My moment with Mailer
After 50 years, two Pulitzers, 31 books, and a sheaf of headlines,
Norman Mailer's still promising us the big one.
by Chris Wright
I: Provincetown
The tail end of a Friday
afternoon in Provincetown. A thick skirt of rain is sweeping tourists into shop
doorways, and me into the Governor Bradford bar. Outside, seemingly oblivious
to the downpour, a traffic cop does his thing, not so much directing traffic as
choreographing it, flailing his arms and twirling like a disco queen. A guy
sitting next to me follows my gaze and remarks nonchalantly, "Oh, the Dancing
Policeman." Such is P-town in the summer.
In the daytime, the Bradford is a workmanlike bar, given to maritime
décor and Keno screens -- the kind of place where to rest your elbows on
the bartop is to risk wet elbows. Its windows, though, open up to the retail
and sexual excess of Commercial Street -- the dolled-up drag queens, the
shopped-out Nebraskans -- and the bar's patrons diligently adopt the air of
having seen it all before. Which, of course, many of them have. I ask the
bartender -- a large, gruff, shaven-headed guy from Louisiana -- if he ever
sees Norman Mailer in here. Not personally, he says, though he knows that
Mailer was drinking in here when Reagan got shot. That's what some guy told
him, the bartender says, anyway.
I down my third Tetley's Bitter and remind myself to slow down. I have an
event to cover this afternoon: a panel discussion in which Norman Mailer will
be -- for lack of a better word -- performing. Oh well: I order another beer,
mark up a Keno card, and wait for a break in the rain.
The Provincetown Art Association and Museum -- where tonight's discussion is
taking place -- is an almost oppressively bright building. The main hall is
capped by a huge skylight, the color scheme is light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel
white, the walls are bedecked with the colorful pandemonium of post-war
Abstract Expressionism. Behind a long table, two of the evening's panelists --
novelist Marcie Hershman and "psychohistorian" Robert Jay Lifton -- sit facing
the audience, solemn as a parole board. To the far right, the evening's
moderator, Provincetown Arts founder Christopher Busa, leans over and
worries a little stack of notes. The third panelist, Mailer, has yet to arrive.
It's very, very hot in here. The P-town cultural elite stews in stackable
chairs, its anticipation measured in rills of sweat. But these people are
nothing if not enduring.
Provincetown has been a cultural hot spot for a hundred years. To celebrate
that fact, the town is hosting a summer-long symposium called Forum '99, a
series of panel discussions revolving around P-town. Flocks of writers --
Mailer, John Dos Passos, Eugene O'Neill -- have wound up here over the years,
and so tonight's topic is "Life, the Book," a study of the ever-blurring line
between fact and fiction in modern literature. With Mailer on board, it
promises to be . . . unpredictable.
Not that the other panel members are chopped liver. Hershman wrote Tales of
the Master Race, a fictionalized account of real-life Germans during the
Holocaust. Lifton, whose nonfiction books bear emotional titles like
Destroying the World To Save It, plows the field of human endeavor in
search of psychological motive. But Mailer -- well, Norman wrote the book,
quite literally, on History as a Novel/The Novel as History. That was
the subtitle of his The Armies of the Night.
It's a timely topic. One need only make the short trip down Commercial Street
to the Provincetown New Art Cinema -- where the shockumentary The Blair
Witch Project is playing -- to get an idea of just how blurry the line
between fact and fiction has gotten. Journalist-novelists,
novelist-journalists, literary memoirists, and poet-documentarians: for many of
today's writers -- and readers -- fact and fiction behave less like relative
terms than like prankster twins. And it's all thanks, in large part, to Norman
Mailer, whose muscular fiction bled into his journalism. As other journalists
hovered above their subjects with forensic objectivity, Mailer stomped about,
leaving his mark, treating historical events as though they were the product of
his own fevered imagination.
When Mailer finally walks in, supported by a cane, my first thought is: "He's
old." There is no burst of applause, no flashing cameras -- after all,
Mailer has been a part of the P-town scene for 50 years, and the crowd at the
sweltering Arts Museum, like that at the Bradford, has seen it all before. But
it's not every day you get to share six cubic centimeters of breathable air
with a legend. And so, perhaps a little uncoolly, I am transfixed.
Mailer is built like a big, hairy thumb. Dressed in a blue shirt, tan pants,
and white shoes (no socks), he takes his place at the table. Plonked between
the stately Lifton and the stylish Busa, he looks out of place, like a clam
digger at a cocktail party. As Busa begins his introduction, Mailer assumes an
expression of stern concentration, then seems to sink into a reverie. Only when
Busa concludes his remarks does Mailer perk up.
