Self really does not like the title of this novel.
Maybe because it turns something ugly into something lyrical.
There’s not even the faintest bit of lyricism or poetry in murder. Self thinks Truman Capote skirted a very fine line in In Cold Blood. But, by God, he did it.
In The Executioner’s Song, despite heroic efforts by Norman Mailer to turn Gary Gilmore, murderer and misogynist and also self-pitying whiner into a kind of American anti-hero (Why even bother), self reaches p. 366 (not even halfway; this is a 1,000-page book) and Gary Gilmore is still nothing more than a murderer/misogynist/self-pitying whiner.
Here she is. This sentence is not half-bad. In fact, it’s pretty funny:
If you were asleep, and the alarm went off, and you were under such tension you thought it was a fire siren, and saw imaginary flames and leaped out of a high window into eternity, well, it hardly mattered then whether your normal label had been psychopathic, manic, melancholic, or obsessive-compulsive, you could be sure to be called psychotic as you went through the window.
Mailer speaks truth.
Stay tuned, dear blog readers. Stay tuned.