Norman Mailer at Yale: Of Privilege and Class

Today's New York Times Book Review has an article about Norman Mailer, one of two "Towering Figures" in American letters, according to the headline.

Personally, the Phantom never thought much of Mailer as a writer. The Naked and The Dead could not hold the Phantom's attention, and even Armies of the Night never struck much of a chord. 

But, in 1980, while The Phantom was doing some graduate training at Yale, he noticed a poster for a visit by Norman Mailer, and the Phantom walked over to the building where the event was scheduled.  It was a lovely, large room in some university building which was neither a library nor a residential college, just some building used for events and it was lined in bookshelves with long windows flooding the place with light.  Undergraduates filled the floor space, sitting mostly on the floor because there were only a few dozen chairs and the Phantom stood along one of the walls. 

Mr. Mailer came in, ushered by some faculty member and he shrugged off his trench coat and stepped up to the lectern. He was 57 but looked older, shrunken--he could not have been more than 5 feet six inches--puffy faced, a man you would not have looked twice at on the New York City subway. Just some middle aged guy grown old before his time. 

The Phantom cannot recall his remarks, but the Phantom can never forget the reaction of the students. From among some of those sitting in front, on the floor, a chant arose, "Boring. Boooring. Boring." 

And, for the Phantom, it was all he could do to restrain himself from throwing something at these twenty something undergrads, these highly selected children of privilege, who were insufficiently entertained in the first few minutes of the visit of this--perhaps inordinately--celebrated author.

They were saying, "You may be a literary celebrity. You may be famous. But we are Yale students and you have not met our expectations."

And the Phantom thought: Mailer may have been many things, but as far as the Phantom knew, he was not a fraud.  He had, after all, served in combat during the Second World War. He may not have landed on the beaches of Normandy, but he was in the Pacific and like any soldier posted in combat zones, he was at risk.  

What had these twenty somethings, chanting "Boring" ever done? What risks had they taken? What had they seen in life? Were they ever part of something as enormous as waging war against the Axis powers?  

The biggest thing that ever happened to these chanting brats was they had been admitted to Yale. That was their greatest accomplishment and their most intense experience, to date. 

And now they were whining because they were insufficiently entertained. 

To this day, the Phantom is sorry he did not say anything. The Phantom now thinks of some dramatic moment he might have provoked. He might have spoken up: "Mr. Mailer, I apologize for Yale, for the behavior of these students. You have been inducted into the armed forces of the United States, shipped out to the Pacific war, survived that war and returned to write about the experience. You have had a career none of these students will likely ever achieve, and yet they revile you, after just a few minutes, for disappointing them.  They are spoiled, over indulged children, to whom too much has been given and not enough demanded, and though they may be highly selected brats, with high test scores and lots of community service and extra curricular activities and all sorts of embellishments on their applications, they have swallowed, uncritically, the notion that because they have matriculated at Yale, they are special and they are your equal. Yale has failed them, and they have embarrassed Yale."

Or words to that effect.

But the Phantom remained silent, as did every member of the faculty, and there were dozens in attendance. 

This posting is not about Mailer. It is about class and arrogance and nastiness and memory. And it is about Yale and places like Yale, where the upper classes acquire their sense of entitlement and self worth.

Lux et veritas. Heaven help us all.