Project Mailer - User contributions [en]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/The Savage Poet—Unlocking the Universe with Metaphor

2021-03-02T04:54:30Z

TBeard: Fixed punctuational errors

{{DISPLAYTITLE:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Stewart|first=Mark|note=This article first appeared in the March 2020 issue of ''Spaceflight'' magazine and is reproduced with kind permission of the editor and author.|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13ste}}

<blockquote>“''But he reached a place at last he had been in months before, the room with the plate-glass window across its middle where the magazine writers had hounded Armstrong until Armstrong confessed that Man explored out as salmon swim upstream. . . .''”</blockquote>

{{dc|dc=T|he number of books published since the first printing press}} clattered
into life must by now be unguessable. Collectively their contents comprise
a river of knowledge and enlightenment, but also one suspects a vast reservoir of the trivial and banal. If the voice of an individual writer is to be heard
amongst the endless torrent of words, he or she must develop a unique and
distinctive voice. Few voices were more original or engaging than Norman
Mailer’s, especially when that voice spoke about the momentous events
which took place on the Florida peninsula in the closing years of the 1960s
(and the opening years of the decade that followed), as the men and women
working for NASA responded to the fire on the Moon. To the beacon lit by
John F. Kennedy when he challenged his nation to reach that distant goal.

Pugnacious and controversial, both as an individual and as a writer, Mailer never shied away from being unorthodox. And without question, ''A Fire on the Moon'' is strikingly different from any other book, its author referring to himself by his Aquarius star-sign throughout the unusual, provocative, and often metaphysical narrative. The book reads like a novel, at turns rhythmic and lyrical and challenging. The way Mailer describes the launch of Apollo 11 is one example of his aphoristic and quirky turn of mind:

<blockquote>''For the flames were enormous. No one could be prepared for that. Flames flew in cataract against the cusp of the flame shield, and then sluiced along the paved ground down two opposite channels in the concrete, two underground rivers of flame which poured into the air on either side a hundred feet away, then flew a hundred feet further. Two mighty torches of flame like the wings of a yellow bird of fire flew over a field, covered a field with brilliant yellow bloomings of flame, and in the midst of it, white as a ghost, white as the white of Melville’s Moby Dick, white as the shrine of the Madonna in half the churches of the world, this slim angelic mysterious ship of stages rose without sound out of its incarnation of flame and began to ascend slowly into the sky, slow as Melville’s Leviathan might swim, slowly as we might swim upward in a dream looking for the air. And still no sound . . .''</blockquote>

No writer or artist has yet to venture into space, which may help to explain why a large section of the public still views space exploration as something ''apart'', as an activity removed from anything they can participate in. Yes, Al Bean (Apollo 12, Skylab 3) and Alexei Leonov (Voskhod 2, Soyuz-Apollo) took up oils and canvass on coming back from space but first and foremost they were both astronauts. Space travel was their original abiding vocation;
all else flowed from that. No space agency has yet to recruit a potential space traveler on the basis of how good their use of imagery is. As Mailer says towards the end of his book: “''certainly the hour of happiness would be here when men who spoke like Shakespeare rode the ships; how many eons was that away!''” The goal of sending a poet into space seems as distant now as it was then.

The question arises as to whether Mailer’s superluminal fire has now been
extinguished, and where and when and if it might ever be rekindled. Will humanity by-pass the Moon in favor of Mars perhaps? Will the tracks laid down by remote controlled rovers on the Red Planet prove too tempting a
trail to overlook? Mechanical footsteps that will demand in due course the
accompanying imprint of a human heel? ''A Fire on Mars'' is possibly the inevitable sequel to Mailer’s intellectual voyage, but it will take a different writer from a new generation to describe what happens next. The Age of Aquarius may be over (the arc of Mailer’s life having expired in 2007) but thanks to his unique voice the Age of Apollo will never die.

