norman mailer. on style.
“I got a sense of the power of restraint from Hemingway, which is the smallest way to put it, because I got much more than that from him. I learned the power of simple language in English. He showed what a powerful instrument English is if you keep the language simple, if you don’t use too many Latinate words. And from Faulkner I learned the exact opposite, that excess can be thrilling, that, “Don’t hold yourself in. Don’t rein yourself in. Go all the way. Go over the top. Overdo it.” And between the two, it’s almost as if you’ve now been given your parameters. This is the best of one extreme and this is the best of another. And somewhere between the two you may be able to find your style in time to come.”
- Norman Mailer Interview, The Academy of Achievement, June 12, 2004
tug town
Must have been 1996 the last time I saw him move like that. He bet my brother that a man on foot – even an old one – could out run any six cylinder set beside him in a few-second dash.
Pa was 60 and recovering from back surgery and Davy was 16 and in a 92 Pontiac. They had their race. Pa won just like Davy knew he wouldn’t. And when he did he laughed and told the whole town and felt young again.
Last summer I watched him sprint across the road. He pumped his arms and grinned and made it look easy.
“When I was a boy, I was a runner. I use to come off that mountain…I’d make seven miles before I’d even lose m’wind. Five more ‘fore I had to stop. And that’s just cause I got to town.” Here he pauses. Looks contemplative. “Boy’s, you reckon how far I could’a run if I hadn’t had town to stop me?”
I wonder this sometimes. Where he would have went. How far he may have gone. If it weren’t for the little town that stopped him.
haitian mud cookies
With food prices rising, Haiti’s poorest can’t afford even a daily plate of rice, and some take desperate measures to fill their bellies. Traditional Haitian remedy for hunger pangs: cookies made of dried yellow dirt, salt and vegetable shortening. For some, these have now become regular meals.
How do we sit here and glut ourselves to death – have the nerve to moan about the size of our waist and the food that put it there – in the face of our starving brothers? How does our collective conscience – never mind consciousness – survive?
acute viral nasopharyngitis
I used his laptop to check my mail this morning. The last google search: “common cold.” I almost laughed. But didn’t.
We get a cold. They get acute viral nasopharyngitis. Otherwise known as man-flu. It’s not deadly. But he’ll try to convince you it is.
(Apparently he’s also run it through YouTube. He just sent me this.)
doo something
Sister: If they ever find me dead, it’s a meat salesman called Dudley Dooright, or Doolittle, or DooSomething, who did it.
Me: Huh?
Sister: He comes to my door every afternoon. Trying to sell me burgers and stuff. I told him we’re vegetarians but he keeps coming back.
Me: Just don’t open the door.
Sister: Yeah but Buffy, he always comes around naptime. And if I don’t open the door he’ll ring the doorbell and wake everyone up.
Me: So, you’ve got possible death and dismemberment on one hand..
Sister: Yeah, and my kids waking up on the other. I need that nap time. I’ll take my chances. Just remember. Dudley Dooright. The meat salesman.
