The Mailer Review/Volume 4, 2010/Inside Norman Mailer: Difference between revisions

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{{Byline |last=Apple |first=Max |abstract=Max Apple’s satirical short story imagines a surreal boxing match between the narrator and the literary titan Norman Mailer, blending bravado, absurdity, and literary criticism. Through this hilarious and metaphoric battle, Apple pokes fun at Mailer’s outsized persona and reputation while reflecting on the struggles of ambition, authorship, and masculine performance in American letters. |note=Reprinted by permission of the author, Max {{harvtxt|Apple|1976|pp=49–60}}. |url=http://prmlr.us/mr04app}}

{{Byline|last=Apple|first=Max|note=Reprinted by permission of the author, Max ~~Apple. From~~ {{~~cite book~~ |~~last= |first= |date= |title=The Oranging of America~~ |~~url= |location=New York |publisher=Viking |year=~~1976 |~~pages~~=~~49-60 |ref=harv~~ }}|url=.~~...~~}}

==I==

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unlikely. Look at Pete Rademacher—not even a pro. Fresh from a three-round Olympic decision, he got a shot at Floyd Patterson, made the cover of

''Sports Illustrated'', picked up an easy hundred grand. Now that is one fight

that Mr. Mailer, the ~~literary~~ lion, chose not to discuss. The clash between

that Mr. Mailer, the Iiterary lion, chose not to discuss. The clash between

pro and amateur didn’t grab his imagination like two spades in Africa or the

dark passion of Emile Griffith. Yes, you know how to pick your spots, Norman. I who have studied your moves think that your best instinct is judgment. It’s your secret punch. You knew how to stake out Kennedy and

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pig-tailed form of my sister beckoning me between mouthfuls of popcorn to rush at you. Aeneas, Hector, Dick Tiger, they too saw the phantoms that promise the sunshine and delight after one quick lunge. My sister is nine years old. She wears a gingham dress. She is right there beside you, close

enough for Archie to stumble on.

“Watch out, kid,” I say, “you shouldn’t even be here.” “It’s okay,” Mailer says. “She has my permission.”{{pg|512|513}}

She throws the empty popcorn box over the ropes. “Please take me home,” she whimpers, and as she stands there the power enters me, the ppf quotient floods my own soul, and I rush, not in fear, not in anger, but in full sweet confidence, I rush with both fists to the middle of Norman Mailer.

First my left with all its quixotic force and then my sure and solid right lands in the valley of his solar plexus. Next my head in a raw, cruel butt joins

the piston arms. Hands, arms, head, neck, back, legs. As a boy for the first time shakes the high dive in the presence of his parents, with such pride do

I dive. And with the power of falling human weight knifing through the chlorine-dark pool do I catapult. As a surgeon lays open flesh, indifferently, thinking not of tumors but of the arc of his raquet in full backswing, with

such professional ease am I engulfed.

I hear the wind leave his lungs. Like large soft earlobes, they shade me from the glare of his heart. The sound of his digestive juices is rhythmic and

I resonate to the music of his inner organs. I hear the liver weakened from drink but on key still, the gentle reek of kidneys, the questioning solo of pancreas, the harmonicalike appendix, all here all around me, and the cautionary

voice of my mother: “Be careful, little one, when you hit someone so

hard in the stomach. That’s how Houdini died.”

Somewhere else Archie Moore is counting ten over a prone loser. Judges are packing up scorecards and handbags snap shut. I am comfortable in the

damp prison of his rib cage. His blood explodes like little Hiroshimas every second.

“Concentrate,” says Mailer, “so the experience will not be wasted on you.”

“It’s hard,” I say, “amid the color and distraction.”

“I know,” says my gentle master, “but think about one big thing.”

I concentrate on the new edition of the ''Encyclopedia Britannica''. It works. My mind is less a palimpsest, more a blank page.

“You may be too young to remember,” he says, “James Jones and James T. Farrell and James Gould Cozzens and dozens like them. I took them all on, absorbed all they had and went on my way, just like Shakespeare ate up

''Tottel’s Miscellany''.”

“No lectures,” I gasp, “only truths.”

“I am the Twentieth Century,” Mailer says. “Go forth from here toward the east and earn your bread by the sweat of your brow. Never write another line

nor raise a fist to any man.” His words and his music are like Christmas

morning. I go forth, a seer.

