Norman Mailer, one of the leading American icons of contemporary American literature, is dead.

Presumably you already knew that. But I am not here to praise, or disparage, Mr. Mailer’s work. I can’t, because I never read anything he wrote. His hardcover books always looked too thick and heavy for my squeamish tastes. And they always seemed to be pushing the list price envelope by $5 to $10, as if it was assumed the rich elites would reliably consume his books with great velocity without bothering to note the price. I suppose they did. I don’t recall seeing Mr. Mailer’ books in post-hardcover paperback, though they must be. I probably didn’t notice them because I wasn’t looking for them.

I was also somehow repelled by the Mailer head shots that seemed to crown his books. The imposing images never struck me as joyful or easy going. There was pain, even agony, in the wrinkle-lined eyes, and a possibly abrupt rudeness around the mouth. I could imagine myself in his presence being incessantly lectured to about the ways things were and should be. I didn’t think he would care about what I thought, or take the time to listen. Though as a successful novelist, he must have possessed an intuitive ability to absorb other people’s personalities and sentiments. Let me be clear, I never met Norman Mailer and never had any opinions about him whatsoever, until his death made me think about him.

Mailer literally lived in a glass dominated house for all to see. In fact, it would have been easy to throw bricks into his living room, and then disappear into a crowd. I sometimes wondered if any one ever did. His impressive apartment faced the Brooklyn Heights Promenade, where thousands of people walked within his view every day, though most of them probably didn’t know or no longer cared.

I have spent almost all of my adult life in the book business, and have lived more in New York than elsewhere. Yet, I don’t think I have ever had a conversation with anyone about Norman Mailer’s books, but I can say that I have heard his name and perhaps even said his name many times over the years, always in the context of his being Norman Mailer.

The name Norman Mailer was, and still is, an unmovable brand, like Andy Warhol, and Joe DiMaggio, and JFK, and numerous others. Most people who connect to the energies of these powerful names have little or no awareness of what any of them actually did when they were in their primes, but the names have become immortal adverbs through which to express certain meanings and feelings, they even show up in random songs, but it’s not yet known if Mailer will reach this rare pantheon in years to follow.

What’s the point of this blog? Well, Mailer was a major American celebrity, at least through the decades prior to the ’90s. His name was dropped in conversations; people were excited if they saw him in person; he was the frequent subject of rampant gossip and inane gibberish, and he would show up in high profile venues and situations that had nothing to do with his actual “job,” which was nothing more or less than writing. His name was used to help define an exalted “form” of writing and journalism. How many living or recently deceased writers can we say all this about?

Frankly, for those under 40, Mailer may have already been a vague ghost for a long time. But then who do they have instead?  My point exactly.

Posted by: Jeff Herman