catiline himself was found far from his own men among the dead bodies of his adversaries. He was still just breathing, and his face retained the look of haughty defiance that had marked him all through life.” — Sallust, Conspiracy of Catiline, end of the book.

Febrero 16

Anteayer, poco después del anochecer, cayó una pulgado de nieve, más o menos. Al día siguiente no era bueno para cazar liebres porque la nieve había venido demasiado temprano,de anera que habría demasiadas huellas....

Febrero 23

La nock de 21–22 Febrero cavó un tanto de nieve cerca de las dos de la meñana. Aunque me quedaba todar vía la carne de dos liebres, salí a cazar, porque no se sabe cuándo vengan las oportunidades de cazar, de manera que canviene aprovecharse e los que se ofrecen. Ya que no hizo ninguna nieve durante las cinco últimas horas de la noche, temí que hubiese demasiados rastros enredados donde cacé Febrero 16, y por lo tanto subí Baldy; cerca de la cumbre, a la parte del norte, había visto, desde unos días, unas huellas de liebre, y no supuse que hubiese más de una allí.

Resultó que tuve razón, y hallé y maté al animal sin mucho trabajo. Sólo por placer, en vez de regresar por la ruta onás corta, bajé la ladera, saliendo al camino Humbug Contour junto a la vieja mina — la más lejana — y me dirigío a casa por un Viejo camino que está más Abajo del Humbug Countour. Por casualidad, topé con el rastro de una liebre, y lo seguí. Me llevó a una espesura de abetos muy Jovenes. Aunque sea siempre difícil cazar en semejantes lugares, logré matar a la liebre. Me costó algún trabajo y volví a casa frío y con la ropa mojada, habiendo estado al aire libre cuatro y media horas.

Marzo 9

Hace unos días que hizo mucha nieve de noche, y la mañana siguiente salí a cazar, yendo otra vez a la ladera norte de la colina que está al norte del la cabaña. Aungue recarrí la mayor parie de la ladera, no logré hallar sino un solo rastro …

… liebres este invierno,parecen estar casi agotados en esta vecindad. No es bueno. Necesito la carne.

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From The Nuer [an ethnological study] by E.E. Evans-Pritchard, … “the Nuer have no government, and their state might be described as an ordered anarchy. Likewise they lack law, if we understand by this term judgements delivered by an independent and impartial authority which has, also, power to enforce its decisions.” [The Nuer are pastoralists, more-or-less nomadic.]

p.90: “Though they are very poor in goods they are very proud in spirit. Schooled in hardship and hunger — for both they express contempt — they accept the direst calamities with resignation and endure them with courage. Content with few goods they despise all that lies outside them; their derisive pride amazes a stranger. Reliant on one another they are loyal and generous to their kinsmen. One might even to some extent attribute their pronounced individualism to resistance to the persistent claims of kinsmen and neighbours against which they have no protection but stubbornness. The qualities which have been mentioned, courage, generosity, patience, pride, loyalty, stubbornness, and independence, are the virtues the Nuer themselves extol, and these values can be shown to be very appropriate to their simple mode of life and to the simple set of social relations it engenders.”

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Abril 3

Me dijo mi madre, hace muchos años, que mi abuela y mi tía (a la parte de mi padre) habían tenido algún problema con presión subida en los ojos; y hace unos veinticinco años que mi padre se espantó algo por la posibillidad e glaucoma, porque algún médico le había hocho regresar repetidas veces ara que se le midiese la presión …

Abril 5

Ahorré los huesos de los animalitos que maté por carne el invierno pasado Había acostumbrado o echar los huesos en la Huerta sin quemar …

April 15

Hace tiempo que el cielo está generalmente nublado y el aire mojado, con alguna nieve a veces. Pero ayer y hoy hay sol y el Cielo está azul. Salí ayer a buscar perdices sin éxito....

… tirar sin espantar a la perdiz, y la maté. Debo confesar que casi erré — la balo pegó al ave demasiado hacia la parte delantera. Empero, bastó....

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Acausa de estar muy ocupado con ciertos proyectos, todavía no he acabado mi sótana. Ya sirve para almacenar mis raíces, pero la entrada no está acabada, de manera que es incomodo entrar y salir; además, quiero cubrir el sótano con más tierra, instular un tubo que, permita la circulación del aire, y guiza’s añadir más vigas para apoyar las paredes adentro. Pero no sé cuándo yo tenga el tiempo para ello.

Abril 29

Durante los ultimos 3 o 4 días cayó mucha nieve. Ayer salí a cazar. Habíu soy y pensé mutar una perdiz. No lo logré, aunque vi las huellas de perdices, y una perdiz que voló. …

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May 1

From Thomas J. Dimsdale, The Vigilantes of Montana …

Mayo 4

Anoche volvio a hacer nieve, pero por la mañana hubo sol. Yo tenio mucha hambre por carne y por esto salí a cazar. Hallé dos perdices azules siguiendo sus huellas en la nieve, y las mate. Dos machos, grandes. Almorce una sopa muy buena …

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… from Inside the Third Reich, memoirs of Albert Speer ...

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-Albert Speer, Spandau …

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June 20

I’ve learned a new edible plant …

Julio 14

“Cuando don Quijote se vio en la campaña rasa, libre y desembarazado de los requiebros de Altisidora, le pareció que estaba en su centro y que los espíritus se le renovaban para proseguir de nuevo el asumpto de sus caballerías, y volviéndose a Sancho le dijo:

—La libertad, Sancho, es uno de los más preciosos dones que a los hombres dieron los cielos; con ella no pueden igualarse los tesoros que encierra la tierra ni el mar encubre; por la libertad así como por la honra se puede y debe aventurar la vida, y, por el contrario, el cautiverio es el mayor mal que puede venir a los hombres. Digo esto, Sancho, porque bien has visto el regalo, la abundancia que en este castillo que dejamos hemos tenido; pues en mitad de aquellos banquetes sazonados y de aquellas bebidas de nieve me parecía a mí que estaba metido entre las estrechezas de la hambre, porque no lo gozaba con la libertad que lo gozara si fueran míos, que las obligaciones de las recompensas de los beneficios y mercedes recebidas son ataduras que no dejan campear al ánimo libre. ¡Venturoso aquel a quien el cielo dio un pedazo de pan sin que le quede obligación de agradecerlo a otro que al mismo cielo! ...

Sept. 12, 1984.

It’s about time to catch up on some items going back more than a year. Most of what follows is transcribed from some notes that I have on odd scraps of paper.

August 14, 1983. The fifth of August I began a hike to the east. I got to my hidden camp that I have in a gulch beyond what I call “Diagonal Gulch.” I stayed there through the following day, August 6. I felt the peace of the forest there. But there are few huckleberries there, and though there are deer, there is very little small game. Furthermore, it had been a long time since I had seen the beautiful and isolated plateau where the various branches of Trout Creek originate. So I decided to take off for that area on the 7^th of August. A little after crossing the roads in the neighborhood of Crater Mountain I began to hear chain saws; the sound seemed to be coming from the upper reaches of Rooster Bill Creek. I assumed they were cutting trees; I didn’t like it but I thought I would be able to avoid such things when I got onto the plateau. Walking across the hillsides on my way there, I saw down below me a new road that had not been there previously, and that appeared to cross one of the ridges that close in Stemple Creek. This made me feel a little sick. Nevertheless, I went on to the plateau. What I found there broke my heart.

The plateau was criss-crossed with new roads, broad and well-made for roads of that kind. The plateau is ruined forever. The only thing that could save it now would be the collapse of the technological society. I couldn’t bear it. That was the best and most beautiful and isolated place around here and I have wonderful memories of it.

One road passed within a couple of hundred feet of a lovely spot where I camped for a long time a few years ago and passed many happy hours. Full of grief and rage I went back and camped by South Fork Humbug Creek, and then I returned home as quickly as I could because—I have something to do!

Up on the plateau I heard a helicopter and several explosions, as if of dynamite. I suppose that they are still exploring for petroleum there, that they have found something, and they’ve put the road in because they are going to drill for oil, or something like that.

Note: In August 1984 I took an overnight hike into that area expressly to find out what was going on around Trout Creek. I explored some of the roads but could find no evidence of oil-drilling, mining, or anything else going on there. I did see some stumps of trees that had been cut well away from the roads so it may be that the roads were put in for the purpose of “selective cutting” logging; i.e. logging where they just cut the trees here and there rather than making a clean sweep of them. But the number of trees cut seemed too small to justify the expense of the roads, so the whole affair is unclear to me.

Undated note: Ever since seeing how the Trout Creek area has been ruined I feel so much grief whenever I am sitting quietly, or when I am walking slowly through the woods just looking and listening, that I have to keep occupied almost all the time in order to escape this grief. That was my favorite spot. Whoever has read my notes knows very well what the other causes have been. Where can I go not to enjoy in peace nature and the wilderness life? — which are the best things I have ever known. Even in the officially designated “wilderness” there must be the continued noise of airplanes, especially the jets, since I know that planes are permitted to fly over the Bob Marshal and Scapegoat wildernesses. Are there fewer planes there than here. Maybe, maybe. Perhaps one of these days I’ll go and find out. But so many times I’ve gone looking for a place where I can escape completely from industrial society, and always ... [three dots in the original] well, I’m very discouraged. So, I’ve been playing around with mathematics a good deal lately. It’s a rather contemptible game, but while I’m involved in it, it enables me to escape from my grief.

I can hardly describe how deeply satisfying I found the wilderness life. My grief at losing it is in proportion to that satisfaction. It’s as if I had a taste of paradise and then lost it.

Oct. 24, 1984

E.E. Evans-Pritchard, The Nuer, Oxford University Press …

“Thus Nuer have always felt themselves free to wander as they pleased, and if a man is unhappy, his family sick, his herds declining, his garden exhausted, his relations with some of his neighbours uncongenial, or merely if he is restless, he moves to a different part of the country and resides with some kinsmen. It is seldom that a man goes alone, for brothers are a corporate group …”

Oct. 24, 1984

Angel Ganivent, Cartas Finlandesas. Hombres del Norte, … “Psychology has its mysteries, and it is not easy to see all at once the influence exerted on our spirit by the external forms …

Oct. 31, 1984

From Los tramperos del Arkansas … “The general asks the trapper Black Elk if he likes the wilderness life: “Then, you like this life?” …

Dec. 7, 1984

Henry M. Stanley, How I found Livingstone … Tonight the natives have gathered themselves together to give me a farewell dance …

Jan 29, 1985

Acabo de leer el “The Monkey Wrench Gang” de Edward Abbey. Yo no puedo hallar fácilmente la página, pero en alguna parte en este libro, el autor se refiere al paso de un avión de pasajeros (avión de reacción) sobre el desierto,y dice — “No es possible escaper de aque ruido, en ninguna parte.” Esto lo menciono pare demostrar que yo no soy el único que tiene aversión al ruido de los aviones de reacción y al que no haya en donde escaper de ellos.

A propósito, la actitual del Sr. Abbey se semeja en cierto modo a la mia, aunque no es idéntico.

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Febrero 4, 1985

Juan Carlos Dávalos, “El fuerte de Tacuil”, en Cuentos y relatos del Norte argentino, séptima edición, Espasa-Calpe Argentina …

Feb. 21

Willa Cather, Sapphira and the Slave Girl, … This is a novel about slaves in the South, just prior to the Civil War. On pp.228–229 we find: “Sapphira’s darkies were better cared for, better fed and better clothed than the poor whites in the mountains. Yet what ragged, shag-haired, squirrel-shooting mountain man would change places with [the slave] Sampson, [the] trusted head miller?”

March 14

This is from P.R. Reid, The Colditz Story … The fact that this author looks back with pleasure on his experiences in a German WWII prisoner of war camp is another indication of the relatively low importance for human beings of security and comfort, and of the high importance of the opportunity to exert individual (or small-group) initiative for serious purpose (i.e. a purpose involving life and death matters of comparable significance). Probably one reason why the author has lost interest in big-game hunting and that kind of stuff is that these things are only a sport — people do them just for kicks — whereas the POW’s weren’t escaping just for kicks. They had much more serious motives for wanting to get out of the camp — their activities were purposeful. Note that, although the author was a prisoner, he was in one sense more free than “free” men in modern society. The decision to attempt to escape was not prescribed from above but was mad autonomously by individuals or small groups and thus represented a greater exercise of freedom than we generally have opportunity for in modern society, where the serious, practical matters are dealt with collectively, the individual functioning only as a gear in a machine.

Nichols’ dream of tribe vanishes

VIRGINIA CITY (AP) — A Bozeman woman who was kidnapped in the mountains of southwest Montana last summer was meant to be a charter member of a wilderness “tribe,” Don Nichols says.

His plan to abduct a woman for companionship was part of a years-pld dream, said Nichols, who faces charges of kidnapping Kari Swenson, 23, and with fatally shooting her would-be rescuer, Alan Goldstein.

In daylong testimony Wednesday, the 54-year-old Nichols said his’ dream was born of growing frustrations with society and its laws. He called it “this organized rat race handed-down from above.”

“I don’t like a totalitarian government coming down from above and telling people what to do,” he testified. “I don’t respect the values of the system. They stink.”

Nichols’ odyssey began in 1961 when he moved from West Virginia and homesteaded on 40 acres in the “beautiful and wild” Cabinet Mountains in northwestern Montana. Within three years, encroaching civilization circled his land with-a copper mine, clearcuts and highways and “ruined it for the reasons I bought it.”

He moved to Jackson, Wyo., where he worked in a machine shop and his family rejoined him, but the call of the mountains tugged at him and his desire to return ultimately led to divorce in 1969.

In 1970, Nichols began spending longer and longer periods in the mountains. He annually took his son Dan, often for weeks or months at a time.

He wanted his son with him because he enjoyed the company. “All “ your dreams are about being with people, talking with people, laughing with people,” he said.

That led to his plan for a wilderness “tribe.” Nichols said he never envisioned a large single group because members would naturally branch off into smaller bands.

He and Dan moved permanently , to the mountains in August 1983. They planted gardens, built an isolated lean-to dwelling and had “lots of fun” living off the land.

But that fun began to end when they grabbed Swenson while she jogged along a mountain trail July 15.

Nichols had considered finding a woman companion since 1978. When Swenson came along, Nichols “stood there in disbelief,” surprised at apparently finding exactly the type of woman who seemed at home in the mountains.

Now, Nichols said he knows Swenson was the wrong choice and, facing 140 years in prison for his mistake, his plan for a wilderness tribe is gone.

“I don’t think that dream is valid anymore,” he said.

I am surprised by Nichols’ apparent need for people. Not only do I adjust comfortably to solitude myself – I’ve read in books about lots of other people who’ve adjusted comfortably to prolonged wilderness solitude – in fact they seem to find it rewarding, as I do.

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Karl C. Garrison, Psychology of adolescence …

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It seems likely that mathematical talent depends on the neurological and chemical organization of the brain. Hence the personality traits described in the foregoing passage very likely derive also, directly or indirectly, from neurological or biochemical factors. This is interesting because it suggests that neurological or biochemical factors, rather than psychological factors such as childhood experiences and so forth, account for my own imperative need for complete personal autonomy, for doing things on my own initiative, for not being part of the system. Why don’t other research mathematicains rebel as I did? Suppose because they have satisfied their need for autonomous action by retreating to a fantasy world — i.e. the world of mathematical abstractions. Mathematics is probably the last area of scientific research where the “lone wolf” investigator still predominates. Thus it is excellent for one who needs to exercise autonomous initiative, provided he is willing to have as the principal concern of his life a body of abstractions unconnected with the practical aspects of his daily existence such as the food he eats, the clothes he wears, the people, animals, and physical objects around him, etc. Where I differ from other mathematicians is in having refused to accept a life in a world of abstractions and in having instead on the opportunity for autonomous action on my immediate personal environment.

Nov. 4, 1985

A noteworthy testimony to the power of propaganda is Chapter 26 of My Lives in Russia …

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Leonid I. Brezhnev, Pages from his Life. The authorship apparently is anonymous, but the book is “written under the auspices of the Academy of Sciences of the USSR. … Of course this is absurd. The kind of phenomena they are talking about are so complex that if an effective scientific theory of them is possible at all, it lies far in the future …

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Feb. 3, 1986

From Jack London, The Sea Wolf … “I wrestled with myself and could not pull the trigger”

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March 3, 1986

Samuel Eliot Morison, Admiral of the Ocean Sea ...

Original English & Automatic Translations

Series VII
#1

Notebook
#2-2-88

Series VII, #1

Enero 23 de 1984.

During the night of January 21–22 there was a very light snowfall, so I went hunting. A few days ago I took a walk over the hill north of my cabin, and saw a hare’s track lying on a steep but gentle slope—a rather picturesque spot. The track was old, and I did not think it worth while to follow it, but it showed me that there were hares there. During the early part of winter I had twice (if I remember correctly) walked through that neighborhood without finding a single hare’s track. I believe I have mentioned somewhere in my notes the hypothesis that hares move in the winter from low places uphill. However that may be, it is certain that for about two months past few or no Hares have inhabited the north side of the hill which is north of my cabin; and that yesterday when I shot them there, there were many, as the tracks show, and the fact that I killed four of them with little trouble. Besides, I gathered some watercress at the first Spring where this good herb grows, and while returning home, I found the track of a Porcupine. I tracked it down and killed it. It was a female of a medium size or rather less. [CROSSED OUT: Así, ahona tengo mucha] I had a good deal of lard. So, I have now plenty of meat, which I am glad of, as the day before yesterday, during …

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“I think that for a true man it is the lowest depth of shame to submit tamely to wrongs” — speech attributed to Gaius Memmius by Gaius Sallustius Crispus, Jugerthine War, 31, 16 or thereabouts

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See the cuse of Eunice Williams, in Stolen by the Indians, by Dorothy Heiderstadt, David McKay Co., New York, 1968, pp. 10–16.

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“Caesar’s suggestion that they [certain ringleaders in the Catiline conspiracy] should be imprisoned for life in Italian towns was even more contrary to custom than their summary execution: to Roman sentiment it would seem an intolerably severe punishment.” — Introduction by S.A. Handford to “The conspiracy of Catiline”, in Jugurthine War and Conspiracy of Catiline, by Gaius Sallustius Crispus, Penguin Books, 1979, pp. 170–171.

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It is commonly supposed that our Society is more “humanitarian” than the “barbarous” Society of the ancient Romans, because those who disobeyed the law were often put to death by the Romans by crucifixion or by throwing them to wild beasts, whereas modern Society only puts them in prison, where gangs often inflict homosexual rape or other humiliations on them. But, if Mr. Handford is to be believed, the passage quoted above seems to show that not every Society would agree with the modern concept of humanity. I myself would be more afraid of a painful Death than of a life under the brutal and humiliating rule of gangs in a modern prison.

February 3, 1983

I went out at dawn, and gathered watercress at the two best springs where this good herb grows; these are the farthest away, the nearest being the one that yields little watercress. As I drew near to the best spring, I found that the trees in that neighbourhood were being cut down; I saw from a distance the vines and the freshly cut trunks, and heard the horrible groaning and groaning of the machines. That spring was a very pretty place — it may be ruined now — I don’t know, I didn’t go to find out. I went to the other spring — the farthest from my cabin — gathered some watercress, and went home sad.

February 4

I have not eaten meat for four days, including today. It has been many days since there was snow. Therefore, in the early part of the afternoon, I set some traps near a burrow which I knew a squirrel frequented. At dusk I returned there and found the squirrel clinging to the traps. Poor thing! But I need the meat.

February 5

Today I set out at dawn and climbed the hill. I had little hope of getting meat; I went primarily to exercise and cool my feet in nature. This beautiful meadow gets a lot of sun – the blue sky, the early morning sunbeams, the brown meadows – for most of the ground is bare, especially on the south-facing slopes, because at the end of December, during a few hot days, most of the snow melted, and since then little snow has fallen, so that on most of the land it is not only possible to walk without snowshoes, but one can do without winter boots and wear summer shoes. I have never seen so little snow here at this time of year. But the ground is still frozen and hard, and the morning temperature was about twenty-something degrees. …

…first partridge through an opening in the branches, most of the bird being hidden, except for the chest, where the bullet was intended to be aimed. So, I fired, and the partridge, apparently, flew away, and I thought — Damn! I’ve lost it — But then I noticed that another partridge fell from the tree to the ground, badly wounded. I picked it up and it died immediately in my hands, …

February 8

Today at dawn I went up the mountain, chiefly for exercise and the fine weather, and also with some thought of getting meat, if perchance I had a chance. But, without regard to what was best for getting meat, if perchance I had a chance. But, without regard to what was best for getting meat, I went to a place near Ethel Gulch, which I had not been to for a long time, only because I wanted to see it again. It was a pleasant walk in the sunshine until I reached the place where I was going. There I found a new road made through the woods, and along it new stumps, tree roots torn out of the ground, and here and there piles of freshly cut timbers. There seemed to be something of a lull during the three years (yes, it was three—I don’t remember for sure) when they did the RARE (Roadless Area Review and Evaluation). After this was done, they seemed to have been cutting down the trees and making paths more rapidly than I should have supposed. After I had gone a part of the new road, I made straight for home; I had no desire to clean myself any more that morning. But in coming down the hill south of my cabin, I turned aside a little, and crossed the side of the said hill to the south, for blue partridges are often found there. As I passed a deer-path (I mean a path made by the deer that go about there), and came near a large fir-tree, from behind the trunk where I could not see it, a partridge took flight, and perched in a tree very near. The bird was very nervous; it kept moving about, and made a low clucking sound; which is the sign that a partridge is nervous and about to fly. I put a cartridge in my rifle, and then stood still, waiting what the bird would do; for if I had moved, the partridge would probably have flown away. But after a while it flew away, which did not surprise me. But it did come down not very far, though I could not see exactly where it did so. I went to see if by any chance I could find it again. Fortunately I did, and though the bird flew away before I saw it, this time I could see approximately where it landed. Keeping my eyes fixed on the spot, I slowly approached in a straight line. Halfway along, I frightened off another partridge, which flew away. Nevertheless, I continued on until I came close to where I supposed the partridge to be. Among the branches of a large fir tree, I saw a somewhat unusual shape. I looked at it as I moved along woolly. Surely it is the stem of a dead branch? ... Perhaps a squirrel watching me ... and suddenly I realized that it was the tail of the partridge I was looking for. They are so hard to see when they are still among the branches! So, moving carefully, I gained a good position to shoot, took aim, and fired. The partridge was killed at once, but—unusually!—the bird stuck in the branches, so that I had to climb the tree to reach it. At first I had doubts about being able to climb it; it was about eighteen inches in diameter, and for the first ten or twelve feet there were no branches except a few small, dead, and dry ones. So I was surprised that I climbed the tree quickly and easily, grasping either the rough bark or the dead twigs with my fingers.

