Norman Mailer Will
Not R.I.P.
By Saul
Landau
As a teenager, I learned to appreciate fiction by
reading The Naked and the Dead. High school teachers force fed us
The Odyssey and The Iliad and other "classics," but Mailer
gave teenage boys thirsty for sex and violence (vicariously, of course) a reason
to read.
In the 1960s, Mailer
turned anti-war activist and reporter. Not all his books succeeded in achieving
the literary excellence he demanded, but he retained his courage and
determination to express ideas about subjects most writers avoid.
In his personal life he
often behaved like an immature, publicity-seeking asshole, picking fights and
causes without thought. In that sense he also represented a large stain and
strain of American life. His death at 84 represents a loss of a national
treasure.
The obituaries on Norman
Mailer offer little or no space to his literary contribution that offers unique
insight into the Cold War. Harlot's Ghost explored the U.S.-Soviet
clash as no historian or sociologist dared - or had the capacity to probe.
"By using Herrick "Harry"
Hubbard, a CIA officer, as his protagonist who somehow finds himself present at
CIA designed coups, failed invasions (Bay of Pigs) and other Cold War
milestones, Mailer explores the real life acting company that played its parts
in the four decade long drama of the late 20th Century, a group of spiritually
agitated - even bored - Nabobs and lower class types the CIA was forced to
acquire, acting out a dangerous high stakes game. Like their playboy ancestors
in Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby, these capricious and irresponsible
adult brats, who eschewed concepts like patriotism and loyalty, thought to
satisfy their whims by playing Cold War on the world stage.
Mailer, through fiction,
showed the ridiculous world of the Ivy League preachers and professors, the sons
and daughters of old wealth, who wrote the script for the supposed clash of
Mammoth Powers. The United States has not had a rival since England. It created
the Soviet Union as a super power in order to play the most exciting game in all
of history, one that became downright frightening in 1949 when the Soviets
achieved nuclear weapons.
The Soviets possessed
nothing but those weapons to challenge U.S. power. They never developed a viable
economy; nor did they achieve the ability to export a competitive culture - a la
Hollywood and Madison Avenue. Imagine, Soviets programming TV and radio stations
and trying to offer fare equal to 24/7 shopping, flesh almighty and bang bang
bang!
Mailer begins his novel in
the early 1980s. He picks up from F. Scott Fitzgerald in describing the wealthy
and irresponsible WASPs in New England, a man with a solid reputation, a
pedigreed wife (at home) and an equally aristocratic, but much hotter mistress -
his cousin no less.
Harry's godfather and
guru, Harlot, has apparently blown himself away - like some real CIA bigwigs
did. In this case, the dead man represented counterintelligence. But, like
several CIA hotshots, he may have been a KGB mole. Indeed, his death might also
fall into the realm of cloak and daggerdom.
Harry's wife, Kittredge,
once Harlot's femme fatale, has been bonking Harry's CIA pal and sometimes foe,
Dix Butler. Dix adores criminal behavior and will commit almost any bizarre act
to make money - including assassinate his wife. Mailer's characters walk in and
out of episodes that cover decades of personal and national misalliances and
betrayals. At each turn, the reader finds the leaders of U.S. 'intelligence"
lack any ideological foundation except their own capricious pleasures.
The top CIA dogs in the
book helped create the myth of Soviet power while politicians and media flaks
sold their bullshit to the public. Mailer explores major CIA fiascos carried out
in the name of advancing freedom or gathering advantages in the Cold War: In the
1950s, they dug the Berlin Tunnel under KGB headquarters only to discover they
had fallen into a KGB trap; they launched the invasion of Cuba after convincing
themselves Cuba would fall like Guatemalan President Arbenz did in 1954 in a
similar "invasion." The inventors of these plans really don't care about
consequences - then or now. Mailer also explores assassination plots - and the
bizarre set of assassins the Agency chose - to kill Castro.
We meet the top dogs, like
Allen Dulles and the psychopathic planners of hits, like E. Howard Hunt. The
history of the CIA is, after all, the abbreviated nuts and bolts of Cold War
history.
The characters playing the
lead roles are seriously disturbed. A CIA psychologist plays with deadly drugs
and studies the psychic processes by which covert ops adapt to multiple
identities - all this nonsense in the name of defending freedom.
