The Mailer Review/Volume 3, 2009/Courtly Mailer: The Legacy Derby

Written by
Donald L. Kaufmann

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Abstract: Norman Mailer’s status as a writer should be determined by the canon of his work and not by his biography. Any consideration of Mailer’s legacy must take into account the conspicuous Mailer canon: two Pulitzer Prizes and other major awards (except for the Nobel). There are over forty books, several truly weighty novels, stories and poems, and much nonfiction, including essays, articles, literary criticism, stage and screenplays, TV and film ventures (actor, director, critic), and much of ephemera. There is also, perhaps, this age’s most voluminous letter writing, many of which are astonishingly creative and revealing.

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URL: https://prmlr.us/mr03kau

Some preliminary speculation on Norman Mailer’s legacy reminds me of a media-fixed auto derby that has already predetermined a Mailer finish as a questionable non-winner at the starting-gate.

Such derby flux began with the news of Mailer’s recent demise and became fast-tracked into obvious truth that Mailer’s Legacy Quotient (LQ) is unique in that his “character” supersedes and eclipses his canon of work A writer’s behavior, in short, is all that matters to some critics. The LQ axiom, in Mailer’s case, remains commonplace: character overshadows canon.

Imagine such absurdity, historically speaking. To hell with The Ring, Wagner was such a rotter. And up the LQ of Will Shakespeare with his blank bio, but down the LQ of the thuggish Ben Jonson. And give a zero read to Ezra Pound, that Fascist. And don’t forget that old goat, Theodore Dreiser, and his whorehouse antics. And, yes, Papa Hemingway, that macho bundle of character flaws. Heraclitus said that “Character is Destiny.” Enter Norman Mailer, a literary bundle of flux, perhaps destined to have his ego read more than his books. Also enter the ubiquitous media that increasingly preside over a nation of gawkers rather than readers.

In 1948, a curtain rose and out trots an unknown with a big war book, an overnight best seller and a corresponding big-eyed media. What a readymade twosome, Mailer and the media, mutual enablers, and Norman Mailer becomes America’s leading literary celebrity. Unlike his two nearest competitors, Truman Capote and Gore Vidal, Mailer was typecast as ruffian extraordinaire—a 24/7 bully-brawler in salons and saloons, the epitome of egghead violence. Overnight, Mailer became the undisputed bad boy of American letters, so said the drooling, yet chiding media.

These developments fed the early LQ verdict in the January 2008 Smithsonian, a print-medium legacy bible. The presumptive judge, Lance Morrow, dissects Mailer’s “huge ego” and finds it “unpleasant” and “poisonous.” Thus, Mailer “[I]n his own ways he embodied America’s worst faults: selfindulgence, bullying, sense of entitlement, irrelevant belligerence, the obnoxious American self-importance that is a corrupted Emersonianism—Emerson without the sweetness, the calm, the brains, the transcendence.”

Such deconstruction gets a body English treatment when Morrow refers to a 1994 Valentine’s Day incident at Carl Bernstein’s fiftieth birthday party. Mailer was about to commit a social atrocity and was likened to a madcap Existential killer-driver:

He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet in the boxer’s way he had, a rhythmic motion meant to conjure menace, as if he wished to let you know that while he had one foot safely on the brake, the other was pressed on the accelerator, his motor surging ... so that if he chose, he might release the brake and hurtle across the room and smash through the brick wall and cause God knows what mayhem in the world outside.

What a tell-all negative image! Norman Mailer as boxer-motorist, an all American arch-menace in the ring, on the streets, and in the salon. Small wonder that Mailer’s (LQ) now barely quivered, so spoketh Lance Morrow, prophet extraordinaire.

My recourse to an imaginary auto derby now begins, to expose the audacity and absurdity of judging this contest or any other race at the starting line.

Let me say at the outset that Morrow and I are at opposite poles, except for our general agreement that Mailer in his seventies had mellowed socially, was becoming downright harmless, sporting (in Morrow’s apt phrase) “Prospero's winkle.” Otherwise, we are at opposite ends of a racetrack. I’m a starter and they are early finishers.