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as I went up, and I was left with meat for two days, more or less.

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February 10

The day before yesterday I had a half pint of split peas with the intention of putting them in water to soak for the next day. And those peas gave me so many…

…I started cooking the peas — or tried to. But I cooked them for five hours or so, and they refused to turn golden brown and tender. (There are some days, now and then, when it seems impossible to cook beans, broad beans, or peas properly. Horace Kephart says that it is not possible to cook beans properly where the altitude exceeds 5000 feet. Here the altitude is 4800 feet. …

... besides the loss of time, cooking the peas so much forced me to waste too much firewood. Damn! But now I’m fine and quite happy.

February 12

I climbed the hill for exercise. In a forest of small pines I found a flock of birds whose beauty impressed me. …

… Grosbeak, Pinicola enucleator. It is quite possible that I have seen this bird before now, but I do not remember having seen it, so it must be some years since I last saw it.

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Valentine’s Day. I haven’t eaten meat for two days. What a bad diet! It wouldn’t be so bad if I ate beans, but the bad experience I had with peas...

…but I was lucky and got two hares. I picked up some watercress at the nearby fountain, but I didn’t get much; it seemed as if some animal (perhaps deer) …

February 15

“Catiline, when he saw his army routed and himself left with a handful of men, remembering his noble birth and the high rank he had once held, plunged into the serried mass of his enemies and fought on until he was pierced through and through… Catiline himself was found far from his own men among the dead bodies of his adversaries. He was still just breathing, and his face retained the look of haughty defiance that had marked him all through life.” — Sallust, Conspiracy of Catiline, end of the book.

February 16

The day before yesterday, shortly after dark, there was an inch or so of snow. The next day was not good for hunting hares because the snow had come too early, so there would be too many tracks....

February 23

The nock of February 21–22 dug up a little snow about two o’clock in the morning. Although I still had the meat of two hares left, I went out to hunt, for there is no telling when hunting opportunities will come, so it is best to take advantage of those that offer. As there was no snow during the last five hours of the night, I feared there would be too many tangled tracks where I hunted February 16, and so I went up Baldy; near the summit, on the north side, I had seen some hare tracks for some days, and did not suppose there was more than one there.

It turned out that I was right, and I found and killed the animal without much trouble. Just for the fun of it, instead of returning by the shorter route, I went down the hill, came out on the Humbug Contour road by the old mine — the farther one — and headed home by an old road below the Humbug Contour. By chance I came upon the trail of a hare, and followed it. It led me into a thicket of very young fir trees. Although it is always difficult to hunt in such places, I succeeded in killing the hare. It cost me some trouble, and I returned home cold and wet, having been out of doors for four and a half hours.

March 9

It had snowed heavily at night a few days ago, and the next morning I went out hunting, again on the north side of the hill north of the cabin. Although I searched most of the slope, I could find only one trail…

… liebres este invierno,parecen estar casi agotados en esta vecindad. No es bueno. Necesito la carne.

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From The Nuer [an ethnological study] by E.E. Evans-Pritchard, … “the Nuer have no government, and their state might be described as an ordered anarchy. Likewise they lack law, if we understand by this term judgements delivered by an independent and impartial authority which has, also, power to enforce its decisions.” [The Nuer are pastoralists, more-or-less nomadic.]

p.90: “Though they are very poor in goods they are very proud in spirit. Schooled in hardship and hunger — for both they express contempt — they accept the direst calamities with resignation and endure them with courage. Content with few goods they despise all that lies outside them; their derisive pride amazes a stranger. Reliant on one another they are loyal and generous to their kinsmen. One might even to some extent attribute their pronounced individualism to resistance to the persistent claims of kinsmen and neighbours against which they have no protection but stubbornness. The qualities which have been mentioned, courage, generosity, patience, pride, loyalty, stubbornness, and independence, are the virtues the Nuer themselves extol, and these values can be shown to be very appropriate to their simple mode of life and to the simple set of social relations it engenders.”

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Abril 3

My mother told me, many years ago, that my grandmother and my aunt (on my father’s side) had had some problems with high pressure in their eyes; and about twenty-five years ago my father was somewhat frightened by the possibility of glaucoma, because some doctor had made him return repeatedly to have his pressure measured...

April 5

I saved the bones of the animals I killed for meat last winter. I had been accustomed to throwing the bones into the garden without burning them…

April 15

The sky has been generally cloudy and the air wet for a while, with some snow at times. But yesterday and today there is sunshine and the sky is blue. I went out yesterday to look for partridges without success...

…shot without scaring the partridge, and killed it. I must confess that I almost missed — the shot hit the bird too far to the front. However, it was enough...

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Because I’m very busy with certain projects, I haven’t finished my basement yet. It already serves as a storage space for my roots, but the entrance is not finished, so it’s awkward to get in and out. Also, I want to cover the basement with more soil, install a pipe to allow air circulation, and maybe add more beams to support the walls inside. But I don’t know when I’ll have the time for that.

April 29

There has been a lot of snow falling over the last 3 or 4 days. I went out hunting yesterday. I was a bit worried and thought about hunting a partridge. I didn’t succeed, although I saw the tracks of partridges and a partridge that flew away. …

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May 1

From Thomas J. Dimsdale, The Vigilantes of Montana …

May 4

It snowed again last night, but in the morning it was sunny. I was very hungry for meat and so I went hunting. I found two blue partridges following their tracks in the snow, and I killed them. Two males, big. I had a very good soup for lunch…

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… from Inside the Third Reich, memoirs of Albert Speer ...

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-Albert Speer, Spandau …

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June 20

I’ve learned a new edible plant …

July 14

“When Don Quixote found himself on the open countryside, free and free from the antics of Altisidora, it seemed to him that he was at the centre of it and that his spirits were renewed to once again pursue the subject of his chivalry, and turning to Sancho he said:

—Liberty, Sancho, is one of the most precious gifts that heaven has given to men; the treasures that the earth holds or the sea conceals cannot equal it; for liberty, as well as for honour, one may and should risk one’s life, and, on the contrary, captivity is the greatest evil that can befall men. I say this, Sancho, because you have seen the gift, the abundance that we have had in this castle that we left; for in the midst of those seasoned banquets and those snowy drinks it seemed to me that I was stuck in the straits of hunger, because I did not enjoy it with the freedom that I would enjoy if it were mine, for the obligations of the rewards of the benefits and favors received are bonds that do not let the spirit roam freely. Fortunate is he to whom heaven gave a piece of bread without having to thank anyone but heaven itself! ...

Sept. 12, 1984.

It’s about time to catch up on some items going back more than a year. Most of what follows is transcribed from some notes that I have on odd scraps of paper.

August 14, 1983. The fifth of August I began a hike to the east. I got to my hidden camp that I have in a gulch beyond what I call “Diagonal Gulch.” I stayed there through the following day, August 6. I felt the peace of the forest there. But there are few huckleberries there, and though there are deer, there is very little small game. Furthermore, it had been a long time since I had seen the beautiful and isolated plateau where the various branches of Trout Creek originate. So I decided to take off for that area on the 7^th of August. A little after crossing the roads in the neighborhood of Crater Mountain I began to hear chain saws; the sound seemed to be coming from the upper reaches of Rooster Bill Creek. I assumed they were cutting trees; I didn’t like it but I thought I would be able to avoid such things when I got onto the plateau. Walking across the hillsides on my way there, I saw down below me a new road that had not been there previously, and that appeared to cross one of the ridges that close in Stemple Creek. This made me feel a little sick. Nevertheless, I went on to the plateau. What I found there broke my heart.

The plateau was criss-crossed with new roads, broad and well-made for roads of that kind. The plateau is ruined forever. The only thing that could save it now would be the collapse of the technological society. I couldn’t bear it. That was the best and most beautiful and isolated place around here and I have wonderful memories of it.

One road passed within a couple of hundred feet of a lovely spot where I camped for a long time a few years ago and passed many happy hours. Full of grief and rage I went back and camped by South Fork Humbug Creek, and then I returned home as quickly as I could because—I have something to do!

Up on the plateau I heard a helicopter and several explosions, as if of dynamite. I suppose that they are still exploring for petroleum there, that they have found something, and they’ve put the road in because they are going to drill for oil, or something like that.

Note: In August 1984 I took an overnight hike into that area expressly to find out what was going on around Trout Creek. I explored some of the roads but could find no evidence of oil-drilling, mining, or anything else going on there. I did see some stumps of trees that had been cut well away from the roads so it may be that the roads were put in for the purpose of “selective cutting” logging; i.e. logging where they just cut the trees here and there rather than making a clean sweep of them. But the number of trees cut seemed too small to justify the expense of the roads, so the whole affair is unclear to me.

Undated note: Ever since seeing how the Trout Creek area has been ruined I feel so much grief whenever I am sitting quietly, or when I am walking slowly through the woods just looking and listening, that I have to keep occupied almost all the time in order to escape this grief. That was my favorite spot. Whoever has read my notes knows very well what the other causes have been. Where can I go not to enjoy in peace nature and the wilderness life? — which are the best things I have ever known. Even in the officially designated “wilderness” there must be the continued noise of airplanes, especially the jets, since I know that planes are permitted to fly over the Bob Marshal and Scapegoat wildernesses. Are there fewer planes there than here. Maybe, maybe. Perhaps one of these days I’ll go and find out. But so many times I’ve gone looking for a place where I can escape completely from industrial society, and always ... [three dots in the original] well, I’m very discouraged. So, I’ve been playing around with mathematics a good deal lately. It’s a rather contemptible game, but while I’m involved in it, it enables me to escape from my grief.

I can hardly describe how deeply satisfying I found the wilderness life. My grief at losing it is in proportion to that satisfaction. It’s as if I had a taste of paradise and then lost it.

Oct. 24, 1984

E.E. Evans-Pritchard, The Nuer, Oxford University Press …

“Thus Nuer have always felt themselves free to wander as they pleased, and if a man is unhappy, his family sick, his herds declining, his garden exhausted, his relations with some of his neighbours uncongenial, or merely if he is restless, he moves to a different part of the country and resides with some kinsmen. It is seldom that a man goes alone, for brothers are a corporate group …”

Oct. 24, 1984

Angel Ganivent, Cartas Finlandesas. Hombres del Norte, … “Psychology has its mysteries, and it is not easy to see all at once the influence exerted on our spirit by the external forms …

Oct. 31, 1984

From Los tramperos del Arkansas … “The general asks the trapper Black Elk if he likes the wilderness life: “Then, you like this life?” …

Dec. 7, 1984

Henry M. Stanley, How I found Livingstone … Tonight the natives have gathered themselves together to give me a farewell dance …

Jan 29, 1985

I have just finished reading Edward Abbey’s “The Monkey Wrench Gang.” I cannot easily find the page, but somewhere in this book the author refers to a passenger plane (jet) passing over the desert, and says, “There is no escape from that noise, anywhere.” I mention this to show that I am not the only one who has an aversion to the noise of jet planes and the fact that there is nowhere to escape from them.

By the way, Mr. Abbey’s attitude is somewhat similar to mine, although it is not identical.

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February 4, 1985

Juan Carlos Dávalos, “The Fort of Tacuil”, in Stories and tales from the Argentine North, seventh edition, Espasa-Calpe Argentina …

Feb. 21

Willa Cather, Sapphira and the Slave Girl, … This is a novel about slaves in the South, just prior to the Civil War. On pp.228–229 we find: “Sapphira’s darkies were better cared for, better fed and better clothed than the poor whites in the mountains. Yet what ragged, shag-haired, squirrel-shooting mountain man would change places with [the slave] Sampson, [the] trusted head miller?”

March 14

This is from P.R. Reid, The Colditz Story … The fact that this author looks back with pleasure on his experiences in a German WWII prisoner of war camp is another indication of the relatively low importance for human beings of security and comfort, and of the high importance of the opportunity to exert individual (or small-group) initiative for serious purpose (i.e. a purpose involving life and death matters of comparable significance). Probably one reason why the author has lost interest in big-game hunting and that kind of stuff is that these things are only a sport — people do them just for kicks — whereas the POW’s weren’t escaping just for kicks. They had much more serious motives for wanting to get out of the camp — their activities were purposeful. Note that, although the author was a prisoner, he was in one sense more free than “free” men in modern society. The decision to attempt to escape was not prescribed from above but was mad autonomously by individuals or small groups and thus represented a greater exercise of freedom than we generally have opportunity for in modern society, where the serious, practical matters are dealt with collectively, the individual functioning only as a gear in a machine.

Nichols’ dream of tribe vanishes

VIRGINIA CITY (AP) — A Bozeman woman who was kidnapped in the mountains of southwest Montana last summer was meant to be a charter member of a wilderness “tribe,” Don Nichols says.

His plan to abduct a woman for companionship was part of a years-pld dream, said Nichols, who faces charges of kidnapping Kari Swenson, 23, and with fatally shooting her would-be rescuer, Alan Goldstein.

In daylong testimony Wednesday, the 54-year-old Nichols said his’ dream was born of growing frustrations with society and its laws. He called it “this organized rat race handed-down from above.”

“I don’t like a totalitarian government coming down from above and telling people what to do,” he testified. “I don’t respect the values of the system. They stink.”

Nichols’ odyssey began in 1961 when he moved from West Virginia and homesteaded on 40 acres in the “beautiful and wild” Cabinet Mountains in northwestern Montana. Within three years, encroaching civilization circled his land with-a copper mine, clearcuts and highways and “ruined it for the reasons I bought it.”

He moved to Jackson, Wyo., where he worked in a machine shop and his family rejoined him, but the call of the mountains tugged at him and his desire to return ultimately led to divorce in 1969.

In 1970, Nichols began spending longer and longer periods in the mountains. He annually took his son Dan, often for weeks or months at a time.

He wanted his son with him because he enjoyed the company. “All “ your dreams are about being with people, talking with people, laughing with people,” he said.

That led to his plan for a wilderness “tribe.” Nichols said he never envisioned a large single group because members would naturally branch off into smaller bands.

He and Dan moved permanently , to the mountains in August 1983. They planted gardens, built an isolated lean-to dwelling and had “lots of fun” living off the land.

But that fun began to end when they grabbed Swenson while she jogged along a mountain trail July 15.

Nichols had considered finding a woman companion since 1978. When Swenson came along, Nichols “stood there in disbelief,” surprised at apparently finding exactly the type of woman who seemed at home in the mountains.

Now, Nichols said he knows Swenson was the wrong choice and, facing 140 years in prison for his mistake, his plan for a wilderness tribe is gone.

“I don’t think that dream is valid anymore,” he said.

I am surprised by Nichols’ apparent need for people. Not only do I adjust comfortably to solitude myself – I’ve read in books about lots of other people who’ve adjusted comfortably to prolonged wilderness solitude – in fact they seem to find it rewarding, as I do.

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Karl C. Garrison, Psychology of adolescence …

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It seems likely that mathematical talent depends on the neurological and chemical organization of the brain. Hence the personality traits described in the foregoing passage very likely derive also, directly or indirectly, from neurological or biochemical factors. This is interesting because it suggests that neurological or biochemical factors, rather than psychological factors such as childhood experiences and so forth, account for my own imperative need for complete personal autonomy, for doing things on my own initiative, for not being part of the system. Why don’t other research mathematicains rebel as I did? Suppose because they have satisfied their need for autonomous action by retreating to a fantasy world — i.e. the world of mathematical abstractions. Mathematics is probably the last area of scientific research where the “lone wolf” investigator still predominates. Thus it is excellent for one who needs to exercise autonomous initiative, provided he is willing to have as the principal concern of his life a body of abstractions unconnected with the practical aspects of his daily existence such as the food he eats, the clothes he wears, the people, animals, and physical objects around him, etc. Where I differ from other mathematicians is in having refused to accept a life in a world of abstractions and in having instead on the opportunity for autonomous action on my immediate personal environment.

Nov. 4, 1985

A noteworthy testimony to the power of propaganda is Chapter 26 of My Lives in Russia …

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Leonid I. Brezhnev, Pages from his Life. The authorship apparently is anonymous, but the book is “written under the auspices of the Academy of Sciences of the USSR. … Of course this is absurd. The kind of phenomena they are talking about are so complex that if an effective scientific theory of them is possible at all, it lies far in the future …

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Feb. 3, 1986

From Jack London, The Sea Wolf … “I wrestled with myself and could not pull the trigger”

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March 3, 1986

Samuel Eliot Morison, Admiral of the Ocean Sea ...

[Bibliography]

Archivists note: This section was not included in the original.

Mentioned Reading in 1984

• Gaius Memmius by Caius Sallustius Crispus, Jugurthine War, 31, 16 or thereabouts

• Stolen by the Indians by Dorothy Heiderstadt, David McKay

• Jugerthine War and Conspiracy of Catiline by Gaius Sallustius

• Sallust, Conspiracy of Catiline

• The Nuer; an ethnological study by E. E. Evans-Pritchard

• The Vigilantes of Montana by Thomas J. Dimsdale

• Inside the Third Reich, memoirs of Albert Speer

• Spandau by Albert Speer

• Don Quijote, Miguel de Cervantes

• Cartas Finlandesas. Hobres del Norte by Angel Ganivet

• Los tramperos del Arkansas by Gustavo Aimard

• How I found Livingstone by Henry M. Stanley

Mentioned Reading in 1985

• The Monkey Wrench Gang by Edward Abbey

• Cuentos y relatos del Norte argentine by Juan Carlos Davalos

• Sapphira and the Slave Girl by Willa Cather

• The Colditz Story by J. B. Lippencott

• Psychology of adolescence by Karl C. Garrison

• My Lives in Russia by Markoosha Fischer

• Pages from his Life by Leonid I. Brezhnev

• The Sea Wolf by Jack London

• Admiral of the Ocean Sea; A Life of Christopher Columbus by Samuel Eliot Morison

Reading that Ted referred to having done at an earlier unknown date

• The Leatherstocking Tales of James Fenimore Cooper

Prison Journal (2008)

Source: “Personal diary entries in Spanish 2008”, Folder 9, Box 63, Ted Kaczynski Papers, University of Michigan Library (Special Collections Library). <findingaids.lib.umich.edu/catalog/umich-scl-kaczynski> & <archive.org>

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English Translation

July 23, 2008. Wednesday

As I have written elsewhere, I can no longer write to my Spanish correspondents in Spanish. That said, I can write to them in Spanish, but if I do, my letters will take at least 60 days to reach them, and possibly much longer (90 days? 120 days?). I am classified as a “domestic terrorist,” and I was told six days ago that any letter written in a language other than English, and addressed to such a prisoner, and who wants to send such a prisoner, will be sent elsewhere (probably Washington, DC), to be translated into English by a certified federal government translator, which will take at least sixty days, and probably much longer. So, it appears that I will not be writing many more letters in Spanish, and to maintain my ability to write in this language, I will have to write other things in Spanish, and for this reason I am writing the following letters.

There is a prisoner here who has the mind of a five-year-old child. I will call him B. I do not want to put his name here, in case the prison authorities refuse to allow these pages to leave the prison, since it is forbidden for a prisoner to write in a letter the name of another prisoner. Well, B has the peculiarity that he is always very anxious to receive the newspaper. (I mean the newspaper that is passed from one prisoner to another along the range.) So anxious that, if the prisoner in another cell is a little late in passing the newspaper to B, he begins to complain and shout and threaten to make so much noise throughout the night that none of the prisoners in this range will lose sight of it. Well, I will continue the above later. For now I have other things to do.