The WASPS who lead the
adventurous game know the Soviets pose no threat. When Harry, the eager young
CIA op discovers that the Soviets never adjusted their railroad gauges to
coincide with those of Eastern Europe, thus making impossible a notion of
supplying troops invading Western Europe, his superior tells him not to report
that information. If the public should get wise that the CIA and its political
and media cohorts had invented the "Soviet threat" to attack the West, the Cold
War would end - and with it the grand adventure. The mass media never reported
this "little fact." Imagine pubic reaction to a report that the supposed Soviet
attack plan against the West required supplies for its armies to stop at the
Eastern Europe borders, get unloaded onto trucks and then reloaded onto
different trains! Hardly a scenario for lightning surprise attack!
The gurus of Mailer's
great game are Protestant ministers, literature professors, rock climbing
addicts and practitioners of sexual perversity - much like the old European
aristocracy for whom old -fashioned sex had become a yawn.
Mailer had previously
reported on the Vietnam War, spoken at anti-war demonstrations and wrote an
allegorical novel (Why Are We In Vietnam?) using a group of Texans
hunting grizzly bears in Alaska as his metaphor for U.S. engagement in Southeast
Asia. Americans hunt whatever happens to be around, the novel suggests. Vietnam
presented the leading hunters (Presidents) with a chance to seek a new kind of
prey. And they use technology to achieve their success: helicopters to help them
find and destroy the bears. Yet, there is a trace of admiration, even longing in
Mailer's often comic descriptions of the super macho characters. This short but
pugnacious Jewish intellectual wanted to be a tough guy, and when he tried to be
one at cocktail parties or luncheons, he invariably made a fool of himself. And
his behavior found its way into the media.
His bad boy image,
however, didn't stop Mailer from expressing his insights into the real tough
guys, the killers who didn't seem to possess a soul, who could not be explained
by poverty or parental abuse. Such a character, Gary Gilmore, became central in
The Executioner's Song, where Mailer paints an original picture of what
Joan Didion called "that vast emptiness at the center of the Western experience,
a nihilism antithetical not only to literature but to most other forms of human
endeavor, a dread so close to zero that human voices fadeout, trail off, like
skywriting." (New York Times, October 7, 1979)
Mailer writes a painful
sketch of Gary Gilmore, the murderer. He offers a detailed sociological fact
sheet on Mormon passivity in the face of a killer in their midst. He analyzes
and explains the absurdities of the police and legal system before a person gets
executed.
Mailer tackled the big
issues: war, corruption, hypocrisy at the highest levels.
He also loved publicity
and the art of coining the perfect phrase. He was homophobic and misogynistic.
Indeed, Mailer never learned to portray women in a realistic dimension. He
clearly didn't understand them; not a comment on his six wives.
Mailer understood American
duplicity, the fog of religious-based freedom rhetoric that covers the most
devious political behavior. He also understood the banality that marries heroism
in war. In The Naked and The Dead, the six remaining platoon members
share a mission. A Jew, some non Jews and a few anti-Semites, some learned and
some ignorant, all share the same horrid conditions on a Pacific island. This is
Mailer's American democracy, the bonding of mismatches in battlefield
conditions. Equally American is the troops killing Japanese POWs and stealing
souvenirs from enemy corpses. They worry about their wives screwing other guys
while feeling a little uneasy about screwing other women. Then, they discover
their mission - which killed more than half of them - meant absolutely nothing
in winning the war. He could have been writing about almost any war.
Saul Landau is an Institute for Policy Studies Fellow
and author of A Bush and Botox World. His new award-winning film is
We Don't Play Golf Here.
- progreso-weekly -
The 1,120 Word
Paragraph from Norman Mailer's First Piece of Political
Journalism
"Depression obviously has its several roots: it is the
doubtful protection which comes from not recognizing failure, it is the psychic
burden of exhaustion, and it is also, and very often, the discipline of the will
or the ego which enables one to continue working when one’s unadmitted emotion
is panic. And panic it was I think which sat as the largest single sentiment in
the breast of the collective delegates as they came to convene in Los Angeles.
