Wednesday, November 28, 2007
It's really something to be a genuine Man of Letters, as Norman Mailer is/was. He, Philip Roth, and John Updike have dominated the American literary scene for years, or at least have attracted the most fawning critical attention by the literary establishment.(Just using the word establishment makes me feel so 60s. Does anyone have a roach I can smoke?)
Anyway, once the Great Man passed, I hoped that our national admiration could turn in a new direction.
It isn't to be. Mailer has won yet another award, the Bad Sex in Fiction award.
It isn't fair! He's dead, and he's still getting all the critical attention! I'm going to hold my breath and turn blue till he's a distant memory.
The judges were obviously biased--continuing to ooh and ahh over the body of work, as well as the work of the body.
Go to the site of this competition, and I think you'll agree that there were other worthy competitors. The judges say that it was the excrement that put Norm over the top, but I thought that the nautical metaphor woven around Anne Hathaway and her secret lover should outshine poopoodoodoo.
Judge for yourself.