Written when the program still had six more missions left to run, the
book now seems like an epitaph for the whole venture, a brooding reflection
on the manner and nature of the men who were willing to ride a rocket the
“''size of Coventry Cathedral''” all the way to another world. And to do so without hope (beyond that provided by their own resourcefulness) of rescue or retrieval in the event of calamity or disaster. Oddly, the thought persists on
reading Mailer’s account that the whole era can be captured in its entirety in
just this and two other books: Andrew Chaikin’s ''A Man on the Moon'', and
Tom Wolfe’s ''The Right Stuff''. Polar opposites in style they yet combine to make a comprehensive whole.

Tucked away in my own copy of ''A Fire on the Moon'' (salvaged from a secondhand bookshop) is a clipping from the January 1971 edition of ''Time'' magazine, a review of Mailer’s book entitled ''Reflections on a Star-Cross Aquarius''. Rescued from its time capsule it provides not just the context for the book’s publication, but a literary fragment of the early 1970s. From a time when the fire of Apollo was still burning brightly enough for the exploits of its sons to be witnessed by a global audience, gazing both literally and metaphorically at the furthest of horizons.

These celestial knights (who belong to American folklore as much as any
frontiersman) stand comparison with the armored crusaders who once
met where the ruins of a stone fortress now stands, perched on the cliffs at
Tintagel, and whose erstwhile king now resides in Avalon. But perhaps in
the context of Mailer’s book a more apt analogy might be with the beacons
of Gondor, lit to summon aid for the besieged city of Minas Tirith in the
epic lands of Tolkien’s Middle Earth. The great mountain-top pyres signaling across vast distances, kindling hope in desperate times. For
metaphorical fires are surely still burning at the six Apollo landing sites and
are yet visible with the naked eye if you know roughly where to look and
have enough imagination to conceive of what might have been. Mailer’s single fire is perhaps more accurately described as six individual markers. Like the cosmic perspectives offered in the stories of H. G. Wells, they can still
capture the eye, drawing it out into the depths of space. And it is out there,
in the realm of the stargazer, that the human imagination is always at its
most speculative and creative.

It is still to be hoped, and remains a cherished dream of many, that looking up at the Moon on a clear night is tantamount to gazing at a once and future home for humanity. That the two-world system so vividly described
in Arthur C. Clarke’s ''Earthlight'' (1955) can yet became a reality. And perhaps,
as Mailer said, we will only ever do that and “''go out into space''” when we can
“''comprehend the world once again as poets, comprehend it as savages who knew that if the universe was a lock, its key was a metaphor.''”

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT:Savage Poet Unlocking the Universe with Metaphor, The}}
[[Category:Articles (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/Mailer in Translation: The Naked and the Dead

2021-03-02T04:46:29Z

TBeard: grammatical and punctuational errors

{{DISPLAYTITLE:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mailer in Translation: ''The Naked and the Dead''}}
{{MR13}}
{{Byline|last=Fuchs|first=Jeanne|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13fuc|abstract=By divine intervention, pure chance, or karma, Norman Mailer and Jean Malaquais met in Paris in 1948 for the first time. It was the beginning of a fruitful friendship, one that would benefit and enrich both writers in many ways and on many different levels. At that time, Mailer was on the threshold of fame, and Malaquais was an established “French” intellectual. Malaquais is a wizard—a Joseph Conrad and Vladimir Nabokov rolled into one. Not a native speaker of either English or French, he achieves a ''tour de force'' in his translation of Mailer’s immense novel.}}

{{dc|dc=B|y divine intervention, pure chance or karma,}} Norman Mailer and Jean Malaquais met in Paris in 1948 for the first time. It was the beginning of a fruitful friendship, one that would benefit and enrich both writers in many ways and on many different levels.

At that time, Mailer was on the threshold of fame, and Malaquais was an established “French” intellectual. The expatriate, Polish born Malaquais (''né'' Wladimir Jan Pavel Malacki), had settled in France after a long period of wandering in Eastern Europe and the Middle East. A ''flâneur'' before the fact, he presented himself as a kind of intellectual vagabond: “Morally and intellectually I was a tramp, a companion of the dispossessed.”{{sfn|Lennon|2013|p=100}} Such a self-assessment certainly would have appealed to the anti-establishment Mailer, as it had to the French intellectual community. Fifteen years Mailer’s senior, Malaquais had learned much the hard way. Mailer, uncharacteristically self-effacing, remarked that “Malaquais had more influence on my mind than anyone I ever knew from the time we had gotten well acquainted while he was translating ''The Naked and the Dead''.”{{sfn|Lennon|2013|p=101}}

