Word: mailer
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...party-crashing shaggy beard from the graduate school greeted King Mailer with demands that he account for some vague if unforgivable "sell out"- publishing in Life, or something equally dreadful. Mailer awarded him a nickel's worth of evil-eye and walked away. An aggressive Nieman wife monopolized our guest at the cocktail hour, standing pelvis-to-pelvis, while everyone else stood apart to gape and shit-kick like Jimmy Stewart. A voice with liquor and maybe some jealousy in it said too loudly that Mailer was over-rated. The beginnings of bad vibrations tingled my spine, and I wondered...
...auspices of the Nieman Foundation. His 8,000-word account of the year, "Blowing My Mind at Harvard," appears in the current Harper's. For the CRIMSON, Mr. King has added to his memoirs by filling in the details of the visits he arranged here for writers Norman Mailer and William Styron. The following is the concluding part of this account, which began in yesterday's CRIMSON...
...Harvard names were attracted to the scene. It was one hell of a time to be dizzy and euphoric and crocked. The grandfatherly Nieman sat all night at a Cambridge hospital where Styron was under cautionary observations, himself all hung over and pale and sleepless, thinking that he had Mailer, bless...
...Mailer's easy verbal facility made listening to him hard work: required a mental mountain goat to jump from this theoretical jut to that craggy intellectual ledge. Styron was easier listening: he told you anecdotes in the familiar idioms of home, and you could rest during his pauses for verbal regroupings: he had the virtue of relaxing you more-though when you reached your bed it likely would be Mailer's words that nagged and clanged and rumbled hotly through your mind. Had Heaven planted them as religious saplings, Mailer might have grown into Elmer Gantry or have taken...
...bore no small personal grudge against these old heroes. Mailer, at a Manhattan party in his honor promoting The Armies of The Night, when we were both independently drunk, smote me a kidney-punch which may have been intended as friendly, but it hurt like hell and angered me. Styron, having written a private letter in praise of my first novel, hit me with a negative response when I inquired whether his endorsement might be converted to promotional purposes. I no longer pretend that Styron's blow was not the more painful. Still, I thought enough of both as artists...