The Passing of the Age of Writing

Norman Mailer died today. Does his passing mark the end of the age of literature? There are seemingly uncountable bloggers and romance novelists, but are there writers?

Mailer wrote his first – and best – novel, The Naked and the Dead in 1948 while studying in Paris after World War II. He was just 25. He later won two Pulitzer Prizes – one for literature – Executioner’s Song, the not-really-fictional story about Gary Gilmore, executed by firing squad in Utah in 1977. He never wrote "the great american novel" that was his stated aspiration.

Mailer lived hard and in our face for over half a century. He recited obscene poetry in a YWCA. He ran for Mayor of New York, flew gliders, drank, and partied – a one-man Rat Pack. He fought in bars and fought in six marriages (he stabbed his second wife at a party – she didn’t press charges, even though she nearly died of the wound).

Mailer decried technology as dehumanizing and accused feminists of wanting to remove the mystery, romance and "blind, goat-kicking lust" from sex.

But he still wrote, with a pen, American Dream, and Armies of the Night, and countless magazine articles and stories. He wrote with style and depth, even in works not well received by critics or readers.

What a stark contrast Mailer and the likes of J.D. Salinger, Sylvia Plath, Kurt Vonnegut Jr., Flannery O’Connor, and Toni Morrison are to this list of the New York Times fiction top ten.

PROTECT AND DEFEND, Vince Flynn.
BOOK OF THE DEAD, Patricia Cornwell.
HOME TO HOLLY SPRINGS, Jan Karon.
PLAYING FOR PIZZA, John Grisham.
AMAZING GRACE, Danielle Steel.
WORLD WITHOUT END, Ken Follett.
A THOUSAND SPLENDID SUNS, Khaled Hosseini.
THE CHOICE, Nicholas Sparks.
LICK OF FROST, Laurell K. Hamilton.
THE ALMOST MOON, Alice Sebold.

I’ve read and like John Grisham and Ken Follett, but it’s light stuff, isn’t it? In those ten, perhaps only Khaled Hosseini pursues themes worthy of being called literature. Mailer – the writer and the character – will be missed.

Post script: Further comment on today’s quality of writing, literature, and journalism was serendipitously provided by this evening’s news report from a San Francisco television station. All they could be bothered to say about Mailer was, “Author Norman Mailer died today. He was married six times and was a foe of women’s liberation. Now, for the football scores...”