July 27, 2008. Sunday

I’ll continue what I said above. When they first put me and the other “notorious” inmates in D Unit, they put us in a range on the lower floor together. The range above us was called “coconut grove” because there were some inmates who were peculiar in behavior, unruly or rowdy. B was one of them. He would yell at the other inmates, bang on the shower (which is made of tin) at night to make a racket so the inmates couldn’t sleep, etc. Twice he would put towels or something like that in the toilet and run it so the towels would go into the pipe downstairs and clog it so the floor below would flood with sewage. (Fortunately, I was either in cell 101 or 108, which the flood didn’t reach because the cells near the ends of the range have slightly higher floors than the middle cells.)

Afterwards B was taken out of here and taken somewhere else, I don’t know where. But about three years ago B was again on the upper floor above us, and needless to say, he was still behaving like a naughty child, making noise to keep the other prisoners from sleeping, etc. Fortunately B was generally in a cell not too close to mine, so he didn’t keep me up too much.

A new warden arrived, who separated the “famous” prisoners, sending them to different parts of the prison, so that I was the only one left in the same rank. Soon the cells were filled with foreign Muslim prisoners. But little by little the Muslims were sent to other parts, until only one or two remained, and the other Muslims were replaced by other prisoners, mostly Americans. One of these was B.

About a year ago, unfortunately, B was put in the cell next to mine. I was in 101, he was in 102. I had to put up with his stupid shouting, hitting, etc.

August 10, 2008. Sunday.

I continue the above. We were thus for about six months or more, and then we were moved to the upper floor, each of us being placed in the cell directly above the cell he had occupied on the ground floor, so that I was in cell No. 201, and B. in cell No. 202. B. not only continued his former behaviour, but it became worse. One day at last he cried out: “I am going to beat the whole damn night!” He also announced that he was going to flood the range. And so he did, using towels in the manner described above. Fortunately, not a drop of the filthy water got into my cell, because it had a slightly higher floor than the cells nearer the centre of the range. The range below us was flooded worse than ours, and with water containing bits of shit. Meanwhile B. was beating the inmates so that no one could sleep. But about one o’clock in the morning he grew tired and stopped banging, presumably being sleepy and wanting to go to sleep. Up to this time I had been taking no notice of B.‘s noises, but this time I was angry enough to react. Within fifteen minutes after B. stopped banging I began banging on my wash-hand basin and other things to keep B. from sleeping, and continued to do so at intervals until breakfast was brought to us about six o’clock in the morning.

November 19, 2004. Friday

Today in the early afternoon I went to the open-air recess. There were also two black gangsters and a Muslim prisoner. One of the gangsters is the prisoner whom my friend hates, as I have related in my notes that he writes in German. I like this gangster, although that is not relevant to what I am here to narrate. As I said, we went to the open-air recess, and I ran around, as usual, while the other prisoners talked, although the gangster I mentioned always does some exercises, especially chin-ups, during the recess periods. Let us call this gangster “the young gangster”, the other one, “the old gangster”.

Well, during the latter part of the recess period, they discussed religion. I couldn’t hear what the Muslim was saying, because he didn’t talk loudly, but the gangsters did talk loudly, and I could hear most of what they were saying, even though I kept running. The Old Gangster explained why he didn’t believe in God: He said that his daughter (or his little sister? probably his daughter) had died at the age of six. She hadn’t hurt anyone. The Old Gangster’s little brother had drowned while swimming at the age of thirteen. He hadn’t hurt anyone either. The Old Gangster, on the other hand, had done a lot of harm, and he was still alive. So he couldn’t believe in God. Maybe there was a “power,” but such a “power” couldn’t be called “God”; maybe it was just “chemistry” or something like that. (It should be noted that these reasons are similar to the reasons my friend gave when discussing religion with another Muslim about three and a half years ago: So many little children were dying unjustly; how could there be a God? A good God would not allow so many bad things to happen.) The Muslim was defending his belief in God; or I suppose he was, for I could hear very little of what he said. The young gangster said he believed there was a “power,” but, he said, “when someone wrote something down and claimed that God told him to write it down, he didn’t believe that.” The guards ended the recreation period and took us back to our cells before I finished running, so I had no opportunity to participate in this discussion about religion.

(Later:) While I was using the sink, the water suddenly stopped flowing. I told the guards. (This was perhaps at about five o’clock in the afternoon.) They told the lieutenant. After two hours or so, the plumber arrived. He worked for a while, and suddenly a great jet of water shot out of the sink pipe, reaching the wall on the opposite side of the cell and soaking the drawer containing my legal papers and making a puddle on the floor. I had to move the drawer as quickly as possible so that it would not absorb any more water. Then I had to get rid of the water on the floor by repeatedly soaking a rag in it, which I wrung out over the sink. The plumber said he could not remedy the problem for now; he would come back tomorrow. In the meantime, he turned off the water, so that I could not even flush the toilet. I asked the guard, “And if I have to shit?” “Don’t shit,” he replied. I replied, “You can only hold it so long.” However, contrary to my expectations, the plumber came back about an hour later and resumed his work. He worked for another two hours, until ten o’clock, and then everything was fixed: the toilet worked, and the pipe was giving out both hot and cold water properly. But during those two hours I could do nothing but read a little, because I had to keep an eye on the sink pipe in case another jet of water came out; I would divert it with my hand so that it would flow into the sink and not wet my things again. Also, the plumber or the security guard who was there would tell me from time to time, “Try the hot water,” or “Try the cold water,” or something like that. So I couldn’t work for those two hours. These things happen here too often; something always breaks down.

December 31, 2004. (Friday)

I’ve been so busy with Christmas (sending Christmas cards, making a “dream book,” etc. for Alegria) that I haven’t had time to write these notes in Spanish and German. For several days (December 25–29) I was ill with an abscess under my last remaining tooth on the lower left side of my mouth. On the evening of December 25 (around 7 or 8?), I was seized by very intense pain in that tooth. It hurt so much that I could hardly stay still; I had to walk quickly back and forth in my cell. Fortunately, the pain subsided around midnight, so I was able to sleep. Approximately the same thing happened on December 26. On Monday, December 27, I sent a copy to the dentist, and I did it again on Tuesday, December 28. (I can send cop-outs only in the morning, usually around eight o’clock, because only then does a member of the unit team come to collect cop-outs and letters.) In the meantime, I had a very bad toothache, but the infection seemed to be more serious than I had supposed, because the gum was slightly swollen behind the tooth, and the lymph nodes under the left side of my jaw were very painful when I touched them even very lightly. I had pains in my thighs, similar to the pains that accompany a fever. In addition, I generally felt a little sick. Therefore, on the afternoon of December 28^th, I tried to get the guards to bring me a P.A. (physician assistant), but without success. On the evening of the 28^th, I felt sick enough, and worried enough, to make me write very emphatic cop-outs to the case manager, the “duty P.A.” and to the Health Services Administrator, dated the 29^th, which were to be given to the case manager when she arrived on the morning of the 29^th. During these cop-outs, I insisted that I needed a P.A. that day. The next morning, the 29^th, I felt much better. Nevertheless, I gave the case manager the cop-outs, and she said she would call a P.A. A little later, the doctor, Dr. Leyva, happened to arrive, not in response to my requests but because he was offering influenza immunizations for prisoners over fifty years of age. I told him about the infection; he examined me briefly and said he would prescribe an antibiotic. The doctor left, and a short time later, Mr. Osagle’s P.A. arrived in response to my request. I didn’t tell him I’d already been to the doctor because I was afraid the doctor might forget to prescribe the antibiotics. (Things like this happen quite often here. It seems like half the staff can’t remember anything for more than two minutes.) Well, Osagie examined me, declared there was no infection (which was ridiculous), and declined to prescribe any antibiotics, although he did prescribe ibuprofen. Medications are usually dispensed at night, around seven o’clock. When the man who dispensed the medicines arrived on the night of the 29^th, he gave me ibuprofen, but no antibiotics. But I feel fine. I’ve healed without medication. I didn’t even take the ibuprofen. Of course, the dentist still needs to extract the tooth. I forgot to mention that I was informed on Tuesday, December 28^th, that the dentist was absent, and would not be back until next week.

Since I got this illness, I haven’t been going to recess. I’ll start going to recess again after the dentist cures this abscess.

January 14, 2005. Friday

Strange thing: Today I went to open-air recreation. When the guards began to take us to our cells, I noticed that the doctor, Doctor Leyva or Leyha, was hovering at the outer gate of the building. After repeated prayers, he came out into the open, entered the building, and came out again. He seemed to be waiting for something or someone. I was the last one the guards took into the building. When I passed through the gate, I found the doctor, who was waiting for me. He said, “You should have been around to hear the joke! Somebody was retiring and a big package was left for them. And someone said, ‘It’s from Ted Kaczynski’!”, and he laughed as if it were an exceptionally funny joke. I laughed only out of politeness; I didn’t feel amused, but embarrassed. The guards who were leading me were behind me, and I couldn’t see if they laughed; I did not feel amused, but embarrassed. The guards who were leading me stood behind me, and I could not see whether they snorted; but I did not hear them laugh. The anecdote the doctor told me would undoubtedly have amused a six-year-old boy, but not an older person, and it seemed extraordinary to me that Dr. Leyba should wait five or ten minutes just to tell it to me, and laugh at it as if it were especially funny. Besides, it seems rather inappropriate for the doctor, who holds such a responsible position and should behave with some solemnity, to tell me such a joke. Dr. Leyba appears to be about eighty years old, and I wonder if he is suffering from senile weakness.

Please see my note from 11 January 2005, written in German. To date (14 January 2005) I have not been taken to the dentist again, nor have I received any reply from him. Today, during outdoor recreation, the prisoners were talking about how difficult it is to get medical attention. You have to send more than one cop-out, complain to the unit team, and wait a few days before you are seen. Of course, in many cases the delay is minor. But in some cases it could be significant. And the medical staff cannot tell whether the case is serious without examining the prisoner or at least talking to him. Probably the number of PAs, nurses, etc. is insufficient, which will be the cause of the delays. The only member of the medical staff whose competence I trust is Ms. Gladbach. Dr. Leyba may have been a good doctor in the past, but now, as I said above, I wonder if he is suffering from senile weakness.

Added on November 15, 2008

It is quite certain that PA Dr. Osagie is incompetent.

Original Spanish

23 Julio de 2008. Miercoles

Como lo tengo escrito en otra parte, ya no puedo escribir a mis correspondientes espanoles en castellano. Jejor dicho, puedo escribirles en castellano, pero, si lo hago, mis cartas tardaran 60 dias, a lo menos, en llegarles, y problemmente muchos mas (?90 dias? ?120 dias?), Estoy clasificado como “terrorista domestico”, y se me dijo hace seis dias que toda carta escrita en un idioma que no sea ingles, y dirigida a un presco de esta clase, e que quiera enviar tal preso, se mandara a otra parte (probablemente, a Washington, D.C.), para que la traduzca al inlges un traductor titulado del gobierno federal, lo cual supondra una demora de sesenta dias a lo menos, y probablemente mucho tiempo mas. Asi que, al parecer, no voy a escribir muchas cartas mas en castellano, y para mantener mi capacidad para escribir en este idioma, tendre que escribir otras cosas en castellano, y por este motivo escribo las casas que van a continuacion.

Hay un preso de aqui que tiene la mente de un nino de cinco anos. Le llamare B. No quiero poner aqui su nombre, no sea que las autoridades carcelarias se nieguen a permitir que estas paginas salgan de la cárcel, puesto que está prohibido que un preso escribe en una carta el nombre de otro preso. Pues, B tiene la particularidad de que está siempre muy ansioso de recibir el periódico. (Me refiero al periódico que se pasa de un preso a otro a lo largo del range.) Tan ansioso que, si el preso de otra celda tarda un poquito en pasarle el periódico a B, éste comienza a quejarse y gritar y amenazar on hacer tanto ruido a lo largo de la noche, que no pequen ojo ningunos de los presos de este range. Pues, continuare lo anterior mas tarde. Por ahora tengo otras cosas que hacer.

27 de Julio de 2008. Domingo

Continuo lo de mas arriba. Cuando primero nos pusieron a mi y a los demas presos “celebres” en D Unit, nos pusieron juntos en un range del piso bojo. Al range que estaba encima de nosotros le llamaban “coconut grove”, porque alli estaban unos presos cuya conducta era peculiar, revoltosa o alborotosa.B era de estos. Solia gritar a los demas presos, dar golpes de noche en la ducha (que es de lata) para hacer un estruendo que impidiese a los presos dormir, etc. Dos veces metió toallas o algo semejante n el inodoro y lo hizo funcionar de tal manera que las toallas pasasen al tubo de Abajo y lo atascaran para que se inundase de aguas fecales el piso bajo. (Por foruna, yo estaba o en la celda 101 o la 108, adonde la inundacion no llegó, porque las celdas cerca de los extremos del range tienen el piso un poco más alto que las celdas de en medio.)

Después, se lo sacó de aquí a B y se le llevó a otra parte, no sé adonde. Pero, hace unos tres años, poco más o menos, B estaba otra vez en el piso superior, por encima de nosotros y, excusado es decir, seguía comportándose como un niño revoltosa, hacienda estruendos para impeder que durmiesen los demás presos, etc. Por furtuna, B estaba generalmente n una celda no muy cerca de la mía, así que él no me desvelaba mucho.

Luego llegó un nuevo guardián (warden), quien separó a los presos “célebres”, enviándolos a diversas partes de la carcel, de manera que yo fui el único que quedaba en el mismo range. Al poco tiempo, se llenaron las celdas de presos musulmanes extranjeros. Pero, poco a poco, se les envoi o los musulmanes a otras partes, hasta que no quedaban más que uno o dos, y a los otros musulmanes se los reemplazó por otros presos,americanos, en su mayoría. Uno de éstos era B.

Hace un año, poco más o menos, por desgracia,metieron a B en la celda próxima a la mía. Yo estaba en la número 101, él en la 102. Tuve que aguantar su estúpido gritar, golpear, etc.

10 Agosto 2008. Domingo.

Continúo lo anterior. Así estuvimos unos seis meses o algo más, y después nos mudaron a toldos al piso superior, colocando a cada uno en la celda que estaba directamente obre a celda que el había ocupado en el piso bajo, así que yo estaba en la celda No. 201, y B. en la celda No. 202. B. no sólo continuó su comportamiento anterior, sino que se empeoró. Un día, por fin, gritó: “!Yo voy a golpear todo la jodida noche!” Anunció también que iba a inundar el range. Y así lo hizo, empleando toallas de la manera descrita más arriba. Por fortuna, ni una gota de la inmunda agua entró en mi celda, porque ésta tenía el piso un poco más alto que los celdas más cercanas al centro del range. El range debajo de nosotros se inundó peor que el nuestro, y de agua que conenía pedazos de mierda. Entretanto,B golpeaba a interralos, de manera que nadie pudiese dormir. Pero a eso de la una de la mañana se cansó y dejó de golpear, y es de suponer que tenía sueño y quería dormirse. Hasta entonces, yo me había negado a hacer caso de los ruidos de B., pero, esta vez esture lo bastante enojado para reaccionar. A los quince minutos después de que B. cesó de golpear, yo comencé a golpear mi lavabo, y otras cosas, para que B. no pudiese dormir, y seguí haciéndolo a intervalos hasta que nos trajeron el desayuno a eso de las seis de la mañana.

19 Noviembre de 2004. Viernes

Hoy en la primera parte de la tarde fui al recreo al aire libre. Fueron Tambien dos gangsters negros y un preso musulman. Uno de los gansters es el preso a quien odia mi amigo, como he relatado en mis notas que escribe en aleman. Me gusta este gangster, aunque eso no es pertinente a lo que estoy para narrar. Como dije, fuimos al recreo al aire libre, y yo corria, como de costumbre, mientras los otros presos hablaban,aunque el gagster que mencione siempre hace algunos ejecicios,en especial, contracciones (chin-ups) durante los periodos de recreo. Llamemos a este gángster “el gángster joven”, al otro, “el gángster viego”.

Pues, durante la última parte del period de recreo, discutieron la religion. No pude air lo que decia el muulmáan, porque no hablaba recia,pero los gángsers sí hablaban recio y pude oír la mayor parte de lo que decían, no obstante que yo seguía corriendo.El ángster Viejo explicaba por qué no creía en Dios: Dijo que su hija (o su hermanita? probablemente su hija) había muerto a los seis años de edad. Ella no le habia hecho dáno a nadie. El hermanito del gángster viejo había muerto ahogado mientras nadaba los trece años de edad. E’l tampaco había hecho daño a nadie. En cambio, el gángster Viejo sí había hecho mucho daño, y todavía vivía.Por so, no podía creer en Dios. Tal vez hubiera un “poder”, pero tal “poder” no podría llamarse “Dios”; quizás fuera mera “química” o algo por el estilo. (Es de notar que estas razones se parecen a las razones que dio mi amigo cuando discutió la religión con otro musulmán hace unos tres años y medio: Tantos niños chicos morían injustamente; ?como pudiera existir un Dios? Un Dios bueno no permitiría que aconteciesen tantas cosas malas.) El musulmán defendía su creencia en Dios; o supongo que lo hacía, pues pude oír muy poco de lo que decia. El gángster joven dijo que creía que había un “poder”, pero — dijo — cuando alguren escribía algo y afirmabe que Dios le había dicho que lo escribiera,eso no lo creía él.Los guardas terminaron el período de recreo y nos llevaron otra vez en nuestros celdas antes de que yo terminase de corer, así que no tuve oportunidad de participar en esa conversación sobre la religión.

(Más tarde:) Mientras yo usaba el lavabo, el agua de repente cesó de repente ceso de fluir. Se lo dije a los guardas. (Esto ocurrio quizás a las cinco de la tarde, aproximadamente.) Ellos se lo dijeron al lugarteniente.Al cabo de dos horas, más o omenoos, llegó el fontanero. Él trabajó un rato, y de súbito brató del caño del lavabo un gran chorro de agua que alcanzó la pared del lado opuesto de la celda y mojó el cajón que contene mis documentos legales e hizo un charco en el suelo. Tuve que mover el cajón lo más rápidamte possible para que no absorbiese más agua. Luego tuve que librarme del agua que estaba en el suelo empapando en ella repitidas veces un trapo, que estrujé sobre el lavabo. El fontanero dijo que no podía remediar el problema por ahora; volvería mañana. Entretanto, cortó el agua, de manera que yo ni siquiera podia hacer funcionar el inodoro. Pregunté al guarda — “Y ?si tengo que cagarme?” — “No te cagues” (en inglés: “Hold it”) — repusa. Contesté: — “No es possible abstenerse de cagar más allá de un cierto límite” (en inglés: “You can hold it only so long.”). Sin embargo y en contra de lo que yo supnía, el fontanero volvió aproximadamente una hora después y reanudó su trabajo. Trabajó unas dos horas más, hasta las diez, y entonces todo quebaba reparado: el inodoro funcionaba, y el caño daba debidamente así agua caliente como agua fría. Pero durante aquellas dos horas no pude hacer nada más que leer un poco, porque tuve que vigilar el caño del lavabo por si acaso le saliera otro chorro de agua; éste lo desviaría yo con la mano para que fluyese en el lavabo y no mojoara otro vez mis cosas. Además, el fontanero o el guarda que asistía me dijeron de vez en cuando, — “prueba el agua caliente”,, o “prueba el agua fría”, o algo por el estilo. Así que no pude trabajar durante aquellas dos horas. Estas cosa suceden aquí con demasiada frecuencia; siempre hay algo que se descompone.

Diciembre 31 de 2004. (viernas)

He estado tan ocupado con Navidad (enviar tarjetas de Navidad, hacer un “libro de sueños”, etc. para Alegria), que me ha faltado tiempo para escribir estas notas en español y alemán. Y durante varias días (diciembre 25–29) esture enfermo debido a un absceso bajo la última muela que me queda en la parte de Abajo e ízquierdo de la boca. Diciembre 25 por la noche (?a las 7 ó 8?) me acometeieron dolores muy intensos en aquella muela. Ésta me dolió tanto que apenos pude estar quedo; tuve que caminar rápidamente de una parte a otra dentro de mi celda. Por fertuna, el dolor se apagó alrededor de la medianoche, así que pude dormir. Aproximadamento lo mismo ocurrió diciembre 26. Diciembre 27, el lunes, le envié un cop-out al dentista, y volví a hacerlo diciembre 28, el martes. (Puedo enviar cop-outs sólo por la mañana, generalmente alrededor de las ocho, porque sólo entonces viene un miembro del equipo de unidad — the unit team — a recoger cop-outs y cartas.) Entretanto,n tuve mucho dolor en a muela, pero la infeción parecía resultar más grave de lo que yo había supuesto, porque la encía se hinchaba un poco detrás de la muela, los ganglios linfáticos bajo el lado izquierdo de la mandibula me daban mucho dolor cuando yo los tocaba, aunque fuera muy ligeramente. Tuve dolores en el múslos, semejantos a los dolores que suelen acompañer una calenture. Además, me sentía un poco enfermo generalmente. Por eso, diciembre 28 por la tarde traté de consegulr que los guardas me trajesen un P.A. (physician assistant), pero, sin éxito. La noche del 28^o me sentía lo bastante enfermo,y me preocupaba lo bastante, para que escribiera cop-outs muy enfáticos al case manager, al “duty P.A.” y al Health Services Administrator, fechados el 29^o y que se debían entregar al case manager cuando llegara ésta el 29^o por la mañana. En estos cop-outs insistí en que yo necesitaba un P.A. aquel día mismo. La mañana siguiente, la del 29^o, me sentí mucho major. Sin embargo le entregué a la case manager los cop-outs, y ella dijo que me llamaría un P.A. Un poco después, llegó por casualidad el médico, Dr. Leyva, quien venía no respndiendo a mis petiiones sino porque les ofrecía inmunizaciones contra la influenza de los presos de más de cincuenta años de edad. Le di cuento de la infección; el me examinó brevemente, y me dijo que prescibiria un antibiotico. El médico se fue, y al poco tiempo lleo el P.A. Sr. Osagle, respondiendo a mi petción. No le dije que ya me había visitado el médico, porque yo temía que el médico tal vez olvidera prescribime el antibiótica. (Aquí suceden semejantes cosas con mucha frecuencia. Parece que la mitad del personal no puede acordorse de nada duante más de dos minutos.) Pues, Osagieme xaminó, afirmó que no haía inferción (lo cual fue ridíclo), y no quiso prescribir antibiótia, aunque sí rescribió ibuprofen. Las meicin suelen distiuirse por la noche, a las siete, más o menos. Al llegar el hombre que distribuía las meicnas la noche del 29^o, me dio l ibuprofen, pero ningún antibiótio. Pero me siento bien. Hesanado sin medicinas. Ni siquiera tomé el ibuprofen. Por supesto, toavía hace falta que el dentista etraigo el diente. Olvidé mencionar que me enteraron el martes, diciembre 28, de que el dentista estaba ausente, y no volvería hasta la semana que viene.