"Marcie Hershman and Bob Lifton are like bright stars in a literary firmament
where a full moon looms," intones Busa. "And that full moon is Norman
Mailer."
Quick as a whip, Mailer responds, "That sounds vaguely pornographic." Everyone
laughs.
In the week leading up to "Life, the Book," I read a book on Mailer's life:
Mailer, a new unauthorized biography by Mary V. Dearborn. It's strange
that Busa should choose this lunar metaphor, because I've been thinking about
Mailer in similarly outlandish cosmological terms. It seems as if just about
every luminary of the last 50 years puts in an appearance on the pages of
Dearborn's biography. Even if Mailer wasn't the brightest among them, his life
was the largest, large enough to have accommodated the likes of Lowell, Liston,
Warhol, Plimpton, Breslin, Styron, the Ramones. . . . Looking
into that book I felt small, as if I were gazing into a universe.
Dearborn's biography isn't particularly flattering. She gleefully dwells on
Mailer's petty, boorish side, and glosses over many of his biggest hits --
painting the picture of a man whose every success has been balanced by an equal
and opposite fuck-up. But the hits are there: Norman going head to head (not
literally this time) with JFK. Norman sparring with Muhammad Ali, bickering
with Gore Vidal, flirting with Gloria Steinem. Norman winning the Pulitzer
(twice), running for mayor of New York (twice). Norman stabbing his wife
(twice, one incident). Not always a commendable life, but a bloody big one.
This made me sad for reasons I couldn't quite put my finger on.
And I feel that again tonight. Busa, Hershman, and Lifton are on their game --
epigrams and insights are stacked like chips on the table. But I can't take my
eyes off of Mailer. Go on, Norman, I think, give us a show. I don't
know, say "Fuck Updike" or something. But Mailer behaves impeccably. A bit
rambling at times, he argues with moderate conviction for the importance of
imaginative speculation in historical writing. Flashes of the old bite emerge
every now and then -- he is often extravagantly yielding to the other
panelists, for instance -- and he takes a few jabs at the media, but then he
wouldn't be Norman Mailer if he didn't.
It's a good evening, but I can't shake this damp melancholy, which is
heightened whenever Mailer, grown hard of hearing, asks people to speak up. For
me, those enormous ears have always symbolized the enormousness of the mind
between them. If they can falter, what hope for us tiny-eared folk?
This, I realize, is what's been getting to me. Norman Mailer at 76 is a
billboard that says: OLD AGE, INFIRMITY, EVENTUAL EXTINCTION.
II: Norman
Norman Mailer doesn't get out much these days. "I've got to that age," he says,
"where if I want to get some work done, and I do, then I've got to live a
monastic existence." With this he gestures at his lavishly appointed house and
says, "Of course, you could say this is a sybaritic monastic existence." He
laughs, and a layer of my bad mood peels away.
It was a different story earlier. I had come to the Mailer home -- a brick
mini-mansion in Provincetown's east end -- on Saturday morning, and had stood
before its door prickling with a nervous hangover. Mailer's wife, Norris,
greeted me at the door, led me into a plush, well-lit sitting room, and brought
me a mug of coffee. As I sat and fidgeted, I could hear Mailer's sonorous voice
in the kitchen. On the wall was a portrait of Mailer, staring into the middle
distance from the sort of golden-gothic frame usually reserved for religious
icons. Finally, the man emerged. "Let's do this in the bar," he said, leading
me into a little barroom with a spectacular view of the ocean. "I do my best
thinking in bars."
Mailer takes his place on the business side of the bar. He is wearing a denim
shirt, unbuttoned enough that a spume of white chest hair is visible. He seems
relaxed, almost convivial, and we spend an alarming amount of interview time
simply chatting about his beloved P-town.
Eventually, with the kind of eye-flickering anticipation one feels when
over-inflating a balloon, I decide to tell Mailer about my morbid thoughts on
age, decrepitude, and death. I fear he might not react well. Someone once said
that the best-kept secret in literature is that Norman Mailer's a nice guy, and
his performance at the previous evening's discussion bore that fact out. And so
far, he's been very much the genial host.
But Mailer is also notoriously mercurial, egotistical, and violent when irked.
