How often we must refleet today that the salt hath lost its savor.nAt a “reading” at Queens College not long ago, I sawnand heard Norman Mailer reading “poems” to his audience.nHe showed all the innocent delight of a child, and he was wellnreceived. But Mailer, rich and approaching his 80’s, had littlenneed to show up for such an exercise except the biggest one ofnall. Getting his fix of applause and his ego boosted yet oncenmore, the bloated, jug-eared old geezer was again the good badnboy of his own dreams. The whole thing was as sweet as it wasnabsurd, but there was not the savor of the old Village Voice effusions,nor The DeerPark, or An American Dream, written undernthe gun serially back in the 60’s. Nearly 40 years ago, NormannMailer had already called himself “Normal Failure” and acknowledgednthat he had not fulfilled his youthful promise. Yetntoday, he is still ready to show up for trivial recognition for badnwork, and he cannot even pronounce the word “poem” correctly,nmuch less write one. But I do not blame Mailer altogether,nbecause the audience was a large part of the fraudulence—and,ncome to think of it, so was Queens College.nPerhaps even more remarkably, I recentiy riffled through a librarynshelf of fiction by Gore Vidal and failed to find one creativenor powerfully placed word in thousands of pages of droning.nTo ask why Gore Vidal writes novels today might also be tonask why he is published or read by anyone, and also to ask whynhe ever wrote an’thing in the first place. Unlike Mailer, he hasnno talent for fiction whatsoever, and never did. His pages arennot as well crafted as those of Kathleen Norris, nattering on asnthough they were processed by Bulwer-Lytton or Snoojjy inn].0. Tate is a professor of English at Dowling College on LongnIsland.n16/CHRONICLESnPut a Lid on Itn’Stop Me Before I Write Again!nby J.O. Tatennntheir “It was a dark and stormy night” klutziness. But the questionn”Why?” is only too easily answered. Walking into the filmnGattaca not long ago —I wanted to see what Uma Thurmannlooked like in clothes—whom did I see but Gore Vidal, strugglingnto get into character. Like Norman, Gore just had to benseen. And that is the answer to the question: Vanit)’ and impertinencenare the only reasons Vidal writes, but they are no excusenfor anyone to read him.nWriting is a kind of engineering or design that gets easily confusednwith the person who did tiie crafting—a mistake that nonone would make with a bridge or an airplane. An excessive emphasisnon personalitv’ is always a bad sign; what is worse, we cannotneven blame our decayed times for tiie problem. The cult ofnpersonalit)’ was there from the beginning—even among thenbest writers.nSur’eying the newspapers may suggest that writing is not thenonly thing that would make more sense if construed in reverse.nThe history of the Western world might be more palatable if, afternan early democratic/plutocratic period in which lack ofnvirtue and abilit)’ was no bar to advancement, a revolution restorednthe aristocracy to its place, and the populace, when notnworking at handicrafts, wept for joy to hear poems recited withna lyre at hand. Drama was a communal ritual, legend was epic,nand all philosophers were pre-Socratic. Gods actually existed,nthe world was enchanted, and I hasten to add that the cultivationnof grapes had been perfected, as time stopped forever in mynineffable vision.nAn unavailable dream, you say? No, indeed. It is callednGreek lit or “classics,” and the Roman stuff is swell too, if younprefer. Of course, I do not mean to slight the ancient Hebrews.nThose sensible people had wine also, and God spoke to them.n