The Mailer Review最新文献

{"title":"Deer Park","authors":"R. Lindner","doi":"10.5040/9781350190672.0017","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.5040/9781350190672.0017","url":null,"abstract":"","PeriodicalId":259119,"journal":{"name":"The Mailer Review","volume":"109 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2015-09-22","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"124573118","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}

{"title":"Words with Friends","authors":"M. Olshaker","doi":"10.2307/j.ctv7r41dw.37","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.2307/j.ctv7r41dw.37","url":null,"abstract":"Norman Mailer: A Double Life By J. Michael Lennon NewYork: Simon & Schuster, 2013 Release date: October 15, 2013 960 pp. Cloth $40.00 Mind of an Outlaw: Selected Essays Edited by Phillip Sipiora Introduction by Jonathan Lethem New York: Random House Release date: October 15, 2013 632 pp. Cloth $40.00 Full disclosure: J. Michael Lennon, author of Norman Mailer: A Double Life, and Phillip Sipiora, editor of Mind of an Outlaw: Selected Essays, are good friends of mine, as were Norman and Norris Mailer, though I did not know them nearly as long as did Lennon or Sipiora. But as I learned in reading Lennon's scintillating and thought-provoking new biography, it was not unusual for members of New York's literati establishment \"family\" to review their friends' works, and the assessments were not always favorable. It seems that quite a few literary feuds had their origins in bad reviews from friends, transforming many a wine-sipping Upper East Side salon and drug-fueled Greenwich Village bacchanal into literal blood sport. Happily, from my reaction to both volumes, I expect from Professors Lennon and Sipiora no such head-butting, drink-splashing, invitations to step outside or extended periods of malign silence--all favored techniques of the author in question. Norman Mailer: A Double Life is as close to a definitive biography as is likely possible from this close and recent a remove. And Mind of an Outlaw is a virtual casebook of the nonfiction essays that exemplify and explicate the narrative of Mailer's protean life. What emerges from both books is a vivid and engrossing portrait of the artist as a young, middle-aged and old man, who never abandoned the courage to keep trying new things no matter the success of previous ones, who spent a long literary lifetime as a public intellectual and agent provocateur, breaking old molds and recasting new ones; continually venturing into new subjects, wholly new styles and ways of seeing things, very much a literary equivalent of his art world icon Picasso. In his Editor's Preface, Sipiora calls the task of shaping the collection \"daunting\" because of the sheer volume and gamut of Mailer's nonfiction. \"For Mailer, the essay, even more than fiction, provided him a forum to unrelentingly confront the social, political, and cultural crises of the day. In the essay, Mailer's relentless curiosity, coupled with his discursive prose, engages, opposes, clarifies, complicates, and rigorously challenges whatever subjects he takes on.\" Jonathan Lethem's Introduction puts it even more directly: \"Norman Mailer was a writer who never met a corner he didn't wish to paint himself into.\" The subtitle Double Life resonates on many levels. And Lennon knows what every good novelist and playwright discovers: that our best qualities and our worst qualities coexist side-by-side. Sometimes, it is difficult to tell them apart. So may it be with Mailer. The title of a 1993 essay states it in the context of boxing: \"The Best Move Lies Close","PeriodicalId":259119,"journal":{"name":"The Mailer Review","volume":"147 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2013-09-22","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"121767162","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}

