The Armies of the Night: History as a Novel, The Novel as History

The experience made me so extremely bored that I seriously debated hitting my head against a wall. It was one of those moments when time seemed to stand still and every second felt like an eternity. The monotony was overwhelming, and I found myself with no means of escape from the tedium. I just sat there, feeling completely drained and uninterested. There was nothing to engage my mind or capture my attention. It was as if the world around me had lost all its color and excitement. I thought about how hitting my head against the wall might at least provide some sort of distraction, even if it was a painful one. But of course, I knew that was just a crazy thought and I didn't actually do it. Instead, I just endured the boredom, hoping that something would come along to break the spell and bring some life back into my day.

Occasionally, I find myself compelled to pay homage to my roots. No, not the Detroit suburbs or the Missouri Synod Lutheran Church. Instead, it's to the 1960s, the decade where I spent what would prove to be my formative years.

In the past week, I devoured three Kindle mysteries that got my adrenalin flowing and my conscience chiding me that I should be doing something more worthwhile with my time. Part of the allure was my new Kindle Paperwhite, making me feel a bit disloyal to the old-fashioned hardcovers. Another part was that I was burned out on serious classics that simply weren't meeting my entertainment needs. William Faulkner and Thomas Wolfe just weren't doing it for me!

So, I was on the verge of turning to a book in the Southern author Karin Slaughter series when I had a moment of realization. I had to do something momentous instead. And what should my wondering eyes behold? A somewhat battered and dust jacket-free Norman Mailer book from 1968. That year, I got married, had a young son, and graduated from the University of Michigan. Truly formative times.

I quickly located The Armies of the Night on my disorganized bookshelves, taking it as a sign. And thus began my flashback to 1968. The book is Mailer's account of the October 1967 March on the Pentagon.

Mailer was quite the character! Just ask him, and he'll tell you! He was anything but shy and was rather impressed with himself. So, perhaps you have to be in a bit of an oddball mood with some connection to the 1960s to truly get into Norman. I often find myself in that kind of mood.

Some believe that creative people often have problems, as the recent suicide of Robin Williams has unfortunately brought to the public's attention this week. I have a touch of a crazy streak that's somewhat tamed by psychiatric drugs. But, thank goodness, my meds aren't perfectly tuned, so I get to have some crazy moments. Those moments served me well while reading this book.

I should mention that this book won both the Pulitzer Prize for Non-Fiction and the National Book Award in 1969. I don't know much about the politics behind such prestigious awards, other than to assume that some politics do exist. Norman Mailer was a larger-than-life figure who was in his mid-forties when this book was published during the height of the antiwar movement.

The day before the March on the Pentagon, there was an action at the Justice Department where 994 draft cards were turned in. The strange thing about my own draft card is that I can't quite remember what happened to it, although I no longer had it by the end of the war. I was at enough events where draft cards were burned or turned in that I can't recall exactly when mine and I parted ways. It seems strange not to remember something so pivotal as not being drafted for me. If I had been drafted, I wasn't sure what I would have done, but going to Canada or jail seemed like the most likely outcomes at the time.

How did this book come about? How did Norman Mailer, who was at best part of the conservative Left, come to participate in this seemingly radical and revolutionary action? Here's one account of the genesis of this nonfiction novel.

In Mailer's own words, he described the anticipation and uncertainty surrounding the March. The first three-quarters of The Armies of the Night is the story of the October 1967 March on the Pentagon told in the third person from Mailer's experience and styled as "History as a Novel." The final quarter takes a broader view of the same event, styled as the "Novel as History."

The bulk of the book reads like a memoir, with the author's personal and subjective (but supposedly factual) recollections of the events during the four days around the March. Mailer was a strong personality, a name dropper, and highly opinionated. His point of view is clear, even though the style is "he" rather than "I."

If you don't have some familiarity with the era, either by having lived through it or by having studied it closely, you'll miss out on much of the potential enjoyment of the book. It's all about being "along for the ride" on both a physical and mental journey. The book earns an extra star if you're reliving the experience, maybe even two extra stars if you were part of the event. It's not a book that appeals to a younger readership and hasn't aged particularly well.

