I, like many, think that Mailer ought to win the Nobel Prize for literature for the sheer genius of his published over his fifty plus years as a writer. Few of his generation, or in generations following, have have the kind of profound successes in fiction, reportage, cultural criticism, and political essay.
Mailer has dared what other literary writers only feigned and actively engaged the world in ways and manners that he thought would make reality surrender some of its secrets. The hope, of course, would be that he might be able to change the way men and women viewed themselves in a political reality that had stripped the individual of all creative drive, and hence empower them to change the substance of their world. Grand ambition, yes, and a failed enterprise,but in the attempt are left a string of brilliant books -- "The Naked and the Dead", "The Executioner's Song", "Why are We In Viet Nam", "Armies of the Night", "An American Dream", "Harlot's Ghost",-- that, among others, form a body of work at once daring,daunting, vain and arrogant, preening, breathtakingly on target, raunchy , clipped, rich and rolling and lyrical like the grandest music. An infuriating writer, yes, but even so one who's work stands tall in the era in which he wrote.
This, though, isn't one of those books," Modest Gifts" being, at best, a gussied up reissue of a lone book of verse he produced in the early Sixties,"Deaths for the Ladies (and Other Diasters)".
Now, as then, the pieces are slight, skeletal, un-propelled by anything resembling a notion that the reader cares about. For a writer who's composed some of the richest prose and lyric flights this side of Faulkner and DeLillo, these efforts are so minimal that even a verbal skinflint like Hemingway would call these gifts not modest ,but cheap. Mailer explains interestingly that these were put together at a bad time in his life when he could not compose--stabbing your wife will tend to
dampen your willingness to wax--and that he found something therapeutic in their existence, but there never has been a compelling reason for these things to be put between covers and sold. Unlike some, I think that a great writer's less great work, the unformed work, the jottings, the juvenilia,the notebooks, the scraps and orts, need to remain in the drawer, and not committed to the judgment of history. This poetry is so minimal that it can't even raise a stink.