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Thought you all would find this of interest. I guess Norman Mailer stabbing his second wife Adele with a butcher knife finally caught up to him, albeit in the afterlife. Ironic. There is continuing coverage following this lead story as you scroll down. The whole drama makes of the old adage, "truth is stranger than fiction" seem almost unnecessary, a quaint and outdated expression. I think in spirit, most novelists would agree that to write a work of fiction is to do simply that and the truth of many definitions seeks its own reality and is infinitely more pliable than fiction.

Chris Roberts

03 July 2009

Author Norman Mailer Believed Murdered 5:28 pm EST
BOSTON (Reuters) - Little known to the literary world, an autopsy was performed on Norman Mailer not long after his death. The local authorities were acting on a tip. A young French woman who had been caring for the grizzled old author is the subject of an active investigation. The young lady in question, 23, has been identified as one, Marie St. Lachette. Detectives were only recently able confirm her true identity through the help of INTERPOL and confirmation by her boyfriend, Jacques Dumont. This confirmation was only procured after he was arrested for transportation of stolen goods. It seems as the duo, Marie and Jacques, were stealing items from the combative author’s home for some time preceding his death. “Several signed first editions, cash, jewelry and other items of value were believed to be stolen by the suspects,” said Lieutenant Charles Abernathy. In order to obtain a lighter sentence, Dumont told the police a rather sordid story of Marie’s murderous intent.

On visits to Mailer's home the French thief witnessed, on no less then four occasions, Ms. Marie attempting to take the life of Mailer. Twice seen was the female death merchant sitting on the chest of the author. When asked by the boyfriend what she was doing, she wryly replied, "Pressing the life out of the old man." The shocked Jacques stopped her, as too, when she attempted to suffocate him with a pillow over his face in other incidents. When asked by Dumont why she was doing such things, she merely offered up a veiled reference to her grandfather. Those close to the case said she finally succeeded in smothering him with a pillow.

Marie was originally detained, but was able to gain freedom through her attorney’s successful bail application. She was not long for these United States and in a flash, fled back to France. The French government has agreed to extradition and it is said American officials will travel the second week of July to retrieve St. Lachette.

In an odd footnote, the young lady has adamantly stated that she will surrender in no other place in France, but at the gravesite of rock legend Jim Morrison. U.S. officials have agreed to the demand.

05 July 2009

Mailer Murder Suspect Stabs Herself 4:00PM EST

PARIS (Reuters) - Murder suspect Marie St. Lachette has been moved from a jail in Paris. She apparently got hold of a sharp instrument and stabbed herself in the chest. It was more of a glancing strike and doctors believe it was more of a suicidal gesture, then an actual attempt to end her life.

Those that were with her in the last week leading up to the incident described her as incoherent and disheveled. In one of her more lucid moments she said to anyone that would listen that she had been in the company of Adele Morales Mailer on a daily basis. This is of course impossible. It is a manifestation of her troubled mind. Adele, having been stabbed near the heart by Mailer many years ago, "bled profusely" according to Marie as they sat in the day room of the asylum quietly conversing. The imaginary Adele's voice cut through the subdued atmosphere to become a screech as she made use of every epithet in her vocabulary in regard to Mailer and thanked Marie for having snuffed out the life of "that intolerable man." Marie replied by denying any complicity in killing the author.

When she was asked about the "self-stabbing," Marie claimed to want to feel the pain Adele experienced and in turn, the loathing of the author of whom many literary critics have expressed in unison that his nonfiction novel "The Executioners Song" was a poor man's "In Cold Blood" who's author, Truman Capote, forever revealed wheat fields not filled with jovial scarecrows, but drifters dead set on destroying. Capote's work adjusted the iconic Norman Rockwell painting on the wall to a different angle in order to reveal a less banal image but more of a vibrating violence running through the brushstrokes.

What is interesting is a little known addition to the lexicon of American "pop speak" that Mailer created. It was through his many interviews, he famously turned down nary a one, that the phrase "performance piece" came to be. A reporter for the Washington Post, Dante Revelo coined it and said that when Mailer was stuck on a question he would flail his small arms about as if to make them bigger. His eyes would bulge and his face turned beet red. He than peppered Revelo with his own questions so as to deflect his lack of knowledge of the question asked of him. This Mailer had done innumerable times before with other interviewers, but Revelo put a name to it and it stuck.

Marie is now in a secure mental facility in the French countryside. Authorities refuse to disclose the location. It is up in the air as to whether U.S. lawmen will be able to gain custody of their prisoner as was planned for the second week of July.

14 July 2009

U.S. Detectives and French officials Collide over Mailer Murder Suspect 6:30 EST

FRANCE (Reuters) - Boston Detectives arrived in Paris yesterday. There was no less than six of Boston's finest, led by the indomitable Sergeant Charles Abernathy. They took up entire city streets in their combined mass and were no less a battering ram as they forced pedestrians to seek the shelter of the streets.

Once at Paris police headquarters, they received an icy reception. Captain Louis Renald let the Americans have it in no uncertain terms - strong-arm tactics may fly in the U.S., but have no place in the City of Lights. Sergeant Abernathy "requested" that Marie St. Lachette be turned over to him and his men in order to have her tested stateside. Renald flatly refused, said Lachette was undergoing psychiatric testing and would remain where she was. Renald considered the matter closed and the Americans were physically escorted out of the building like so many ruffians.

