The Mailer Review/Volume 4, 2010/Encounters with Mailer: Difference between revisions
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It was the fall of 1972, toward the end of the Nixon-McGovern campaign. I was a graduate student at the University of California, finishing a doctoral dissertation about Mailer’s fiction, a project that had engaged me in a close scrutiny of his work and his volatile public personality. Writing a long study of someone is marriage of a sort; you do not commit yourself to it lightly. At times during those years, Mailer looked to me like an existential hero. At other times, he was an arrogant boor, a first-rate genius or a second-rate clown, a modest gentleman or an egomaniacal tyrant, a weird mixture of incompatible extremes, as various and schizoid as Mailer’s own portrait of his beloved America. So, my feelings toward him alternated between attraction and repulsion, hero worship and total disillusionment. I had never met the man, and I couldn’t make up my mind. | It was the fall of 1972, toward the end of the Nixon-McGovern campaign. I was a graduate student at the University of California, finishing a doctoral dissertation about Mailer’s fiction, a project that had engaged me in a close scrutiny of his work and his volatile public personality. Writing a long study of someone is marriage of a sort; you do not commit yourself to it lightly. At times during those years, Mailer looked to me like an existential hero. At other times, he was an arrogant boor, a first-rate genius or a second-rate clown, a modest gentleman or an egomaniacal tyrant, a weird mixture of incompatible extremes, as various and schizoid as Mailer’s own portrait of his beloved America. So, my feelings toward him alternated between attraction and repulsion, hero worship and total disillusionment. I had never met the man, and I couldn’t make up my mind. | ||
So, when I heard that the great man was coming to town, Uncle Norman giving a lecture at Berkeley, all the mixed feelings leaped to the surface, like Dexedrine warring with | So, when I heard that the great man was coming to town, Uncle Norman giving a lecture at Berkeley, all the mixed feelings leaped to the surface, like Dexedrine warring with seconal in the head. After grappling so long with his shadow, to confront the legend in the flesh—I felt as much apprehension as anticipation. | ||
“There’s gonna be trouble,” I heard some prophesy gleefully. “Woman’s Lib ain’t gonna let him get away with it.” | “There’s gonna be trouble,” I heard some prophesy gleefully. “Woman’s Lib ain’t gonna let him get away with it.” | ||
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The scene as I approached Zellerbach Auditorium seemed to bear out their warnings. In front of the ticket line, a handful of demonstrators were holding up their placards: “A little bit of rape is good for a man’s soul, says Norman Mailer.” Surprisingly, the militants were primarily gays, not women. Super macho meets the army of gays. It seemed to promise a classic contest: Classic Comics, perhaps. | The scene as I approached Zellerbach Auditorium seemed to bear out their warnings. In front of the ticket line, a handful of demonstrators were holding up their placards: “A little bit of rape is good for a man’s soul, says Norman Mailer.” Surprisingly, the militants were primarily gays, not women. Super macho meets the army of gays. It seemed to promise a classic contest: ''Classic Comics'', perhaps. | ||
I was surprised to find my instinct was to defend the champ. Couldn’t they picket grosser offenders than Mailer? Or was it only that he had the boldness to announce unpopular views and the foolishness to take on all comers? | I was surprised to find my instinct was to defend the champ. Couldn’t they picket grosser offenders than Mailer? Or was it only that he had the boldness to announce unpopular views and the foolishness to take on all comers? | ||
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The audience was ready to pick up the gauntlet. “Norman, you shmuck!” yelled a woman’s voice. | The audience was ready to pick up the gauntlet. “Norman, you shmuck!” yelled a woman’s voice. | ||
“Sweet heckler, all I heard was schmuck. I’m sure you don’t know the | “Sweet heckler, all I heard was ''schmuck''. I’m sure you don’t know the | ||
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But the protestors had exhausted their best ammunition early in the spectacle. The evening went on and subsequent interruptions were shouted down by the audience. When they pleaded for aid for the two phallic impersonators who had been busted, nobody cared. For all the justice of their cause, the gays had ambushed themselves with juvenile inanity. | But the protestors had exhausted their best ammunition early in the spectacle. The evening went on and subsequent interruptions were shouted down by the audience. When they pleaded for aid for the two phallic impersonators who had been busted, nobody cared. For all the justice of their cause, the gays had ambushed themselves with juvenile inanity. | ||
The crowd was Mailer’s for the rest of the evening and he began to get good. He read from his new book about the 1972 presidential campaign, St. George and the Godfather, he talked about the “totalitarianism” of the woman’s movement and of Richard Nixon, he considered the “monstrous disproportions” of the Vietnam war, with its “moral atrocities that bugger the mind,” and he spoke of the blight that rests upon the twentieth century, which he called “lividity of the will.” | The crowd was Mailer’s for the rest of the evening and he began to get good. He read from his new book about the 1972 presidential campaign, ''St. George and the Godfather'', he talked about the “totalitarianism” of the woman’s movement and of Richard Nixon, he considered the “monstrous disproportions” of the Vietnam war, with its “moral atrocities that bugger the mind,” and he spoke of the blight that rests upon the twentieth century, which he called “lividity of the will.” | ||
