Norman Mailer 1923 - 2007

Christopher Isherwood, novelist: Vulgarity as literature

Norman Mailer was in town (I think) because of a project to film his novel "The Naked and the Dead"... Norman and Christopher got along well together. Norman, in those days, was a deceptively quiet and polite young man who amused Christopher by his sudden outbursts of candor ... my memory of Norman entertaining a fairly large group of paraplegics [involved in making the film "The Men"] at Christopher's house. According to my memory, Christopher had asked his paraplegic guests in advance if there was any available celebrity they would like to meet. All had agreed on Mailer. He arrived on time, neatly dressed, demure and sober. The women present were obviously reassured. Then he began to tell stories about his army life -- perfectly harmless funny little stories, with no horrors in them, no sex, no venereal disease. All that was startling was the dialogue. "By that time," the sergeant was beginning to get a little bit impatient, so he said to me -- " Mailer kept the same nicey-nice party smile on his face, as he continued, without the least change of tone, "Why, you mother-fucking son of a bitch, another word out of you and I'll ram this mop right up your ass!" The male guests roared. The women blinked and tried to smile -- reflecting, no doubt, that they had read talk as rough as this in Mailer's novel; coming from his mouth, you couldn't call it vulgarity; it was practically literature. (Hollywood, 1950)

From "The Lost Years: A Memoir, 1945-1951," by Christopher Isherwood, ed. By Katherine Bucknell (HarperCollins, 2000)

Adele Mailer, wife of Mailer (1951-1962): Sensitivity in his face

... I was just drifting off into sleep when the phone rang.

"Who the hell is this?"

It was Dan [Fancher]. "Del, how are you, kid?"

"I'm fine." He sounded like he'd been drinking heavily. "Dan, it's two o'clock. Are you okay? You must be at some kind of party."

"No, it's not a party. I'm at Norman's apartment." He was mumbling.

"Dan, I can't hear you, whose apartment?"

"Norman Mailer, we're just sitting around having a few drinks."

"I thought you said he was living in Vermont."

"Not anymore. He split up with his wife." Dan hesitated a moment. "Why don't you come up here for a drink?"

...

The cab stopped in front of a seedy old brownstone, a shade better than my tenement ...

I followed Dan down the hall along a string of rooms ... into a parlor with a lot of dark down furniture. I saw a skinny little guy sitting on the couch. I knew he was twenty-eight, but he looked much younger ...

The boy wonder was wearing a plaid flannel shirt and dungarees, baggy on his slender frame. He looked at me, and his eyes were beautiful, not only in their color blue, but for their soft, almost melancholy expression. He was good looking, with a strong nose, a beautifully shaped sensual mouth, and a delicate chin with a small indentation. He had a lot of dark brown curly hair that I immediately wanted to touch and a warm smile that crinkled his eyes. There was a sensitivity in his face that I responded to. He half rose from his seat. (New York, 1951)

From "The Last Party: Scenes From My Life With Norman Mailer," by Adele Mailer (Barricade Books, 1997)

Michael Harrington, author and socialist: Marvelous memory

...to a party at Norman Mailer's huge loft over on First Avenue where, only two years out of St. Louis and goggle-eyed, I talked with writers and painters and gallery owners ... Mailer -- and I mean no harm to his image as an enfant terrible -- is one of the nicest men I have ever known, with a marvelous memory for names of nobodies from St. Louis. In the world he dominated I became friends with Dan Wolf and Ed Fancher, who were to found The Village Voice... (New York, early 1950s)

From Fragments of the Century: A Social Autobiography, by Michael Harrington (Saturday Review Press/E.P. Dutton, 1973)

Louis Auchincloss, novelist: Writer's true compliment

...Sunday afternoon meetings of young writers in a Greenwich Village bar called White Horse Tavern ...

Norman Mailer congratulated me on a short story entitled "The Gem-like Flame" which had just appeared in a periodical called New World Writing. He gave me the only true compliment that one writer can give to another. He said that he would not have minded having written it himself. I was so pleased that I went right home. I wanted to leave one such assembly with a happy impression. (New York, 1953)

From "A Writer's Capital," by Louis Auchincloss (University of Minnesota Press, 1974)

Edward Abbey, writer and environmentalist: A listening, centripetal man

Last night I went to this Greenwich Village party and there was Norman Mailer, surrounded by a circle of listeners and interlocutors. I was too timid to butt in, though I wanted to very much. Fortunately, my pretty and resourceful Rita was there to help me out; she tapped the celebrated young man on the shoulder, calling out his name like a respectful acquaintance, and without wasting breath on apology or self-introduction informed him that there was someone here who wanted to meet him, then cheerfully introduced him to me and a couple of others.

A pleasant young man, Mailer. He shook hands firmly, grinned, looked at me for a moment with apparently friendly, interested eyes. (Not remarkable eyes, if I may contradict myself.) My nervousness vanished almost at once and in a moment we -- three or four of us -- were talking about books (his), Shakespeare, the theatre, the last war. He told us about some of his wartime experiences, how they were connected with his famous book ["The Naked and the Dead"].

I can't recall that he said anything particularly brilliant or memorable, perhaps because he did more listening than talking. I thought him unnecessarily patient, tolerant; he had to listen to some dreadful crap: A simple young man talking about his easy life in the army, how he couldn't understand how anyone could dislike it (he was drafted after the war was over); another guy, an insolent jerk, blowing smoke in [Mailer's] face, in his wine cup, describing in prolonged detail his experiences as a taxi driver (Mailer seemed to be sincerely interested). And so on.

Mailer had short curly sandy hair, a kind of pale fuzzy unhealthy looking face, soft brown eyes, big flapping ears, round shoulders, small hands. He is not tall, stands always in a slumped position, head between hunched-up shoulders, hands in pockets, chin on chest, cigarette dangling, the attitude and posture of a listening, centripetal man. He wore a dark brown suit, not too clean, rumpled, a short not too clean, shoes as badly in need of a shine as my own. (New York, 1953)

From "Confessions of a Barbarian: Selections From the Journals of Edward Abbey 1951-1989" (Little, Brown, 1994)

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