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{{hatnote|Preface to ''The Joker'' by Jean Malaquais.<ref>From {{cite book |last=Malaquais |first=Jean |date=1974 |title=The Joker |url= |location=New York |publisher=Doubleday |page= |isbn= |author-link= }} Reprinted by Project Mailer with permission of the estate of Norman Mailer. ([[74.14]]). The notes that follow are Mailer's.</ref>}}
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{{byline|last=Mailer|first=Norman}}
{{byline|last=Mailer|first=Norman|note=Preface to ''The Joker'' by Jean Malaquais.{{efn|From {{cite book |last=Malaquais |first=Jean |date=1974 |title=The Joker |url= |location=New York |publisher=Doubleday |page= |isbn= |author-link= }} Reprinted by Project Mailer with permission of the estate of Norman Mailer. ([[74.14]]). The notes that follow are Mailer's.}} }}
I did not like this book twenty years ago, and thought it disappointing. Since I had learned as much about writing from the author as from anyone alive, large demands were put upon the manuscript. Jean Malaquais was not only my good friend, perhaps even my best friend, but my mentor, more — he had had more influence upon my mind than anyone I ever knew from the time we had gotten well acquainted while he was translating ''The Naked and the Dead'' into French. Part of the friendship rested on his candor. He is hardly rich now, and he was poor then, as only a French intellectual who teaches an evening course at the New School can be bread-crust poor in New York, and he made no pretense — he was not in love with ''The Naked and the Dead''. No, he was doing the translation because he needed the work. It proved a munificent sum. The publisher was giving him $2,000, and in the course of the year, I added another $1,000 out of shame. I had never seen a man work so hard at a job for which he did not have respect. In the year it took him to make that translation, he must have worked eight hours a day, five or six days a week; he was a perfectionist and a French stylist, and hated my prose in that book with much detailed justice: he would draw vectors across the pages to show how sloppily I had repeated or worse, ''ideas'' — how he detested anything slovenly in literature! He had, after all, fashioned the style of his own French prose out of the hungriest inner disciplines. Like Conrad, he was Polish, and also began to learn the language in which he would write only after he was out of his adolescence. Conceive of such hungry disciplines when he was a young emigrant from Warsaw who worked in French mines and came to clarify the literature of his new tongue by spending fourteen hours a day in the Bibliothèque Nationale in order to keep warm — it was cold on the winter streets of Paris in the years of the Depression — yes, learned his French by reading and writing in that library with all his imagination, ambitions and privations going into it, and took a post-graduate course in the hierarchical elegance of the tongue by being secretary to Andre Gide for a period, indeed met his future employer by composing a furious letter on the spur of reading a casual piece the author had done for a literary review.<ref>I think it is worth printing Malaquais’ corrections (by way of a recent letter) to a few of my biographical facts. “The library was la bibliothèque Sainte-Genevieve, the only one in Paris that stayed open till 10 P.M. I’d remain there all day long (10–12 hours), often without a meal. At closing time I’d go to Les Halles where, with some luck, I’d be unloading crates of cackling poultry or frozen cabbage. Still, job or no job, I could always grab there an apple or a couple of carrots to keep the man alive.”</ref>
[[File:Malaquais.jpeg|thumb|Jean Malaquais]]
[[File:Malaquais.jpeg|thumb|Jean Malaquais]]
I did not like this book twenty years ago, and thought it disappointing. Since I had learned as much about writing from the author as from anyone alive, large demands were put upon the manuscript. Jean Malaquais was not only my good friend, perhaps even my best friend, but my mentor, more — he had had more influence upon my mind than anyone I ever knew from the time we had gotten well acquainted while he was translating ''The Naked and the Dead'' into French. Part of the friendship rested on his candor. He is hardly rich now, and he was poor then, as only a French intellectual who teaches an evening course at the New School can be bread-crust poor in New York, and he made no pretense — he was not in love with ''The Naked and the Dead''. No, he was doing the translation because he needed the work. It proved a munificent sum. The publisher was giving him $2,000, and in the course of the year, I added another $1,000 out of shame. I had never seen a man work so hard at a job for which he did not have respect. In the year it took him to make that translation, he must have worked eight hours a day, five or six days a week; he was a perfectionist and a French stylist, and hated my prose in that book with much detailed justice: he would draw vectors across the pages to show how sloppily I had repeated or worse, ''ideas'' — how he detested anything slovenly in literature! He had, after all, fashioned the style of his own French prose out of the hungriest inner disciplines. Like Conrad, he was Polish, and also began to learn the language in which he would write only after he was out of his adolescence. Conceive of such hungry disciplines when he was a young emigrant from Warsaw who worked in French mines and came to clarify the literature of his new tongue by spending fourteen hours a day in the Bibliothèque Nationale in order to keep warm — it was cold on the winter streets of Paris in the years of the Depression — yes, learned his French by reading and writing in that library with all his imagination, ambitions and privations going into it, and took a post-graduate course in the hierarchical elegance of the tongue by being secretary to Andre Gide for a period, indeed met his future employer by composing a furious letter on the spur of reading a casual piece the author had done for a literary review.