Something for admirers of the late Norman Mailer

Interesting perspective from a pretty nifty-looking boxing blog called No Mas:

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Norman Mailer, 1923-2007

Novelist, journalist, "publicity hound," filmmaker, mayoral candidate, pothead, newspaper entrepreneur, boxing enthusiast... the great Norman Mailer did the unthinkable today, dying in a hospital in Manhattan at the age of 84. He touched my life deeply, and indeed the whole No Masian enterprise, and the news shocks and saddens me. Through reports from I-berg's dad, the august Big Steve, I was aware that Mailer's condition was not good, but nevertheless the idea that such a force of nature actually could pass from the earth always seemed like a longshot.

I can't honestly say that I was a huge fan of Mailer's writing in my lifetime, other than that central work of the No Mas canon, The Fight, and his Pulitzer Prize-winning serio-comic treatment of the 1968 march on the Pentagon, Armies of the Night. Basically, Mailer the Journalist held considerable fascination for me, while Mailer the Novelist struck me as an irreparably flawed enterprise and Mailer the Court Jester made me uncomfortable and often embarrassed.

Then again, Norman Mailer was out to make us uncomfortable, was out to embarrass (both himself and others) and more than anything, was out to compete, and if necessary, fail on the grandest of stages. It's hard to think of another writer in the 20th century who so bullheadedly flew too close to the sun, ignominiously crashed and burned, and then dusted himself off the canvas for another round with that confounded sun. I admit that my tastes are more with Plimpton, his patrician doppleganger, but my "taste" be damned - I think anyway that is my fantasy of myself rather than the most sober self-assessment. If I'm being honest, I know that my heart is with Mailer and always has been. To put it another way, I'm quite sure that if Mailer and not Plimpton had fought those legendary three rounds with Archie Moore at Stillman's Gym, he wouldn't have accepted a broken nose from the Mongoose as some sort of literary badge of honor. He would have been in there to win, and he would fought the bastard all day, God love him. As they carried him out on a stretcher he would have been muttering about a rematch.

More: http://nomas-nyc.com/2007/11/norman-mailer-1923-2007.html

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Portions of Mailer's "The Fight":

"There is always a shock in seeing him again. Not live as in television but standing before you, looking his best. Then the World's Greatest Athlete is in danger of being our most beautiful man and the vocabulary of Camp is doomed to appear. Women draw an audible breath. Men look down. They are reminded again of their lack of worth. If Ali never opened his mouth to quiver the jellies of public opinion, he would still inspire love and hate. For he is the Prince of Heaven - so says the silence around his body when he is luminous."

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"Then he made a curious remark one could think about for the rest of the week. It was characteristic of a great deal about Foreman. "Excuse me for not shaking hands with you," he said in that voice so carefully muted to retain his power, "but you see I'm keeping my hands in my pockets."

Of course! If they were in pockets, how could he remove them? As soon ask a poet in the middle of writing a line whether coffee is taken with milk or cream. Yet Foreman made his remark in such simplicity that the thought seems likeable rather than rude. He was telling the truth. It was important to keep his hands in his pockets. Equally important to keep the work at remove. He lived in silence. Flanked by body guards to keep, exactly, to keep hand-shakers away, he could stand among a hundred people in the lobby and be in touch with no one. His head was alone. Other champions had a presence larger than themselves. They offered charisma. Foreman had silence. It vibrated about him in silence."

"Foreman's hands were as separate from him as a kuntu. They were his instrument and he kept them in his pockets the way a hunter lays his rifle back into its velvet case."

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"He was all alone in the ring; the Challenger on call for the Champion, the Prince waiting for the Pretender, and unlike other fighers who in the long minutes before the tittle holder will appear, Ali seems to be taking royal pleasure in his undisputed possession of the space. He looked unafraid and almost on the edge of happiness, as if the discipline of having carried himself through the two thousand nighs of sleeping without his title after it had been taken from him without ever loosing a contest ... must have been a biblical seven years of trial through which he had come with the crucial part of honour, his talent, and his desire for greatness still intact, and light came off him at this instant. His body had a shine like the flanks of a thoroughbred. He looked ready to fight the strongest man to come along in Heavyweight circles in many years, maybe the worst big man of all,"

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"Then a big projectile exactly the size of a fist in a glove drove into the middle of Foreman's mind, the best of the startled night, the blow Ali saved for a career. Foreman's arms flew out to the side like with a parachute jumping out of plane, and in this doubled-over position he tried to wander out the centre of the ring. All the while his eyes were on Ali and he looked up with no anger as if Ali, indeed, was the man he knew best in the world would see him on his dying days. Vertigo took George Foreman and revolved him. Still bowing from the waist in this uncomprehending position, eyes on Muhammad Ali all the way, he started to tumble and topple and fall even as he did not wish to go down. His mind was held with magnets high as his championship and his booy was seeking the ground."

http://www.bbc.co.uk/dna/collective/A2592777

Norman Mailer's All-Time Enemies List

http://nymag.com/arts/books/features/26285/