Writers Cramp

A TRIBUTE TO NORMAN MAILER. WRITTEN IN 1996, UNPUBLISHED TILL NOW. 

He received me at the house in Brooklyn Heights, where I punctually arrived at 12 am.The neighborhood is a welcome oasis in the confusing expanse of that area where Lower Manhattan, Brooklyn and Queens converge. It boasts the largest concentration of turn- of- the century stone townhouses in the entire borough.

Somehow, as you pass the houses with their neatly trimmed hedges, small patches of grass, flowery paths and the regulation tree per house, you can't help thinking about the old story "'A Tree Grows in Brooklyn".

His study has remained unchanged since he moved into the house in the fifties;

it is a large room facing an interior yard and is lined with bookcases from floor to ceiling. Even as you go up the short flight of stairs to the study you find that books are also stacked on shelves on the stair walls. Even the guest facilities include an antique oak and marble-top bookcase full of books and old copies of Life Magazine, the Atlantic and others.

"How does a writer, as successful as you are, maintain a fresh approach to universal problems?"

"I read the papers and avoid watching television"

"Fine, but what about the pronouncements. You make few of them but invariably you hit the nail on the head.."

"Listen, it is easy to make pronouncements these days. Have you listened to Howard Stern lately? Besides, nothing has really changed in this last half of the century. Human nature continues to reiterate its flaws and to provide the audience with an unnecessary dosis of anxiety..."

"You have written that the repression of our feelings is making ours a society

of dead souls. But you also have shown that repression has beneficial sides. It seems ambiguous. . "

"Listen, we have fought several wars in this century and if it hadn't been for a

measured dosis of containment, we could have made things much worse. The proverbial Armageddon was at our fingertips. . ."

He has aged but not gracefully, which is the kind way of saying that thinning

hair, renewed teeth and slower reflexes can hide effectively the anomalies of old age. In his case, he looks like a wrinkled copy of a fine sketch drawn on a torn piece of a brown paper bag. But he retains that undeniable spark in his eyes and in his demeanor. His vitality, now playing to a slower tune, still assaults you and there is no ambiguity in his carefully phrased speech. Getting old but still an interesting specimen.

"How come you did not grow into a favorite writer of the Establishment? After all, you had all the credentials. An Ivy League education, some exposure to the French wave of post-war American expatriates, a first book that became an instant best seller and easy access to the intelligentsia of American letters. What happened?"

"I wanted, and liked the raw realism of American life. It was full of heroic deeds and also full of contradictions. I could not see myself writing about the Horse Shows in the Hamptons or novels about the genteel and sedated affairs of spinsters in Brockton, Massachussetts. I was hungry and eager for stories that depicted life as it was."

"Well, you have managed nevertheless.. Your essays in the fifties had a lot to

do with the recognition of the marginated types in our society, at a time when dramatic changes were taking place. You hit it right on the nose.. . ."

"Yeah, but I was hit over the head over and over again. It ruined my permanent. You remember my curls?" He got up and reaching into a French Troummeau pulled a photo album. He turned to a page where a black and white glossy showed him at a barber shop. His head of hair could only be described as luxuriant. Dark curls floated upon his cranium and his eyes were full of that "so what?" so typical of his embattled years.

"Nevertheless, the public seemed to prefer your journalistic efforts to your fiction. I recall the impact of some of your pieces on the political scene of the time. "

"I felt the impact all right! I was even jailed. I can not claim that I was tortured but not having a vodka martini every evening was as close to torture as you can get!"

"Was it worth it?"

"You bet your word processor! The way I see it is that someone had to do it.

Hemingway was about to go and the others were either consummating affairs with the bottle or with other persons. Then there was the rash of cerebral novels and short stories that seemed to attract the admiration of the literary critics. America was looking for literary heroes and -- not finding them -- it made them. I think our letters have acquired a commercial rythm that is at odds with the expression of serious thought and the intelligent exposition of feelings. Don't you think?"

"I don't think. I listen. What are you working on?"

"I have several projects on deck. I don't abandon the wealth of material that politics in this country can provide. I am staying away from everyday dramas. The situation is such that dramatic events have lost their edge. They are so commonplace as to be boring. I am not indifferent to them but can not see where a single voice can do any good. I prefer to contribute my grain of salt by injecting a dose of moral realism in the moribund conscience of our politicians."

"Have you given up your political aspirations?"

"Who do you take me for? Bob Dole?"

 

THE END