Norman Mailer walked slowly from the back of the Writers Guild Theater using two canes, his knees as brittle as cookies, his body matronly and small, his brow furrowed, both of his tremendous ears containing hearing aids, his eyes as fierce as little knives.
Applause followed him the full length of the room and up to the stage before it stopped abruptly, as if everyone in the crowd assumed simultaneously that the noise might disrupt his concentration just enough to send him toppling off the stairs. Squeaky thuds from the rubber tips of his canes hoisted him uneasily into the glare of a C-SPAN crew’s lights, and he collapsed into his chair as David Ulin, book editor of the Los Angeles Times, sat down opposite him.