My time spent with Norman Mailer was not ongoing but was rather sporadic. I was an early Mailer scholar (articles and a book) and, later, a Mailer book collector and long-time friend.

Naturally, I differ with Smithsonian and Morrow. So, I toured the derby site, did some laps cruising, not speeding, but stopping. I consider my experience with multiple Mailer “stops” or “visits.” Over a span of more than forty years, four visits of them were in-depth and three visits were less so. The following discussion is not a composed memoir, just a series of short takes. I was looking for “Courtly Norman” and I found him.

I. IOWA CITY (1963)

Our first meeting was a bundle of “hellos” and “smiles.” The English department at the University of Iowa had billed me as a pioneer scholar, writing the first doctoral dissertation on Norman Mailer. That fact was what greeted Mailer, who was on a college tour as an “Esquire Literary Symposium” panelist. I was only four years younger than Mailer and must have given off a whiff of pre-academic street sensibilities. This part of me Mailer must have sensed or at least that’s what his first handshake said: “All’s well that starts well.”

I was not able to meet with Norman alone and the one-day symposium was hectic and hurried. Mailer, as expected, was the star panelist. He seemed to be on the edge, almost incandescent, a young celebrity in full bloom. Admirers constantly swarmed around him. He answered questions and offered helpful tips and literary contacts. He gave me names, addresses, phone numbers, and said continually, “Mention my name.” He was not an offish visitor; on the contrary he was exceptionally friendly. And Norman seemed genuinely interested in both me and my dissertation.

The panel presentation was cantankerous and Mailer was usually the instigator. Afterwards, we promised to meet at the night’s big party for a “real talk.” Unwisely, I was a little late and Mailer had already left. The party host, Donald Justice (the poet) told me that Mailer and Mark Harris (the writer) had a fracas. Edmund Skellings (another poet and my best friend) had cooled down Mailer and off they went. Knowing Ed, I suspected a flashy Corvette and something hallucinogenic. I asked, “Are they coming back?” My host shrugged poetically. And I waited and waited but nothing happened.

There was, however, an existential dawn, this one smiling. Ed told me that he and Norman had driven around, smoked, and talked, and the latter included me. At evening’s end, Mailer said, “I’ll be seeing you and Don again.” Skellings had work his social magic.

The “Esquire Literary Symposium” was not Camelot or Versailles and Mailer was hardly “Courtly,” but he was aware, sensitive, amiable, and most promising. Norman Mailer and I had a future, I was sure of it.

II. ALASKA (SPRING 1965)

Our second substantial meeting occurred in 1965 in Alaska during a Mailer “culture shock” visit. He was jolted from a Lower-48 America to a magical Arctic America. In the Lower 48, the media are wired. Up north, there is only skeletal static. Norman had landed, already a product of the early Morrows and the incessant media. He was in transition, as was his “character” and canon. The transformation would last, but five days and for the final four days I was an eyewitness.

I was in my first of four years in Aaska, an Assistant Professor of English at the University of Alaska in Fairbanks, about one hundred and fifty miles below the Arctic Circle. It was called the “Wilderness City,” an oxymoron and instant Mailer favorite name. Since Iowa, I had done my Mailer homework. And Mailer was ready for Alaska, later calling it “God’s Attic.” From his first breath and step, Norman had formed a natural connection to Alaska.

Mailer was instantly at home with frontier moods and manners. For example, Mailer arrived as a reputed barroom drinker. Alaska, especially Fairbanks, had the highest per capita alcohol consumption rate of all fifty States. Drinking was an art form. Norman, after one or two drinks, began to consume his beverages like a veteran Klondike sourdough. Yet he was a positive chameleon. The supposed “violent” Norman Mailer spent three days in Fairbanks, a wilderness City and, overnight, Norman turned absolutely mellow with a barrage of Prospero twinkles. Alaska and Mailer were made for each other in that early Spring of 1965.