Desde que me acometio esta enfermedad,no vey al recreo. Comenzaré a ir de nuero al recreo después de que el dentista cure este absceso.

Enero 14 de 2005. Viernes

Cosa extraña: Hoy fui al recreo al aire libre. Cuando los guardas comenzaron a levarnos en nuestras celdas, advertí que el médico, Doctor Leyva o Leyha rondaba por la Puerta exterior del edificio. Repetidas reces,salio al aire libre, entró en el edificio,y sadió otra vez. Parecía que esperaba adgo o a alguien. Yo fui el ultimo que los guardas llevaron en el edificio. Cuando pasé por la Puerta, encontré ol médico, que me estaba aguardando. Dijo: “You should have been around to hear the joke! Somebody was retiring and a big package was left for them. And someone said, ‘It’s from Ted Kaczynski’!”, y se rió como se se tratara de un chiste exceptionalmente divertido. Soureí sólo por cortesía; no me sentí divertido,sino abochornado.Los guardas que me conducían estaban detrás de mí, y no pude ver si sourieron; no me sentí divertido,sino abochornado.Los guardas que me conducían estaban etrás de mí, y no pude ver si sourieron; pero no los oí reír. La anécdota que me contó el médico habría divertido mucho,sin duda, a un niño de seis años, pero no a una persono mayor, y me pareca extroardinario que Dr. Leyba me esperara cinco a diez minutos sólo para relatármela,y se riera de ella como si fuse especialmente Graciosa. Ademós, parece poco apropiado que el médico, que tiene un puestode tana responsabilidad y debería comportarse con algo de solemnidad,me ontara tal chiste. Dr. Leyba parece tener cerca de ochenta años,y me pregunto si está padeciendo debilidad senil.

Véase mi nota del 11 enero 2005 escrita en alemán. Hasta la fecha (14 enero 2005) no me han llevado otra vez al dentista, ni tampoco he recibida de él repuesta alguna. Hoy, durante el recreo al aire libre, los presos hablabar de lo difícil que es consequir la atención del personal médico. Se tiene que enviar más de un cop-out, quejarse al unit team, y aguardar unos días antes de que le atiendan a uno. Por supuesto, en muchos casos, la demora es de poca importancia. Pero en algún casa sí podría ser importante. Y el personal médrico no puede saber si el caso es grave sin examiner al preso o al menos hablar con él. Probablemente, el número de P.A.‘s, enfermeras,etc. es insuficiente,lo cual será la causa de las demoras. El único miemebre del personal médico en cuya competencia confío es Ms. Gladbach. Dr. Leyba habrá sido antiguamento un uen médico, pero ahora, como dije más arriba, me pregunto si está podeciendo debilidad senil.

Añadido el 15 de noviembre de 2008

Es bien Seguro que el P.A. Dr. Osagie es incompetente.

Ted’s Notes on his Journals (Feb. 1996)

Dates: 1996

Source: <archive.org/details/ae.-teds-journals_202303/AEJ01.%20Notes%20on%20my%20Journals>. Original source: California University Library, <harbor.klnpa.org> [now dead]

Notes: The text contains notes on his updated views, notes on whether some of the crimes written about are beyond the statute of limitations, notes on the bad public relations of some of the material if it was found uncoded or coded and breakable, etc.

---

Personal Papers

Series I. Contains ideas and quotations. #6 contains also some personal material, but not overly intimate.

#1. June 7, 1969 to Jan 22, 1970
#2. Feb 1, 1970 to Nov. 19, 1970
#3. Nov 30, 1970 to May 14, 1970
#4. June 7, 1971 to Dec 6, 1972
#5. Dec 9, 1972 to Dec 9, 1974
#6. Jan 3, 1975 to May 19, 1975
#7. Dec 20, 1975 to May 3, 1997

Series II. Outdoor journal — camping out.

#1. June 8, 1972 to Aug 7, 1972
#2. Sept 8, 1972 to Oct 26, 1972
#3. Feb 10, 1974 to Aug 28, 1974
#4. June 5, 1975 to Feb 6, 1976
#5. May 18, 1977 to Jan 26, 1978
#6. June 26, 1979 to Oct 23, 1979

Series III. Outdoor journal — at cabin, but #6 and #7 contain also some camping-out experiences

#1. Dec 1, 1971 to April 22, 1972
#2. April 27, 1972 to Oct 1, 1972
#3. Oct 2, 1972 to Nov 4, 1972
#4. June 24, 1973 to May 28, 1974
#5. May 31, 1974 to Sept 14, 1975
#6. Sept 14, 1975 to Feb 25, 1977
#7. Feb 28, 1977 to April 22, 1978
#8. Jan 25, 1980 to May 18, 1980

Series IV. Outdoor stuff at cabin mixed with highly personal stuff.

#1. June 9, 1979 to June 22, 1979

Series V. Personal experiences, outdoor or city; ideas and quotations; coded stuff (code probably breakable).

#1 June 22, 1980 to Jan 16, 1984

Series VI. Highly personal stuff. #4 also contains ideas and quotations.

#1. Sept 20, 1972 to Nov 12, 1972
#2. July 17, 1978 to Aug 23, 1978
#3. Letters of Aug 25, 1978 and Sept. 2, 1978
#4. Aug 29, 1978 to May 8, 1979
#5. Jan 6, 1975 to March 30, 1975

Series VII. Outdoor experiences, ideas and quotations.

#1. Jan 23, 1984 to March 3, 1986
#2. Sept 14, 1984 to Jan 26, 1993
#3. April 1, 1986 to June 22, 1990
#4. Nov 24, 1993 to Jan 23, 1996

Map

Autobiography

Coded stuff (unbreakable code)

Notes on my Journals

Series I, #1, pp. 11–12. Actually, Stefansson’s remark is not accurate. The Kalahari Bushmen are said to have little religion. The Siriono of Eastern Bolivia have no religion at all (see Allan R. Holmberg, Nomads of the Long Bow). The Ituri Pygmies studied by Colin Turnbull (The Forest People) certainly had less religion than the highly-developed civilization of medieval Europe, and their religion contained surprisingly little irrationality. (See also Turnbull’s Wayward Servants.)

Series I, #1, pp. 76. That the situation would last “forever” was certainly too hasty a conclusion. To engineer such a system of society so that it would have a high degree of stability is probably a far more difficult task than I imagined when I wrote those lines.

Series I, #1, pp. 83. It is doubtful that the scientists who made these predictions actually believed them. Very likely they were just trying to frighten people into being concerned about air pollution. But, whether they believed them or not, the predictions were irresponsible, and probably did more harm than good, because these scientists were “crying wolf”, and the fact that such predictions have proved so grossly inaccurate has made many people scoff at all predictions of environmental damage.

Back in 1969, I had a much higher opinion of the competence and honesty of scientists [ADDED LATER: than I do now], so I was then much more concerned about these predictions than I would be today.

Series I, #2, pp.115–118. Clearly I was at that time naive (and so was the author of the remarks in the newspaper clipping) in vastly overestimating the extent to which persons possessing unlimited authority could control the development of a society. Actually, even totalitarians can only to a very limited extent control the development of an industrial society or assure its stability. Totalitarians can control any individual member of the society, but, owing to the extreme complexity of the system, the ability to control individuals does not imply the ability to control the system as a whole. Thus the Soviet Union blundered into an economic mess that led to a social and political revolution, and those socialist countries that have alleviated their economic problems have been able to do so only through partial liberalization. But notice that this liberalization did not come through the kind of gradual, peaceful process envisioned by the liberal intellectuals, but was forced on the socialist world by critical economic problems.

Series I, #3, p.250. I don’t doubt that effective control of human behavior is possible, but I now think that the extent to which the behavior of an uncontrolled human being can be predicted is very much an open question. I am not suggesting that human behavior is based on anything but the laws of physics and chemistry; but it now appears that even purely deterministic processes are not necessarily predictable in practice. Bear in mind the “butterfly effect.”

Series I, #3, pp.253–254. The name “Nicomus Bagley” is fictitious. The quotation actually is from a book of Adolf Hitler’s speeches titled “My New Order.” I was a little embarrassed to put a quotation of Hitler in my notebook.

Series I, #3, p.284. I no longer believe in population-control laws, On the contrary, I hope the population explosion gets completely out of hand, because that will increase the likelihood that the system will collapse. Once the technological system is gone, population will decrease very rapidly, because without modern technology it will be impossible to produce and distribute enough food to supply such an enormous number of people.

Series I, #4, p.25. A totally planned society, or even a totally planned economy, most likely is impossible. See the five principles of history formulated in “Industrial Society and its Future,” and remember the butterfly effect. But it is still true that the tendency of the system is to exert ever-greater control over the individual.

Series I, #4, p.51. Mr. Dunkle was wrong, but not completely wrong. Montana’s population certainly has grown since 1971. [CROSSED OUT: I think it’s almost doubled by now (1996).]

Series II, #5, p.26. As to why the grouse were all male: I concluded that the wing-flapping sound they make as they fly into and out of the tree is their mating call, by which they attract females, just as blue grouse make a kind of grunting sound and ruffed grouse drum on a log with their wings. I’ve noticed that blue grouse use a wing-flapping sound to communicate, though it’s not their mating call. If you come on a blue grouse that is grunting, and has thereby attracted some females, and if you get close enough to frighten the birds so that they fly into the trees, then, a few moments after they have landed in the trees, each bird will flap its wings loudly by briefly. I believe they do this to signal their location to one another, so that the group can stay together and continue their mating ritual after the danger is past.

Series II, #5, p.71. I think I now know why I had trouble with my guts during that period. I wasn’t eating enough! Since then, I’ve observed that my guts function well if I get enough calories so that I have a bowel movement every day; but if I don’t get enough calories, then my guts start retaining the food, presumably to extract all of the calories from it; hence they are many days when I miss my bowel movement. This happens even if I am consuming plenty of fiber. If I miss too many bowel movements I find that I run a high risk of the following: I eat a meal, and then anywhere from a few minutes to an hour afterward, my guts start grumbling and griping and I get violent diarrhea, so that everything comes out except the meal I’ve just eaten. Then for at least a day afterward my guts feel sickish. And for some time after that my digestive system doesn’t feel as if it is functioning just right. However, I find I am more likely to have this problem if I am eating a lot of meat, so difficulty in digesting large amounts of meat may be a factor.

Series II, #5, p.117. Here’s something that I remember pretty clearly about catching that rabbit alive; I don’t know why I didn’t mention it in my notes. In pulling the rabbit out, I tore a large patch of his skin (snowshoe hares’ skins are very fragile). I had wanted to let the rabbit go, from pity, but I was afraid that I might be doing it a disservice if I let it go, because the wound probably was very painful, and with so much of its body deprived of fur the rabbit might die of cold anyway.

Series II, #5, p.130. I now (Feb, 1996) Feel very sorry about the fact that, in a few cases, I tortured small wild animals (two mice, one flying squirrel, and one red squirrel, as far as I can remember offhand) that caused me frustration by stealing my meat, damaging my belongings, or keeping me awake. There were two reasons why I tortured them. (1) I was rebelling against the moral prescriptions of organized society. (2) I got excessively angry at these animals because I had a tremendous fund of anger built up from the frustrations and humiliations imposed on me throughout my life by organized society and by individual persons. (As any psychologist will tell you, when you have no means of retaliating against whomever or whatever it is that has made you angry, you are likely to vent your anger on some other object.) When I came to realize that I had taken out on these little creatures the anger that I owed to organized society and to certain people, I very much regretted having tortured them. They are part of nature, which I love, and therefore they are in a way my friends, even when they cause problems for me. I ought to save my anger for my real enemy, which is human society, or at least the present form of society. I have not tortured an animal for many years now. However, I have no hesitation about trapping and killing animals that cause problems for me, provided they are animals of the more common kinds.

Series II, #6, whole thing. I think part of the reason why I used to get so tired on those long sojourns in the woods was that I wasn’t eating enough. I used to reduce to a minimum the amount of civilized food that I ate, in order to be able to stay out in the woods longer.

Queered: scale 0 to 10

0 is not queered at all

10 is utterly, maximally queered

Personal: Scale 0 to 3

0 not personal at all

3 very intimate

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Poaching

Harmless

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Useful notes for manuscript

Series I, #1, pp. 12–13 (George Sanders)

Series I, #6, p.12. “There are frequent transfers of Forest Service personel from one post to another, a practice that reduces loyalty to a specific community and increases dependence on the Service.”

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Series I, #1

pp.17–19 queer 8

pp.19–20 queer 2

pp.21–28 queer 5

pp.30–36 queer 5

pp.37–38 queer 6

pp.39–80 queer 8

pp.88–90 queer 2

pp.90–114 queer 7

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Series I, #2

p.115 queer 7

pp.127–128 queer 2

pp.123–127 queer 8

pp.133–134 queer 6

p.136 queer 2

p.138 queer 8

pp.139–140 queer 7

p.143 queer 8

p.145 queer 4

p.149 queer 9

p.150 queer 5

pp.152–153 queer 5

pp.152–164 queer 8

pp.180–195 queer 8

pp.200–201 queer 6

pp.202–204 queer 2

pp.204–207 queer 8

pp.207–214 queer 9

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Series I, #3 pp.261–262 0 queer 9

p.276–283 queer 10

Almost all the rest of the notebook is queer 8

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Series I, #4. Might as well call the whole notebook queer 8.

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Series, #5. pp.111–115 queer 10

Might as well call all the rest of the notebook queer 8

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Series I, #6 Queer 10

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Series I, #7 Queer 8

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Series II, #1, no queer

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Series II, #2, no queer

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Series II, #3, p.29 queer 1 (embarrassing, not dangerous)

p.56 queer 2 (but past statute of limitations)

p.64 queer 7

p.82–86 queer 7

p.102 queer 1

p.105 queer 3

p.120–121 queer 2 (but past statute of limitations)

Bad Public relations

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Series II, #4. Call this notebook queer 3. But very bad public relations.

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Series II, #5, up to p.121, queer 2 (but past statute of limitations)

p.122-to end, queer 9

Crime Journals

Ted Kaczynski’s Journal of Early Crimes (1979)

Source: Archive.org & California University Archive

Notes: A hand-written folded sheet of paper detailing his acts of “monkey wrenching” and first attempts at planting bombs.

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Here I am going to confess to—or, to be more accurate, brag about—some misdeeds I have committed in the last few years.

There is a small, functioning mine—I’ll call it Mine X for future reference—a few miles from my cabin, on the south side of the ridge that runs east from here. They had a large diesel engine mounted on the back of an old truck, apparently for running a large drill for boring holes in rock. In Summer ‘75 I put a small quantity of sugar in the fuel tank of the diesel engine and also in the gas tank of the truck. Sugar in the gas is supposed to severely damage an engine because it gets into the cylinders and acts as an abrasive. But I don’t know if this works in diesels (maybe sugar is soluble in gasoline but not in diesel fuel—or something).

Somebody used to have an oldish house-trailer parked at an abandoned mine up Fields Gulch; it seemed to be used only in hunting season. In Summer ‘75 I broke into this trailer by unscrewing some screws and prying off a metal window-frame, ruining it in the process. (I had a strong psychological inhibition against breaking the window, even though it’s very unlikely anyone could have been within earshot.) I stole a few cans of food from the trailer … (Next summer I noticed the trailer had been removed.)

Still in Summer ’75, I went to the camp—apparently it is an outfitter’s camp—along the divide trail east of the trout drainage. They have a corral there, and, a little way back in the woods, a kind of lean-to with equipment stored in it. I stole an axe (this is the axe I still use), poked holes in several 5-gallon plastic water-containers, took the stovepipe and hid it off in the woods, smashed 2 thermometers, and scattered most of the other stuff around

At the end of Summer ’75 after the roaring by of motorcycles near my camp spoiled a hike for me, I put a piece of wire across a trail where cycle-tracks were visible, at about neck height for a motorcyclist. (Next summer I found someone had wrapped the wire safely around a tree. Unfortunately, I doubt anyone was injured by it.)

Summer ’76 I went back to Mine X and put a generous quantity of sugar in the fuel-tank of the diesel engine and the gas-tank of the truck. Fall ’76, when those guys were taking rock for landfill from near the cabin here, I went at night and put a large quantity of sugar in the gas tank of an oldish pickup truck they had left there. Also in Fall ’76 I went to a certain cabin in Rochester Gulch. From tracks I’ve seen I am pretty confident that it is the people who own this cabin who are responsible for much of the motorcycle-groaning that occurs on the ridge that runs east from Baldy. Parked behind the cabin I found 2 snowmobiles and a “coot” (a 4-wheeled off-road vehicle). I sugared the gas on the coot and one of the snowmobiles.

Spring ’77 I went back to this same cabin. There was a diesel earth-moving machine parked near it, and I sugared the fuel tank. Then I unscrewed a window from its frame (still that inhibition about breaking windows), entered the cabin, stole a trail axe, slashed the mattresses of 6 beds they had there, slashed a sofa, and poured out a 1/3-full bottle of vodka.

Summer ’77 I set a booby-trap intended to kill someone, but I won’t say what kind or where because if this paper is ever found the trap might be harmlessly removed. But it probably doesn’t have more than maybe a 1 in 5 chance of killing or seriously injuring someone.

Summer ’77 I strung a neck-wire for motorcyclists along the divide trail above Brewster Bill Creek. Later I found the wire was gone. Whether it hurt anyone I don’t know.

Summer ’77 up South Fork Humbug, I shot a cow in the head with my .30–30, then got the fuck out of there. I mean a rancher’s cow, not an elk cow.

Summer ‘77, I also went down at dawn and smashed my neighbor Lee Mason’s mailbox with my axe in such a way that it looked as if some vehicle might have hit it.

Fall ‘77 I went to some cabins along Dalton Mountain Road. There was one pretention ‒ looking cabin still not finished on the inside. There was a small house‒trailer parked on the lot, immaculately furnished inside. I stole a rusty animal trap I found outside the cabin. Overcoming my earlier inhibition, I smashed most of the windows in the trailer, then reached inside with my rifle and smashed a Coleman lantern and 2 gas lamp fixtures. I smashed 6 pains on the cabin. At the cabin next door I shot a hole in a new line on a trailer. Then I got the hell out pretty quick, because all this was noisy of course, and close to the road.

As a result of indoctrination since childhood I had a strong inhibition against doing these things, and it was only at the cost of great effort that I overcame the inhibition. I think that perhaps I could now kill someone (and I don’t mean just set a booby trap having only a fraction chance of success), under circumstances where there was very little chance of getting caught. But I’m not sure I could, because often one’s brainwashing turns out to be stronger than one thought.

As for motivation: I hate the technological society because it deprives me of personal autonomy. The technological society may be in some sense inevitable, but it is so only because of the way people behave. Consequently I hate people. (I may have some other reasons for hating some people, but the main reason is that people are responsible for the technological society and its associated phenomena, from motorcycles to computers to psychological controls. Almost anyone who holds steady employment is contributing his part in maintaining the technological society.) Of course the people I hate most are those who consciously and willfully promote the technological society, such as scientists, big businessmen, union leaders, politicians, etc., etc. I emphasize that my motivation is personal revenge. I don’t pretend to have any kind of philosophical or moralistic justification. The concept of morality is simply one of the psychological tools by which society controls people’s behavior. My ambition is to kill a scientist, big businessman, government official, or the like. I would also like to kill a communist.