By any reckoning, Malaquais had to be one of the most intelligent and fascinating people the young Norman had ever met. Primarily an autodidact, Malaquais came from a learned family: his father was a Classicist, and his mother was a musician, but having left home at the age of seventeen, Malaquais had to earn his living doing manual labor and read and study on his own. Without knowing it, he had followed the educational precepts of Michel de Montaigne (1539–1592) in that he traveled before settling down to reading, books and all that is meant by “education.”

Malaquais is a wizard—a Joseph Conrad and Vladimir Nabokov rolled into one. Not a native speaker of either English or French, he achieves a ''tour de force'' in his translation of Mailer’s immense novel. Malaquais faces some linguistic challenges both cultural and semantic that the two languages present. The vagabond years of Malaquais prove valuable in his translation. He understands the use of informal speech as well as that of downright vulgar vocabulary. From his experiences as a laborer in the silver mines in Provence and at Les Halles, the gigantic food market in the heart of Paris, to his friendship and correspondence with André Gide, the translator can communicate in any register. Malaquais is in command of the sophisticated nuances that the French language affords, and he applies them to Mailer’s narrative where appropriate.
[[File:Mr13-fuchs.jpg|thumb|600px]]
Writing about the translation of Mailer’s novel remains a daunting task; so, instead of tackling the macrocosm, the entire novel, the microcosm, a few chapters of ''The Naked and the Dead'', will be examined. Reading the chapters one paragraph at time, first in English and then in French, is a revelation. It is important to remember that the first chapter recounts the night before the invasion of Anapopei. The characters in the chapter deal with their anxiety in different ways: some men are asleep or trying to sleep; one group is playing poker; one man goes on deck and reflects on his life, his mates, his fate; two men talk about their wives and fidelity or lack thereof; the final one does not appear, but Martinez is described as a veteran of many battles and permanently terrified of noise. Malaquais depicts all that occurs with complete fidelity to Mailer’s text. Nonetheless, a few surprises and some challenges occur.

There are two major advantages that French affords the translator: First, Malaquais was not censored. As we well know, Mailer was constrained; he could not use the word “fuck” in all its forms: verb, noun, adjective, interrupter because of the puritanical nature of American society, and used instead a made-up word: “fug” in all its forms, which remains painfully hypocritical. It is a flaw in the novel that unfortunately provoked numerous jokes regarding the omission or distortion of the real word.

The French language has plenty of words considered “indecent,” “taboo,” and “vulgar,” and all were allowed in the French translation. As might be expected, Malaquais takes full advantage of the opportunity to use them. This freedom represents an exercise in revenge on American publishers, American mores, and their complicit hypocrisy that Mailer and Malaquais must have relished.

That is not to say that no one objected to the rough vocabulary in the book. André Maurois, in his Preface to the French edition, mentions this aspect of the book when he describes ''The Naked and the Dead'' as “difficult, unpleasant sometimes irritating” just before he adds “but unforgettable.”{{sfn|Maurois|2017|p=184}} Maurois comments that upon publication of the novel in England (note that it is England and not France where the problems arise) “some legions of decency were alarmed and attempted to have the book banned.”{{sfn|Maurois|2017|p=184}} The Attorney General of England denied that demand on the grounds that “The intention to corrupt was absent and the quality of the work justified its tone.”{{sfn|Maurois|2017|p=184}} Maurois also stresses that “the brutal and obscene” nature of the characters was “inevitable” and resembles the way French soldiers behaved and spoke in a novel written about the Dunkirk invasion, which had won the prestigious Prix Goncourt.{{sfn|Maurois|2017|p=184}}{{efn|''Weekend in Zuydcoote'' by Robert Merrill won the Prix Goncourt in 1948.}}

First, the vocabulary needs to be examined. There are three verbs in French that all mean “to fuck”: “''baiser''”, “''foutre'',” “''enculer'',” and “''s’enculer''” (the reflexive form of “''enculer''”).