{"title":"The Life and Death of the Celebrity Author in Maidstone","authors":"S. Bishop","doi":"10.5040/9781501325540.CH-008","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.5040/9781501325540.CH-008","url":null,"abstract":"JUST AS THE TEXT OF NORMAN MAILER'S ADVERTISEMENTS FOR MYSELF IS AN attempt to let the reader in on a range of aspects of Norman Mailer's writing life, the paratext of the original 1959 edition is remarkable for its efforts to show the consumer detailed facets of Mailer's image. The cover shows him smiling seductively into the camera, in a white t-shirt and yacht cap, playfully upper-class clothing that resonates with images of Mailer's own existential hero, presidential hopeful Senator John F. Kennedy, who was frequently photographed at the Hyannis Port Yacht Club (Fig. 1). The back cover of the book shows the author in four different poses: in the first, Mailer is the young and brooding author of The Naked and the Dead; in the second, he is the more mature intellectual behind Barbary Shore; the third captures him in a checkered shirt, looking casual and cool, the real-life model for Sergius O'Shaugnessy in The Deer Park; and the fourth portrays him as a bearded beatnik, a middle-aged white hipster with his head resting pensively on his hand (Fig. 2). Showing Mailer from every angle, Advertisements for Myselfoffers up \"the real\" Mailer for the reader's entertainment. A meditation on both self-expression and self-promotion, Advertisements for Myselfanthologizes Mailer's existential quest for authenticity at the same time as it reveals his performative approach to celebrity authorship. Depicting himself as the authentic author, unfettered by the need to maintain a carefully crafted image, take on false airs, or play a public role, Mailer presents himself as immune to the demands of his critics, his readers, and, most importantly, the market--a strange thing to do in a text entitled \"Advertisements for Myself.\" Featuring the notorious essay \"The White Negro,\" in which Mailer envisions the black hipster as a natural Method actor, Advertisements piggy-backs onto the paradoxical association that it delineates between the black subject as authentic and the black subject as performer in order to open up a space between reality and fantasy that Mailer can use to both political and profitable ends. Honing his ability to take on a variety of roles in the public eye as his celebrity grew in the 1960s, Mailer inspired the BBC documentary Will the Real Norman Mailer Please Stand Up? (1968) and inspired Laura Adams to comment that \"it would appear that [Mailer's] only consistency has been in deviating from commonly accepted literary manners\" (4) in the introduction to her 1974 anthology of the same name. [FIGURE 2.1 OMITTED] [FIGURE 2.2 OMITTED] Meeting direct cinema filmmaker Don Pennebaker in the middle of the decade, Mailer began testing the individual's ability to seem authentic and keep \"cool\" in the sights of the film camera. Making and starring in his third film, Maidstone (1968), Mailer finally got a chance to turn the cameras on the countercultural agenda for which he had recently become a figurehead. Creating a record of the creative and often violen","PeriodicalId":259119,"journal":{"name":"The Mailer Review","volume":"21 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2012-09-22","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"126656196","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}

{"title":"Overexposed: My First Taste of Filmmaking","authors":"M. Mailer","doi":"10.5040/9781501325540.CH-012","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.5040/9781501325540.CH-012","url":null,"abstract":"MY FATHER, NORMAN MAILER, once wrote that film exists somewhere between memory and dream. We recall a film--a good film--the way we recall our memories: fragments crystallized in our minds as visuals of a dream (or a nightmare)--points of light dredged up from our subconscious. I experienced my first taste of filmmaking when I was five years old. I was unwittingly a glorified extra--a day player in the parlance of the biz--and had my debut as a witness to the near death of my father at the murderous hands of Rip Torn. The film was Maidstone, the third and final attempt at underground filmmaking--cinema verite style-- that my dad attempted in the late Sixties. The cast was comprised of friends, ex-wives, sports and movie stars, and of course a few gangsters thrown in for good measure portraying some warped and far out version of themselves--persona extensions on steroids-if you will. They were summoned to Gardiners Island--a bucolic piece of land somewhere off the coast of the Hamptons--to vow their allegiance or disaffection of a certain Norman T. Kingsley (portrayed by who else), who happened to be a retired porn director running for President of the United States. Why not, after all? Qualifications for higher office being what they are you might argue that it was a prescient conceit. Those who arrived immediately drew tags from a hat identifying whether they became friend or foe to the candidacy. Though technically neither side knew the other's position, over three strenuous days the cast would exercise their voices, feelings, prerogatives and, in one case, an assassin's impulse. And like those stories you hear of people being invited to spend a weekend in jail, some as jail birds, others as the jailers, who take to their role with psychotic zeal so too did the denizens on Gardiner's act out their respective parts with manic intensity. I can't help but look at Maidstone--when I can look at it all objectively--as a testament to why the Sixties ultimately imploded. The movie embodies indulgence to the point of mental hazard. And yet the film stands the test of time as a sociological statement. Cutting to yours truly, for some reason in the midst of preparation for the film, one or both parents decided it was a good idea to bring the family along. Let the kids enjoy the great outdoors while the elders make a movie or some such thought must have filtered through their minds. So into the vortex trotted my older sisters, Danielle, Elizabeth, Kate, my younger brother, Stephen, and myself. We soon found ourselves unwittingly part of the cast, filmed as cherubs wandering through the fields of the island. But that's where the idyll ended. …","PeriodicalId":259119,"journal":{"name":"The Mailer Review","volume":"28 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2011-09-22","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"132273897","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}