The final quarter of the book might be of interest to the more general reader who is curious about the 1960s and 1970s protest and Vietnam period. It contains some interesting details about how a major protest event was organized, both technically and politically. It outlines the compromises made on both sides – the government and the protestors – and tells some of the stories that are essential to presenting a balanced "true" account of the event.

The Armies of the Night gets four stars from me, with one of those stars being an extra one because it made me re-experience a part of my life in 1967 when I was turning 21. I had already safely navigated my draft-eligible years and was then exempt as a young father. Exempted from killing or being killed (or being jailed or fleeing to Canada) by having a baby. The world Mailer wrote about was a strange one, perhaps irrelevant to most people in 2014.

So Robert Lowell and Norman Mailer feigned deep conversation. At the empty table, they turned their heads towards each other, completely ignoring the potentially acolytic drinkers on either side. In fact, they projected their elbows out like flying buttresses or old Republicans. From the posture of their backs, they exuded waves of Interruption Repellent and concentrated solely on their conversation. Indeed, they were the only two men of remotely similar status in the room. (Explanations about the position of Paul Goodman will follow later.)

3.3 stars rounded down from exhaustion. This was far too long. I initially came for Lowell, but as he faded from the pages, so did my interest. Mailer's style here is distinct and impressive. The sharp third person narrative of one Norman Mailer stumbling through history while bemoaning his four marriages and the idea that his stirred conscience could halt the war in Vietnam is an intriguing premise, and this was insightful journalism.

Mediocrities flock to any movement that will indulge their self-pity and self-righteousness. Without a Movement, the mediocrity is on the slide into terminal melancholia. Yet, after bemoaning the grandstanding of the intelligentsia and movement leadership, Mailer offers his own theories on this divisive state, one that this nation has yet to emerge from and seemingly has not changed. I am being rather reductive here, but the identity that was sought to thwart the middle class honky tundra has instead created disparate minor flashpoints, all of which distract from the existential.

I decided to read this book mainly because it had won both the National Book Award and the Pulitzer Prize. Additionally, considering that Mailer was a novelist, I thought this "History" might possess a more captivating quality compared to something penned by a dull, academic historian. However, to my great disappointment, Mailer's egomania fails to be as charming or interesting as he seems to believe. For me, Mailer simply doesn't make a particularly engaging protagonist. I didn't have much regard for him, and thus, I wasn't overly concerned about what might befall him as a consequence of his participation in the October 1967 March on the Pentagon to protest the war in Vietnam.

Admittedly, some parts of the book are well-written. I especially appreciated the way Mailer meticulously detailed the fragmented nature of the anti-war movement. He presented the various groups and their sometimes conflicting agendas, effectively shattering the myth that the 60s anti-war movement was unified. But, unfortunately, that is just about the only positive aspect I can find in this book. Overall, it didn't meet my expectations and left me rather dissatisfied.

The first three-fourths of the book presents a sort of eye-witness account of Norman's experience during the four days before and after the march on the Pentagon to protest the Vietnam War.

What initially takes some time to get accustomed to is that he writes this in the third person. Interestingly, the writer himself is quite critical and mocking of the character in the story, which is understandable. He is one of those characters who is aware of his faults yet has no intention of changing. In fact, he seems to take pleasure in his behavior, much like Edward Abbey and Charles Bukowski. They are interesting individuals, but one wouldn't want to live with them.

I truly enjoyed his narration of the day and the events he witnessed. Since this was the pre-cellphone era, it was rather unnerving to be at such a large event with no means of knowing what was happening or where one's friends were, not to mention being unable to video the police brutality. One had to rely on rumors spreading through the crowd. However, one does get the impression that his heart wasn't really in the protest and that he was there to enhance his public persona. He knew that as a prominent leftist writer, it was his "duty" to make an "impression".

His arrest is an interesting and captivating section. There is a confrontation with a Nazi that comes across as a display of bravado, similar to two kids chest-bumping in a schoolyard. Mostly, it is the boring and mundane details that make it feel very real.

The last one-fourth of the book is more factual and covers all the preparations in the months beforehand. He discusses the various disparate groups and the negotiations with the police and city officials. I had never really considered how much work it takes to organize such an event. Although this part is drier than the previous one, I found it very interesting and enjoyable. It provides a nice juxtaposition to the first part.

Mira que le gusta leerse a Norman Mailer.