“''Baiser''” as a noun is innocuous and simply means a “kiss” (''le baiser''); over time, starting about in the Sixteenth Century, it came to mean sexual intercourse and is not used in polite conversation; “''foutre''” as a noun means “sperm” but as a verb it means the same as “''baiser''”; “''enculer''” also means the same as “''baiser''” but it has two extra added attractions: it refers to anal sex with “''cul''” as its root, which means “ass” and used reflexively, it can mean something you do to yourself, or something you can tell others to do to themselves. All three verbs, in one form or another, are used in Chapter 1 of the novel.

Then, there are nouns that are vulgar and essential to the narrative: one is derived from the verb “''enculer''”: “''l’enculé''” and means “asshole”; the men refer to “''les enculés''” several times. Gallagher uses the verb when referring angrily to how many times Levy is shuffling the cards (think of the motion of card shuffling and the link becomes clear): Gallagher screams, “''Arrête de les enculer et qu’on joue'',” to Mailer’s, “Let’s stop shuffling the fuggers and start playing.”{{sfn|Mailer|1998|p=7}}{{sfn|Mailer|1950|p=21}}{{efn|The first page number refers to the page in the English edition; the second page number refers to the page in the French edition.}}

Another noun, “''con'',” which is the same as the “c” word in English, is used as “pussy” when Wilson talks about the woman, the wife of a friend, with whom he had repeated sex, which he thoroughly enjoyed. However, “''con''” is one of the most commonly used curse words in French. It is also used as an adjective and means “stupid” in an obscene way: “''ilest con''” could mean “he’s fucking stupid.” The second advantage that the French translation provides over English is the use of the familiar form of the verb, the second person singular: “''tu''”; it is most appropriate in the situation the characters in Chapter 1 are in, as well as throughout the novel.

When the soldiers speak to one another, they “''tutoyer'',” which is a verb that means to use the familiar or “tu” form of the verb.

In French, the “''tu''” form is used with family, among students and intimates, and in prayer.{{efn|In modern English usage (except for the Quakers) the second person singular, “thou” is not used; however, it still occurs in prayers: “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with '''thee''', blessed art '''thou''' . . .”; poetry; Shakespeare; and the Bible.}} In addition, Malaquais often contracts the form: the “u” in “''tu''” is dropped and elides it with the verb: instead of “''tu as''” (you have) the character speaking often says “''t’as''” (think “gonna” “wanna”), which is colloquial speech. The familiar form underscores the register of language used among the soldiers and is especially salient when men are preparing for battle, are vulnerable, and their nerves are strained. They are also equals in terms of their existential situation. Another colloquial way of speaking is to omit the first part of the negative, the “''ne''”. There are two parts to a negative in French: ''ne'' + verb + ''pas'', so “''je n’ai pas''” (I don’t have) becomes “''j’ai pas''”. ''Je “n’ai pas d’argent''” (I don’t have any money) becomes “''j’ai pas d’argent''.”

The informality of the language indicates either the class similarities among the men or the differences between the men and the officers; it also underscores camaraderie among the men. They are literally in the same boat.

On the other hand, when any of the men addresses an officer, the formal “''vous''” (second person plural) is always used. In Part 11, chapter 2, when Sergeant Croft speaks to Captain Mantelli about replacements for his squad, he and Mantelli both use “''vous''.” All officers use “''vous''” with one another and the men and officers all use “''vous'',” the formal form, when speaking to one another. Of course, “''vous''” is not only the plural form but is also the singular polite form.