I came back to the Chicago area in May, mainly for one reason: So that I could more safely attempt to murder a scientist, businessman, or the like. Before leaving Montana I made a bomb in a kind of box, designed to explode when the box was opened. This was a long, narrow box. I picked the name of an electrical engineering professor out of the catalogue of the Renssalaer Polytechnic Institute and addressed the bomb — a package to him.

I took the package to downtown Chicago, intending to mail it from there (this was in late May, I think around the 28^th or 29^th), but it didn’t fit in mail boxes and the post-office package-drops I checked did not look as if they would swallow such a long package except in one post-office (Merchandise Mart); but that was where I had bought stamps for the package a few days before, so I was afraid to go there again because, going there twice in a short time, my face might be remembered.

So I took the bomb over to the U. of Illinois Chicago Circle Campus, and surreptitiously dropped it between two parked cars in the lot near the science and technology buildings.

I hoped that a student ‒ preferably one in a scientific field ‒ would pick it up, and would either be a good citizen and take the package to a post office to be sent to Renssalaer, or would open the package himself and blow his hands off, or get killed.

I checked the newspapers carefully afterward but could get no information about the outcome of what I did ‒ the papers seem to report only crimes of special importance.

I have not the least feelilng of guilt about this ‒ on the contrary I am proud of what I did. But I wish I had some assurance that I succeeded in killing or maiming someone.

I am now working, in odd moments on another bomb.

The bomb mentioned just above used match-heads as an explosive. Earlier this month I left it in a room marked “graduate student research” at the Technological Institute at Northwestern University. The bomb used match-heads as an explosive. The bomb was in a cigar box and was arranged to go off when the box was opened. I did it this way instead of mailing the bomb to someone because an unexpected package in the mail might arouse suspicion, especially since a short while before there had been an incident in the news where cops in Alabama had been killed and maimed by a bomb sent them in the mail.

According to the newspaper, a “graduate researcher” at northwestern was “hospitalized with cuts on the arms and burns around the eyes.” (Tribune, May 9) Unfortunately, I didn’t notice anything in the article indicating that he would suffer any permanent disability. I figured the bomb was probably not powerful enough to kill (unless one of the lead pellets I put in it happened to penetrate a vital organ). But I had hoped that the victim would be blinded or have his hands blown off or be otherwise maimed. Actually, the guy might have been blinded if he hadn’t been wearing glasses. The article said his “eyeglasses were blown off.” He had burns around the eyes, and maybe he would have had burns in the eyes if his glasses hadn’t momentarily absorbed the flow of hot gasses. Well, at least I put him in the hospital, which is better than nothing. But not enough to satisfy me. Well, live and learn. No more match-head bombs. I wish I knew how to get hold of some dynamite.

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By the way, my motive for keeping these notes separate from the others is the obvious one. Some of my other notes contain hints of crime, but no actual accounts of felonies. But these notes must be very carefully kept from everyone’s eyes. Kept separate from the other notes they make a small, compact packet, easily concealed.

Anyone I don’t know?

Up South, Fork Humbug, I shot a cow in the head with my 3030.

And then got the hell out of there.

I mean a ranchers cow, not an elk cow.

I also went down at dawn and smashed Lee Mason mailbox with my axe in such a way that it looks as if some vehicle might.

Have hit it.

In fall, I went to some cabins along Dalton Mountain Rd.

It was a small house trailer parked on the lot, immaculately furnished inside.

I stole the rusty animal trap I found outside the cabin.

Overcoming my earlier inhibitions, I smashed most of the windows in the trailer, then reached inside with my rifle and smashed a Coleman Lantern and two gas lamp fixtures.

I smashed 6 panes on the cab and had the camera neck.

Or I shot a hole in a new tire on a trailer.

Then I got.

Then I got the hell out pretty quick because all this was noisy, of course, and close to the road.

As a result of indoctrination since childhood had a strong inhibitions against doing these things.

And it was only at the cost of great effort that I overcame the inhibitions.

I think that perhaps I could now kill someone under circumstances where there was very little chance of getting caught, but I’m not sure I could, because often one brainwashing turns out to be stronger than one thought.

As for motivation, I hate the technological society because it deprives me of personal autonomy.

It may be in some sense inevitable, but it is so only because of the way people behave.

Consequently, I hate people for the technological society and its associated phenomena.

From motorcycles to computers to psychological controls.

Almost anyone who holds steady employment is contributing his part.

Of course.

People I hate most are those who consciously and willfully promote the technological society, such as scientists, businessmen and politicians.

I emphasize that my motivation is personal revenge.

I don’t pretend to have any kind of philosophical or moralistic justification.

The concept of morality is simply one of the psychological tools by which society controls people’s behavior.

In May 1978, I came back to the Chicago area, mainly for one reason, so that I could more safely attempt to murder a scientist businessman.

Or the like.

I would also like to kill a Communist.

Before leaving Montana, I made a bomb in a kind of box.

Designed to explode when the box was opened.

This was a long narrow box.

I picked the name.

I picked the name of an electrical engineering professor out of the catalog of the RESULI, or Polytechnic Institute and addressed the bomb package to him.

I took the package to downtown Chicago, intending to mail it from there.

But it didn’t fit in the mailboxes.

And the post office package drops I checked out did not look as if they could swallow such a long package except in one post office at the Merchandise Mart.

But that was where I had bought stamps for the package a few days ago, so it’s afraid to go there again because my face might be remembered.

So I took the bomb to the University of Illinois Circle campus and Superstitiously dropped it between two parked cars in the lot near the science and technology buildings I hope the student, preferably one in the science field, would pick.

Get up and would either be a good citizen and take the package to a post office or would open the package himself and blow his hands off or get killed.

I checked the newspapers carefully afterwards but could get no information about the outcome of what I did.

I have not the least feeling of guilt about this.

On the contrary, I am proud.

Of what I did.

But I wish I had some reassurance that I succeeded in killing or maiming someone.

Earlier this month, I left the second bomb in her room, marked graduate student research at the Technological Institute at Northwestern University.

The bomb was in a cigar box and it was arranged to go off when the box was opened.

I did it this way instead of mailing the bombs of someone, because an unexpected package in the mail might arouse suspicion.

According to the Tribune, may.

Tonight, a graduate student was hospitalized with cuts and burns as a result of my bomb.

Unfortunately, I didn’t notice anything in the article indicating he would suffer any permanent disability.

I figured the bomb was probably not powerful enough to kill unless one of the lead pellets I put in it happened to penetrate a vital organ.

But I had hoped that the victim would be blinded, or have his hand blown off, or be otherwise maimed.

Well, at least I put him in the hospital, which is better than nothing, but nothing to satisfy me.

I wish I knew how to get some dynamite.

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By the way, my motive for keeping these notes separate from the others is the obvious one. Some of my other notes contain hints of crime, but no actual accounts of felonies. But these notes must be very carefully kept from everyone’s eyes. Kept separate from the other notes they make a small, compact packet, easily concealed.

Notebook X

Dates: June 22, 1980 to Jan 16, 1984

Source: <archive.org> & A Review and Compilation of the Writings of Ted Kaczynski.

Notes: “Personal experiences, outdoor or city; ideas and quotations; coded stuff (code probably breakable).”

Decoded, Error Corrected and Translated Version.

— Bold text is text that has been decrypted —

— Decrypted parts have been spell corrected and grammar corrected because Ted purposefuly made errors to make the text more difficult to decrypt. Plus the Spanish parts have been translated. —

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1980

[Missing Pages]

...

[Unknown Date]

... possible, not in a regular campground, because of the expense, because I hate these places, and because I dislike being conspicuous from the fact that I have neither tent nor camper. So I drive around these little dirt roads trying to find a place to pull my car off where I will be secluded enough so that I won’t be questioned by the police (as has happened to me sometimes in the past). Sometimes it is difficult or impossible. Another thing that makes the trip miserable is the fact that the car (Dave’s car, which I am using) I’ve been having trouble and has been having to get it fixed more than once. It wouldn’t be so bad if I knew an area where I can find what I want. The main problem is to avoid jet planes. I’ve not had success trying to get information about what areas are free of them.

Thus I have to drive around blind, so to speak, and investigate different places personally. I’ve had to be cautious about making inquiries concerning what areas are free of commercial air routes because I have committed crimes directed against planes, so I don’t want to call attention to myself as one who hates planes and wants to avoid them!

June 29, 1980

My brother has a weak, flaccid personality, and I have no respect for him. His ideology of “Art” is based on self-deception; and is quite imitative, in spite of the fact that (like most who latch onto that ideology) he claims to abhor imitation. On the other hand, I have a real affection for him. Thus, my feelings toward him tend to waver between affection and contempt.

July 30, 1980

From “Mythology of All Races, Ed. Louis Herbert Gray, Cooper Square Publishers, Inc. New York, 1964: Vol III p.261: “The principal business of the [Russian] sylvan spirits is to guard the forest. They do not allow-people to whistle or shout there…”

Vol. IV p.177: “A forest spirit resembling the Rusian Lesiy is the Eastern Lapps’ iehts-hozjin (“the Master of the forest”) … When anyone shouts, sings or makes a noise in the forest, he becomes offended, and bewilders the culprit so that he cannot find his way out of the forest. The “Master of the forest” loves silence above all.”

Aug.6. In order to show how much individual difference exists in our society than in what are value—judgements, but the assumptions that I made about why some people worship Art and Philosophy are statements of a factual character.)

I am not taking any stand as to whether or not there is more diversity (on significant points (what I would consider significant]) in our society than in New Guinea – I am merely sneering at the importance that Maggie Mead ascribes (by implication) to the particular points of diversity that she listed.

Maggie Mead only stayed a few months with those people. She claims that was enough, but one wonders how well she could have really got to know them in that length of time.

Her opinion of their comparative uniformity may be a case of “all coons look alike to me”. Or maybe not. I don’t claim to know. Of course it is very probable that there is more diversity in our society if you take people from widely different backgrounds (say a ghetto nigger and [crossed out: a profess] an upper middle class type) than what ordinarily occurs between two individuals in a New Guinea village. But it’s not so clear if you restrict attention to a particular class in our society (say upper-middle-class-businessman).

Aug 18, 1980

In June nineteen eighty, I sent a bomb to P.A. Wood, Pres. of United Airlines. According to newspapers hospitalized with cuts and burns and had surgery for removal of fragments. Post office offered five thousand bucks reward for identification of culprit. FBI said bomb had enough powder to kill, but “faulty craftsmanship” weakened it because culprit left something loose. This is false, though my design may have been poor due to ignorance of the technology. The detonator did all I designed it to do. It ignited the powder. I know for certain there was nothing “loose” in the explosive unit itself, because the ends of the pipe were stopped with wooden plugs fastened with epoxy and for each plug “two nails passing through plug and both sides of pipe. There would be nothing else to get loose that could weaken explosion. Probably, bomb weak from naive design or FBI mistaken about type of powder. They were partly wrong about type of switch used, judging from newspaper.

Sept. 15, 1980

Shortly after getting back to Montana after spending the greater part of a year working in the Chicago area, I reported in my notes that I no longer had the powerful desire for women that had troubled me while I was living among people. That was correct, and I am still untroubled by any strong sexual desire. Furthermore, I now look with a certain amount of disgust not only on the desire for sexual love that I experienced while at Chicago, but also on the other social feelings that I then experienced, mainly toward my co-workers at Prince Castle. Perhaps those feelings were partly due to my brief infatuation with that Ellen Bitch. Be that as it may, it is better to have cooly detached feelings toward people. Strong feelings do have their pleasures, but they tend to be enslaving; they infringe on one’s autonomy. While having those feelings I looked back with a kind of nostalgia to the psychological autonomy and (so to speak) purity that I’d had in the mountains. Now, back in relative solitude, I am somewhat repelled by the memory of my social feelings.

Another topic: Since committing the crimes reported elsewhere in my notes I feel better. I am still plenty angry, you understand, but the difference is that I am now able to strike back to a degree. True, I can’t strike back to anything like the extent I wish to, but I no longer feel totally helpless, and the anger doesn’t gnaw at my guts as it used to. Guilty feelings? Yes, a little. Occasionally I have bad dreams in which the police are after me. Or in which I am threatened with punishment from some super natural source. Such as the devil. But these don’t occur often enough to be a problem. I am definitely glad to have done what I have.

Just two or three weeks ago I committed a particularly satisfy small misdeed. Feeling the need for a little peace, I took a couple of weeks rations in my pack and set off. I went first to the thickets around the head of Rochester Gulch. Tired, I cooked a little cake of bannock, ate, and lay back to rest.

Despite occasional passing airplanes, the peace of the woods began to settle over me. Then my ears picked up a tiny fluctuating sound that seemed like the distant buzz of chainsaw but it was so faint that I dismissed it as imaginary. However, the noise soon became louder, and it came closer so rapidly that I concluded it was no logging operation. Someone must be cutting a trail through those thickets of which I have always been especially fond, because they are difficult to walk through, and therefore I had always felt sure of my solitude in them.

Though tired, I picked up my rifle, stuck a few items in my pockets, and went to investigate. By this time the cutters were passing within a hundred yards of my camp and I could hear their voices. I sneaked through the thickets very quietly. I passed close to a male spruce grouse which had been resting on the ground, sitting flat on its belly. It moved slowly away, watching me dubiously. When I got close enough, I stood and watched the cutters I could have shot one, but I was afraid that in that case I might be tracked by dogs and with my heavy pack and fatigue I was in no position to get away by some long complicated route wading along stream beds. After a while I saw them move a motorcycle along the trail they had cut. I was now fairly sure these must be the people who have one of the cabins at the mouth of Rochester Gulch.

I think these people are some of the main culprits among those who go tearing over the mountain meadows on their cycles. You can follow the tracks to where they come out quite near that cabin, and there is a big rutted place where the motorcycles climb up to get up on the ridge. This new trail would nicely complement the routes they use, and let them ride past the head of Rochester.

After watching them play with their chainsaws a while, I sneaked around behind them and followed back along their own trail for maybe ¼ or ¾ mile until I found where they had left their other two motorcycles. I put sugar in the gas tanks of both and slashed all the tires. Then I sneaked back to my camp. Here I waited tensely for a while, afraid to move out immediately because it’s very hard to move thickets with a pack, and they were walking so close that I was afraid they might hear me. In the intervals when they were not running the saws.

After a while I heard the first cycle running up where the other two cycles had been left. After a short interval it ran back to where the work had been going on, and after another interval I heard it roaring away over the mountain and down in the general direction of the mouth of Rochester. I waited a while longer, and, all being quiet, I loaded up my pack and moved out. I was more successful than I’d expected (though not completely so) in being quiet with the pack in the thicket. After some hard work getting through that stuff, I went down to a favorite campsite of mine, near where I had my secret shack. Here I found the peace I wanted. But next day I went home, because I was nervous about lingering anywhere in the area after my misdeed.

I was particularly pleased with myself after this incident, for 2 reasons. For one thing, it was a very neat trick that I pulled. Those fuckers must have been astonished and mystified to find their cycles ripped up only a quarter mile from where they were working, in an area where they would hardly expect to find any people. For another thing, this revenge was particularly satisfying because it was an immediate and precisely directed response the provocation. Contrast it with the revenge I attempted for jet noise. I long felt frustrated anger against the planes.

After complicated preparation I succeeded in injuring the Pres. of United Airlines, but he was only one of a vast army of people who directly and indirectly are responsible for the jets. So the revenge was long delayed, vaguely directed, and inadequate to the provocation. Thus it felt good to be able, for a change, to strike back immediately and directly.

A few days later I sent anonymous note to the forest service informing them of that presumably illegal trail.

But I think the Forest Service is a little lax about such things, and if they do anything at all they probably only reprimand the people concerned.

Sept. 23, 1980

Yesterday I got back from a 5-day excursion in mostly wet, drizzly or rainy weather. Generally slept cold at night. At the age of 38, I should be well over the hill physically, …

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[Unknown Date]

… linens made from the remains of my old worn-out sleeping bag that I saved for moderate temperature they could also be used without the linens, the fur alone then sewing as insulation. All my other mittens are quite worn out, except for the down-filled ones that I bought in early 1973. These I’ve used only in very cold weather and never for rough work, because they were expensive ($16⁰⁰). So that I can continue to preserve these, I made the nockchuck mittens for every-day use.

Nov. 14

I have just re-read, for I suppose the 4^th or 5^th time, Joseph Wood Knutch’s “The Desert Years”. I admire this book. To me, the first chapter, “Why I came”, is a most wonderful piece of writing. It goes right to my heart.

Jan. 3, 1981. Very mild winter so far – hardly any snow on the ground. A few days ago there was enough of a thaw so that it was possible to dig roots, and I made a little discovery that will be useful if confirmed by later experiences: Dandelion roots are much more tender and starch-filled when dug at this time of year than they are when dug in the spring, at which time the plants have already started to grow.

Next year I expect I’ll dig some dandelion roots in late autumn before the ground freezes.

1981

Jan. 11

Catching up on some things to be coded: Concerning the excursion reported in the Sept, 23 (1980) entry: On my way to my old familiar campsite, on the first day of the excursion, I saw that a favorite spot of mine, not far from the campsite, was being ruined by logging. Also on that trip I smashed all the windows of a fairly new, pretentious type cabin by Dalton Mtn. Rd. During October I took a trip (two nights out) to McClellan Creek, where I’d previously seen a new mining claim with tin shack. Made me sick to see where they’d bulldozed a road through, just so they could dig small amount of gold as a hobby. So I broke into shack and smashed up their stuff, which was the purpose of the trip.

Written Dec. 25, 1980

It may surprise some people who regard any enemy of organized society as “sick” and therefore unhappy, but I find that I am a happy man of course. I have had much satisfaction and happiness ever since I came to live in the mountains, but all too often I was acutely troubled by frustrated anger at motorcycles, airplanes, all that stuff against which my journals are full of complaints, and at the death of wilderness and freedom that I foresee. I sometimes felt as if I wanted to die along with the wilderness. However, since acquiring the ability to commit revenge crimes, I have found vast relief from these problems. Now my anger need no longer be held in. Also, I have made a change of attitude.

Wild country is still best, but now I am more willing to take what good things I can get from life even when I can’t isolate myself from the system nearly as much as I’d like. This change of attitude is made possible by my revenge crimes, because (since I can strike back) this change of attitude no longer represents a humiliating, slavish surrender. Wild country, freedom, and isolation from the system best. And if the system deprives me of these then I must strike back revengefully. But if I can strike back, then I can better enjoy nature partly ruined by the invasion of the system, because the invasion of the system no longer chokes me with frustrated anger, provided I can get some revenge.

Jan. 21

Having chiseled and ground the surface of my flat stone to make it more efficient for grinding seeds, I am now adding a heaping tablespoonful of meal made by grinding pennycress seeds to each of my cakes of bread -the pennycress meal being substituted for an equal amount of whole-wheat flour. I am short on whole-wheat flour, which I need for roughage to keep my guts acting right, so that the equally rough pennycress meal is useful in stretching my supply. It makes a dark-brown bread of very good flavor, with a mustardy bite to it, pennycress being related to mustard. When my pennycress seeds are used up, I expect to try Cheropodum album seeds, of which I also have a modest supply.

I wish I could describe how joyous it is to get up early in the morning, take the rifle under the arm, and go out to range over the hills. But I must admit that the rifle has been doing little business this winter, because there’s been so little snow. Since about early November I’ve only shot II rabbits, and one squirrel, and trapped one squirrel. A project I have in hand obliged me to go to Lincoln a few times, and I’ve brought back a little canned fish, but it isn’t really enough, so I’ve been getting rather meat-hungry in between the few snowfalls when I’ve been able to get rabbits.

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... Modern society. This piece is: Is there happiness for the woman I work for?, written by Roberto Arlt, pages 54–56. It appeared first in Nuevas portenas etchings, by Roberto Arlt.

The Second Piece: (page 37); it appeared first in “The City of a Man” by Leonidas Barletta.) – Look how beautiful our city is! With these guys who don’t believe in anything! And they don’t respect anything, not even the president! Here no one can pretend to be important, because no one cares. – And when we give importance to something, it is to annoy the opposite, and for a short time. – [This I want. It is as it should be.]

June 26, 1981

It’s been about a month since I broke into the cabin that belongs (as a prisoner) to the idiots who often ride motorcycles around Rochester Gulch. I broke most of the windows and tore off two-thirds of the roofing. If I’m mistaken in thinking this cabin belongs to those people, it doesn’t matter much, because I’ve seen motorcycles parked at this cabin at the mouth of Rochester, again “Snow mobiles” and another type of “Recreation vehicle”. It was my second or third visit to this cabin.

July 5

A few days ago I finished making a twenty-two caliber pistol. This took me a long time, over a year and a half, thereby preventing me from working on some other projects I would have liked to carry out. Gun works well and I get as much accuracy out of it as I’d expect a inexperienced pistol shot like me. It is equipped with improvised silencer which does not work as well as I hoped. At a guess it cuts noise down to maybe one third. It is said that it is easy machinist to make a gun, but of course, I didn’t have machine tools, but only a few files, hacksaw blades, small vice, a rickety hand drill, etc. The barrel I took from parts of an old air pistol. The other parts I made from various scraps of iron, most of them from abandoned cars near here. It required great care to make the parts quite accurately, but I did well and I’m quite satisfied. I want to use the pistol as a homicide weapon.