And he is no great lover of the press. In Advertisements for Myself,
Mailer wrote: "I always seem to get into disagreeable situations with reporters
-- they sense no matter how pleasant I try to be, that I do not like them
. . . " Cripes. Though he's obviously mellowed with age, there's no
telling how Mailer may react to being called over the hill, even if this isn't
quite what I intend. Still, writing a story called MAILER PUNCHED ME IN THE EYE
might not be such a bad career move. So I do it. I tell Mailer that his aging
seems like a violation.
Without missing a beat, Mailer responds, "Oh, I agree with you entirely," and
lets rip with the chesty laugh that punctuates much of his conversation.
Growing up, I had three vague images of Norman Mailer: he was a philosopher, he
was a barroom brawler, and he was a womanizer. I was partially right on all
three counts; sex, violence, and philosophy are interlocked in Mailer's work
and life.
Intellectually, he came of age in the '40s and '50s, and his thinking was
immediately gripped by the philosophy of existentialism. Mailer took to heart
the existentialist's first precept: existence precedes essence (or, crudely,
actions speak louder than words). From the very beginning Mailer's actions
became at least as important as his ideas; he used the world as a testing
ground for his peculiar brand of power-existentialism, and so it followed that
Mailer's life became a big part of his getting his ideas down on paper. His
nonfiction often placed him at the center of events, as protagonist, helping to
usher in the reign of novelistic nonfiction, or New Journalism.
Mailer never made it as a serious, influential philosopher; he was too
emotional, too cavalier, too keen on the shifting metaphor (cancer, for
instance, hops in his work from the figurative to the literal at a dizzying
rate), and too good a writer. But he made up for his lax methodology with
bull-headed courage and a knack for looking into the future. While America
reacted to the horrors of World War II with tight-assed rationalism,
Mailer celebrated "the art of the primitive." As America cowered under the
coattails of authority and conformity during the height of the Cold War, Mailer
embraced sex, drugs, and rock and roll (or at least jazz). While the rest of
the country was throwing its hat in the air for the first moon landing, Mailer
grimly held on to an anti-technological world-view. As Americans rushed off to
dredge through their formative years, Mailer dropped his pants in the face of
the great god Psychoanalysis. And Mailer was a pioneer of the use of the word
"fuck" in serious work. ("Now," he says, "you can't see a play or a movie
without hearing `fuck' about 45 times in an hour.")
From the get-go, Mailer seemed to delight in going against the grain, and his
unconventional views often aroused shrill condemnation. In his otherwise
acclaimed 1959 essay "The White Negro" -- in which he posited the first punk
rocker, the "Hipster" -- Mailer famously, and infamously, proposed that
senseless brutality could be an instance of existential courage. He took a lot
of flak for the essay, and to this day he is sensitive about the subject.
"Let me hit that right on the nose," he says grumpily, seemingly unaware of
the irony in his metaphor. "I should have known what I was doing when I started
talking about it. What I was saying at the time was that individual violence
was an expression of outrage against the oppression of the state, you see. You
could almost measure the intensity of oppression by the absence of violence.
It's not that -- how to put it -- it's not that I approve of violence. What I'm
saying is that when the oppression is subtle, then the form it takes is
individual violence."
"Essentially," Mailer says, "where the violence occurs today is in the
suburbs." Mailer has long held a violent distrust of what he once called "the
faceless plastic surfaces" of suburbia. "The last time I was in the suburbs I
was shocked," he says. "It was so boring, you couldn't walk in it. Everything's
too smooth, as if there's not enough connection to life. All the streets were
laid out in French curves, they were just designed to wind before they ever saw
the land they were going to be put on. It's that sort of takeover, I think,
that begins to create an atmosphere of violence."
Then he adds, wearily, "I don't know whether I have anything profound to say
about violence anymore. I've talked about it for so long."
Mailer's aversion to suburbia is grounded in his long-standing distrust of
things "plastic." "We divorced ourselves from the materials of the earth," he
wrote in one of his early essays, "the rock, the wood, the iron ore; we looked
to new materials that were cooked in vats, long complex derivatives of urine
which we called plastic." The term "plastic," though, also carried over into
metaphor for Mailer, standing for all the artificial constructs -- social
convention, processed food, immunization, modern architecture -- by which
society attempts to do away with the muck of human existence and replace it
with "a tasteless, sexless, odorless sanctity." Mailer called this "the simple
embodiment of social cowardice," lamenting the fact that we had "turned our
back on the essential terror of life."
