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| | The New York Review of Books: Don Quixote at Eighty |
 | | You may recall that in the last mound of Mailer, The Time of Our Time (1998), 1,300 pages of recycled snippets from five decades of fiction and journalism paraded by, not in the order in which they'd been written, but in the order of the years they described. |
 | | Still the book feels like one of those late-night cable commercials for Roy Orbison's Greatest Hits, or Conway Twitty's: act now, call this toll-free number, and we will also send you, at no extra charge, a cool tool to sharpen your knives, whiten your teeth, and screw your neighbors. |
 | | Odd now to think that he was still to publish books on graffiti, boxing, and Henry Miller before winding up his last good decade with The Executioner's Song (1979), which won all the important prizes, and then finally finishing Ancient Evenings (1983) to yawns or disdain. |
| www.nybooks.com /articles/16115 (2242 words) |
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