July 13

Yesterday evening I happened to locate the nest of a hummingbird. Well, I was going to write in Spanish, to practice, but I forgot. Yesterday, a little before sunset, I found a hummingbird’s nest. At least I think so. It was a dark object that was high in a Douglas-fir, and the hummingbird landed on it repeatedly, but I couldn’t see if it was indeed a nest. I didn’t want to climb the tree to see, because ...

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… newspaper “El Sol de Arizona” … a newspaper printed in Spanish. In his column “My Notes of the Week” Julio Mancillas writes: “Another sacred animal was the silver bear and the eagle, symbol of free life and power, in such a way that the Apaches always sought the feathers of said bird, to adorn their heads.” This phrase is not very clear, but it is evident that Mr. Mancillas means that for the Apaches the eagle was a symbol of free life. A few years ago I mentioned in my notes a case in which a Berber nomad used the Aquila as a symbol of free life. And of course this simosism is very familiar to us. It seems that various towns react in the same way to the eagle.

1982

Jan 28

Two or three years ago when I went by Wash toward Ton Creek saw cabin belonging to bad people (they had brand new pick up, slick looking fixings inside cabin). With steel traps hanging outside cabin, but not convenient for me to take them at the time. So this summer, I think in July I went to get the traps. Had good trip brought six days rations. Got traps, broke into cabin and got another days rations. Further down the stream was a mining operation with a dredge and bulldozer that was damaging the stream and making noise that I could hear far away, high in the mountains. I spent a day going down there and damaging their machines. Found they were working at the time and only one machine standing at a distance so I could damage it. Slashed tires, slashed expensive hose, damaged small engine on it. Frustrated at not being able to hurt miners more, I did minor damage to two cabins on the way back to camp. About two years before, when I went this way I found a jerk tearing up the mountain with a CAT on some silly dream of finding gold (it seems mining laws permit this). I later damaged his tractor as much as I could. This time when I passed by there, no sign of further work having been done. Seems my vandalism ended his vandalism. On way home passed through McClellan where some jerks have been playing miner, tearing up creek in sickening way. They also dug prospect holes on ridge. I took an important looking part (generator) off engine of their cat and buried it in bottom of another creek where it’ll rust away.

Jan 31

This winter, hunting in zero, said the thermometer. A disappointment. But it is another beautiful and very pleasant morning.

Feb 5

In early September I sneaked up on cabins at Rochester Gulch. At lower cabin I saw two parked motorcycles. From this and certain other evidence I now believe its the people of lower cabin who were main motorcycle culprits of that area. I came back at night, tore off some roofing, broke window, slashed up couch, bed, curtains, clothing, took box of tools (maybe hundred bucks worth) buried them under log in woods. On way back to camp I felt so good. Beautiful full moon. Some jerk placer mining way up at source of Rechester, area littered up. I recked a wheelbarrow he had there.

Feb. 7

Yesterday 10 degrees at dawn, fresh snow, went up on ridge to hunt. Got 4 rabbits, all of them pretty far out, away from home. Two of them I found sitting together about 8 ft. apart. I think this is only the second time I have ever found 2 rabbits in sight of one another. When I shot first of the 2 rabbits it kicked, though not as violently as they usually do; but the other rabbit gave no sign of noticing any thing unusual, and I shot it, too. Beautiful sunshiney day. Some of my hunting was on steep slopes in very open woods in an area where I haven’t hunted rabbits before. The 4^th rabbit was the one I got closest to home – in the steep thicket by the big rock outcrop low down in the gulch that runs down from nest peak east of Baldy. Then I had to climb up onto the ridge from that area in order to go home – an exhausting task, as it is very difficult to get up that slope on snowshoes in winter. When I get up on top of the ridge I lay down in the snow to rest. I could see a large bird sitting in a dead tree on the next ridge over. By and by it took off and began soaring upward in circles on an updraft. It looked so large that it may have been an eagle rather than a hawk – but it’s hard to tell at such a distance. I watched, absorbed, as the bird circled higher and higher. It was an entrancing sight. After a while the spell was broken by the noise of a jet plane. But still it was a very good day. There has been a good deal of cold weather this winter. Thermometer read 8 degrees below this morning.

Feb 9

The cold continues. This morning the thermometer said 15 degrees below zero. But I rather like the cold. Things have been quiet lately and life is joyous. It seems I am more sensitive than ever to the attractions of such things as sunlight, open spaces, silence, wind, snow, and even just the interior of the cabin, which after all is my own construction and is part of my way of life here.

Feb 11

Yesterday morning the thermometer said zero degrees. She got up to about 25 degrees in the afternoon, but early today it said 2 degrees below zero. Almost every morning the moose are out on the Baldy meadows, eating grass. Today I saw the moose dig in the snow to reach the mast. My hare-skin-lined coat is still in good condition and serves me well in this cold weather. Since February 3, the thermometer said at dawn: -10 degrees, -21 degrees, -22 degrees, +10 degrees, -8 degrees, -15 degrees, 0 degrees, -2 degrees. A longer than usual cold spell, but nothing very exceptional, except that the temperatures of -21 degrees and -22 degrees were the lowest I have recorded here except for -29 ½ degrees (-31 ½ degrees) on last winter.

Feb. 12

I recently wrote in a letter to my brother that the inhibitions that have been trained into me are too strong to permit me ever to commit a serious crime. This may surprise the reader considering some things reported in these notes, but motive is clear. I want to avoid any possible suspicion on my brothers part.

Feb. 14

Yesterday I hunted here in the Florence Canyon. Find a hare and hit it with an arrow from a distance of maybe six feet. The arrow entered the hare where I aimed — through the body and just behind the shoulders. However, the hare ran. I followed footprints from one part to another. I was in the thicket for several hours, but I could not catch the hare. After a while I would come several times so close to the hare that I could see it; but she still ran surprisingly well despite the arrow that was still in her body. Once I could have killed her with the rifle, but I tried to get a chance with the bow and arrow, and the hare ran again. I finally lost the tracks and I couldn’t find them again even though I searched for them for a long time. The search was very difficult because I have a short temper …

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... limping. Well, life would not be worth much to me if I were not healthy enough to be physically active, and it would be more in accordance with my opinions and my attitude towards life if I did without this security and accept an early death if it came to me. But I have another reason (by far more important) for accepting this money.

And this is that my projects for revenge on the technological society are expensive and I need money to carry them out. For instance, last fall I attempted a bombing and spent nearly three hundred bucks just for travel expenses, motel, clothing for disguise, etc. Aside from cost of materials for bomb. And then the thing failed to explode. Damn, this was the firebomb found in University of Utah business school outside door of room containing some computer stuff.

March 6

A few days ago I went to get watercress. Since I had not had fresh vegetables for at least three and a half months, I really liked the watercress. Yesterday there was sun in the afternoon and the temperature was higher than 32 degrees. I went on the slope to the north of the cabin where the snow had disappeared in many places and the ground was thawed. I found a single Wild onion, which I also liked a lot. Spring is coming and soon there will be lots of wild onions. [crossed out: Since] It hasn’t been very cold for a few weeks. Besides, it’s not very snowy, so I can’t hunt the hares and I haven’t had any meat for a few days. But today I took a walk on the south-facing slopes southwest of Baldy, where most of the snow is gone; there I scared away a group of three or four blue partridges that stopped in nearby trees. I killed two with my “twenty-two”. They were female. After removing the feathers from them, I went ahead and took a good walk. As always, the mountains seemed extremely beautiful to me, even though the sky was covered with clouds.

March 9. Yesterday there was sun and I went for a walk again on the slopes that are free of snow. But …

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… when my anger against modern civilization is such that I really need some form of escapism, and at least mathematics is far less degrading than watching TV and that kind of crap. Doubtless I will turn to mathematics again when the need to escape arises.

But I want to record it here that the fact that I work on mathematics at times does not imply that I respect it or feel it is worthwhile or anything of that sort. On the contrary, it is merely a rather unwholesome pleasure that I turn to sometimes when I need to forget.

Of course, the kind of mathematics I play with is not likely ever to have any practical applications-i.e., it is not likely ever to be useful to The System.

April 27

This past winter I shot 41 rabbits, at a cost of 42 cartridges, and trapped one rabbit. But haven’t been keeping any consistent record of what I shoot any more. Have shot a couple of grouse this spring, though (being involved in other projects) I’ve done little hunting or gathering. A couple of days ago I had a fine day.

Shot a particularly large packrat at the old mine, and a big male blue grouse that I heard grunting up on the ridge, and I got waterleaf, bitter-root, lomatium, dandelions, and wild onions.

So I’ve had excellent eating last couple of days. The lomatium was better than usual, whether because I cooked it longer or because it was gathered earlier, hence more starchy. These fine spring days are pure joy. There’s been a little bird hanging around here whose singing is most wondrously beautiful.

Fully Coded Notebooks of Crimes

Dates: 1982

Source: A Review and Compilation of the Writings of Ted Kaczynski

Notes: Cabin document #233: “Mead notebook — all in code”. Plus cabin document #234-B: “Code Book”. A spell corrected and grammar corrected version is shown first because Ted purposefully made errors to make the encoded text more difficult to decrypt.

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Error Corrected Version

May about 1982, I sent a bomb to a computer expert named Patrick Fischer. His secretary opened it. One newspaper said she was in hospital in good condition? With arm and chest cuts. Other newspaper said bomb drove fragments of wood into her flesh. But no indication that she was permanently disabled. Frustrating that I can’t seem to make a lethal bomb. Used shotgun powder in this last hoping it would do better than rifle powder. Revenge attempts have been gobbling much time, impeding other work. But I must succeed, must get revenge.

I went to the University of California Berkeley and I placed in Computer Science Building a bomb consisting of a pipe bomb in a gallon can of gasoline. According to newspapers, the vice chairman of the computer sci. dept. picked it up. He was considered to be ‘out of danger of losing any fingers but would need further surgery for bone and tendon damage in hand. Apparently pipe bomb went off but did not ignite gasoline. I don’t understand it. Frustrated. Traveling expenses for raids such as the foregoing are very hard on my slender financial resources.

Last summer dynamite blast began booming all over the hills. Occasionally audible at my cabin. Exxon conducting seismic exploration for oil. Couple of helicopters flying over the hills, lowering a thing with dynamite on cables, make blast on ground. Instruments measure vibrations.

Early August I went and camped out, mostly in what I call Diagonal Gulch, hoping to shoot up a helicopter in the area east of Crater Mountain. This proved harder than I thought, because a helicopter is always in motion. Only once had half a chance. Two quick shots, as copter crossed a space between trees. Both missed. When I got back to camp, I cried, partly from frustration at failing. But mostly from grief about what is happening to this countryside. It is so beautiful. But if they find oil, disaster. Even if they don’t find oil, the blasts and helicopters ruin it. Desecration. Where can I go now for peace and quiet?

True, if not find oil Exxon will eventually leave here. But if it isn’t one thing it’s another. Such as one of my favorite places being logged off speaking of which, summer of 1981 I began hearing disagreeable noises of machinery, sometimes surprisingly loud, depending apparently on meteorological conditions. Often but otherwise beautiful, silent morning was ruined for me when these noises started up. The following winter many otherwise pleasant excursions were ruined for me by the moaning and howling of those iron monsters, audible but often loudly) for miles over the hills. Made up my mind to get revenge, but it was difficult to determine just where noise was coming from. Had to wait for summer anyway, since my tracks could easily be followed in snow. But noise seemed to stop in spring. Then I began hearing it again in late summer,1982. I think it was in September that I took blanket, pistol, 1 days rations and followed noise to find it came from a logging operation in willow creek drainage, logging off one of my favorite wild spots. Their method was horrible. As far as I could tell without going close enough to risk being seen, they were just pushing trees over with bulldozers instead of cutting with saws. When they left for the day I went in and found the whole surface of the ground stripped right off leaving ugly tangle of limbs, uprooted trunks, and dirt. They left a 5 gallon can of oil sitting on their machine that they use to pickup logs and load them on truck. I poured the oil over the machines engine and set fire to it. I bet it cost over 1000 bucks to fix it. Spent pleasant night sleeping out on top of the mountain and came home leisurely in the morning. I felt so good after having done this. Though a mite uneasy over the risk of being suspected.

Forgot to mention, on the trip where I shot at a helicopter, I chopped down a wooden-power line pole, Hogum Creek area.

Few years ago some fuckers built a vacation house a few years ago across Stemple Pass Road. Motorcycle and snowmobile fiends. They would buzz up and down the road past my cabin on most weekends, summer and winter. Last summer it seemed they were worse than usual. Sometimes they made it a three day weekend. When they were not buzzing up this road I would hear those cycles growling and growling over by their place, all day long. It was getting absolutely intolerable. My heart is going bad. It takes exercise OK, but any emotional stress, anger above all, makes it beat irregularly.

Risky to commit crime so close to home. But I figured if I did not get those guys, the anger would literally kill me. Anyway, so one night in fall I sneaked over there, though they were home, and stole their chainsaw, buried it in a swamp. That was not enough, so a couple weeks later when they had left the place, I chopped my way into their house, smashed up the interior pretty thoroughly. It was a real luxury place. They also had a mobile home there. I broke into that too, found a silver painted motorcycle inside, smashed it up with their own ax. They had 4 snowmobiles sitting outside. I thoroughly smashed the engines of those with the ax.

Think they were the ones I cut the cycle trail at Rochester, since a silver painted cycle is unusual. Week or so later, cops came up here and asked me if I had seen anyone fooling around with any buildings around here. Also asked if I had had any problems with motorcycles. This last question suggests that the truth crossed their minds. But probably they did not seriously suspect me, otherwise their questioning would not have been so perfunctory. This winter (1982 to 1983) very few snowmobiles have come by. I suppose either those fuckers have not got machines fixed yet, or have realized that there is someone who will not let them get away with terrorizing the area. Who says crime doesn’t pay? I feel very good about this. I am also pleased that I was so cool and collected in answering cops’ questions.

December 29, 1979. In some of my notes I mentioned a plan-for revenge on society, the plan was to blow up an airliner in flight. Late summer and early autumn I constructed-device. Much expense, because had to go to gr. Falls to-buy materials, including barometer and many boxes cartridges for the powder. I put more than a quart of-smokeless powder in a can, rigged barometer so device would-explode at 2000ft. Or conceivably as high as 3500ft. Due-to variation of atmospheric pressure.

Late October I mailed the package from Chicago as priority mail so it would go by air. Unfortunately plane not destroyed, bomb too weak. Newspaper said was “low power device”. Surprised me.

(In original as I wrote it in 1989, there followed speculations why bomb weak. Now know why. Smokeless powder is deflagrating not detonating explosive, and container too weak even to fully utilize its deflagrating potential) seems that trigger system not too reliable. According to chi. Tribune, bomb went off as plane approached Washington. According to sun times, passengers plain bomb went off about half way to Washington. Should have gone off long before. Set for 2000 or up to 3500ft. According to info I got in 25000 to 40000ft. And cabins pressurized at about 8000ft. Possible explanations... Defective barometer. Pressurization in from about 1971, conceivably they now pressurize at lower altitude. System worked ok when I experimented before making up package but I have reason to suspect light touch of barometer needle on contact not absolutely reliable in transmitting current. I will try again if can get better explosive. Bomo did not accomplish much. Probably destroyed some mail. Papers said it was with mail sacks and there was smoldering fire. No damage to plane. At least it gave them a good scare. Much thick smoke came into passenger space, plane landed at airport other than its destination because of this. Tribune said no panic. But sun times said they dropped oxygen inhalators to passengers because of smoke and passengers did not know how to use them and somewhere “Jumping up and down and screaming for the poor stewardess, “And as passengers came out of plane some were embracing each other, presumably in relief.

The papers said the FBI are investigating the incident. FBI suck my cock.

So I came back to Montana early December, now working on another plan.

June 1,1985. Success at last after many failures reported in these notes. Took me year and a half of intensive effort, largely neglecting other work y to develop effective type bomb. 4.45 parts ammonium nitrate (from fertilizer) to 1 part extremely fine powdered aluminum(from aluminum paint) mixture not caked but left in powder form, ignited in ordinary iron water pipe with metal plugs in ends strong enough to withstand roughly same pressure as what walls of pipe will withstand. Simple enough but I followed some false leads before trying this one. Note difficulties I faced. For obvious reasons cant order chemicals from supply house, must make them or extract them from readily available materials. No vehicle to transport stuff, difficult access to libraries, very limited equipment, have to build own balance, other money related problems.

May 8 I planted a small bomb (less than 2 oz. of explosive) in the computer sci. Dept. At Berkeley. This is aparato no.2, exp.83 in my notebooks. At same time I mailed a larger bomb (aparato no.1 exp.82) to Boeing corp., Auburn, Wa. Outcome of Boeing bomb unknown.

Berkeley bomb did well for its size. It was sprung by airforce pilot, 26yrsold, name Hauser, working on masters deg. In electrical eng. He probably would have been killed if so positioned relative to bomb as to take the fragments in his body. As it were, mainly his right arm was hit. Witnesses said, “Whole arm was exploded, “Blood all over the place. “One newspaper said arm was “Mangled”. Another said it was “Shattered” and that he would never recover full use of arm and hand. Also there was damage to one eye. One pap that said the small computer lab was “Destroyed”. This is improbable. Other paper said “Moderate damage” to various items of computer equipment. Probably most of the damage to arm and equiptment was due to fragments, not shockwave.

I was relieved to read what kind of guy sprang the trap. I had worried about possibility that some young kid, undergrad, not even comp sci major might get it. But this guy clearly typical member of the technician class. Might even be one of the guys that has flown those fucking jets over my home. This gives great relief to my choking, frustrated anger and sense of impotence against the system. At same time, must admit I feel badly about having crippled this man’s arm. It has been bothering me a good deal. This is embarrassing because while my feelings are partly from pity, I am sure they come largely from the training, propaganda, brainwashing we all get, conditioning us to be scared by the idea of doing certain things. It is shameful to be under the sway of this brainwashing. But do not get the idea that I regret what I did. Relief of frustrated anger outweigh sun comfortable conscience. I would do it all over again.

So many failures with feeble ineffective bombs was driving me desperate with frustration. Have to get revenge for all the wild country being fucked up by the system.

Later... Further search of newspapers yielded... Hausers arm was “Severed or nearly severed”. Tips of 3 fingers torn off. Use of arm and hand will be permanently impaired, to what degree not known. Hauser father of 2 kids. He was working toward PhD, contrary to other paper that said masters. He was afraid his “Dream” was ruined. Dream was to be astronaut. Imagine a grown man whose dream is to be an astronaut.

I am no longer bothered by having crippled this guy, partly because I just “Go to verit “With time, partly because his aspiration for so ignoble. Searched other newspapers. Found no reference to Boeing bomb. Seems inexplicable it was designed and built with su down of are that malfunction seems highly improbable. Later.

Recently I camped in a paradise like glacial cirque. At evening, beautiful singing of birds was ruined by the obscene roar of jet planes. Then I laughed at the idea of having any compunction about crippling an airplane pilot.

Experiment 100. Mid November 1985 I sent bomb in mail to James McConnell, behavior modification researcher at the University of Michigan. Only minor injuries to McConnlls assistant. Deflagrated, did not detonate. Must be either pipe was a little weak or loading density of explosive a shade too high at failure.

Experiment 97. Dec. 11, 1985 I planted bomb disguised to look like scrap of lumber behind Rentech Computer Store in Sacramento. According to the San Francisco Examiner, Dec. 20, the ‘operator’ (owner? manager?) of the store was killed, ‘blown to bits’, on Dec. 12. Excellent. Humane way to eliminate somebody. He probably never felt a thing. 25000 dollar reward offered. Rather flattering.

Dec. 11 I mailed letter to S.F. Examiner in name of a group calling itself the Freedom Club, claiming credit for the Hauser bombing and announcing itself as an anti-technology terrorist organization. But the in gc.20 article in the examiner described my series of bombings and stated that no group had claimed credit for them. Up to Dec. 22, no mention in examiner of my letter. Letter not yet arrived? Seems strange.

After this latest raid I searched L.A. Times through Dec 13 and some other papers through Dec. 14, found no mention of bombing. I feared something had gone wrong, and since exp. 100 was failure too I was terribly frustrated and thought I was going to have to spend all winter making new, better bombs, so wrote my brother giving excuse to call or visit I was going to make him. But since exp. 97 turned out so well, I will try to arrange to visit brother after all.

Original FBI decryption

MAY ABOUT 1982 I SENT A BOMB TO A COMPUTER EXPERT NAMED PATRICK FISVER. HIS SECRETARY OPENED IT. ONE NEWSPAPER SAID SHE WAS IN HOSPITAL? IN GOOD CONDITION? WITH ARMAND CHEST CUTS. OTHER NEWSPAPER SAID BOMB DROVE FRAGMENTS OFWOOD INTO HER FLESH. BUT NO INDICATION THAT SHE WAS PERMANENTLY DISABLED. FRUSTRATING THAT I CANT SEEM TO MAK 0 LETHAL BOMB.USED SHOTGUN) POWDER IN THIS LAST HOPING IT WOULD DO BETTER THAN RIFLE POWDER.NEXT I MUST TRY ANOTHER GASOLINE BOMB,DIFFERENT DESIGN.THOUGH GASOLINE BOMB I TRIED LAST FALL DID NOT GO OFF. REVENGE ATTEMPTS HAVE BEEN GOBBLING MUCH TIME,IMPEDING OTHER WORK.BUT I MUST SUCCEED,MUST GET REVENGE.

