Norman Mailer On The Battlefield Formerly Known as Pie
January 26, 2010 1 Comment
This will be an ongoing series because there’s just too much stuff to put into one post. In brief, I’m reading Norman Mailer’s autobiography, “The Prisoner of Sex.” On page 1, after finding out he might win the Nobel Prize, Mailer relates, via this scintillating bit of prose, what it feels like to manpiss into the Big Time*:
“It’s impossible,” he said. After twenty-one years of public life he had the equivalent of a Geiger counter in his brain to measure the radiation of advancements and awards in the various salients, wedges and vectors of that aesthetic battlefield known as the literary pie.
Our hero is the ballsy but downtrodden offspring of (the equivalent of) Spiderman and a protractor, so he only thinks in radioactive triangles. Of VICTORY. It’s a glorious radon-pastry of book-war!
It did remind me of something. Something to do with washing-up liquid. See 1:34-2:01.
*Mailer never won the Nobel Prize.