The Spooky Art by Norman Mailer

weariness could come into us because of the rate at which we are being entertained.
    My literary generation was under the umbrella of Maxwell Perkins—anyone who became an editor wanted to be like him. Young editors felt a loyalty toward their writers. There were spiritual marriages, if you will. It’s still true to a degree, but the odds against sustaining such loyalty are now much higher. Today’s publishing dictates that an editor has to bring in books which make money. This near-absolute has to enter the interstices of a young editor’s thinking. (And his or her intestines.) I imagine it would be hard for most young editors not to start pushing their authors just a bit in the direction of trying to be more popular. That, of course, strains the bond.
    Right now the smart money would bet against the serious novel. The publishing houses are getting depressed about the future of good fiction, and the publishers are obviously the ones who most determine that future. Survival probably comes down to the young editors. When a serious novel by an unknown gets published these days, it’s usually because some young editor has made an issue of it. The publisher generally goes along. In effect, it’s the charitable side of publishing, and it will continue so long as publishers keep a little faith in their young editors, who, in turn, manage to hold on to their nerve.

    Bookstore managers may ask, “Why don’t you write a short book?” They don’t have to state their motive. We both know. Short books are thin books, and so take up less space on shelves. Ergo, the shelves can bring in more income per foot. But short novels? Unfortunately, I was co-opted at an early age by Thomas Mann, who said that only the exhaustive is truly interesting. Trust Mann to make one a closet elitist.
REVIEWS, PUBLICITY,
AND SUCCESS

    I treat bad reviews in the manner that a politician running for office treats a loss of support. A couple of friends called up after a very bad review of
Ancient Evenings
appeared in
The New York Times Book Review
and asked, “Are you all right?” I’d seen it a week before, so my unhappiness was now digested. I told them that it was like realizing the county chairman in Schenectady had decided against your candidacy. But to lose a primary in Schenectady doesn’t mean you stop running for governor. It isn’t my ego that’s hurt, it’s my damn pocketbook. Getting a bad review these days in the Sunday
Times
affects my wallet. My ego, however, remains relatively intact. Whereas, when I was younger, I used to consider a bad review a personal insult. The guy who wrote it was evil. In fact, however, I have never actually punched out a reviewer, which I say with a certain wistfulness. I did sit next to Philip Rahv after he had written an atrocious review of
An American Dream.
Rahv had his virtues, bless him, but physical courage was not one of them. So I made a point of installing myself beside him on a couch at a party, and while I smiled at him, I kept my body firmly pressed into his, leaning into him all the while that we had a long thirty-minute conversation about something else altogether. I was perfectly pleasant the entire time andeverything seemed all right, except we were both tilted alarmingly from my leaning into him. He was in an absolute panic, waiting for me to strike. It must have seemed an odd sight from across the room: He was a heavy man, and the two of us probably looked like two doughnuts crushed together at one end of the box.
    MICHAEL SCHUMACHER: Should a writer be concerned about looking foolish when taking risks?
    NORMAN MAILER: You want to stay above that fear, but once in a great while, I’ll still think, “This is going to get the world’s worst reviews. I’m diving into something that’s going to make no one happy and will leave certain people very unhappy.” On the other hand, the good side of such risk is that it is exciting. You feel like a free man.
    Sometimes, you can tell in