One gets the sense that Mailer isn't out to save the world from itself any
longer, nor to get to the heart of terror. During our conversation, his most
impassioned assault on plastic sounds more crotchety than revolutionary.
Magazines, he says, echoing a conventional wisdom of our time, have become
ad-fueled "glitzbags."
The essential Mailer
"Quantity changes quality," says Norman Mailer, and for 50 years he has lived by
his dictum, churning out dozens of books on subjects ranging from Marilyn
Monroe to Jesus Christ. For the first-time reader, the sheer quantity of his
work can seem prohibitive. Here, then, is a selection of quality Mailer to
guide you:
The Naked and the Dead (1948). Widely held to be one of the finest
war novels ever written, Mailer's first book put him on the map and caused him
to be haunted by performance anxiety for years to come.
Advertisements for Myself (1959). Mailer responds to his critics with
a brilliant literary sucker punch, collecting tidbits of his much-panned work,
adding a running commentary, and creating a masterpiece.
The Armies of the Night: History as a Novel/The Novel as History
(1969). Mailer locks arms with antiwar protesters for a march on the Pentagon,
gets thrown in jail, writes about himself in the third person, wins a Pulitzer
Prize, and creates a new genre of literature.
Of a Fire on the Moon (1970). Mailer -- or "Aquarius" -- plays
journalist-protagonist again, this time for the Apollo 11 mission. Despite its
forays into apocalyptic poetry, the book reveals the first moon landing to be a
soulless, geeky affair.
The Prisoner of Sex (1971). Mailer rolls up his sleeves and initiates
a slugfest with the women's movement. Scathing, funny, and ultimately futile.
The Fight (1976). At once comic and profound, this "entertainment"
takes us to Zaire in 1975 for Muhammad Ali and George Foreman's immortal
"Rumble in the Jungle."
The Executioner's Song (1979). This Pulitzer winner doesn't only
reveal the sad, banal horror that lies at the heart of convicted killer Gary
Gilmore, but reveals him to be a product of sad, banal backwoods America.
Gilmore's girlfriend, Nicole, emerges as a hugely compelling character.
Ancient Evenings (1983). This jaunt back to ancient Egypt may be
Mailer's most ambitious book. In fact, with its amorphous plot and its cast of
unpronounceably named characters, it requires ambition just to read it.
The Time of Our Time (1998). This big, fat, oddly arranged anthology
features 50 years and 1216 pages of pure, unadulterated Mailer.
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"It used to be that when you wrote for a magazine there was an impact," Mailer
says, "it was exciting. Now you find that as your story goes from page to page
the color of the page changes, the texture of the page changes. I used to
complain bitterly when I'd be printed in Playboy because I'd have two
pages of glorious prose and wham!" -- he slaps his palm on the bar top --
"there'd be a vagina on the next page. Now I look back on it and see that was
really an innocent form of interruption. These ads! You've got to wade
through the ads."
But Mailer can be forgiven for having grown tired, for having dropped the
blazing standard of insurgency and taken up the quiet gripe. He has been
railing against the "corporate" for half a century, leading a fight he has seen
as nothing less than a battle for the soul of America. And it's a battle,
Mailer admits, that is being lost.
"Everything has changed so profoundly," he says. "None of us foresaw what was
coming. Nobody believed that the corporation would take over everything. When I
think back on it now, after all these years, the corporation, collectively
speaking, had such a superior instinct to all those scholars. The people with
whom I agreed, that little mythological army that we formed -- we just lost all
over the place, we're in retreat all over the damned place. The corporation has
triumphed, hypocrisy and mediocrity have triumphed, politics is worse than
ever. The hypocrisies and glaring inconsistencies of the present time are
mind-boggling. If I were a young writer today, I'd be going out of my mind."
Of course, Mailer isn't a young writer today -- and if he were to go out of
his mind, it wouldn't be for the first time. In the introduction to his 1959
masterpiece Advertisements for Myself, Mailer declared that he would
"settle for nothing less than making a revolution in the consciousness of our
time." This was Mailer in his Napoleonic period, near-mad with a sense of his
own power. But "our time" has come and gone, and the failures Mailer sees in
American social and political life are, in some sense, very much his own.
"Well, yeah, I think I've failed, obviously," he says. "What have we got going
on now? The guy who raises the most money is going to be president. That's not
creating a revolution in consciousness. Or maybe it is, it's just not my
revolution."
