From that time until his death in 2007, Mailer’s career both as observer and actor—manifested in the 40 or so books he would write—gave us, in the words of Warner Berthoff, “a uniquely substantial record of what it had meant to be alive” in that long era.
Although Mailer has been capably biographed before and was the subject of a large oral history by Peter Manso, J. Michael Lennon’s 960-page account of him won’t be improved upon. Not satisfied with producing this herculean biography, Lennon has followed it with a comparably thick selection of Mailer’s letters. Lennon knew Mailer for decades, talked extensively with him, and recorded what he heard. Unlike many biographers, Lennon feels the need to say something in judgment, however brief, of every one of Mailer’s books. To do this, while keeping the “life” narrative moving along, is a feat he performs with care and without pomposity.
Lennon is especially attentive to Mailer’s undergraduate life, where he compiled a lopsided academic record, with a major in engineering sciences and six courses in creative writing. As a sophomore, he read D. H. Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover and what works of Henry Miller he could lay his hands on; both Lawrence and Miller would be central figures for the writer Mailer became. He wrote stories, published a novella (A Calculus at Heaven), and wrote a long unpublished one, A Transit to Narcissus, about a “lunatic asylum” in Mattapan, where he briefly worked. In an often-quoted anecdote, we find him, a few days after Pearl Harbor, debating with himself whether the war novel he was to write would be best set in Europe or the Pacific. Deciding that he didn’t know enough European history, he chose a scene that few knew much about: the Philippine terrain of The Naked and the Dead.
Some of Lennon’s most fascinating pages are about Mailer’s service as an infantryman in the war and, after the war’s end, as a cook in Japan. Lennon points out how the urban Mailer, child of Brooklyn and Harvard, nevertheless wrote, in more than one of his books, landscape descriptions that “crackle and pulse with energy,” ranking with the best of postwar American writers. Diana Trilling, one of Mailer’s earliest supportive critics, noted that the most dramatic moments in The Naked and the Dead “are precipitated by intensities in nature.”
Such intensities, however, were absent from the two novels that followed his bestseller. In the mid-1950s, Mailer, stung by the failure of his second novel, Barbary Shore (1951), and the mixed reception of his third, The Deer Park (1955), dreamed up the first of his impossible projects, that of writing eight interlocking novels that would explore topics such as pleasure, crime, communism, and homosexuality, ending with mysticism. The sequence would emanate from the mind of a character, Sam Slovoda, the protagonist of Mailer’s lively story “The Man Who Studied Yoga.”
What eventually ensued was not a novel at all but the first and best of Mailer’s miscellaneous books of nonfiction, Advertisements for Myself (1959), a work that more or less coincided with his stabbing of his second wife, Adele Morales. In her own book about the event, Morales testifies that Mailer said to her, as she was being wheeled into the operating room, “I love you and I had to save you from cancer”—which is perhaps enough, and too much, to prove the madness that he succumbed to. His public explanation, scarcely a better one, was that “a decade’s anger” was responsible.
It was about this time that I began to read Norman Mailer with excitement, his dreadful off-the-page behavior notwithstanding. The polemics of Advertisements, conducted (in Lennon’s words) in an “obscene, prickly, but conversational” tone, enlivened his no-holds-barred reviewing of contemporary fictionists, as it did the braggadocio, heavily tinged with comedy, of his story “The Time of Her Time.” As a mild-mannered English professor who spent his own time admiring, among others, the words of Henry James and Robert Frost, I found this impossible person more than good company.
I followed Mailer avidly through the 1960s, what may be called his great decade: through the collections of prose that succeeded Advertisements (The Presidential Papers, 1963; Cannibals and Christians, 1966); the surprisingly assaultive, not exactly well-made novels (An American Dream, 1965; Why Are We in Vietnam? 1967); and his memorable accounts of the political conventions of 1968 (Miami and the Siege of Chicago). His burgeoning confidence that he could take on any subject produced a book about the moon landing (Of a Fire on the Moon, 1970) and one about women’s liberation (The Prisoner of Sex, 1971). The insistently combative figure who graced these books was well-described by Richard Poirier in his still-important critical study of 1972:
He is quite unable to imagine anything except in oppositions, unable even to imagine one side of the opposition without proposing that it has yet another opposition within itself.The metaphor of war, which Poirier explores as a key item in Mailer’s work, was perfectly in tune with the announcement Mailer had made in Advertisements that he was “imprisoned with a perception which will settle for nothing less than making a revolution in the consciousness of our time.” Heady stuff, especially for one, like myself, not at all inclined toward revolution of any sort.
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