There is still mystery surrounding Norman. How compatible, in a Mailer context, is the term, courtly? Assuredly, I did not conjure up courtliness in my Mailer expectations after three years of absorbing Lower 48 media noise. But why courtly as it pertains to his character?

Mailer certainly was not visiting an American Metropolis in the tundra (echoes of his final novel, The Castle In The Forest). But he was making the next best “stop” in 1965 America at a three-day wilderness city with Castle atmospherics. Although I did not know when Mailer landed in Alaska, he immediately sensed that his Lower 48 self and the media-crafted image of the “big bad celebrity” was a lost art up North. Mailer, instead, sensed both an old and new American frontier atmosphere and merged with both of them. If a passerby New Yorker would have spotted this star visitor, he might well have blinked and said, “Where has the real Norman Mailer gone?” I would have answered, “He’s going back to the Lower-48” with loads of Frontier Charm, and that’s why the term—Courtly Norman—stuck.

III.PROVINCETOWN (SEPTEMBER 1967)

Culturally speaking, this visit was a drastic shift from a wilderness city to the “sin center” on Cape Cod. In 1967 Provincetown was Mailer’s summer home. Only two years had elapsed since the Alaska trip. How much of that “Arctic Metamorphosis” was still healthy and intact in Mailer?

His summer hangout had obvious cultural compensations. Today’s Provincetown had interesting and ironic beginnings. Supposedly, our Pilgrim Fathers made a brief stopover before settling on Plymouth Rock. (A sign on the outskirts of the town states as much.) Since those early days,“Ptown” has undergone remarkable change. By the mid-1960s, Ptown had became the regional vortex of “upscale hedonism.” I was a designated weekend house guest in 1967 and this visit would be my first encounter with a discernibly domesticated Mailer.

The Mailer abode on Commercial Street (one of only two main streets in Ptown) had been purchased two years earlier. The day I arrived it was the Saturday afternoon “Open House at the Mailers.”At one o’clock it started in high gear in an oversized room as guests, Norman’s associates and various friends, past and present gathered, as well as walk-in tourist gawkers. Beverly, Mailer’s fourth wife, was the hostess. Early on, Norman was off in his do-not-disturb quarters, writing for posterity.

In the later afternoon Mailer made an appearance and it was quite casual, only a little soft mixing with the crowd. For hours that afternoon, I enjoyed chatting with the hip Mailer folk, with an endless supply of fizz drinks and finger food. We all stayed until the end of the open house.

At sundown, all three weekend evenings, Mailer and “company” went nightclub hopping. Ptown was jammed with tourists and the Manhattan Bohemian set out for an artsy-lusty weekend. As a houseguest, I was seated at the Mailer table at restaurants and was included in the spotlight. I felt as if I were at an after-hours Cape Cod Camelot.

Norman was masterful at “working the room.” And make no mistake, Norman was a true code man. This Norman, significantly domestic, was new to me, although he had told me that he was very close to his mother. Norman was an incredibly attentive son. His mother, Fanny, had his constant ear and he told me that he called her at least once a day. Norman also told me that Fanny was his literary archivist.

Their spiffy bayside home with a dock over the water seemed more “his” than “hers.” Beverly called it a “part-time hotel,” but I saw it as “fulltime party pad,” but this weekend a partial exception. On my last Ptown night in a bedroom on that dock over the water, I reviewed a weekend’s appraisal of “Mailer’s “character” that also examined his literary canon. The body of his work, indeed, was wide and deep. What about Mailer as a good family man?

IV. TAMPA (FEBRUARY 1972)

The caption of this trip might well read: the Norman Mailer meltdown that never was. Norman had exemplary existential timing. The local media were primed and there was a scheduled one-day Mailer stopover at the University of South Florida. It was at his time that I met a new Norman, the media’s “Prisoner of Sex.” This controversial topic and book rocked the feminist movement, and marked Mailer. Gender warfare was stormy and blistery in 1972.

