He went off to war and came home with a brief taste of combat to write the Great American War Novel. That's what ambitious young writers of his generation were supposed to do. The Naked and the Dead was so lavishly praised that, he said, he lost his sense of who he was, as a writer and as a man. The novels that followed were dissed by the critics, so he turned to autobiography, essays and journalism, letting his wild-man side strut and blow on the public stage. He excoriated fear within himself but as a writer showed steadfast courage.

Like a lot of novelists he contained many selves, starting with the nice Jewish boy from Brooklyn he destroyed. His life became his art and vice versa. For younger writers who came after him, that was a tough act to follow, especially when his life seemed a litany of New York Post headlines like Mailer Stabs Wife! and Norm Bites Ear!

But if, as his detractors said, he was only a self-promoting public delinquent, how could he have written thirty-some books, directed movies, run for mayor of New York, co-founded the Village Voice, written thoughtful essays? Could it be that Mailer was also a consummate workman, a serious artist, though pressured at times into hackdom to keep up alimony payments?

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