<ref>I think it is worth printing Malaquais’ corrections (by way of a recent letter) to a few of my biographical facts. “The library was la bibliothèque Sainte-Genevieve, the only one in Paris that stayed open till 10 P.M. I’d remain there all day long (10–12 hours), often without a meal. At closing time I’d go to Les Halles where, with some luck, I’d be unloading crates of cackling poultry or frozen cabbage. Still, job or no job, I could always grab there an apple or a couple of carrots to keep the man alive.”</ref>
In those pages, Gide had written that he sometimes wondered if poverty might not have deepened his art. We can imagine the irony with which he would surround so direct a sentimentality. Malaquais, however, pulled up the barbarism and shook it in the air. ''You ought to get down on your knees and pray to that God you occasionally pretend to believe in that He has let you be a comfortable bourgeois so you can make your art''. Such was the note of the letter, a howl of ferocity torn right out of the bitterness of trying to write at the maximum of one’s possible talents when there was no money in the pocket and no food in the belly. Gide wrote back to apologize. He confessed he had not been thinking of the situation of young writers like Malaquais for whom such words had to be naturally and justifiably intolerable, no, he feared he had been playing too inconsiderately with a conceit; he had wished to startle a number of his confreres who were overconcerned their sensibility and so had been cushioning themselves against too much shock. He hoped to pose the possible stimulations of shock. But it had been unfeeling to ignore the situation of penniless young men like Malaquais and their sentiments on reading his words.<ref>''From Malaquais’ letter'': “Gide’s piece, an excerpt from his ''Journal'' dated March 1935, appeared in the October issue of la Nouvelle Revue Française. I think it was December when I happened to read it. Had you a chance to look it up (cf. Justin O’Brien’s transl., Knopf), I am sure you’d agree it was plain sentimental gibberish, and not in the least ironic. Idiocy was the price one had to pay for going along—even for a while—with the Stalinists.”</ref> To the letter, Gide pinned a bill, something like ten pre-World War II francs. Let us say the sum might bring back twenty dollars’ worth of groceries today. Malaquais tore up the money and mailed the scraps back to Gide. “Do not think,” he wrote, “that you can buy a postage stamp for your soul. If you wish to do something for me, do something real, give me a job! Do not throw me crumbs!”
In those pages, Gide had written that he sometimes wondered if poverty might not have deepened his art. We can imagine the irony with which he would surround so direct a sentimentality. Malaquais, however, pulled up the barbarism and shook it in the air. ''You ought to get down on your knees and pray to that God you occasionally pretend to believe in that He has let you be a comfortable bourgeois so you can make your art''. Such was the note of the letter, a howl of ferocity torn right out of the bitterness of trying to write at the maximum of one’s possible talents when there was no money in the pocket and no food in the belly. Gide wrote back to apologize. He confessed he had not been thinking of the situation of young writers like Malaquais for whom such words had to be naturally and justifiably intolerable, no, he feared he had been playing too inconsiderately with a conceit; he had wished to startle a number of his confreres who were overconcerned their sensibility and so had been cushioning themselves against too much shock. He hoped to pose the possible stimulations of shock. But it had been unfeeling to ignore the situation of penniless young men like Malaquais and their sentiments on reading his words.<ref>''From Malaquais’ letter'': “Gide’s piece, an excerpt from his ''Journal'' dated March 1935, appeared in the October issue of la Nouvelle Revue Française. I think it was December when I happened to read it. Had you a chance to look it up (cf. Justin O’Brien’s transl., Knopf), I am sure you’d agree it was plain sentimental gibberish, and not in the least ironic. Idiocy was the price one had to pay for going along—even for a while—with the Stalinists.”</ref> To the letter, Gide pinned a bill, something like ten pre-World War II francs. Let us say the sum might bring back twenty dollars’ worth of groceries today. Malaquais tore up the money and mailed the scraps back to Gide. “Do not think,” he wrote, “that you can buy a postage stamp for your soul. If you wish to do something for me, do something real, give me a job! Do not throw me crumbs!”


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== Notes ==
== Notes ==
{{Reflist}}
{{Reflist}}
=== Editor’s Note ===
{{Notelist}}


[[Category:Written by Norman Mailer]]
[[Category:Written by Norman Mailer]]
[[Category:Archive]]
[[Category:Full Text Introductory]]
[[Category:Full Text Introductory]]
[[Category:Preface]]
[[Category:Preface]]
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