==Work Cited==

* {{cite book |last=Apple |first=Max |date=1976 |title=The Oranging of America |url= |location=New York |publisher=Viking |ref=harv }}

[[Category:~~Short Stories~~ (MR)]]

[[Category:Classic Interpretations (MR)]]

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 {{DISPLAYTITLE:<span style="font-size:22px;">{{BASEPAGENAME}}/</span>{{SUBPAGENAME}}}}
 {{MR04}}
-{{Working}} <!-- EDIT BELOW THIS LINE -->
+{{Byline |last=Apple |first=Max |abstract=Max Apple’s satirical short story imagines a surreal boxing match between the narrator and the literary titan Norman Mailer, blending bravado, absurdity, and literary criticism. Through this hilarious and metaphoric battle, Apple pokes fun at Mailer’s outsized persona and reputation while reflecting on the struggles of ambition, authorship, and masculine performance in American letters. |note=Reprinted by permission of the author, Max {{harvtxt|Apple|1976|pp=49–60}}. |url=http://prmlr.us/mr04app}}
-{{Byline|last=Apple|first=Max|note=Reprinted by permission of the author, Max Apple. From {{cite book |last= |first= |date= |title=The Oranging of America |url= |location=New York |publisher=Viking |year=1976 |pages=49-60 |ref=harv }}|url=....}}
 ==I==
@@ Line 11: / Line 9: @@
 unlikely. Look at Pete Rademacher—not even a pro. Fresh from a three-round Olympic decision, he got a shot at Floyd Patterson, made the cover of
 ''Sports Illustrated'', picked up an easy hundred grand. Now that is one fight
-that Mr. Mailer, the literary lion, chose not to discuss. The clash between
+that Mr. Mailer, the Iiterary lion, chose not to discuss. The clash between
 pro and amateur didn’t grab his imagination like two spades in Africa or the
 dark passion of Emile Griffith. Yes, you know how to pick your spots, Norman. I who have studied your moves think that your best instinct is judgment. It’s your secret punch. You knew how to stake out Kennedy and
@@ Line 148: / Line 146: @@
 pig-tailed form of my sister beckoning me between mouthfuls of popcorn to rush at you. Aeneas, Hector, Dick Tiger, they too saw the phantoms that promise the sunshine and delight after one quick lunge. My sister is nine years old. She wears a gingham dress. She is right there beside you, close
 enough for Archie to stumble on.
+“Watch out, kid,” I say, “you shouldn’t even be here.” “It’s okay,” Mailer says. “She has my permission.”{{pg|512|513}}
+She throws the empty popcorn box over the ropes. “Please take me home,” she whimpers, and as she stands there the power enters me, the ppf quotient floods my own soul, and I rush, not in fear, not in anger, but in full sweet confidence, I rush with both fists to the middle of Norman Mailer.
+First my left with all its quixotic force and then my sure and solid right lands in the valley of his solar plexus. Next my head in a raw, cruel butt joins
+the piston arms. Hands, arms, head, neck, back, legs. As a boy for the first time shakes the high dive in the presence of his parents, with such pride do
+I dive. And with the power of falling human weight knifing through the chlorine-dark pool do I catapult. As a surgeon lays open flesh, indifferently, thinking not of tumors but of the arc of his raquet in full backswing, with
+such professional ease am I engulfed.
+I hear the wind leave his lungs. Like large soft earlobes, they shade me from the glare of his heart. The sound of his digestive juices is rhythmic and
+I resonate to the music of his inner organs. I hear the liver weakened from drink but on key still, the gentle reek of kidneys, the questioning solo of pancreas, the harmonicalike appendix, all here all around me, and the cautionary
+voice of my mother: “Be careful, little one, when you hit someone so
+hard in the stomach. That’s how Houdini died.”
+Somewhere else Archie Moore is counting ten over a prone loser. Judges are packing up scorecards and handbags snap shut. I am comfortable in the
+damp prison of his rib cage. His blood explodes like little Hiroshimas every second.
+“Concentrate,” says Mailer, “so the experience will not be wasted on you.”
+“It’s hard,” I say, “amid the color and distraction.”
+“I know,” says my gentle master, “but think about one big thing.”
+I concentrate on the new edition of the ''Encyclopedia Britannica''. It works. My mind is less a palimpsest, more a blank page.
+“You may be too young to remember,” he says, “James Jones and James T. Farrell and James Gould Cozzens and dozens like them. I took them all on, absorbed all they had and went on my way, just like Shakespeare ate up
+''Tottel’s Miscellany''.”
+“No lectures,” I gasp, “only truths.”
+“I am the Twentieth Century,” Mailer says. “Go forth from here toward the east and earn your bread by the sweat of your brow. Never write another line
+nor raise a fist to any man.” His words and his music are like Christmas
+morning. I go forth, a seer.
+==Work Cited==
+{{Refbegin}}
+* {{cite book |last=Apple |first=Max |date=1976 |title=The Oranging of America |url= |location=New York |publisher=Viking |ref=harv }}
+{{Refend}}
 {{Review}}
 {{DEFAULTSORT:Inside Norman Mailer}}
-[[Category:Short Stories (MR)]]
+[[Category:Classic Interpretations (MR)]]