Not five minutes into the interview, Norman Mailer put in his hearing aid. ”I’m a little deaf,” he said. ”If I’m at all vague in my replies, it means I didn’t hear you. I’m usually not vague.”
Vague, no; loquacious, yes; and cannily charming, as he proceeded to ruminate and postulate, looking very much the lion in winter, while evoking the tomcat of his youth and middle age. His eyes cannot stand the glare from the sun that pours through the window of his beachfront house here, about a mile from the center of town, and his arthritic legs require the support of canes, but the mind remains frisky.