Mailer was warming up now, growing more eloquent and impassioned as he arrived at the core of his ideas, orating in his characteristically rapid, staccato fashion. The extemporaneous words flowed the way his elaborate phrases do in print, in long, elegant sentences that bend and turn and gather momentum. He claimed that the country may be “already afloat on a sea of totalitarianism which is different from any which has ever been visited before on the earth. For this is a species of benign totalitarianism. . . .” | Mailer was warming up now, growing more eloquent and impassioned as he arrived at the core of his ideas, orating in his characteristically rapid, staccato fashion. The extemporaneous words flowed the way his elaborate phrases do in print, in long, elegant sentences that bend and turn and gather momentum. He claimed that the country may be “already afloat on a sea of totalitarianism which is different from any which has ever been visited before on the earth. For this is a species of benign totalitarianism. . . .” | ||
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and said that in the years before us we must begin to question all our motives. “Because finally, all evident before us, is the knowledge that we are all full of | and said that in the years before us we must begin to question all our motives. “Because finally, all evident before us, is the knowledge that ''we are all full of shit''—from top to bottom.” | ||
Now the jester had taken on the guise of the revolutionary theorist. And we believed him; perhaps he had the handle on where the truth was hidden. His strategy had been to establish a communality with all of us—he was full of shit, but then, so were we all. He was one leap ahead because he already knew how full of it he was, and we, perhaps, did not. | Now the jester had taken on the guise of the revolutionary theorist. And we believed him; perhaps he had the handle on where the truth was hidden. His strategy had been to establish a communality with all of us—he was full of shit, but then, so were we all. He was one leap ahead because he already knew how full of it he was, and we, perhaps, did not. | ||
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Granted, Mailer was not Krassner, but as I listened to his spiel, I could not help being fascinated. Here was Mailer tossing out idea after idea, rapidly and effortlessly. Here was an expert, a professional, a man who had molded his talent and his personality into that species of human magic we call genius. But was he too much the intellectual machine, feeding off his own substance? His ego seemed hidden inside an intricate fortress of metaphor. | Granted, Mailer was not Krassner, but as I listened to his spiel, I could not help being fascinated. Here was Mailer tossing out idea after idea, rapidly and effortlessly. Here was an expert, a professional, a man who had molded his talent and his personality into that species of human magic we call genius. But was he too much the intellectual machine, feeding off his own substance? His ego seemed hidden inside an intricate fortress of metaphor. | ||
I talked with his traveling secretary, a lovely, soft-spoken young woman named Suzanne, who said she was a writer herself. “I read The Prisoner of Sex and thought that he must be a terrible man, an awful person. But when I got to know him, I found that he wasn’t like that at all. He’s really very nice. Sometimes, I feel like I ought to protect him.” | I talked with his traveling secretary, a lovely, soft-spoken young woman named Suzanne, who said she was a writer herself. “I read ''The Prisoner of Sex'' and thought that he must be a terrible man, an awful person. But when I got to know him, I found that he wasn’t like that at all. He’s really very nice. Sometimes, I feel like I ought to protect him.” | ||
Not surprising that Mailer aroused the maternal instinct. By 1972, he had already been married four times (he was to marry twice more). He admitted he could never live without a woman. | Not surprising that Mailer aroused the maternal instinct. By 1972, he had already been married four times (he was to marry twice more). He admitted he could never live without a woman. | ||
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was literary, a piece of Ph.D. trivia. Mailer pondered a moment and said, “I can’t answer that for you. You’ll have to do your own homework.” Then he paused and looked me straight in the eye. “There’s an old Mafia saying: | was literary, a piece of Ph.D. trivia. Mailer pondered a moment and said, “I can’t answer that for you. You’ll have to do your own homework.” Then he paused and looked me straight in the eye. “There’s an old Mafia saying: ‘''Follow your nose''.’” | ||
There in the perpetual twilight of the bar, I had a momentary flash, an epiphany: Mailer’s features suddenly melted into the face of the most voluble Jewish uncle who has ever lived, the kind who would take you aside at a party and say, “So, ''nu'', when are you going to wise up, ''putz''?”, the Spinoza of a drunken Bar Mitzvah. The type of uncle who would regale you at a family gathering, drink in hand, with the story of his life. A nice little guy better educated than the other relatives, the family philosopher, gregarious, a quick opinion on every topic of the day, always tossing out a joke or a sharp notion, but he spent his days as a traveling salesman. | There in the perpetual twilight of the bar, I had a momentary flash, an epiphany: Mailer’s features suddenly melted into the face of the most voluble Jewish uncle who has ever lived, the kind who would take you aside at a party and say, “So, ''nu'', when are you going to wise up, ''putz''?”, the Spinoza of a drunken Bar Mitzvah. The type of uncle who would regale you at a family gathering, drink in hand, with the story of his life. A nice little guy better educated than the other relatives, the family philosopher, gregarious, a quick opinion on every topic of the day, always tossing out a joke or a sharp notion, but he spent his days as a traveling salesman. | ||