As this article goes to press, the detectives have requested the assistance of the U.S. Consul and are holed-up in a rather seedy, second-rate Paris Hotel. The better establishments, having heard of their heavy handed goings on about town, have refused them better accommodations. What is pressingly clear and must be commented on is the old adage; "you attract more bees with honey than vinegar." According to confidential sources charged with Marie's care what awaits the Boston policemen at the asylum in the French countryside is a bee from an entirely different world.

Contact: croberts7[at]nyc.rr.com

Mailer was quite simply a giant, and an inspiration to many young writers, myself among them. Throughout it all he had grit, tenacity, the will to endure. God bless him.

I had the privilege and the honor of interviewing Mr, Mailer when he was 72 years old. I was the only Colombian journalist who had the chance to speak with him for El Tiempo, the most widely read newspaper of Colombia. Our conversation was included in my book called Interviews with 11 U.S. Fiction Writers (Editorial Planeta, 1996).
At that stage of his life he became sentimental, and I had the impression that I was talking to a grandfather with a lot of wisdom. It was incomprehensible for me to see that the same gentleman that I had in front of me was the same man who decades ago stabbed his second wife Adele Morales and participated in those wild famous parties in the 1960’s with New York intellectual scene. However, the man that I interviewed was the father of eight children, the man who married six times, who had to write books and articles in a rush to keep up with numerous alimony payments.
We talked about his favorite subjects: war, politics, Hollywood stars, boxing, and of course his children and grandchildren. When in the beginning of the interview his last wife Norris Church came to say hello, and asked us if we needed something else, Mr. Mailer hugged her, and with his blue eyes and a warm smile said that everything was fine. It was an unforgettable meeting at his apartment in Brooklyn.

The drunk and the dead

So old man Mailer died this weekend at 84. He had a good long life.

I met him once, when I was working at Rolling Stone. RS head honcho Jann Wenner had rented out a swank Midtown Manhattan restaurant for a luncheon in honor of the aging ’enfant terrible’ of American letters, whose ”Harlot’s Ghost” (1991) was being serialized in the magazine. The very upscale event was attended by Rolling Stone editors, staffers and advertisers, who milled around holding glasses of Chardonnay, awaiting the great man’s arrival. He was late, and we on the business side of things were concerned that our advertiser attendees might have to get back to their media buying and planning before our star had shown. But eventually the doors swung wide, and as a buzz went up around the room, a short, pudgy, white-haired Norman Mailer came stumbling in — all ego and alcohol, a crowd of sycophants fawning around him.

Jann embraced him, smiled for our in-house photographer, and led him into the reception. Jann adored Mailer, I think, because of his notoriety as a hard-drinking, fast-living, ruff-and-tumble personality, and because Tom Wolfe (another Wenner favorite) had crowned him ‘the father of new journalism,’ whatever the fug that means.

During lunch, Norman waddled up to the podium, and delivered a fairly incoherent self-referential talk, praising Rolling Stone and plugging, naturally enough, “Harlot.”

Looking back, the event was a lot like his career: a lot of hoopla and anticipation, followed by a meager output that left one with a lingering aftertaste of longing for something more.

Mailer typified those writers who are more remarkable for their celebrity than their oeuvre. Best known for his first book, “The Naked and the Dead,” a rambling account of World War II that was loosely based on his own experience in the South Pacific. The “Naked and the Dead” was deemed to be “the best novel yet about World War II,” according to Time Magazine. For my money, I prefer Kurt Vonnegut’s “Slaughter House Five” or even Joseph Heller’s “Catch 22″ — both more readable and humorous and insightful than “NATD,” which like most of Mailer’s succeeding work would have benefited from more aggressive editing.

Despite his failure to live up to his early hype, Mailer did shake up the literary establishment. And for that, along with his liberal sensibilites, I salute him.

At a rally for Henry Wallace on the Columbia campus in 1948, the newly celebrated novelist appeared to speak on his behalf. Having just read THE NAKED AND THE DEAD, I was surprised to find him stiff, hesitant, uncertain. I was told later by someone working back stage that he had to down a shot of whiskey before he could face the audience. It is comforting to remember that even Mailer was tentative at the beginning of his public life, but I am happy to report that I never again saw Norman uneasy about speaking or facing a crowd.

I met Mr. Mailer for a precious ten minutes last year when he was awarded the Legion Of Honor at the French Cultural Embassy on Fifth Avenue. I told him I had read The Naked And The Dead on a troop ship going to Korea. I told him that after reading it I wanted to jump ship. I said, "How's that for an influence?" He laughed very hard and I knew that had their been time and a bit of luck we could have been friends. It is a treasured memory and I feel a great loss. Back in the sixties, we aspiring writers living in Greenwich Village looked across the river at Brooklyn Heights where he live3d and speculated with awe about what he was working on. For us he was an inspiration and someone to catch up with. In our young writers' minds we envied him, were jealous, and in our pretend macho way, loved him.