Once again, I found myself at center stage. I taught at the University, and had played a role in bringing Norman to Tampa to give a podium lecture. I also volunteered to organize and finance the twenty-four hour agenda, which included hosting a big party for our embattled visitor. I was excited. The local media and campus police were on alert.Why? Mailer was about to meet his gender-slayer. Kathy Freeperson and her militants were out to bloody this advertised chauvinist. I wondered how Mailer’s character would hold up. Would it turn good or bad?

The Mailer agenda began, tastefully, with an early four o’clock dinner in Tampa’s historic Ybor City at a renowned Cuban restaurant. I suspected that Mailer would be enthralled with its classic interior of early Spanish tiles and mosaics and so he was. Among the twenty or more dinner guests, some came from Miami and Orlando and some were Norman’s personal friends, seldom seen. His mood soared and the cuisine outdid expectations. For a festive two hours we dined. Norman, charmingly blended with the setting, its cuisine, multiple conversations, and companionship. Norman sat content, obviously very comfortable with himself. I sat and squinted and imagined the atoms of all those tiles and mosaics reassembling into an original Castilian Court, with Norman at the head table.

At four o’clock the following day, I took Mailer to his motel for a rest period before his eight p.m. podium appearance. I told him I could not be there for his speech speech. I also warned him about hecklers. He shruggedand said, “What do you want me to do tonight?”“Do what you want to do,”I replied, and we both smiled.

I missed the podium fireworks. Only later when the evening’s party was in full swing did I hear about how Mailer stunned everyone by turning “trickster.” This February night had turned frigid, but over a thousand people filled the auditorium, including the panting media and Kathy Freeperson and her shock militia. The stage was set for gender warfare and cultural mayhem. Mailer’s speech, whatever its merit, was greeted by bedlam. Kathy was leading the audience in jeers, boos and catcalls. Mailer and his speech were being snuffed out.

What to do? Mailer calls on Kathy and two lieutenants to come up and share the spotlight. Instantly, a college junket speech became a 1960s “happening.” Kathy was ecstatic. She was now an instant celebrity, as were her militia. For over an hour, Mailer alternated between mock opponent and stage jester. The audience roared and roared. Many from the audience stayed with Mailer and crashed my party.

I had invited a select group, about one hundred University people, but I did not expect a horde. The party house, borrowed from a friend for the evening, was spacious yet had only minimal furniture. I was told that on stage both Norman and Kathy alluded to the late-night party and several hundred people took those words to constitute an invitation. And they came, like locusts, through doors and windows. I did not dare call the police: that would generate a media report and possible “Riotous Mailer Party” headlines.

He entered, the vanguard of the horde, and rushed up to me. Norman pointed at the center of the room and said: “I’m going to stand over there and every twenty minutes you come and see if I need a whiskey refill.” I kept my eye on the guest of honor. He stationed himself at the center of the room, but this time he didn’t work the room. It worked him.

For over two hours Norman stood his ground, sipping whiskey, and allowing his public to invade not only his public space but also his body, his personal space. His modus operandi was that of a many-handed Heraclitus doing simultaneous multiple good deeds: a frantic go-round of book signings, hip small talk, verbal nuggets, and other celebrity mannerisms. But most telling was how he allowed his body to be violated by mostly women, both lovers and haters, stroking or pawing or worse, here and there, even erogenous zones. At times, Norman looked like a piece of meat. Why such acquiescence? Only Norman knew.

As for the host, I was trying to survive the plague of the locusts. Besides those Mailer refills, I squeezed out a path here and there and talked to everyone and no one. As long as Norman remained, so did his admirers. He finally quit after two long hours. I had counted seven whiskey refills, and some were doubles. On the way to his motel we spoke little. He was dead-tired. At the motel door I said, “Norman, tonight, you surprised me.”“Sometimes I surprise myself,” he replied.

Ah, Norman. He had conned Kathy and Company into switching a stump speech into a hit show. Moreover, he earned a five-figure speaker’s fee while Kathy’s group worked for free. Mailer also outdid a common media prophecy—that he could never ever resist violence. In fact, he stamped it out. His Tampa visit did not create headlines, only modest coverage. Everybody won, and that included Kathy, Norman, and his Legacy Quotient.