The literary world also lost several bright lights, including the inimitable short story writer and poet Grace Paley. A Wrinkle in Time author Madeline L'Engle died in September, New York Review of Books co-founder Elizabeth Hardwick passed earlier this month, and columnist Molly Ivins died, at the too-early age of 62, in January, and to Jennifer's everlasting chagrin, fashion guru Liz Claiborne died in June and actress Deborah Kerr went from Here to Eternity in October. Wonder if the paper's editors will add recently (and reportedly) dead Benazir Bhutto to the list?

Notable Deaths of 2007 [NY Times]

Earlier:
Anna Nicole Smith Knew How To Throw A Damn Christmas Party
God Bless Tammy Faye
The Queen of Mean Is Dead
Madeline L'Engle, Beloved Author Of Fifth Grade Erotica Dies
Literary Lioness: Elizabeth Hardwick
Liz Claiborne: From Little House To House Of Style
...to Eternity: Deborah Kerr

Dream tells the story of former Congressman Stephen Rojack, who, within the first three chapters, murders his wealthy wife, fucks his dead wife's maid, and entertains a "blonde devil" of a night club singer named Cherry.

Not convinced yet that Mailer was no fan of women? Here's an excerpt from the novel that might prove otherwise. It's a description of Rojack's wife, Deborah. Rojack admits that he married Deborah in part because of her wealth and elevated social standing, though he did deeply love her in his messed up way.

She was a great bitch, Deborah, a lioness of the species: unconditional surrender was her only raw meat. A Great Bitch has losses to calculate after all if the gent gets away. For ideally a Great Bitch delivers extermination to any bucko brake enough to take carnal knowledge of her. She somehow fails in her role (as psychoanalysts, those frustrated stage directors, might say) if the lover escapes without being maimed to the nines or nailed to the mast. And Deborah had gotten her hooks into me, eight years ago she had clinched the hooks and they had given birth to other hooks. Living with her I was murderous; attempting to separate, suicide came into me.

The only woman who escapes Mailer's acid pen is Deborah's daughter, Deirdre, who is too young and innocent to be evil. "A delicate haunted girl with eyes which contained a promise she would learn everything about you if she looked too long, and so chose not to look."

Hmmm, so Mailer's surrogate, Rojack, hates all women except for his children. And Mailer, the man, had five daughters and six granddaughters "who adored him"? Perhaps Norman thought of his progeny as separate from the vast, unwashed womanhood out there. Certainly his second wife, Adele, whom Mailer stabbed with a penknife, supports the view of Norman as someone who was not so kind to women. In an interview with Adele, who is living in near-poverty despite the wealth of the Mailer estate, she said of the stabbing, "In one minute he destroyed my life, and it took me years to make it back."

We never met Norman Mailer and have no idea as to how he treated the women in his personal life besides Adele, but we think we can say without a doubt that the way he treated his literary women was pretty fucking shabby.

Widow Defends Mailer, Says He 'Loved Women' [New York Post]
The Woman in the Shadow [New York Times]

Earlier: The He-Man Woman-Haters Writing Club

California Senator Dianne Feinstein also gets some Paglia love for having "true gravitas — a rare quality in women." Then Camille opines that Dianne Feinstein should have been the first female nominee for president. (Because even though America might not vote for a woman, they'll jump at the chance to vote for a Jewish woman) Further on, Camille admits that Madonna didn't want to meet her after that Madonna — Finally, a Real Feminist story in the 90s, perhaps because the pop star was intimidated by her intellectuality. "I attributed Madonna's skittishness at the time to her uncertainties about her education (she had dropped out of college after one semester to seek fame in New York)."

So to recap! Women rarely have true gravitas, should be stylish and warm but not too aggressive or shrill, and Camille Paglia is smarter than Madonna. (Paglia also defends Norman Mailer's place in the sexual dialog of the 70s and calls him "pussy whipped.") I'd foment some righteous indignation about it but I'm too exhausted from the anger aroused by the rest of her column to deal with it.

Queen Hillary's disruptive court [Salon]
Madonna — Finally, a Real Feminist [New York Times]
Earlier: Gorgeous Star-Fucking Hillary Clinton Aide Buys Fake Handbag And Other Stuff Vogue Left Out

Philip Roth: So the aforementioned Roth! Ol' Phil made his name writing about self-involved, Oedipally-complected Jewish men who fucked nearly-illiterate but gorgeous shiksas and then denigrated them later. Example: Portnoy's Complant where he dehumanizes his object of affection by calling her "the Monkey" and fixating on her physical attributes to the point of fetishization.
Ernest Hemingway: Zelda Fitzgerald once said that The Sun Also Rises was about "Bullfighting, bullslinging, and bullshit," and our girl Z was pretty much on the mark. Lady Brett Ashley, who is the pants-wearing, sexually-emancipated object of affection in the novel, causes only trouble for the men she comes in contact with. Because any woman who acts and dresses "like a man" is a threat to real men and appropriate notions of masculinity.

Charles Bukowski: Attacking Bukowski for misogyny sort of seems like kicking someone when they're down, since Bukowski was such an alcoholic mess most of the time. Sort of! The women in all of Bukowski's stories are one-dimensional cyphers if not actual prostitutes, but one particular story comes to mind in terms of its dastardly portrayal of a woman. It's called "Six Inches." Henry Chinaski, who is Bukowski's alter-ego, marries a woman named Sarah, who boasts a voracious sexual appetite. As the months wear on, Henry starts shrinking, and doesn't stop shrinking until he's 6 inches tall. At that point, Sarah calls him her little pet and puts Henry into her vagina. He describes the experience:

Sarah picked me up and placed me down between her legs, which she spread open just a bit. Then I was facing a forest of hair. I hardened my back and neck muscles, sensing what was to come. I was jammed into darkness and stench. I heard Sarah moan. Then Sarah began to move me slowly back and forth. As I said, the stench was unbearable, and it was difficult to breathe...Suddenly, I was ripped out of that terrible tunnel..."O, my darling! o, my precious little cock! I love you!"

So there's a case to be made for Mailer, Roth, Hemingway, and Bukowski. Who else so you nominate for this literary hall of shame?

Norman Mailer, Towering Writer With Matching Ego, Dies at 84 [New York Times]