NOT LONG AFTER FOREGOING, I THINK IN JUNE OR JULY, I WENT TO U. OF CALIFORNIA BERKELEY AND PLACED IN COMPUTER SCIENCE BUILDING A BOMB CONSISTING OF A PIPEBOMB IN GALLON CAN OF GASOLINE. ACCORDING TO NEWSPAPER, VICE CHAIRMAN OF COMPUTER SCI. DEPT. PICKED IT UP. HE WAS CONSIDERED TO BE “OUT OF DANGER OF LOSING ANY FINGERS”, BUT WOULD NEED FURTHER SURGERY FOR BONE AND TENDON DAMAGE IN HAND. APPARENTLY PIPE BOMB WENT OFF BUT DID NOT IGNITE GASOLINE. I DONT UNDERSTAND IT. FRUSTRATED. TRAVELING EXPENSES FOR RAIDS SUCH AS THE FOREGOING ARE VERY HARD ON MY SLENDER FINANCIAL RESOURCES.

LTOST SUMMER DYNAMITE BLAST WAS BOOMING ALL OVER THE HILLS. OCCASIONALLY AUDIBLE AT MY CABIN, M.UCH MORE AUDIBLE A COUPLE OF MILES EAST OF HERE. EXXON CONDUCTING SEISMIC EXPLORATION FOR OIL. COUPLE OF HELICOPTERS FLYING ALL OVER THE HILLS, LOWER A THING WITH DYNAMITE ON CABLE, MAKE BLAST ON GROUND, INSTRUMENTS MEASURE VIBRATIONS.

EARLY AUGUST I WENT AND CAMPED OUT, MOSTLY IN WHAT I CALL DIAGONAL GULCH, HOPING TO SHOOT UP A HELICOPTER IN AREA EAST OF CRATER MTN. PROVED HARDER THAN I THOUGHT, BECAUSE HELICOPTERS ALWAYS IN MOTION, NEVER KNOW WHERE THEY WILL GO NEXT, TALL TREES IN WAY OF SHOT. ONLY ONCE HAD BE HALF A CHANCE. 2 QUICK SHOTS, ROUGHLY AIMED, AS COPTER CROSSED SPACE BETWEEN 2 TREES. MISSED BOTH. WHEN I GOT BACK TO CAMP I C2IED, PARTLY FROM FRUSTRATION AT MISSING, BUT MOSTLY GRIEF ABOUT AT WHAT IS HAPPENING TO THE COUNTRY. IT rs so BEAUTIFUL. BUT IF THEY FIND OIL,DISASTER.EVEN WHOF NOT FIND OIL, THE BLASTS AND HELICOPTERS RUIN IT. DESECRATION. WHERE CAN I GO NOW FOR PEACE AND QUIET?

TRUE,IF NOT FIND OIL,EXXON WILL EVENTUALLY LEAVE HERE. BUT IF IT ISNT ONE THING ITS ANOTHER. SUCH AS ONE OF MY FAVORITE PLACES BEING LOGGED OFF,SPEAING OF WHICH, SUMMER OF 1981 I BEGAN HEARING DISAGREABLE NOISES OF MACHINERY,SOMETIMES SURPRISINGLY LOUD, DEPENDING APPARENTLY ON METEOROLOICAL CONDITIONS. OFTEN BUT OTHERWISE BEAUTIFUL, SILENT MORNING WAS RUINED FOR ME WHEN THESE NOISES STARTED UP. THE FOLLOWING WINTER MANY OTHERWISE PLEASANT EXCURSIONS WERE RUINED FOR ME BY THE MOANING AND HOWLING OF THOSE IRON MONSTERS, AUDIBLE BUT OFTEN LOUDLY) FOR MILES OVER THE HILLS. MADE UP MY MIND TO GET REVENGE, BUT IT WAS DIFFICULT TO DETERMINE JUST WHERE NOISE WAS COMING FROM. HAD TO WAIT FOR SUMMER AWYWAY, SINCE MY TRACKS COULD EASILY BE FOLLOWED IN SNOW. BUT NOISE SEEMED TO STOP IN SPRING. THEN I BEGAN HEARING IT AGAIN IN LATE SUMMER,1982. I THINK IT WAS IN SEPTEMBER THAT I TOOK BLANKET, PISTOL, 1 DAYS RATIONS AND FOLLOWED NOISE TO FIND IT CAME FROM A LOGGING OPERATION IN WILLOW CREEK DRAINAGE, LOGGING OFF ONE OF MY FAVORITE WILD SPOTS. THEIR METHOD WAS HORRIBLE. AS FAR AS I COULD TELL WITHOUT GOING CLOSE ENOUGH TO RISK BEING SEEN, THEY WERE JUST PUSHING TREES OVER WITH BULLDOZERS INSTEAD OF CUTTING WITH SAWS. WHEN THEY LEFT FOR THE DAY I WENT IN AND FOUND THE WHOLE SURFACE OF THE GROUND STRIPPED RIGHT OFF LEAVING UGLY TANGLE OF LIMBS, UPROOTED TRUNKS, AND DIRT. THEY LEFT A 5 GALLON CAN OF OIL SITTING ON THEIR MACHINE THAT THEY USE TO PICKUP LOGS AND LOAD THEM ON TRUCK. I POURED THE OIL OVER THE MACHINES ENGINE AND SET FIRE TO IT. I BET IT COST OVER 1000 BUCKS TO FIX IT. SPENT PLEASANT NIGHT SLEEPING OUT ON TOP OF THE MOUNTAIN AND CAME HOME LEISURELY IN THE MORNING. I FELT SO GOOD AFTER HAVING DONE THIS. THOUGH A MITE UNEASY OVER THE RISK OF BEING SUSPECTED.

FORGOT TO MENTION, ON TRIP WHERE I SHOT AT HELICOPTER, I CHOPPED DOWN WOODEN POWER LINE POLE, HOGUM CREEK AREA.

FEW YEARS AGO SOME FUCKERS BUILT A VACATION HOUSE JUST ACROSS STEMPLE PASS ROAD. MOTORCYCLE AND SNOWMOBILE FIENDS. THEY WOULD BUZZ UP AND DOWN ROAD PAST MY CABIN ON MOST WEEKENDS, SUMMER AND WINTER. LAST SUMMER SEEMED THEY WERE WORSE THAN USUAL. SOMETIMES MADE IT A 3 DAY WEEKEND. WHEN THEY WERE NOT BUZZING UP THIS ROAD I WOULD HEAR THOSE CYCLES GROWLING AND GROWLING OVER BY THEIR PLACE, ALL DAY LONG. IT WAS GETTING ABSOLUTELY INTOLERABLE. MY HEART IS GOING BAD. TAKES EXERCISE OK, BUT ANY EMOTIONAL STRESS, ANGER ABOVE ALL, MAKES IT BEAT IREGULARLY. IT GOT SO THAT THAT CONSTANT CYCLE NOISE WAS CHOKING ME WITH ANGER, HEART GOING WILD.

RISKY TO COMMIT CRIME SO CLOSE TO HOME, BUT I FIGURED IF I DID NOT GET THOSE GUYS, THE ANGER WOULD LITERALLY KILL ME ANYWAY. SO ONE NIGHT IN FALL I SNEAKED OVER THERE,THOUGH THEY WERE HOME, AND STOLE THEIR CHAINSAW, BURIED IT IN A SWAMP. THAT WAS NOT ENOUGH, SO COUPLE WEEKS LATER WHEN THEY HAD LEFT THE PLACE, I CHOPPED MY WAY INTO THEIR HOUSE, SMASHED UP INTERIOR PRETTY THOROUGHLY. IT WAS A REAL LUXURY PLACE. THEY ALSO HAD A MOBILE HOME THERE. I BROKE INTO THAT TOO, FOUND SILVER PAINTED MOTORCYCLE INSIDE, SMASHED IT UP WITH THEIR OWN AX. THEY HAD 4 SNOWMOBILES SITTING OUTSIDE. I THOROUGHLY SMASHED ENGINES OF THOSE WITH THE AX.

THINK THEY WERE THE ONES I CUT CYCLE TRAIL AT ROCHESTER, SINCE SILVER PAINTED CYCLE IS UNUSUAL. WEEK OR SO LATER,COPS CAME UP HERE AND ASKED ME IF I HAD SEEN ANYONE FOOLING AROUND WITH ANY BUILDINGS AROUND HERE. ALSO ASKED IF I HAD HAD ANY PROBLEMS WITH MOTORCYCLES. THIS LAST QUESTION SUGGESTS THAT THE TRUTH CROSSED THEIR MINDS. BUT PROBABLY THEY DID NOT SERIOUSLY SUSPECT ME, OTHERWISE THEIR QUESTIONING WOULD NOT HAVE BEEN SO PERFUNCTORY. THIS WINTER (1982 TO 1983) VERY FEW SNOWMOBILES HAVE COME BY. I SUPPOSE EITHER THOSE FUCKERS HAVE NOT GOT MACHINES FIXED YET, OR HAVE REALIZED THAT THERE IS SOMEONE WHO WILL NOT LET THEM GET AWAY WITH TERRORIZING THE AREA. WHO SAYS CRIME DOESNT PAY? I FEEL VERY GOOD ABOUT THIS. I AM ALSO PLEASED THAT I WAS SO COOL AND COLLECTED IN ANSWERING COPS QUESTIONS.

DEC 29, 1979. IN SOME OF MY NOTES I MENTIONED A PLAN FOR REVENGE ON SOCIETY. PLAN WAS TO BLOW UP AIRLINER IN FLIGHT. LATE SUMMER AND EARLY AUTUMN I CONSTRUCTED DEVICE. MUCH EXPENSE, BECAUSE HAD TO GO TO GR.FALLS TO BUY MATERIALS,INCLUDING BAROMETER AND MANY BOXES CARTRIDGES FOR THE POWDER. I PUT MORE THAN A QUART OF SMOKELESS POWDER IN A CAN, RIGGED BAROMETER SO DEVICE WOULD EXPLODE AT 2000FT. OR CONCEIVABLY AS HIGR AS 3500FT. DUE TO VARIATION OF ATMOSPHERIC PRESSURE.

LATE OCT. MAILED PACKAGE FROM CHICAGO PRIORITY MAIL SO IT WOULD GO BY AIR. UNFORTUNATELY PLANE NOT DESTROYED, BOMB TOO WEAK. NEWSPAPER SAID WAS “LOW POWER DEVICE”. SURPRISED ME.

(IN ORIGINAL AS I WROTE IT IN 1989,THERE FOLLOWED SPECULATIONS WHY BOMB WEAK. NOW KNOW WHY. SMOKELESS POWDER IS DEFLOGRATING NOT DETONATING EXPLOSIVE, AND CONTAINER TOO EAK EVEN TO FULLY UTILIZE ITS DEFLAGRATING POTENTIAL) SEEMS THAT IGGER SYSTEM NOT TOO RELIABLE. ACCORDING TO CHI. TRIBUNE, BOMB WENT OFF AS PLANE APPROACHED WASHINGTON. ACCORDING TO SUN TIMES, PASSENGERS AIN BOMB WENT OFF ABOUT HALF WAY TO WASHINGTON. SHOULD HAVE GONE OFF LONG BEFORE. SET FOR 2000 OR UP TO 3500FT. ACCORDING TO INFO I GOT IN 25000 TO 40000FT. AND CABINS PRESSURIZED AT ABOUT 8000FT. POSSIBLE EXPLANATIONS... DEFECTIVE BAROMETER. PRESSURIZATION INF FROM ABOUT 1971, CONCEIVABLY THEY NOW PRESSURIZE AT LOWER ALTITUDE. SYSTEM WORKED OK WHEN I EXPERIMENTED BEFORE MAKING UP PACKAGE BUT I HAVE REASON TO SUSPECT LIGHT TOUCH OF BAROMETER NEEDLE ON CONTACT NOT ABSOLUTELY RELIABLE IN TRANSMITTING CURRENT. I WILL TRY AGAIN IF CAN GET BETTER EXPLOSIVE. BOMO DID NOT ACCOMPLISH MUCH. PROBABLY DESTROYED SOME MAIL. PAPERS SAID IT WAS WITH MAIL SACKS AND THERE WAS SMOLDERING FIRE. NO DAMAGE TO PLANE. AT LEAST IT GAVE THEM A GOOD SCARE. MUCH THICK SMOKE CAME INTO PASSENGER SPACE, PLANE LANDED AT AIRPORT OTHER THAN ITS DESTINATION BECAUSE OF THIS. TRIBUNE SAID NO PANIC. BUT SUN TIMES SAID THEY DROPPED OXYGEN INHALATORS TO PASSENGERS BECAUSE OF SMOKE AND PASSENGERS DID NOT KNOW HOW TO USE THEM AND SOMEWERE “JUMPING UP AND DOWN AND SCREAMING FOR THE POOR STEWARDESS, “AND AS PASSENGERS IAME OUT OF PLANE SOOME WERE EMBRACING EACH OTHER, PRESUMABLY IN RELIEF.

THE PAPERS SAID FBI INVESTIGATING INCIDENT. FBI SUCK MY COCK.

SO I CAME BACK TO MONTO EARLY DECEMBER, NOW WORK ON OTHER PLANS.

JUNE 1,1985. SUCCESS AT LAST AFTER MANY FAILURES REPORTED IN THESE NOTES. TOOK ME YEAR AND A HALF OF INTENSIVE EFFORT, LARGELY NEGLECTING OTHER WORK Y TO DEVELOP EFFECTIVE TYPE BOMB. 4.45 PARTS AMMONIUM NITRATE (FROMFERTILI) ER) TO 1 PART EXTREMELY FINE PYWDERED ALUMINUM(FROMALUM.PAINT) MIXURE NOT CAKED BUT LEFT IN POWDER FORM, IGNITED IN ORDINARY IRON WATER PIPE WITH METAL PLUGS IN ENDS STRONG ENOUGH TO WITHSTAND ROUGHLY SAME PRESSURE AS WHAT WALLS OF PIPE WILL WITHSTAND. SIMPLE ENOUGH BUT I FOLLOWED SOME FALE LEADS BEFORE TRYING THIS ONE. NOTE DIFFICULTIES I FACED. FOR OBVOUS REASONS CANT ORDER CHEMICALS FROM SUPPLY HOUSE, MUST MAKE THEM OR EXTRACT THEM FROM READILY AVAILABLE MATERIALS. NO VEHICLE TO TRANSPORT STUFF, DIFFICULT ACCESS TO LIBRARIES, VERY LIMITED EQUIPMENT, HAVE TO BUILD OWN BALANCE, OTHER MONEY RELATED PROBLEMS.

MAY 8 I PLANTED A SMALL BOMB (LESS THAN 2 OZ.OF EXPLOSIVE) IN THE COMPUTER SCI. DEPT. AT BERKELEY. THIS IS APARATO NO.2, EXP.83 IN MY NOTEBOOKS. AT SAME TIME I MAILED A LARGER BOMB(APARATO NO.1 EXP.82) TO BOEING CORP., AUBURN, WA. OUTCOME OF BOEING BOMB UNKNOWN.

BERKELEY BOMB DID WELL FOR ITS SIZE. IT WAS SPRUNG BY AIRFORCE PILOT, 26YRSOLD, NAME HAUSER, WORKING ON MASTERS DEG. IN ELECTRICAL ENG. HE PROBABLY WOULD HAVE BEEN KILLED IF SO POSITIONED RELATIVE TO BOMB AS TO TAKE THE FRAGMENTS IN HIS BODY. AS IT WERE, MAINLY HIS RIGHT ARM WAS HIT. WITNESSES SAID, “WHOLE ARM WAS EXPLODED, “BLOOD ALL OVER THE PLACE. “ONE NEWSPAPER SAID ARM WAS “MANGLED”. ANOTHER SAID IT WAS “SHATTERED” AND THAT HE WOULD NEVER RECOVER FULL USE OF ARM AND HAHD. ALSO THERE WAS DAMAGE TO ONE EYE. ONE PAP THAT SAID THE SMALL COMPUTER LAB WAS “DESTROYED”. THIS IS IMPROBABLE. OTHER PAPER SAID “MODERATE DAMAGE” TO VARIOUS ITEMS OF COMPUTER EQUIPMENT. PROBABLY MOST OF THE DAMAGE TO ARM AND EQUIPT. WAS DUE TO FRAGMENTS, NOT SHOCKWAVE.

I WAS RELIEVED TO READ WHAT KIND OF GUY SPRANG THE TRAP. I HAD WORRIED ABOUT POSSIBILITY THAT SOME YOUNG KID, UNDERGRAD, NOT EVEN COMP SCI MAJOR MIGHT GET IT. BUT THIS GUY CLEARLY TYPICAL MEMBER OF THE TECHNICIAN CLASS. MIGHT EVEN BE ONE OF THE GUYS THAT HAS FLOWN THOSE FUCKING JETS OVER MY HOME. THIS GIVES GREAT RELIEF TO MY CHOKING, FRUSTRATED ANGER AND SENSE OF IMPOTENCE AGAINST THE SYSTEM. AT SAME TIME, MUST ADMIT I FEEL BADLY ABOUT HAVING CRIPPLED THIS MANS ARM. IT HAS BEEN BOTHERING ME ME A GOOD DEAL. THIS IS EMBARRASSING BECAUSE WHILE MY FEELINGS ARE PKRTLY FROM PITY, I AM SURE THEY COME LARGELY FROM THE TRAINING, PROPAGANDA, BRAINWASHING WE ALL GET, CONDITIONING US TO BE SCARED BY THE IDEA OF DOING CERTAIN THINGS. IT IS SHAMEFUL TO BE UNDER THE SWAY OF THIS BRAINWASHING. BUT DO NOT GET THE IDEA THAT I REGRET WHAT I DID. RELIEF OF FRUSTRATED ANGER OUTWEIGH SUN COMFORTABLE CONSCIENCE. I WOULD DO IT ALL OVER AGAIN.

SO MANY FAILURES WITH FEEBLE INEFFECTIVE BOMBS WAS DRIVING ME DESPERATE WITH FRUSTRATION. HAVE TO GET REVENGE FOR ALL THE WILD COUNTRY BEING FUCKED UP BY THE SYSTEM.

LATER... FURTHER SEARCH OF NEWSPAPERS YIELDED...HAUSERS ARM WAS “SEVERED OR NEARLY SEVERED”. TIPS OF 3 FINGERS TORN OFF. USE OF ARM AND HAND WILL BE PERMANENTLY IMPAIRED, TO WHAT DEGREE NOT KNOWN. HAUSER FATHER OF 2 KIDS. HE WAS WORKING TOWARD PHD, CONTRARY TO OTHER PAPER THAT SAID MASTERS. HE WAS AFRAID HIS “DREAM” WAS RUINED. DREAM WAS TO BE ASTRONAUT. IMAGINE A GROWN MAN WHOSE DREAM IS TO BE AN ASTRONAUT.

I AM NO LONGER BOTHERED BY HAVING CRIPPLED THIS GUY, PARTLY BECAUSE I JUST “GO TO VERIT “WITH TIME, PARTLY BECAUSE HIS ASPIRATION FOR SO IGNOBLE. SEARCHED OTHER NEWSPAPERS. FOUND NO REFERENCE TO BOEING BOMB. SEEMS INEXPLICABLE IT WAS DESIGNED AND BUILT WITH SU DOWN OF ARE THAT MALFUNCTION SEEMS HIGHLY IMPROBABLE. LATER.

RECENTLY I CAMPED IN A PARADISE LIKE GLACIAL CIRQUE. AT EVENING, BEAUTIFUL SINGING OF BIRDS WAS RUINED BY THE OBSCENE ROAR OF JET PLANES. THEN I LAUGHED AT THE IDEA OF HAVING ANY COMPUNCTION ABOUT CRIPPLING AN AIRPLANE PILOT.

EXPERIMENT 100. MID NOVEMBER 1985 I SENT BOMB IN MAIL TO JAMES MCCONNELL, BEHAVIOR MODIFICATION RESEARCHER AT UNIV. OF MICHIGAN. ONLY MINOR INJURIES TO MCCONNLLS ASSISTANT. DEFLAGRATED, DID NOT DETONATE. MUST BE EITHER PIPE WAS A LITTLE WEAK OR LOADING DENSITY OF EXPLOSIVO A SHADE TOO HIGH AT FAILURE.

EXPERIMENT 97. DEC. 11, 1985 I PLANTED BOMB DISGUISED TO LOOK LIKE SCRAP OF LUMBER BEHIND RENTECH COMPUTE STORE IN SACRAMENTO. ACCORDING TO SAN FRANCISIO EXAMINER, DEC.20, THE “OPERATOR” (OWNER? MANAGER?) OF THE STORE WAS KILLED, “BLOWN TO BITS”, ON DEC.12. EXCELLENT. HUMANE WAY TO ELIMINATE SOMEBODY. HE PROBABLY NEVER FELT A THING. 25000 DOLLAR REWARD OFFERED. RATHER FLATTERING.

