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It has become the fashion for conservative book reviewers, as well as those all-too-numerous people who prefer their culture in neat, easily digested packages, to teh-teh loudly over every new book by Norman Mailer and say, with solemn tones of ponderous righteousness, "Why doesn't the poor bastard give up? Everybody knows NAKED AND THE DEAD was the only good thing he'll ever write? And why must he go mucking-about trying to do messy things like existential political articles? They're so uncomfortable to read." | It has become the fashion for conservative book reviewers, as well as those all-too-numerous people who prefer their culture in neat, easily digested packages, to teh-teh loudly over every new book by Norman Mailer and say, with solemn tones of ponderous righteousness, "Why doesn't the poor bastard give up? Everybody knows NAKED AND THE DEAD was the only good thing he'll ever write? And why must he go mucking-about trying to do messy things like existential political articles? They're so uncomfortable to read." | ||
Fortunately for America's artistic consciousness, Mailer has refused to allow himself to quietly expire after writing one fine novel which won the approbation of all sorts of people and critics, and continues to write as he damn well pleases without caring how many people he makes uncomfortable. The trouble with American culture is that too many people like Dan Wallace consume its products. His snotty and condescending review in this Sunday's Observer is a prime example of what happens in our society when the "respectable" people gang-up on the visionary outlaw and conspire to pole-axe him everytime he opens his mouth until he either becomes so rattled that he writes meaningless far-out drivel, or accepts their terms of surrender and writes neat, safe, impeccable little novels. Either way is artistic death for the artist, and cultural sedation for the timorous society that murders him. | |||