{"title":"Commando Raids on the Nature of Reality","authors":"G. Rhodes","doi":"10.5040/9781501325540.CH-010","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.5040/9781501325540.CH-010","url":null,"abstract":"Films exist in many places. A film is in a reel stored inside of a can. A motion picture is encoded onto a shiny DVD that sparkles like a rainbow when held up to the light. But at the same time, those are just objects that contain films. We experience films not by staring at a reel or at a disc, but by gazing elsewhere, at a screen. But even the theatre or television screen is not a film's permanent home, certainly not in the same way that a frame provides to a painting. No, at best it is a fragile, temporal relationship, with the film bounded by opening credits and fades-to-black. The film exists for a short while, until it reaches The End and the screen goes dark. That is not to say that we don't try to provide frames for our cinematic paintings. We attempt to fix them in our memories, honing in, for example, on particular scenes that we like to recall, over and over again. Lines of dialogue as well, even when the memory that we create constitutes something different from our original experience with the film. Humphrey Bogart's Rick never actually said, \"Play, It Again Sam\" in Casablanca (1943), but he certainly did--and continues to do--in our cultural memory. But perhaps our favorite way to combat the temporal is to hinge particular adjectives onto films, as if a single word or two can encapsulate what they are. Movie X is \"heartwarming,\" it is \"uplifting,\" it is--like so many other films before it, of course--\"inspirational.\" By contrast, Movie Y is \"bold\" and \"daring\" and \"original.\" And then of course there is the darker underbelly of cinema, as exemplified by Movie Z, which is \"shocking\" and \"graphic\" and--egad--\"titillating.\" Running time runs, but we can screech the experience to a halt with such adjectives, equally suitable for use in our own conversations as they are for the text on movie posters and videotape boxes. If most films exist (at least when they are not being viewed) as adjectives, I would argue that a small number are verbs. They just are. In some cases, like Bob Quinn's Poitin (1979) and the Coen Brother's No Country for Old Men (2007), perhaps it is because they are so unadorned, so unvarnished, so raw, that they require no flowery adjectives. In other cases, ranging from The Great Train Robbery (1903) and The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1919) to Citizen Kane (1941) and A Bout de souffle (1960), they exist as if they have always existed. And they exert a gravitational pull, causing so many other films to orbit around them, tied irrevocably to the gravity of their influence, which is so strong as to just be. And then, well, there is Norman Mailer's 1970 film Maidstone. He directed the film and starred in it, both as the fictional character Norman T. Kingsley, a movie director who runs for President of the United States, and as Norman Mailer, playing himself as the director of Maidstone. After limited engagements in 1971, the film essentially disappeared from sight until a DVD was released in France in 2006, which was followe","PeriodicalId":259119,"journal":{"name":"The Mailer Review","volume":"16 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2009-09-22","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"129662106","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}