DEC. 11 I MAILED LETTER TO S.F. EXAMINER IN NAME OF A GROUP CALLING ITSELF THE FREEDOC CLUB, CLAIMING CREDIT FOR THE HAUSER BOMBING AND ANNOUNCING ITSELF AS AN ANTI TECHNOLOGY TERRORIST ORGANIZATION. BUT THE IN GC.20 ARTICLE IN THE EXAMINER DESCRIBED MY SERIES OF BOMBINGS AND STATED THAT NO GROUAND HAD CLAIMED CREDIT FOR THEM.UP TO DEC.22, NO MENTION IN EXAMINER OF MY LETTER. LETTER NOT YET ARRIVED? SEEMS STRANGE.

AFTER THIS LATEST RAID I SEARCHED L.A. TIMES THROUGH DEC 13 AND SOME OTHER PAPERS THROUGH DEC 14, FOUND NO MENTION OF BOMBING. I FEARED SOMETHING HAD GONE WRONG, AND SINCE EXP. 100 WAS FAILURE TOO I WAS TERRIBLY FRUSTRATED AND THOUGHT I WAS GOING TO HAVE TO SPEND ALL WINTER MAKING NEW, BETTER BOMBS, SO WROTE MY BROTHER GIVING EXCUSE TO CALL OF VISIT I WAS GOING TO MAKE HSM. BUT SINCE EXP 97 TURNED OUT SO WELL, I WILL TRY TO ARRANGE TO VISIT BROTHER AFTER ALL.

Ted Kaczynski’s Notebook

Source: Archive.org & California University Archive

Notes: Excerpts from a notebook labelled by the FBI as “C-2” and described as “Checks papers for publication of manuscript; lists hiding places for various articles with maps; list of names at Orvana Mining; serial numbers of guns; location of telephone boxes.”

Dates: ~1995

Chronicle July 4 is supposed to contain T’s letter.

Checked: A1-A20

B1-B8

[CROSSED OUT] C1-C14

D1-D6

E1-E8

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Chronicle checked through July 12. (First relevant was June 29)

Could not find T’s letter in Chronicle July 4 or 5.

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N.Y. Times Friday June 30

Robert D. McFadden:

“calling for revolution against what he says is a corrupt industrialtechnological society controlled by a shadowy international elite of government and corporate figures seeking to subvert human freedom.”

In same article, Sulzberger complains about follow up articles.

Guccione: will give one page of mag for indefinite period if stop all bombing including property. (NY Times July 1)

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Photo: NY Times July 4

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NY Times checked June 29 — July 8 (June 29 was first appearance)

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Julian Simon

Wash Post July 1 expressed doubt about the deal, because “deal is off if Law enforcement comes after him.”)

Wash Post checked from June 29 (first appearance) to July 8.

LA Times checked June 29 — July [CROSSED OUT: 8] 12

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Statements by FBI agents: “nylon” strapping tape was used.

“every one” of the [CROSSED OUT] devices worked. (Probably from Time, early May, 1995.) FC was marked on “practically all” of the devices.

Quotations from Tyler’s letter [CROSSED OUT] given in Chronicle or LA Times are something like this: he doubts my claim that the system can’t be reformed, and suggests that my revolution is already in progress.

As evidence, he mentions that people are moving to the country and recycling their trash.

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One newspaper article, probably the LA Times between June 29 and July 12, stated that not one shred of biological evidence had been found, not one fingerprint, not one hair.

According to radio, exerpts from manuscript published in NY Times and Washington Post on Aug 1, or 2.

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Better way of characterizing those revolutionaries who should not be trusted by our kind of revolutionaries: they have one of two traits (or both):

1. They devote themselves to a cause in which they have little personal stake.

2. They put more emphasis on placing greater restrictions on human behavior than on freeing human behavior from restrictions. (Caution: it does no good if they seek to free behavior from restrictions in areas where we already have almost complete freedom anyway, e.g. sexual freedom, religious freedom, etc.)

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shoes: under dead parsnips behind apple tree in lower garden

9 items in shed

2 items by black raspberry bushes

Two rifles, with scope, 22 pistol, package of ammunition, hat

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Orvana Mining
Skip Karn
Joe Goldenstern
Elwood Hiatt

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Just where the ridge drops off sharply, to east of ridge, find pleasant, grassy depression. Running south from this depression find a couple of trails through marshy thicket. Follow the one farthest from the stream bottom to where it is barred by 2 pine logs, upper one with large rosin stain. Past logs, follow path as it curves to left. Follow path of least resistance till you find a small grassy open spot next to a small stream. On SE side of grassy patch, about 2 ft. from stream under sphagnum moss.

[picture]

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Serial numbers:

.30–30:
273810 Sears Roebuck

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.22 rifle:

Western Field Model M815.

This rifle apparently has no serial number on it, but it can be identified by lower-case Greek letters ‘xxx’ scratched on barrel (by me) just in front of the action.

The ‘xxx’ is on the underside of the barrel. You have to take the stock off to siee it.

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.30–06: Remington Model 700 ADL ...

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Location of cabin

Go down through logged-off area where it borders the uncut woods till you come to (relatively) good road where it ends in a circle. From circle follow rocky ridge crest in a generally downward direction a short distance till you come to some prominent rocks affording look-out to the left. Here go down into the gulch to the left, find good trail that leads (uphill) to cabin, which is on the next ridge over from the one you came down.

[picture]

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LOCATION OF TELEPHONE BOXES

“Right” means on the right-hand side of the road as you look up the road toward Stemple Pass. A little way past the mouth of McClellan Gulch, there is a little road that branches off Stemple Pass Road to the right. At the entrance to this road are 2 telephone boxes, a big one and a small one. The boxes that are farthest up the road (this ....

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A little way up the hill from the log is a rock outcrop. About a pound of whole-wheat bread crumbs and two smallish bottles of Wesson oil are buried right next to the downhill side of the outcrop, thus:

Under a large slab of bark a few feet south of the campsite is buried a plastic sheet for shelter — which, however, has a few holes in it.

Fifteen feet or so ...

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Location of ammo

buried on our property (this is a verification copy of a note dated August 8, 1973: Ammo is located here: Find leaning fir on S. side of creek with 3 blazes on S.E. side, not penetrating through the bark, at height ... 52” above ground ... About 162^o ...

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Sources

• harbor.klnpa.org/california/islandora/object/cali%3A1150

• archive.org/details/ae.-teds-journals_202303/AEK3.%20Ted%20Kaczynski%27s%20Notebook%20-%20Cropped

Ted Kaczynski’s Notebook of Where He Sourced His Materials

Dates: Begun writing June 1985, found in cabin in 1996.

Source: Document found in Ted’s cabin, labeled by the FBI “C-224E” and described as “Tubing, post office addresses; places where pipe was bought; metals”. Found in: “A Review and Compilation of the Writings of Ted Kaczynski”, California University Archive: Part #1, #2 & #3. Plus, here is a work in progress digitizing version.

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Objects that have an attached number have their origin indicated as follows:

1. Found near the old antennas atop Baldy.

2. Bought at Kramis Hardware in Missoula; disguised; June 1985;

   2a: other remains of tubes[;] with these I touched them.

3. Solid bar has a safe The tubes were bought from Burton Lumber of S.L.C.(Salt Lake City), May 1985. On the margin of the part of the receipt the company kept, there will be impressions from onepartof myfingers.

4. I took these tubes from the remains of the old and abandoned mining equipment (placer) which is in the creek next to Stemple Pass beyond S. Poorman. A man went by the road in his truck while I was standing there, up near the equipment; I do not know if he saw me or not. He was the only one who went by or who could see me. June 1985

5. Found by the side of Stemple Pass Rd. June 1985. Nobody saw me take it.

6. Found at Stonewall Mtn. peak where the remains of the old watchtower are. I found at the peak three girls who had climbed the mountain on horseback; I pretended to go away, but I really hid and waited until they went away; I returned to the peak later to get the tubes, so that nobody saw me take them. July 1985

7. Orange insulation wire found in the foothills where I have my encampment further up from McClellan Gulch, July 1985. Thiswire is either 23 ga. Or 24 ga. according to a measurementof resistance. [TN: ga. = gauge]

8. Aluminum tube found in Gt. Falls, June 1985. Found on the street.

9. Tubes bought from Rock Hand, August 1985. On this date they are clean.

10. Tubes bought in a Junkyard, Utah Scrap Metal, at 900 S Street, some blocks to the west of West Temple, in Salt Lake City When buying these tubes, I gave them Charles Kradnick as the name, without an address. I was wearing silvered glasses, gum (chewing gum) under the upper lip (changing its shape that way), and a piece of wax in the left nostril, distorting it. I had to sign a receipt (with the name of Charles Kradnik), but I did it in such a way that I did not leave impressions on it from my fingers. Neither did I leave on the tubes themselves the impressions from my fingers. December 1985.

11. Tubes bought from the small “surplus” and “junk” store in Helena. Summer 1986.

12. Tubes bought from the Coast to Coast Store, Holiday Village, Great Falls, August 1986.

13. Piece of tube (which comes from Gold Dollar mine) which we use to water the garden.

14. Iron bars we found near a small mining firm by the south side of Stemple Pass Rd., July 1986

15. Wire found in Stemple Pass Road, near our house.

16. Bolts, nuts and springs bought in Skaggs and Coast to Coast in Great Falls, August 1986. They should be cleaned.

17. Clean for experiment 116. Butchpipe.

18. Beer can. It is clean as far as my fingerprints, but it may well have the fingerprints of a Friend of Kim Williams.

19. Rubber letters, etc. Bought in Spokane, Nov. 1990

20. Copper tube, outside diameter 3/8”. Bought Nov. 1990 in a hardware store in Spokane, on E. Sprague Ave., approximate number: 1802 E In any case, it is some 2 blocks to the east of the post office which is on 1602 E. Sprague. This tube may have my fingerprints (which, nevertheless, will be easy to erase with a file).When buying this tube, I was wearing a bulky cloak, with a jacket inside, so .Iwould seem heavier than I am; silvered glasses; a cap with visor that covered my forehead; and kleenex inside the nostrils which expanded them; and the beard was darkened so it would seem almost black, or, at least, a very dark brown. To be sure to obtain a tube of the correct diameter, I showed the employee a small piece of tube of the kind I wanted to buy. This small piece was from a tube that, almost for sure, I had bought either at Pacific Hyde and Fur in Helena, or (less probably) at an auto parts store in Missoula. I am sure I took with me this small piece of tube when leaving the hardware store, and that I still had it with me upon arriving at the bus station in Spokane. But in some way that I do not understand, I lost it afterwards.

21. Stamps with $1 I bought them Nov. 1990 [TN: the date was inserted above the words and also on the left margin] from a vending machine at the post office which is at 1602 E Sprague in Spokane. Here is a strip of 11 stamps and one loose stamp. I first bought the strip of 11 stamps. I took them with my left hand which had on a soft leather (soft leather) glove [TN: 11 soft leather” was rendered in English after the Spanish] . I took the first stamp from the strip without remembering to first wipe the glove’s fingers. I later wiped the glove (although not with great care) on my cloak, and I touched the other stamps only after wiping or cleaning the glove’s fingers. I used up my quarters and I returned after 2 or 3 hours to buy more stamps from the same machine, but soon after buying one single stamp (this is the loose stamp that is in the envelope), the stamps in the machine ran out. I only touched this last stamp with the woolen cloth gloves (or cloth, fabric or whatever it may be) that had been well wiped or cleaned on my cloak. When buying these stamps, I was wearing the same clothes, glasses, beard color, etc., that I described under number 20 above. When writing on the outside of the envelope that contains these stamps, I was careful for the stamps not to be under the pencil so the impression from the writing would not be on them. So these stamps should be quite clean, unless it were due to the quite remote possibility that one of the two stamps which are at the ends of the strip got from the leather glove some impression of my finger that would have gotten on the leather when I handled the gloves before putting them on. [TN: The following words were inserted at the end of this item.]

    Also see the note which is with the stamps.

22. 9 volt batteries bought at a Safeway in Spokane, 1990.

23. Typing paper. Bought at a Safeway in Missoula, Nov. 1990.

24. Springs. Bought at Coast to Coast, Missoula, Nov. 1990. The only disguise I was wearing were the silvered eyeglasses.

25. Wires removed from our old Japanese radio.

26. Wires bought from UBC in Helena, probably in the middle of the decade of 1980–1990.

Unknown Journal Extracts

Source: “A Review and Compilation of the Writings of Ted Kaczynski”, California University Archive: Part #1, #2 & #3. Plus, here is a work in progress digitizing version.

Notes: Extracts from documents labelled by the FBI where it’s unclear how the journals fitted into the series of journals.

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C-197

“Journal entries w/various dates; mentions Tech Society by Ellul.”

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March 16, 1974: This morning was very fresh and beautiful...But as I came around the hill N. of the cabin I heard the roar of some snowmobiles ahead, buzzing around and around...It’s not that I’m...shy about meeting people [in itself], but (1)[this is the most important point] meeting people especially people like that — upsets the sense of isolation from organized society (2) just the noise by itself is distressing (3) living off here in the winter it is impractical to keep one’s clothes clean or shave regularly, so that I look like a tramp, and must be an object of curiosity, if not of amusement or suspicion, to these slicked and pampered snowmobilists. Also, Ardrey’s famous territorial imperative” may play some role here. Anyhow, I went back a little way, then sat and brooded for awhile ...

... I can hardly express how this enrages me. More snowmobiles have been roaring by the cabin just now ...

... What I seek here is not recreation or anything of that sort, but a way of life. I want to be my own master ....I want .. work to do that is practical, that serves a purpose as a part of my own life, and that is under my own direction and control ...

... This ... is the crux of the whole matter — I will not be part of organized society. [Jacques Ellul’s “Technological Society”.]

... even the slightest involvement with other people puts pressures on one’s autonomy (though this is less so with close friends of long standing). So fuck ‘em all. I will do what I god damn well please...

... and regular trails as one can get in a one-day excursion from the cabin. Until today, these ridge-tops were the one place where I felt secure from intrusion by this kind of garbage; this area was my last refuge, the last place I could turn to within reach of the cabin. And now .... I was so terribly upset that I believe that if those cocksuckers had come into the meadow where I was, I would have shot them. To top it off, after I got home some cocksucker rode right [s/o] into my yard on a trailbike.I went out there with my .30–30, wondering if I would have the nerve to shoot the son of a bitch, and intending at least to scare him, but by the time I got out there he was gone. Later I spiked a big heavy pole across my road to block it, and I painted a Keep Out sign that I will nail up tomorrow. But I just don’t know what to do or where to turn. I can’t just hole up in the cabin all the time, and there seems to be nowhere left where I can hunt or gather roots or berries without looking over my shoulder all the time to see if the vile emissaries of civilization are about to break in on me. As for returning permanently to civilization — I would rather die. I never thought civilization would close in on me so quickly — I thought this place would be good for ll a few years yet. But this summer it seems that about every other time I go out on a long walk I have been ustrated in one way or another by the presence of ople. Where did they all come from so quickly?

Oct. 6 [1975]: — I had a rather bad dream. I dreamt that some loggers were working around the hill into the area just across the stream from my cabin, building roads and tearing everything up. Then came a stupendous power-shovel, with a bucket big enough to hold half my cabin, digging up the earth. It came closer and closer to my cabin. I yelled and screamed and waved my arms, trying to call the operator’s attention to the fact that there was a cabin there, but his attention was ...

... on his job, and with the noise of the machinery, he didn’t hear me. Just as it seem.ed I was about to be killed by the shovel, I woke up.

C-226E(?)

[May 14, 1975]

... Still untroubled by any desire for women, and expect to stay that way as long as I keep away from people ...

C-225B PAGE 4 (1993)

PAGE 4. In a letter, say that the “scientists think that they’re very intelligent because they have advanced degrees (advanced degrees) but they’re not as intelligent as they think they are, because they opened up those packages.” This will make [TN: The Spanish verb hara (make) is misspelled] them think that I don’t have an advanced degree.

[1] Some thoughtless individuals will object that perhaps if people are properly social and educated, they will be “good” automatically, and their minds won’t have to be manipulated. But if educational techniques are so effective that they make everyone “good” without exception, then the techniques are merely a variety of behavioural engineering. Sticking electrodes into people’s heads makes us feel squeamish, but what is the difference whether we manipulate a person by sticking electrodes in his head or by educational techniques if both methods are equally effective in engineering his personality?

[1] Some thoughtless individuals will object that perhaps if people are properly social and educated, they will be “good” automatically, and their minds won’t have to be manipulated. But if educational techniques are so effective that they make everyone “good” without exception, then the techniques are merely a variety of behavioural engineering. Sticking electrodes into people’s heads makes us feel squeamish, but what is the difference whether we manipulate a person by sticking electrodes in his head or by educational techniques if both methods are equally effective in engineering his personality?

[2] Ted’s Notes on his Journals (Feb. 1996)

[3] Truth versus Lies

[4] Ted Kaczynski’s Journal of Early Crimes

[5] Kaczynski’s Ciphers

[6] Ted Kaczynski’s Notebook

[8] Truth versus Lies

[9] Ted’s Notes on his Journals (Feb. 1996)

[10] Truth versus Lies

[11] Ted Kaczynski’s Letters to Ellen Tarmichael

[12] Ted Kaczynski’s Correspondence with his Brother David

{1} Actually, Stefansson’s remark is not accurate. The Kalahari Bushmen are said to have little religion. The Siriono of Eastern Bolivia have no religion at all (see Allan R. Holmberg, Nomads of the Long Bow). The Ituri Pygmies studied by Colin Turnbull (The Forest People) certainly had less religion than the highly-developed civilization of medieval Europe, and their religion contained surprisingly little irrationality. (See also Turnbull’s Wayward Servants.)

{2} That the situation would last “forever” was certainly too hasty a conclusion. To engineer such a system of society so that it would have a high degree of stability is probably a far more difficult task than I imagined when I wrote those lines.

{3} It is doubtful that the scientists who made these predictions actually believed them. Very likely they were just trying to frighten people into being concerned about air pollution. But, whether they believed them or not, the predictions were irresponsible, and probably did more harm than good, because these scientists were “crying wolf”, and the fact that such predictions have proved so grossly inaccurate has made many people scoff at all predictions of environmental damage.

Back in 1969, I had a much higher opinion of the competence and honesty of scientists than I do now, so I was then much more concerned about these predictions than I would be today.

{4} except fleas, of course.

{5} I hate this magazine, because it constitutes a very successful, highly commercial exploitation of the beautiful, poignant, deep and strong dream that many people have of escaping from technological civilization to a self-sufficient life in a rural setting. I only placed my ad in this mag because I don’t know of any other publication whose readers would have a particular tendency to be interested in my way of life. By the way, the very fact that a mag like Mother Earth News is so successful shows how many people are deeply dissatisfied with technological civilization and yearn for a more independent way of life. In my view, the scientists, politicians, businessmen, etc. who push technological progress, economic growth, and so forth should be regarded as criminals.

{6} During my teens and early 20s I suffered severely from sex-starvation. By now these urges have been dulled sufficiently by age so that I no longer find them a serious problem, even when I am living where I have to see attractive women regularly. When I am living alone in the woods and don’t have to see women, sex is a neglibile factor.

{7} Interesting light on my personality: I used to find it difficult to find things to say to keep a social conversation going (though I find it much easier now). Yet I recall one job-hunting experience: After the job interview the employment agency woman told me that the fellow who interviewed me like me very much, one reason being that I “asked questions and seemed interested — most of those who come in never say anything.” Of course, I had made a point of asking questions and making conversation even though I did not enjoy it. Most of the interviewes did not have the willpower or initiative or whatever it takes to do this — yet in a purely social situation they would doubtless make much better conversationalists than me because it would come naturally to them without their having to make an effort.

{8} I am reminded of an occasion when I was looking at some of the exhibits in the anthropology museum at Berkeley. There was a shaggy, bearded young man there, apparently an anthropology major, who was explaining to his girlfriend some of the exhibits of palaeolithic artifacts and reconstruction of neanderthals hunting with spears, etc. She asked him, “Would you have liked to have lived in those days?” He answered “Yes!” with such fervor that I felt sure he was a man after my own heart.

{9} [ARCHIVISTS NOTE: The section being referred to on p.17 of the physical document likely starts at the paragraph beginning with “My statement that I don’t get along with my ‘peer-group’ should be clarified” on Dec. 24.]

{10} At present at least, I don’t feel the contempt for these people that the word “slave” would seem to imply.

{11} Ellen Arl was a moderately nice-looking girl I went out with over a period of months when I was 19–20 years old. She had thrown herself at me more or less shamelessly, openly said she was “infatuated”, etc. Eventually I got sick of her objectionable personality traits; I made some cutting remarks and after that she refused to [PAGE CUTS OFF]

{12} See earlier notes.

{13} See earlier notes.

{14} By ego I mean will, purpose, decision, purposeful work, and that sort of thing. strictly correct use of the word ego. desire for power, need for I don’t know if this is a

{15} Scientist, businessman, govt. official, etc.