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Sunday, September 09, 2007
The Intensity and Clarity Of the Inner Life Norman Mailer's frailty and age -- he just spent four days in the hospital with breathing difficulties; he's 84 -- have UD thinking of him, and recalling in particular her delight in his hilarious book The Prisoner of Sex, which, among other things, is a fervent defense of her beloved Henry Miller. She hasn't read the thing in, oh, thirty years. Here are some excerpts from a Paris Review interview with Mailer in 1964: "[G]ood style is a matter of rendering out of oneself all the cupidities, all the cripplings, all the velleities.... I try to go over my work in every conceivable mood. I edit on a spectrum that runs from the high, clear manic impressions of a drunk, which has made one electrically alert, all the way down to the soberest reaches of depression where I can hardly bear my words. By the time I'm done with writing I care about, I usually have worked on it through the full gamut of my consciousness.... The moment you borrow other writers' styles of thought, you need craft to shore up the walls. But if what you write is a reflection of your own consciousness, then even journalism can become interesting." Well, the interview did take place in 1964.... Though actually this comment about our being and nothingness wars made me think of something I read just the other day on Lucky Jane's blog, about a horrible lunch Jane had with a new faculty member: 'The play date with my new colleague in another department has come and gone, and boy howdy was it a waste of time. She was twenty minutes late. She was reticent and awkward to interact with. She had table manners that made me gasp; e.g., with her tongue she deposited little wads of chewed-over broccoli fibers onto the edge of her plate mid-sentence, reminding me ever so vaguely of Lena Grove’s inner monologue in Faulkner’s Light in August: “Like a lady I et. Like a lady traveling.” And she was a downer. Before her department chair, she lamented her two-block walk to the parking garage, JPU’s surly and unresponsive students (already?), the danger she perceived lurking in the dark shadows of big bad funky new city, the difficulty of meeting people here, the tightness of her shoes, whatever. I hope I didn’t sound like her last year. I was relieved to have had less than an hour for lunch, because I was exhausted by the time I choked down my cupcake and sped off to meet with students. I don’t consider myself a new age-y person, but every now and then I encounter people who siphon off my energy. These people are emotional black holes, and I fear them. |