This sense of failure certainly pervades the new biography. Though Mary
Dearborn's portrayal of Mailer's dud-studded life is not the kindest analysis,
there's an element of truth to it. Throughout his life, Mailer has been
besieged by personal and artistic struggles, often brought about by his own
boundless ambition, his monstrous ego, and his never-ending quest to go beyond
himself. Then again, these struggles culminated in many of Mailer's greatest
literary triumphs -- in particular Advertisements for Myself. Indeed,
Mailer's successes and failures -- his faults and gifts -- could not exist
without each other.
"They do have a, a, a dialectical union, don't they?" Mailer laughs.
In the Advertisements introduction -- which reads like a cross between
the confessions of Rousseau and the apologia of Nixon -- Mailer's prose frothed
with defiance. Anger, he wrote, "has brought me to the edge of the brutal."
Many critics -- appalled by the rampant aggression in Mailer's personal life as
well as in his work -- had already written Mailer off as a flash in the pan.
But Mailer made it very clear that he considered himself far from finished,
writing, "I would go as far as to think it is my present and future work which
will have the deepest influence of any work being done by an American novelist
in these years. I could be wrong, and if I am, I am the fool who will pay the
bill."
Despite the chest-pounding, there was a hint of insecurity in this
assertion. Now we're down to insecurity with a hint of chest-pounding. "There's
a kind of a tightening-of-the-belt feeling," Mailer says. "Keep working, don't
decide the failure's absolute. You never know when some of your ideas might be
taken up 20, 30, 40 years later. I've been inveighing against plastic for the
last 40 years, and now they're beginning to discover: `Oh yes, yes, you can get
cancer from plastic.' Another 20 years and there'll be scandals about plastic,
you watch. I don't know if they'll disinter my bones and make a tomb for me" --
Mailer lets go another of his frequent laughs -- "maybe a mausoleum."
There are many, though, who would gladly build that tomb for Mailer right now,
or at least for his ideas. New York Times columnist Maureen Dowd
recently called him "irrelevant," which is one of the most cutting things
anyone could say about Norman Mailer. Reviewing the Mailer collection The
Time of Our Time in the New York Review of Books last year, Louis
Menand sniffed, "[Mailer's] views made few converts in their time, and they
deserve none today."
But perhaps the worst barb came from James Wood, a senior editor of the New
Republic. Reviewing Mailer's 1997 novel The Gospel According to the
Son -- which was written in the first person, from Jesus's point of view --
Wood wrote: "Jesus warned us about Norman Mailer. There will be imitators,
false prophets, fake messiahs, he said." The headline for the New
Republic piece was: HE IS FINISHED.
Mailer, however, still insists we shouldn't write him off just yet, though his
claims are a little more modest than they have been in the past.
"The one thing that remains clear in my mind," he says, "is that quantity
changes quality. That's the most useful three words I know, maybe even more
useful than `I love you.' " And, as always, he lives by his words. Mailer
has written 31 books -- not to mention countless plays, movies, articles,
poems, essays, and speeches -- in his search for greatness. And, at 76, living
his monastic existence in Provincetown's east end, he's still searching.
"I'm starting a very ambitious book sometime in the next few months," he says.
For decades, Mailer has been promising his public the Big One, the magnum opus
that will bring us finally to our knees. Mailer won't say whether his next book
will be the one. "I haven't even told my wife about it," he says, "because it's
the sort of book that if I started saying what it is, the questions would be
endless."
This evasion might reveal little about Mailer's literary plans, but it speaks
volumes about his knack for PR: Mailer is still a master at generating mystery,
baiting the public with bits of himself.
As many critics have pointed out, Norman Mailer's life achievement may come not
from what he writes so much as from how he writes. Mailer might not have
made a revolution in consciousness, but by placing himself in the middle of
history and writing about events with a novelist's imagination, he certainly
revolutionized the way we look at the relationship between fact and fiction.
Mailer is old now. He may or may not produce the Big One. He will never be
president of the United States. He will never win an Oscar or be heavyweight
champion of the world. Maybe he'll never even head-butt anyone at a cocktail
party again. Strangely, Mailer seems at ease with this. What happened?
"Age relaxes the ego," he says with a chuckle that quickly deteriorates into a
cough. "Actually, getting old isn't that bad. For one thing, just naturally
there is more calm, because you know now what you can and what you can't do. So
in a sense your life gets very simple. You don't have to engage in as many
species of competition. You're just in one: just see if you can still write a
good book." Then he adds, defiance still burning in those bright blue eyes,
"That's a question that I can't answer."
Chris Wright can be reached at cwright[a]phx.com.