In 1970, we met briefly under similar circumstances, again at Wesleyan. By now I had expanded the dissertation and published The Structured Vision of Norman Mailer. I had married, fathered my first daughter, Brett Ashley (Buffy) Leeds, bought a house in the woods and refined my view of myself as iconoclast: the Jeremiah Johnson of academe.

In the 1970s, satires of Mailer in the popular press had become quite broad. For example, the May 1972 issue of National Lampoon included a four-page comic book written by Sean Kelly and drawn by Barry Smith entitled Norman the Barbarian, in which a caricature of Mailer, dressed in a fur loincloth, armed with a pen and accompanied by a sidekick named Bress-Lin, fights the forces of women's liberation amazons and conquers the Bitch-Goddess Media.

In 1972, the poet and translator Al Poulin called me from SUNY Brockport and told me that Mailer would be speaking in Rochester. He asked if I could arrange to have him drive over to Brockport where I could interview him on TV tape for the Brockport Writers Forum. I wrote Mailer a registered letter, and a few days later the phone rang. Robin, my wife, smiled and said, "Somebody named Norman wants to talk to you."

"Hey, Barry," he said, as though I'd seen him yesterday, "I'm in Boston. I'll be in Rochester in two days. Here's what we'll do. You come to the lecture. Have a car outside. After the question period, we'll drive over to Brockport, have a couple of drinks, and tape the interview. We should be able to do it in under two hours. Tell them to expect us about 2:00 AM."

Was I excited? Yes. Did the SUNY guys come through? No. Too many problems with getting the studio at that hour, and other logistics. I called Mailer and told him their alternate offer: come next year, and they'd have a Mailer weekend: lecture, parties, a screening of Maidstone, and our interview. When I told Mailer, he said okay, but the spontaneous plan would've been better.

One last thing: "If we do it, there's one condition." I waited: what? Belly dancers? Irish coffee? Rocky and Bullwinkle as warmup?

"You're the only guy I'll do the interview with." That was fine with me, but that gig didn't come about. Al Poulin became seriously ill, and Mailer and I drifted out of even this tangential connection. It would be 1987 before I'd get to interview him (no TV), and in the same season I would be interviewed on TV for the Brockport Writers Forum by my friend, the poet Tony Piccione, largely about the work of Mailer and Kesey.

So we said goodbye on the phone. "Goodbye, Barry."

I was so cool: "Goodbye, Nuh, Nuh, Nuh, NORMAN!"

* * * * *

More time passed. I went through my own creative crisis, wrote my own deservedly unpublished novel, and turned to the works of other novelists in my critical writings. I taught my twelve-hour load year after year, moved up to full professor, and most important, Robin and I had our second daughter, Leslie. In 1981, with my book on Ken Kesey about to be published, I was at an academic conference to speak on Kesey when Michael Lennon, a fellow Mailerian who was to become a good friend, introduced himself and asked why Norman never heard from me anymore? (You don’t write; you don’t call!) I was surprised: I'd never wanted to make my career by bothering any author, especially Mailer, who I knew guarded his time and privacy.

I wrote him again, we resumed our correspondence, and a series of gradually more personal meetings ensued. On November 8, 1982, he spoke at Yale. After his talk, I approached him. He greeted me warmly and invited me to a party at the apartment of Shelley Fisher Fishkin, then teaching and working on her dissertation at Yale. We had a fine, intense talk, then left for another party, accompanied by Robin and by Dominique Malaquais, the undergraduate daughter of Mailer's friend, Jean Malaquais. We found ourselves wandering through the campus and streets of New Haven with glasses in our hands, talking. I remember quoting the wisdom of my maternal grandmother, and telling Norman what a great influence he'd had on my life. I still feel that way.

In September 1985, Mailer participated in a conference at Connecticut College in New London (formerly Connecticut College for Women), a potentially hostile setting. He was received well, both by his fellow panelists and the audience. Again, he was not merely articulate and forceful, but charming and amiable to me.

It was a tough decision for me in 1987, but I decided to undertake another book on Mailer rather than break new ground on Harry Crews or D. Keith Mano or Joseph Wambaugh. I wrote him, asking for an interview. He responded with characteristic grace and generosity, and after several postponements for more important events in his life, notably a trip to Russia, he decided that we should do it right away. I won't be coy and pretend this wasn't a major experience for me. There I was, in the place where he wrote the books that had so dramatically informed my life's vision, talking intensely with Norman for a morning that went by far too fast. You can read the official transcript of it between these covers.

At the first International Hemingway Conference, held at the John F. Kennedy library in Boston in 1990, Mailer was the keynote speaker. After his talk, I approached to say hello. He was seated next to Jackie Onassis, who held out her hand as if to have her ring kissed. Norman had turned to say something to his wife Norris.

"I'm happy to meet you, Mrs. Onassis," I said, shaking her hand briefly, "but I'm actually here to see Norman." She seemed startled at my preference; but no Secret Service agents roughed me up, and Mailer turned and greeted me warmly.

When I wrote Norman in 1992, he gave me his Provincetown phone number. I called him from the Provincetown Inn, and he invited Robin and me to dinner at Sal's Place with him and his daughter Maggie, who was an undergraduate at Columbia. We had a great time eating, drinking wine, and talking non-stop. Afterwards, we sat around with Jack, the massive-forearmed proprietor, and talked about the old days in Provincetown. I was being good, and resisted the impulse to ask Jack to arm-wrestle. Later, Mailer wrote me: "I still remember the look in your eye when you restrained yourself from asking Jack, the proprietor, to arm-wrestle with you. If I ever had any doubt of the ferocity you contain and have managed to domicile in yourself, it was removed at that point. What a display of character over physical greed and desire." (28 October 1992).

Norman was in a good mood, having finished his book on Picasso that day. After dinner, he drove us all over Provincetown and its environs, pointing out places we should see in daylight, and apologizing for not arranging to go with us the next day. He had to begin editing the Picasso manuscript. At our hotel, Norman got out to say goodbye. We hugged each other, and he said, "See you soon, buddy."