Books: The Impish Iconoclast at 60

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Mailer's current complaint seems a classic case of answered prayers. In Advertisements for Myself (1959) he thrust himself stage center. He became his own best subject and turned narcissism into a method of social analysis. For a heady period, no major public event in U.S. life seemed quite complete until Mailer had observed himself observing it: a huge anti-Viet Nam War march on the Pentagon (The Armies of the Night); political conventions (Miami and the Siege of Chicago); the Apollo space program (Of a Fire on the Moon). Mailer was not content simply turning out excellent books. He gave the impression that every moment he did not spend writing was given over to self-promotion. Proclaiming himself top contender for the crown of best American writer, he easily picked off the title for most interviewed. Says Buzz Farbar, a boxing, film-making and writing crony: "I used to beg him not to go to talk shows, to be more like Updike or Salinger. But Norman loves the challenge." Through such efforts he reached millions who would never read him. He became famous for being famous, a condition that the case of Zsa Zsa Gabor long ago proved irreversible. Says Mailer's agent, Scott Meredith: "Norman is the only writer in the world that you can recognize on the street."

That is slightly hyperbolic, but Mailer indisputably makes waves when he moves in public. And whatever he may say to the contrary, he does not shrink from attention. Shortly before the appearance of Ancient Evenings, he spends five days as a hard-working fellow at the University of Pennsylvania. The undergraduates who trail him through his meetings, classes, lectures and ten-hour daily schedules were not even born in 1960, when Mailer established his notoriety by stabbing his second wife Adele; they were pre-teens nine years later when he ran for mayor of New York City. They are tadpoles in the swell of his celebrity. He, ah, played Stanford White in the movie Ragtime. He had something or other to do with Gary Gilmore. "I've read a lot about him, although I've never read his works," says Freshman Susan Bernfield. "I was curious."

So is Mailer: "I want to see how much of my head is left." It has been years since he has subjected himself to such a long haul of academic rigors. At each session, he tries to sniff out potential enemies and attackers; he chiefly scents respect and even reverence. This is a fairly new phenomenon in Mailer's tempestuous performing life, and it seems to puzzle him. Early in the week, he offers to pay $5 for the rudest question he is asked. At the end, he judges none worthy of the award. Fireworks are predicted when he visits the classes of some feminist teachers. One busies herself making coffee for him.

At the lectern, Mailer proves he is still a Roman candle of ideas, spinning off sparks, noise and smoke. He gives one class his grudging approval of abortion but not birth control. "Women's contraceptive instincts become confused," he says, and spins his theory that prostitutes do not get pregnant: "When a woman has sex with five to ten different men a night, the sperm from each man is battling against the other sperm. It's the competitiveness of the sperm. They're all killing each other off."