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