The Mailer Review/Volume 1, 2007/Five Notes Toward a Reassessment of Norman Mailer: Difference between revisions

{{Byline|last=Middlebrook|first=Jonathan|abstract=A reconsideration of [[Norman Mailer]] and his work against the backdrop of Middlebrook’s book, ''Mailer and the Times of His Time''. San Francisco: Bay Books, 1976.|url=https://prmlr.us/mr07midd}}

Blabbed, blush’d, resented, lied, stole,<ref>Not established as fact</ref> grudge’d

Note #4–'''Voice'''. All writers’ actual voices are interesting, though most are disappointing. They lack the ''timbre'' of prophecy (see Arnold note, above) and are merely individual whines or rants or parodies of their primary form or scripture. The biblical prophets, songsters, and Savior had it easier than post-Edisonians, whose recorded and broadcast voices haunt their texts, usually subversively. ''Howl'' reads silently better than Ginsberg speaks it. But Mailer has a voice worth listening to. Years ago I characterized it as the “perfectly learned foreign speech” of a man who would hear more than he should & say less than he knew. (Lower my tone: Simon Suggs says, “It pays to be shifty in a new country.”) I’m now more willing to let myself think that the ''timbre'', the centeredness of Mailer’s voice validates a (yes) clear vision (usually sexual and snarling and rapacious) of good and evil at play for the universe. — Less elevatedly, Mailer’s speaking voice is adequate to anything he wishes to say. When he contrasts Hitler and Stalin, for example, he makes Stalin knowable by having him say of his enemies (pretty much everyone), “I know you motherfuckers) Kill them)” The audience smiles and gently laughs, in appreciation.<br />–He has also made it possible to write ''shit'' (poetically at least) in ''The New Yorker''. (Philip Levine, “Of Love and Other Disasters,” 5 February 2007, if not earlier, by someone else.)

Note #5–'''The Communicant That Failed'''. I met NM 30 years ago, entertained him several times at my father’s house and at my own, went to a wonderful, Gatsby-like party at NM’s (Berkshire County, MA) house. In my memory, the party featured the great boxing trainer, Cus D’Amato, holding court and NM greeting his guests with a small dog on his arm — a really small dog. It takes real confidence to be a man with a small dog. Over the years Mailer and I fell out of touch — I doubted I could interest him for very long. — Still, when I heard that he was coming to San Francisco on 5 February 2007, it seemed important to me to see him again. I put a number of people to considerable trouble, so I could get in touch with him. We made arrangements to meet after his public conversation with my friend and local Notable, Michael Krasny. Their on-stage conversation was a delight — a kind of Mailer-guided tour of Mailer, with Krasny doing a graceful job of steering him along familiar monuments of NM’s magnificence: here is Left Conservative, there is Strong Ladies, here is Liberal (concealed) Power Grab, here is Petty Annoyance at a cougher in the audience, there is Sparring 40–50 times with Jose Torres (if you lead with your right, you’ve used a hand, & your opponent has 2 hands left). Torres was a defensive ace, in 10 yrs, NM hit him 3 times with leading right…. Oh, there’s Philip Roth, a very good writer, and Faulkner starting the fight. The draped monument is the Next Life: NM wants to return as a black athlete, dreams it will be as a cockroach.<br />–After the conversation, Krasny re-introduced me to NM. “Of course I know you, but I wouldn’t have recognized you,” NM said, with smile and firm handshake. Quoth I, “But I certainly recognized you, my man. The voice. Your voice. 30 years in a moment gone)” I squeezed his shoulder, probably inappropriately, but it was an involuntary gesture, the kind Emerson says are ''true''. There was a crowd & general agreement that we’d all meet at a bar, after the book signing, which was to be conducted according to certain rules of commerce: “Mr. Mailer will sign up to 3 purchased books, so long as one of them is ''[[The Castle in the Forest]]''.” The line, which seemed to be two parallel lines, was 1509 long, and lengthening.<br />–Feeling somewhat abashed by that ''My Man!'' And the shoulder squeeze, I took the F-car to the appointed bar, nursed a beer for somewhat more than an hour. More time passed. I should have lingered, but by midnight I was feeling my age, so I walked home, leaving NM a grateful message on his hotel voicemail.<br />–I hope he gets it.

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