His words flow in a torrent that is very unusual in Anglo-Saxon narrative. It is confusing and overwhelming, but one has to recognize his ability to do it well.

The novel narrates the events that surrounded the march on the Pentagon carried out in protest of the American participation in Vietnam, in which the author himself participated and was arrested for disobedience.

In a very surprising first part, Mailer tells his own participation, becoming the protagonist of his own novel. What is surprising is that he does not choose the first-person narrative but treats it dispassionately and even makes fun of himself and his own miseries.

After his particular odyssey is over, he goes on to describe the march in more general terms, thus clarifying many of the events he had previously described.

Very politically committed, very cynical and not easily satisfied, Mailer gives a personal but valuable vision of the liberal opposition to the Vietnam War and of the reaction of the system.

Overall, Mailer's work offers a unique and thought-provoking perspective on this important historical event.

Norman!

He has always been a complex figure for me, simultaneously irritating and fascinating. On a scale of Normanness, he scores a solid ten. By inserting himself directly into the narrative, this crucial event in the growth of the anti-war and youth movements in the USA takes on the feel of the ocean floor - a strange, exotic, and dangerous place being explored by someone who clearly doesn't fit in. Through our Norman goggles, we witness all sorts of creatures floating by, weird, strange, and colorful.

If that weren't enough, he then transitions from being a character in a pseudo-fiction to a pseudo-historian retelling events that, as a character, he couldn't have witnessed or known about.

One gets the overwhelming sense that Norman is a) meeting a deadline for a writing commitment he couldn't escape and b) trying to amuse himself and pat himself on the back for being such a clever lad.

What's so infuriating is that, despite these suspicions, he has managed to produce a rare and insightful commentary on both the specific history of the time and the state of literature.

As time passes, he seems to be slipping down the ladder of American literary immortals, which is a shame. As much as he appeared to enjoy and play to the howls of outrage from his contemporaries, his work still holds up. His prose may be less Spartan than most, and perhaps that hasn't served his immortality well, but it's still a joy to read.

I read this wonderful book back in the university semester of 1969/70.

At that time, I was managing the little library on the main floor of Leonard Hall, which was my residence for freshman and junior years.

The preceding spring, I had been awarded the University Prize for first year English, and Mr. Hanratty, the chief administrator of Leonard Hall, had duly noted that fact.

As it happened, I had visited the collection as a Freshman and had seen first-hand how ill-maintained it was.

Complaints must have landed on Mr. Hanratty's desk, and now he was killing two birds with one stone. The carrot on the stick he held out to me was a mid-sized monthly allowance for book buying. As a raging bibliophile on a Spartan budget, I simply couldn't refuse.

I leapt at the chance. I could help out and satisfy my book cravings too!

And so, now that I had the job, I obviously had to maintain the library as well as stock it. On one of my cleaning forays, I started browsing through The Armies Of The Night. It was truly tremendous.

Mailer, so brash and brazen in his likes and dislikes - with strong drink being a big like and pretentiousness the biggest dislike - was at heart an insecure and slightly paranoid man.

He was extremely antsy with his literary peers. Why? Just say the word LITERARY and Mailer would recoil in dread. For him, a literary person was a pretentious person.

Take Robert Lowell. Like Mailer, he championed confessional literature in the 1960's. You would have thought they'd have hit it off, but not a chance. Growing up on the wrong side of the tracks, Mailer trusted no one.

It was sad in a way. He just couldn't see the human side of those much better off. You see, Lowell was a genteel Christian, while poor Mailer was not.

Armies of the Night is a desperate plea for sanity amidst the lunatic melee of the 1968 Republican convention, which would confirm Richard Nixon's desperately polished image of the new Golden Boy of the Right.

Help.

Yes, America would soon need all the sanity it could muster...

But back to Mailer. Reading this book the year after that 1968 melee, I was riveted by his incredibly vivid prose style.

He wrote confessional journalism of the highest calibre. If you want a book of reportage that is brimming with life, read this.

It impressed me so much that I adopted his confessional and racy style as my own.

And you can still see it 53 years later in reviews like this. And a confessional writing style can lay every card on the table!

So, thanks, Norman Mailer, and may you rest in peace.

By showing me my true face that too-busy year, you played Fifth Business - accomplice to the Master Magician - leading me back to God.