{"title":"A Course in Film-Making","authors":"Norman Mailer","doi":"10.5040/9781501325540.CH-007","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.5040/9781501325540.CH-007","url":null,"abstract":"This essay appeared in Existential Errands (Boston, Little Brown, 1972.) It was first published in Esquire, December 1967, under the title \"Some Dirt in the Talk: A Candid History of an Existential Movie Called Wild 90.\" Reprinted with the permission of The Norman Mailer Estate. 1. ON THE THEORY The company, jaded and exhausted, happily or unhappily sexed-out after five days and nights of movie-making and balling in midnight beds and pools, had been converted to a bunch of enforced existentialists by the making of the film. There is no other philosophical word which will apply to the condition of being an actor who has never acted before, finding himself in a strange place with a thoroughgoing swap of strangers and familiars for bedfellows, no script, and a story which suggests that the leading man is a fit and appropriate target for assassination. Since many of the actors were not without their freaks, their kinks, or old clarion calls to violence, and since the word of the Collective Rumor was that more than one of the men was packing a piece, a real piece with bullets, these five days and nights had been the advanced course in existentialism. Nobody knew what was going to happen, but for one hundred and twenty hours the conviction had been growing that if the warning system of one's senses had been worth anything in the past, something was most certainly going to happen before the film was out. Indeed on several separate occasions, it seemed nearly to happen. A dwarf almost drowned in a pool, a fight had taken place, then a bad fight, and on the night before at a climactic party two hours of the most intense potential for violence had been filmed, yet nothing commensurate had happened. The company was now in that state of hangover, breath foul with swallowed curses and congestions of the instincts, which comes to prize-fight fans when a big night, long awaited, ends as a lackluster and lumbering waltz. Not that the party had been a failure while it was being filmed. The tension of the party was memorable in the experience of many. But, finally, nothing happened. So, at this point next day in the filming of Maidstone, on the lazy afternoon which followed the night of the party, the director had come to the erroneous conclusion his movie was done--even though the film was still continuing in the collective mind of some working photographers before whom the director was yet to get hit on the head by a hammer wielded by his best actor, and would respond by biting the best actor on the ear, a fight to give him a whole new conception of his movie. What a pity to remind ourselves of these violent facts, for they encourage interest in a narrative which will not be presented in a hurry and then only a little, and that after an inquiry into the director's real interest which is (less bloody and more philosophical) the possible real nature of film--not an easy discussion since the director has already found a most special way of making movies. When he be","PeriodicalId":259119,"journal":{"name":"The Mailer Review","volume":"61 10","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2009-09-22","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"120919633","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}

{"title":"Some Dirt in the Talk","authors":"Norman Mailer","doi":"10.5040/9781501325540.ch-002","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.5040/9781501325540.ch-002","url":null,"abstract":"[ILLUSTRATION OMITTED] This essay appeared in Existential Errands (Boston, Little Brown, i972). It was first published in New American Review, No. 12 is (August 1971) and reprinted with small changes a few months later in Maidstone: A Mystery (New York: New American Library, 1971). Reprinted with the permission of The Norman Mailer Estate. Wild 90 is the name of a full-length underground movie which a few of us, soon to be cited, filmed on four consecutive nights in March this year. It was done in 16-millimeter and recorded on magnetic sound tape, and since the raw stock costs of processing 16-millimeter sound and film run about thirty cents a foot or ten dollars a minute of shooting, we shot only two and a half hours in all, or $1,500 worth of film. Obviously we couldn't afford to shoot more. Still, for reasons one may yet be able to elucidate, the two and a half hours were not so very bad, and from them was extracted a feature film which runs for ninety minutes. It is a very odd film, indeed I know no moving picture quite like it since there are times when Wild 90 seems close to nothing so much as the Marx Brothers doing improvisations on Little Caesar with the addition of a free run of obscenity equal to Naked Lunch or Why Are We in Vietnam? It has the most repetitive pervasive obscenity of any film ever made for public or even underground consumption, and so half of the ladies are fascinated because it is the first time in their life they have had an opportunity to appreciate how soldiers might talk to each other in a barracks or what big-city cowboys might find to chat about at street corners. But then the ladies are not the only sex to be polarized by Wild 90. While the reactions of men in the audience are more unpredictable, a rough rule of thumb presents itself--bona fide tough guys, invited for nothing, usually laugh their heads off at the film; white-collar workers and intellectual technicians of the communications industries also invited for nothing tend to regard the picture in a vault of silence. All the while we were cutting Wild 90, we would try to have a preview once a week. Since the projection room was small, audiences were kept to ten, twelve, or fifteen people. That is an odd number to see a film. It is a few too many to watch with the freedom to move about and talk aloud that you get from watching television; it is on the other hand a painful number too small to feel the anonymity of a movie audience. Therefore, reactions from preview night to preview night were extreme. We had banquet filmings when an audience would start to laugh in the first minute and never stop--other nights not a sound of happiness could be heard for the first forty minutes--embarrassing to a producer who thought just yesterday that he had a comedy on his hands. Finally we had a formula: get the hard guys in, get the experts out. That makes sense. There is hardly a guy alive who is not an actor to the Hilt--for the simplest of reasons. He cannot be toug","PeriodicalId":259119,"journal":{"name":"The Mailer Review","volume":"4 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2009-09-22","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"128310585","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}

