Since his death, all I’ve been able to read about is Norman Mailer. Those still drunk on the ’60’s admire him and praise him. Those recovering from the bitter, better time despise him. Some call him a literary genius; others revile him as a worthless hack. I wouldn’t say he was worthless. A hack, yes, but even a hack has some value, even if it’s to momentarily entertain other hacks.

Mailer’s life and work can be summed up in one observation: He was writ large.

Mailer perhaps had no greater admirer than himself. His ego was huge and I’d say a man that considered himself so great probably didn’t have much to offer. Some would disagree. He was no poet, but he lived poetically. Through six wives, a knife thrust into one, a Henry Miller style livelihood that had him glorifying sex and Marilyn Monroe, and political tirades that pitted him more than once against the establishment, Norman Mailer sought mostly to assert in influence, which he did. Now look at him. Will he be remembered 100 years from now? There’s only one way to know for sure.