Delegates are not the noblest sons and daughters of the Republic; a man of
taste, arrived from Mars, would take one look at a convention floor and leave
forever, convinced he had seen one of the drearier squats of Hell. If one still
smells the faint living echo of carnival wine, the pepper of a bullfight, the
rag, drag, and panoply of a jousting tourney, it is all swallowed and
regurgitated by the senses into the fouler cud of a death gas one must rid
oneself of - a cigar-smoking, stale-aired, slack-jawed, butt-littered, foul,
bleak, hard-working, bureaucratic death gas of language and faces (“Yes, those
faces,says the man from Mars: lawyers, judges, ward heelers,
mafiosos, Southern goons and grandees, grand old ladies, trade unionists
and finks), of pompous words and long pauses which lay like a leaden pain over
fever, the fever that one is in, over, or is it that one is just behind history?
A legitimate panic for a delegate. America is a nation of experts without roots;
we are always creating tacticians who are blind to strategy and strategists who
cannot take a step, and when the culture has finished its work the institutions
handcuff the infirmity. A delegate is a man who picks a candidate for the
largest office in the land, a President who must live with problems whose
borders are in ethics, metaphysics, and now ontology; the delegate is prepared
for this office of selection by emptying wastebaskets, toting garbage, and
saying yes at the right time for twenty years in the small political machine of
some small or large town; his reward, one of them anyway, is that he arrives at
an invitation to the convention. An expert on local catch-as-catch-can, a
small-time, often mediocre practitioner of small-town political judo, he comes
to the big city with nine-tenths of his mind made up, he will follow the orders
of the boss who brought him. Yet of course it is not altogether so mean as that:
his opinion is listened to -- the boss will consider what he has to say as one
interesting factor among five hundred, and what is most important to the
delegate, he has the illusion of partial freedom. He can, unless he is severely
honest with himself -- and if he is, why sweat out the low levels of a political
machine? -- he can have the illusion that he has helped to chooses the
candidate, he can even worry most sincerely about his choice, flirt with
defection from the boss, work out his own small political gains by the road of
loyalty or the way of hard bargain. But even if he is there for more than the
ride, his vote a certainty in the mind of the political boss, able to be thrown
here or switched there as the boss decides, still in some peculiar sense he is
reality to the boss, the delegate is the great American public, the bar he owns
or the law practice, the piece of the union he represents, or the real-estate
office, is a part of the political landscape which the boss uses as his own
image of how the votes will go, and if the people will like the candidate. And
if the boss is depressed by what he sees, if the candidate does not feel right
to him, if he has a dull intimation that the candidate is not his sort (as, let
us say, Harry Truman was his sort, or Symington might be his sort, or Lyndon
Johnson), then vote for him the boss will if he must; he cannot be caught on the
wrong side, but he does not feel the pleasure of a personal choice. Which is the
center of the panic. Because if the boss is depressed, the delegate is doubly
depressed, and the emotional fact is that Kennedy is not in focus, not in the
old political focus, he is not comfortable; in fact it is a mystery to the boss
how Kennedy got to where he is, not a mystery in its structures; Kennedy is
rolling in money, Kennedy got the votes in primaries, and, most of all, Kennedy
has a jewel of a political machine. It is as good as a crack Notre Dame team,
all discipline and savvy and go-go-go, sound, drilled, never dull, quick as a
knife, full of the salt hipper-dipper, a beautiful machine; the boss could adore
it if only a sensible candidate were driving it, a Truman, even a Stevenson,
please God a Northern Lyndon Johnson, but it is run by a man who looks young
enough to be coach of the Freshman team, and that is not comfortable at all. The
boss knows political machines, he know issues, farm parity, Forand health bill,
Landrum-Griffin, but this is not all so adequate after all to revolutionaries in
Cuba who look like Beatniks, competitions in missiles, Negroes looting whites in
the Congo, intricacies of nuclear fallout, and NAACP men one does well to call
Sir. It is all out of hand, everything important is off the center, foreign
affairs is now the lick of the heat, and senators are candidates instead of
governors, a disaster to the old family style of political measure where a
political boss knows his governor and knows who his governor knows. So the boss
is depressed, profoundly depressed. He comes to this convention resigned to
nominating a man he does not understand, or let us say that, so far as he
understands the candidate who is to be nominated, he is not happy about the
secrets of his appeal, not so far as he divines these secrets; they seem to have
too little to do with politics and all too much to do with the private madnesses
of the nation which had thousands - or was it hundreds of thousands - of people
demonstrating in the long night before Chessman was killed, and a movie star,
the greatest, Marlon the Brando out in the night with them. Yes, this candidate
for all his record; his good, sound, conventional liberal record has a patina of
that other life, the second American life, the long electric night with the
fires of neon leading down the highway to the murmur of jazz."