![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMlISQ5CYPdmZP2at6_RawHEdmGFbLrQ2axcwBiwzYPxMjNbBCpBoy9zEZ_MuhMW5yMdCk9wKTAqaoFcbhzsp4NbxsBpmGY3DWKVeL9zQnjdPeEeRGTQJ7GMIMWMfIXBFtwphXQuJs1BKE/s320/Norman+Mailer.jpg)
The article in the March issue of Vanity Fair about the late Norman Mailer reminds me of how I used to see him out walking in Provincetown, where he lived in Cape Cod. He would not have remembered how once, following a reading at a progressive synagogue that met in my friend’s parent’s home in the Chicago suburbs, he settled on the couch next to my 16-year-old self and suggested that what I needed was to run away with an older man. Looking back on it, he was probably right.
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