I don’t know about you, but there are times when I just have to go Full Norman Mailer. By that I mean: occasionally, when I need to get my grit on, I summon the writer’s spirit to help me.
I hear him in my head—the raspy rapscallion’s voice saying: “Atta fuckin’ girl!,” or “Go fuckin’ get em, Kid!,” or even “Who cares what those fuckers think?” Norman was a connoisseur of the profane.
If you didn’t know his work or didn’t know him personally, you might not glean this finely honed skill from the recently released bookSelected Letters of Norman Mailer (published this month by Random House). Yes, the salty language makes an appearance, but not excessively. And upon receiving an advance copy, I was honored to see that an exchange of Mailer’s and mine has been included—even if it was one without a hint of profanity.
Some background. I got to know Norman and his wife Norris Church up in Provincetown, Massachusetts, in the summer of 2002. (Norman passed away in 2007; Norris, three years later.) A born-and-bred Californian, I had decided I to do the East Coast circuit: after spending time with friends on Nantucket, I was P-town bound. (As many East Coasters know, if Nantucket is the Upper East Side, Provincetown is Greenwich Village.)
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Coincidentally, the place I had rented there was down the block from the Mailers on Commercial Street. In fact, it had once belonged to the Mailers. A decade on, I can still recall climbing the narrow staircase that led to Norman’s former study, on the top floor overlooking the water, with salt air-weathered wooden floorboards and chipped wall paint. It was perfect for thinking and writing, but not so large that you could do much else. Norman’s study even housed a desk he had once used. An air of brilliance still hung in the room. Sadly, that charmed atmosphere didn’t transmit through osmosis. And aside from a few banal postcards, I wrote nothing of consequence during my stay.
I had come to understand that the enduring power of Norman Mailer went far beyond his writings. It encompassed everything about him. It seemed so fitting that he was a pugilist: he was always fighting in every aspect of his life and with every fiber of his being. He fought—no, he raged—against pretense, against small minds and small thinking, against the status quo.
I was in college when I read The Executioner’s Song. At first, I was comfortable with the dogma I was learning as a psych major, certain that I was developing compassion and understanding for the vagaries of the human psyche—that is, until I bumped up against this extraordinary book that demanded we look at a stone-cold killer and force ourselves to understand him—and maybe even feel compassion for him, despite his twisted mind. The Executioner’s Song challenged me. It bothered me, upset me, and ultimately helped force me to see beyond my own small mindset. Of all of Mailer's books, this was the one that had the greatest impact on me.
Living in New York also meant I was bound to know at least one of Mailer’s kids. (He had nine.) I first met Michael Mailer, the successful film producer, and he briefly introduced me to Norman at a bookstore event before my time in P-town. “You got a raw fucking deal, kid,” Norman said to me—with that patented twinkle in his eye—at the conclusion of our first conversation. Though I had been nervous about meeting him, he always struck me as one of those people who could instinctively spot a bullshitter and wouldn’t hesitate to let you know it. He put me at ease. In a way, meeting Norman Mailer was a litmus test of one’s authenticity.
Later that summer, I was more properly introduced to Norman and Norris by one of their other sons, John Buffalo, a talented writer in his own right, with whom I had become friendly. I’d been invited to a large family lunch at their Provincetown home. The day was a heady mix—equal parts intellectual sparring and bawdy banter.
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That summer, the three of us—Norman, Norris, and I—struck up an unusual friendship. Norman was a force, and Norris was his equal, in elegant counterpoint. She was also an accomplished writer and artist, and we formed a rare, instant bond. In the years to come, I would spend more time with Norris. We began to share the kind of connection that comes from a little magic and a love of similar things—flea markets, art, beautiful upholstery, and white wine. And then there was the knowledge that each of us had had a past relationship with a certain politician. Norris lived in Little Rock, Arkansas, when she was young. (In case you were wondering, the two of us spent very little time discussing this point in common.)
I also developed a rapport with Norman. The three of us had dinner in P-town one night. It was a long, colorful, story-filled evening—stories laced with more profanity than I would have expected. As we were saying our goodbyes, it somehow came out that I had been taking boxing lessons. At the time, it had been my latest attempt to get fit. Despite the crutches he was using for his hips, Norman still managed to faux spar with me for a round or two. Norris refereed, roaring with laughter. (She had a hardy laugh.)
And now this extraordinary collection of Norman's letters brings me back to those days and nights. The correspondence that has been included in the book is a note inviting me to a Mailer family reading of Long Day’s Journey into Night. (Imagine: an evening of unadulterated Eugene O’Neill was the Mailers’ idea of some light after-dinner fare.) Alas, I didn’t make it up to P-town that summer, and missed what I’m sure was an engaging experience.
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Our most memorable correspondence, however—a 2003 letter that is not included in the book—reflected Norman’s love of colorful language. Many literary and other public voices have demonstrated that succinct and artful swearing, delivered in the right circumstances (whether written or spoken), can sometimes express one’s true sentiments in a way that otherwise polite discourse cannot. (Think: James Joyce, Christopher Hitchens, Caitlin Moran, Sarah Silverman, and even the fictional Selina Meyer, from Veep).
I still have the typed note, on plain white paper, signed “Norman” with a large, capital “N.” It looked more like a “U,” swallowing up everything else. He wrote:
You win the award for best birthday card!
And so you get seven copies of seven of my drawings. [Some of which were later included in his book Modest Gifts.]
Kid, we miss you. Hope we get together before too long.
*Cheers,
Norman*
You see, the card I had sent was laced with profanity—the swear word I had heard Norman use the most. (Sorry, Mom.) It depicted a restaurant called Fucker’s Café and the caption read:
Printed inside (you guessed it): “Happy Fuckin’ Birthday.” I’m not quite sure this represented what another literary figure, Lawrence Durrell, once advised, “It's only with great vulgarity that you can achieve real refinement, only out of bawdy that you can get tenderness.”
When it comes to selected letters, I think I know which four were Norman’s favorites.
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