One challenge for Malaquais is that there is no way to use “goddam” as an adjective in French. It is not awkward; it is just impossible. Mailer uses “goddam luck,” “goddam drinkin,” “goddam army” and they come out as “''sacrée veine''” (holy luck), “''sacrée armée''” (holy army). “''Sacré''” means “holy” (like holy Moses, holy Toledo, holy cow). So “sacred” or “holy” is used ironically—a nuance of the language. But when it comes to “goddam drinkin,” Malaquais can’t use that parallel, so he uses a whole sentence to transmit Wilson’s thought: “. . . ''j’en ai pourtant bu de la gnole'' . . .” (with all the goddam drinkin’ I’ve done . . .) then he adds, “I still can’t remember what the stuff tastes like even when I have the bottle in my hand.”{{sfn|Mailer|1998|p=5}}{{sfn|Mailer|1950|p=19}}

Sometimes, Malaquais changes a word that Mailer uses because it is also less formal or more idiomatic. When Red thinks about the “hot nauseating breakfast” the men will get in the morning, the translator replaces the word “breakfast” (''petit déjeuner'') with “''casse-croûte''” which is more colloquial and means “break bread” (sounds Biblical in English but not in French). Malaquais also changes a verb: When Red thinks, “there was nothing to do but go from one day to the next.” He replaces “go” (''aller'') with “live” (''vivre''), which is an improvement especially given the circumstances.{{sfn|Mailer|1998|p=12}}{{sfn|Mailer|1950|p=27}}

Then there are words like “cracker” to describe Wilson, which is pretty much untranslatable; he uses “''un crétin de vantard''” which is “stupid braggart”;{{sfn|Mailer|1998|p=6}}{{sfn|Mailer|1950|p=21}} that expression misses the regional aspect of Wilson’s character and the many connotations it holds in English—at least in American usage. When Red, who is on deck, thinks about Hennessey who worries about “every gimcrack” in his life, “gimcrack” becomes the equivalent of he worries about “nails,” unimportant items like “nails”; “''les clous''” equals “nails.”{{sfn|Mailer|1998|p=14}}{{sfn|Mailer|1950|p=31}}

Another problem for Malaquais is to translate “Jap” and “Japs” since both carry negative connotations in English; moreover, the word is sometimes used as an adjective, as in “Jap artillery” then as a noun “Japs on the beach” and “those Japs.” Malaquais simply uses “''artillerie japonaise''” and “''les Japonais''.” Unlike the Germans, for whom the French have many pejorative words, the Japanese have not been a traditional enemy.

On the other hand, English has the largest vocabulary of any world language, so there are some words that do not exist in French. Malaquais navigates these instances gracefully. For example: there is no word for “giggle.” So, it becomes “''un petit rire''” (a little laugh) or no word for “grin”; “he grinned” becomes “''il sourit'',” “he smiles.” There is also no French word for “daydreaming.” Malaquais uses “''rêver''” (to dream). While the word “''la reverie''” exists in French, it still connotes more thinking and reflection than does the English “daydreaming.”

Another challenge for the translator is how to render Wilson’s southern accent. Generally speaking, it cannot be done. Malaquais does, however, use a lovely expression to indicate an accent: “''Je te le dis, il annonca à Croft, de sa molle voix de Meridional'',” which is an exact translation of Mailer’s phrase: “I’m telling you, he said to Croft, in his soft Southern voice.”{{sfn|Mailer|1998|p=1}}{{sfn|Mailer|1950|p=19}}

Malaquais does take a stab at Gallagher’s Boston Irish accent, but that is only because the words used are cognates in English: “cards” for “''cartes'',” so he drops the “r” and gets “''caaates''.” It is important to remember that it is Levy who is dealing and he is glad to poke fun at Gallagher, who has been in an angry mood all through the game, by imitating Gallagher’s accent. These issues are trifles compared to the scope of the translator’s accomplishments, but they are important trifles that reveal close attention to detail and thoughtful choices. Ultimately, the challenges he faced, combined with the advantages afforded by the French language, help Jean Malaquais to achieve a masterful translation of Mailer’s masterpiece.

To close, I would like to cite the hauntingly sober first paragraph of the novel, first in English and then in French. It is timeless in both languages.

