Dead Man Talking

Kominiski beat me to the punch--or the post, anyway, about Mailer, someone who wrote plenty of books, none of which I've read.

I was in Border's yesterday afternoon thinking about that: yet another dead author whose books I've not opened. The most I knew about him was that he'd stabbed one of his wives. (William S. Burroughs shot one of his wives, though I'd like to think that both Mailer and Burroughs truly did love women when all was said and... well, "done" might not fit. Hemingway, an author many feminists apparently dislike because, I think, of how he portrayed and treated women, was at least polite enough to shoot himself. Does that mean he loved women more than the other guys?)

Like I said, I was in Border's, where I wandered around a bit thinking I'd like to buy a Mailer book, but how cliche' would that be, buying a book written by some guy who'd just died? Even the young clerks at the cash register would see through that ruse. Besides, I don't have room on my bookshelves for more books, and I've still got over 200 pages of A Tale of Two Cities to plow (or, for Dickens, plough?) through.

Mailer will have to wait. I've considered using the library every now and then, so perhaps I'll find him waiting for me there. Slate has an article of interest, if you've got the time. Of course, there will be articles everywhere, at least for awhile. That's how literature tends to work: Some guy spends a lifetime writing, then when he dies, people write about him, dissect what he said and wrote, place him in his appropriate place in the Canon.

And people like me, people who are old enough to know better, should've jumped the gun, been pro-active, been ahead of the curve, anticipated the value-added bring before it was even brought.