{"title":"The Hazards and Sources of Writing","authors":"Norman Mailer","doi":"10.2307/3824325","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.2307/3824325","url":null,"abstract":"This address was delivered at the Hopwood Awards ceremonies at the University of Michigan, April 1984. It was first published in the Michigan Quarterly Review, vol. 24 (Summer 1985). It was later reprinted in Speaking of Writing: Selected Hopwood Lectures. Nicholas Delbanco, ed. Ann Arbor. University of Michigan Press, 1990. Mailer reprinted a truncated version of the essay in The Spooky Art (2003) 67-73. Reprinted with the permission of The Norman Mailer Estate. There's nothing more boring than a speaker who starts to talk about a writing award and quickly reveals that he knows nothing about it. But it so happens that the Hopwood Awards really do have a well-deserved fame because they were the first significant college literary awards in the country. In the years when I went to Harvard, from 1939 to 1943, we always used to hear about them and wish we had awards of that sort at Harvard, at least those of us who were certain we were going to be writers. In 1946, the year I got out of the Army, I lived in a brownstone in Brooklyn Heights and in the same brownstone, which had only four apartments in it, lived Arthur Miller. I soon learned from his and my friend Norman Rosten that Miller had won a Hopwood Award. That was the first thing I knew about him. He had a play on Broadway that year called All My Sons and that was the year he was writing Death of a Salesman and I was writing The Naked and the Dead. We used to meet occasionally in the hall when we went down to get our mail. Those days Miller was a shy man and I was fairly shy myself and we would just mutter a few words to each other and try to be pleasant and then go our separate ways. I think I can speak with authority about Miller's reaction, I know I can about my own: each of us would walk away and say to himself, \"That other guy, he ain't going to amount to nothin.\" It's an anecdote about another writer that introduces my talk today. Kurt Vonnegut and I are friendly with one another, but wary. There was a period when we used to go out together a great deal because our wives liked each other and Kurt and I would sit there like bookends. We would be terribly careful with one another; we both knew the huge cost of a literary feud so we certainly didn't want to argue. On the other hand neither of us would be caught dead saying to the other, \"Gee, I liked your last book\" and then be met with a silence because the party of the second part could not reciprocate. So we would talk about anything else, we would talk about Las Vegas or the Galapagos Islands. We only had one literary conversation and that was one night in New York. Kurt looked up and sighed, \"Well, I finished my novel today and it like to killed me.\" When Kurt is feeling heartfelt he speaks in an old Indiana accent which I will do my best to reproduce. His wife said, \"Oh Kurt, you always say that whenever you finish a book\" and he replied, \"Well, whenever I finish a book I do say it and it is always true and it gets more true and this ","PeriodicalId":259119,"journal":{"name":"The Mailer Review","volume":"85 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"1990-02-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"131700222","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}

{"title":"AHAB AND ISHMAEL AT WAR: THE PRESENCE OF MOBY-DICK IN THE NAKED AND THE DEAD","authors":"B. Horn","doi":"10.2307/2712688","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.2307/2712688","url":null,"abstract":"IN 1963, FIFTEEN YEARS AFTER THE PUBLICATION OF THE NAKED AND the Dead (1948), Norman Mailer discussed Barbary Shore and E. M. Forster in his Paris Review interview with Steven Marcus. \"Forster,\" said the forty-year-old Mailer, \"after all, had a developed view of the world; I did not. I think I must have felt at the time as if I would never be able to write in the third person until I developed a coherent view of life. \" I This of course suggests that the twenty-five-year-old author who wrote The Naked and the Dead in the third person had such a view. Mailer's remarks in another interview, twelve years earlier, imply that the literary influence that most contributed to his confidence in presenting his own \"coherent view of life\" in his first novel was Moby-Dick:","PeriodicalId":259119,"journal":{"name":"The Mailer Review","volume":"2 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"1982-01-23","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"128024380","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}