{{quote|''The Naked and the Dead'' No one could sleep. When morning came, assault craft would be lowered, and the first wave of troops would ride through the surf and charge ashore on the beach at Anopopei. All over the ship, all through the convoy, there was a knowledge that in a few hours some of them were going to be dead.{{sfn|Mailer|1998|p=3}} }}

{{quote|''Les Nus et les Morts'' ''Personne ne pouvait dormir. Quand le matin sera venu, les embarcations d’assaut seront mises à la mer et une première vague de troupes piquera à travers le ressac et débarquera sur la plage d’Anopopei. Dans le convoi, à bord de chaque navire, l’on savait que dans quelques heures quelques-uns seraient morts.''{{sfn|Mailer|1950|p=17}} }}

The solemnity and the elegiac tone of the passage resonate in both languages. Despite the movement implied in the scene to come, there is a profound silence that is echoed in the chapter that follows, in many ways by the men themselves, even those who speak and wake others. The mood is sober and silent in the convoy as conveyed so well by Red’s thoughts—as he is all alone on deck.

===Notes===
{{notelist}}

===Citations===
{{Reflist|15em}}

===Works Cited===
{{Refbegin|indent=yes}}
* {{cite book |last=Lennon |first= Michael J. |date=2013 |title=Norman Mailer: A Double Life |publisher=Simon & Schuster |ref=harv }}
* {{cite book |last=Mailer |first=Norman |date=1950 |title=Les Nus et les Morts |translator-last=Malaquais |translator-first=Jean |publisher=Albin Michel |ref=harv }}
* {{cite book |last=Mailer |first=Norman |author-mask=1 |date=1998 |title=The Naked and the Dead |publisher=Henry Holt |ref=harv }}
* {{cite journal |last=Maurois |first=André |translator-last=Fuchs |translator-first=Jeanne |date=2017 |title=Preface to ''Les Nu et Les Morts'' |journal=The Mailer Review |volume=11 |issue=1 |pages=183–187 |ref=harv }}

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT:Mailer in Translation: The Naked and the Dead}}
[[Category:Articles (MR)]]

User:TBeard

2021-03-02T04:32:11Z

TBeard:

Hello! My name is Taylor Beard. I am a senior at Middle Georgia State University working towards my bachelor's degree in New Media and Communications. I plan to become a journalist after graduation.

User:TBeard

2021-03-02T04:31:46Z

TBeard: Created page with "Hello! My name is Taylor Beard. I am a senior at Middle Georgia State University for my bachelor's degree in New Media and Communications. I plan to become a journalist after..."

Hello! My name is Taylor Beard. I am a senior at Middle Georgia State University for my bachelor's degree in New Media and Communications. I plan to become a journalist after graduation.

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/NORRIS

2021-02-24T04:24:51Z

TBeard:

{{DISPLAYTITLE:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/''NORRIS''}}
{{Working}}
{{MR13}}
{{byline|last=Culver|first=Bonnie|note=This excerpt is taken from a one-woman play based upon [[Norris Church Mailer]]’s memoir, ''A Ticket to the Circus''. The show is scheduled to premiere at The Edgemar Center for the Arts in Santa Monica, CA in 2020, directed and produced by Michelle Danner and starring Anne Archer. The photos listed and all stage directions are placeholders for the final choices. As with any production, the director and actor will find the exact piece/time/place for her handling of any (if used) props or sets. The photos represent Norris’s memories, she never “sees” them as they are projected on a screen above the stage throughout the play.|url=}}

<blockquote>SET: A podium is center with a curtain closed behind it. Time, September, 2010. Projection screen shows the cover of Norris’s book, ''A Ticket to the Circus''. AT RISE: Norris stands at the podium, frail, bone thin. She wears a scarf around long flowing red wig and a bright, billowy, long dress. She has begun her reading.</blockquote>

{{Center|NORRIS}}

I’m reading from the chapter where I first meet Norman. It all takes place in Arkansas. Francis Gwaltney (aka Fig to Norman) was an old Army buddy of Norman’s and I was a friend of his wife, Ecey. All they talked about for weeks was that the great Norman Mailer was coming to Arkansas to visit and speak to Fig’s writing class. They went on and on about Norman. Pulitzer prize winner. Best-selling author of more than twenty novels, including THE war novel, ''The Naked and the Dead''. Of course, I was anxious to meet anyone who was as famous as Ecey and Fig said he was, so I wormed my way into coming over to the party they were throwing for him. My excuse? I’d bought Mailer’s book ''Marilyn'' and I wanted him to sign it. Crazy thing is I’d bought it by mistake. You know those Book-of-the-Month Club cards? I’d forgotten to send mine back and ''Marilyn'' arrived and I kept it. I’d heard of Mailer, but I’d never read any of his books. Not even this one. (''pausing, coughing, sips some water'')

Uh . . . So, I arrive. Late. Wearing hip-huggers and a voile shirt tied up, showing some belly. Wearing these bear trap shoes that add over an inch to my height.

{{Center|''SCREENSHOT OF NORRIS IN OUTFIT''}}

I’m closer to six feet tall that night. Everybody else is dressed up. I think that’s all you need to know up to this point. (''putting on her glasses, reading'')

“And there he was. St. Norman!” (''laughing, as an aside'')

Really! (''pausing, reading again'')

“He was sitting in front of the windows, his curly silver shot hair lit by the sun as if he had a halo. St. Norman. He was wearing jeans, too. The most patched jeans I had ever seen. Patches on top of patches . . . His clear blue eyes lit up when he saw me. He had broad shoulders, a rather large head (to hold all those brains). He was chesty. Not fat. Like a sturdy little horse. (I once drew him as a centaur, which delighted him.) He didn’t look old. Even though I knew he was a year older than my own dad. He stood straightaway and came over to me and he had to look up. He always said he was five eight, but I think he was a hair under that. I introduced myself and he turned on his heel and left. I figured he had a thing about tall women, so I decided I shouldn’t bother to get the book. I was leaving when Francis came up to me and said I should go out with them for pizza after the party. ‘I don’t think Mr. Mailer liked me much.’ (''as Fig'')

‘Liked you?’ Fig shot back. ‘He’s the one who wants you to go with us.’ Well, Norman and I piled in the back of the car with Fig and Ecey up front. Norman asked me when my birthday was. I told him. January 31, 1949. Norman got all excited. Turns out we had been born on the same day. One minute and twenty-six years apart. He was fifty-two. I was twenty-six. Exactly half his age. The only time in our thirty-three years together that would happen numerically. For Norman, it was like some big portent had swooped in like twittering birds. I wanted an intellectual man who could talk to me and Norman could talk. About anything. For hours.” (''looking up, as an aside'') Tonight? The subject was me. My hair. My skin. My eyes. (''in a broad Southern accent'')

‘You really know how to deliver a good line, Mr. Mailer. But I’ve always bought a good line. Well presented.’ Norman roared then, hugged me, and called me, ‘marvelous.’ Later that night, I found myself, driving my VW with Norman beside me, holding my son in his arms, watching him cradle Matthew touched me. When we got to my house, I put Matt to bed and offered Norman some wine. Boone’s Farm’s finest apple.” (''removing her glasses, looking up, as an aside'')

I think it was in a box. (''reading again'')

“I told him about my dream of writing. My marriage. Divorce. I brought up the marriage thing cause I didn’t want to get tangled up with some married man. He told me his life was all tangles. He told me about his five wives, his seven children. How he is living with one woman but married to another while a third one “Annette” has asked him to live with her! He said he’s being pulled in lots of directions. He’d been continually married or living with a woman since the age of twenty. Something else we shared. Being married early. I appreciated the honesty, but it was . . . well . . . a little overwhelming. Then he kissed me. It ignited and I thought, well . . . he’s leaving in the morning. (''coughing, sips more water'')

Quickly it became a comedy. I was jumpy. I never had a man in the house when Matthew was home and I was afraid he’d wake up and hear us, so I wouldn’t let Norman undress or undress me. I wouldn’t go into the bedroom. It was too close to where Matt slept. I got rug burns on my back from the carpet. In the end, it just wasn’t that great. But he held me, and I felt close to him. I thought about asking him to sign my book. I’m glad I didn’t. It would not be until next February when I had moved in with him that he would sign it. The inscription read” . . . (''Lights down. Podium moves offstage and NORRIS walks into a now bare stage.'')

{{Center|''SCREENSHOT OF NORMAN''}}

Norman said once that when you write your life? Words are like the light you shine through a crystal. The patterns you find. Shape. Colors. They become their own story. Partly real memories told by some character you put on the page. Andy Warhol said I should wear a tape recorder around the house and record all of Norman’s sayings. (''imitating Warhol'')

“Every word that comes out of Norman’s mouth is a pearl. Change the tape every hour and you’ll have a complete record of your life.” He was serious. Only I didn’t think that every word out of my husband’s mouth was a pearl—what wife does? (''laughing'')

I wrote to Norman. Not a letter. A poem really. (''giving oratory!'')

“Ode to a First Encounter.” (''as aside'')
It was the seventies and I loved Rod Mckeun, (''reciting'')
“You were there and
I was there
In a pocket of sunshine
In a vacuum of space.
You poured your soul
Into me
And I took it
Knowing full well I could not contain it.
And it was gone,
Leaving me alone
But I dared not follow.
Lest I lose my own soul
And be lost forever
In a pocket of sorrow
In a vacuum of space. (''pausing'')

I didn’t tell Norman this was a hand-me-down poem I wrote for a boy I was seeing along with some others when I met him. (''pausing'')

Norman sent the poem back to me, covered in red lines and comments. That should have been a clue! But I was so happy he wrote to me. I knew it was a beginning. Norman loved to talk about my Arkansas roots, a country far outside of NYC. At our dinner parties, he loved to wait until the talk lagged and toss in some story, I’d told him. (''As Norman'')

“Norris lived in a house with no hot water and an outhouse until she was six”! “She walks around singing Baptist hymns to me, can you imagine?” Best, he’d wait until everyone was eating, “Did you know that Norris’s grandpa was a mule skinner?” (''pausing'')

He loved to see those NY smiles around the table disappear. Guess they imagined someone like the Texas Chain Saw Massacre guy skinning out a mule and nailing its bloody hide to the barn door. I’d explain that a mule skinner was really a mule trainer. There probably was a flick or two of a black snake whip in the training. Mules being one of the most stubborn creatures God ever put on Earth. But they were valuable. Not to be hurt or abused. That talent. Of training some stubborn beast. That skill never dribbled down to me. At least not in my ability to “skin” or train Norman. He told me he loved my ancestor stories. Said it was like being married to the great American novel.

{{Center|''SCREENSHOT OF ANCESTORS''}}

My great-great-great grandfather fought in the revolutionary war. My great grandpas, on both sides, fought for the rebels for the War between the States. What you northerners call the Civil War? They started in Virginia and the Carolinas before ending up in Arkansas. They were characters in my parent’s and grandparents’ stories. Judges. Doctors. Bootleggers and drunks. Sharecroppers and cotton gin owners. Truck drivers. Coal miners. Most dirt-poor farmers who worked the land and did the best they could. Some were good-hearted. Some hard as new whiskey. While Norman was having his fun at those dinner parties. Or more often when we were out somewhere. There’d be the question from a dinner guest. (''pausing, assuming that voice'')

“Which wife are you?” I sometimes wanted to shout. I was Norman’s sixth wife, the mother of his eighth (he adopted Matt) and ninth children, stepmother to the other seven. I made peace with the other five wives over the years. I made a family and a home with that man. “Which wife are you?” (''pausing, draws herself up, smiling'')

I’d look that person in the eye, “The last one!” I didn’t even knock wood. I knew. Well, most times believed it was true.

{{Review}}
{{DEFAULTSORT:NORRIS}}
[[Category:Plays (MR)]]

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/NORRIS

2021-02-17T03:13:54Z

TBeard:

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/NORRIS

2021-02-11T03:08:36Z

TBeard:

===Citations===
{{Reflist}}

==Works Cited==
{{Refbegin}}

{{Refend}}

{{Byline|last=Culver|first=Bonnie}}

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/NORRIS

2021-02-11T03:05:46Z

TBeard:

==Works Cited==
{{Refbegin}}

{{Refend}}

{{Byline|last=Culver|first=Bonnie}}

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/NORRIS

2021-02-11T02:59:38Z

TBeard:

The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/NORRIS

2021-02-11T02:57:15Z

TBeard: Created page with "{{Byline|last=Beard|first=Taylor}}"