We were wrong. At the Turner Tomorrow Award ceremony early in June it was announced that Ishmael had received the $500,000 prize. We had been lied to and betrayed. Our public protest over the betrayal comprised a tempest that would fit comfortably into my granddaughter's half-inch-wide china teapot.3 And even she could tell that we were badly taken. But being taken is not the same as being venal—and one trusts this puts the record straight.
[Washington Post, July 16, 1991.]
The Book on Lolita
News of the new movie version of Lolita, starring Jeremy Irons as Humbert Humbert and about to begin filming in North Carolina, has caused me to recall my own odd involvement with the book, in the months before Vladimir Nabokov's masterpiece was first published in the United States. Part of the myth surrounding the novel is the notion that Bennett Cerf, the co-owner of Random House, was one of the group of hapless publishers (others being Douglas Black of Doubleday; Roger Straus of Farrar, Straus & Young; and Max Schuster) who so lacked foresight, or were so timid in the face of Lolita’s ostensibly salacious subject matter, that they missed out on one of the great publishing coups of all times. But Cerf, at least, has to be excused from this group, since his failure to publish the book was not one of either will or vision but was due to his being hamstrung by a corporate decree of his own devising.
I first read Lolita in 1957, in the original Olympia Press edition, published in Paris by Maurice Girodias; the twin green volumes had been smuggled through New York customs by a friend of mine, the theatrical producer Lewis Allen. That Lolita was published by the firm that also brought out such incandescent titles as White Thighs, With Open Mouth, and The Sexual Life of Robinson Crusoe helped create a notoriety that Nabokov rightly deplored but which did in fact contribute to the widespread impression that the novel was unfit to be read by decent Americans. Publishers all over New York shunned the work. The book, of course, is a sidesplitting and heartbreaking triumph, and entirely filth-free; Allen and I were so smitten by Humbert Humbert's sublime obsession that we toyed with the idea of trying to persuade Nabokov to let us publish Lolita in a private edition, and to hell with the obscenity laws. But financial problems sent me instead to Bennett Cerf, who had recently become my publisher.
Not long before this, Bennett had named a new editor-in-chief, Hiram Haydn. A sophisticated and rather scholarly man, Haydn had brought me along from Bobbs-Merrill, where he had edited my first novel, Lie Down in Darkness, and where he had fought valiantly and more or less successfully against the company bluenoses, based in the Indianapolis home office, who had objected to my fairly tame sexual tableaux and occasionally crude language. Cerf greatly respected Haydn. For the first time during his presidency of Random House, Bennett had bestowed on an editor absolute autonomy, and so I was reasonably certain that, given Haydn's broadmindedness, Lolita would be a shoo-in for prompt and enthusiastic publication, even though I had had early qualms about Bennett. When I handed him the two volumes, he fingered them with gingerly distaste, shook his head, and murmured something like “Well, I don't know…dirty books.”
A week or so later, warm with pleasure and anticipation, I marched into Haydn's office in the old Villard mansion, on Madison Avenue. Before I could utter a word, Hiram rose from his desk, his face actually blue with rage. “That loathsome novel will be published over my dead body!” he roared. Dumbfounded, I asked him what in God's name had caused him to react this way to such a splendid literary achievement. He ranted and shouted, and when I asked him to explain, to please explain, the reason for his fury he replied that I, Bill Styron, knew full well that he, Hiram Haydn, had a daughter the age of the victim of Humbert Humbert's disgusting lust, and that when my own daughter was that age perhaps I'd understand the hatred a man might feel for Lolita. For some reason, I was not angry with Hiram. It was an outburst that revealed the power of art's sometimes terrifying menace.
I fled to the office next door, where Bennett, his pipe propped against his cheek, was gazing desolately into the distance. “That novel is a masterpiece,” he said, in a choked voice, “but I can't budge the man. He said if I overruled him he'd quit.” He paused, then added, “What a wonderful book!” His eyes had the look of one who had divined the wretched future: Lolita published by some second-rate outfit like Putnam; ecstatic reviews; week after week at the top of the best-seller lists; and any new works of Vladimir Nabokov forever lost to Random House.
[New Yorker, September 4, 1995.]
Fessing Up
I was a member of the entirely white, predominantly male, and somewhat doddering Modern Library editorial board that compiled a list of the hundred best novels written in English in the twentieth century. I don't want to dodge my contribution to the list's notoriety. In fact, I want to cheerfully assent to the opinion expressed in these pages that the list is “weird.” When I saw the final roster, I was a little shocked at what the ten of us had wrought, not only in respect to the list's glaring omissions (no Toni Morrison, no Patrick White, only eight women in the lot) but in respect to its generally oppressive stodginess. The voting process was partly at fault for this quality of desuetude. A luncheon meeting with a good wine that allowed for lively disputation would have soon eliminated such toothless pretenders as The Magnificent Ambersons and Zuleika Dobson.
As it was, we voted by mail ballot. Each judge checked off from a roll call of several hundred novels the works he (or, in the case of A. S. Byatt, she) thought worthy of making the cut. The books were then ranked by the number of the votes tallied. Those receiving, say, nine votes (like Ulysses and The Great Gatsby) were placed at the top of the list, and the others were rated downward accordingly. Such a procedure led to some odd (or weird) results. That Aldous Huxley's Brave New World and Samuel Butler's The Way of All Flesh reached the empyrean (at Nos. 5 and 12, respectively) didn't necessarily mean they deserved such an exalted rating. It meant only that eight or nine judges just happened to believe those books belonged somewhere among the anointed hundred.
People who were legitimately exasperated by the Modern Library's inventory might take heart from a rival list drawn up by the bright members of the course in publishing at Radcliffe College, and printed in The Boston Globe and USA Today, among other papers. They would be encouraged, at least at first, by the youth of those involved (most are in their twenties) and by the fact that most are female and some nonwhite. The students’ choices, while often extravagant, are in many cases a bracing corrective to the Modern Library's pervasive air of superannuation. An example: The Catcher in the Rye, bogged down at No. 64 on our list, vaults to second place, right after The Great Gatsby.
In a way, the Radcliffe list is as proper and predictable as the Modern Library's. It pays appropriate homage to the great modernist authors: Joyce, Faulkner, Hemingway, Woolf, Steinbeck, James, Orwell, Nabokov. Yet it also affirms the importance of certain women writers not present on the other list, notably Toni Morrison (with three titles) and Flannery O'Connor. Sometimes the importance is exaggerated: Alice Walker's The Color Purple at No. 5? But most of the old fogies to whom one might rightly object have been dumped: Booth Tarkington, Arnold Bennett, James T. Farrell, Thornton Wilder, and John O'Hara. These patricides seem to be worthy ones, allowing space not only for writers whose absence was conspicuous from the Modern Library list—John Updike and Don DeLillo—but for a small yet refreshing category: children's books.
They seemed a wonderful addition. I found myself not giving a damn that Charlotte’s Web (No. 13) and Winnie-the-Pooh (No. 22) were in a much loftier position than A Passage to India (No. 59) and Sons and Lovers (No. 64). But I began to be made uneasy by the realization that many significant gains were offset by inexplicable losses. Where was the matchless Graham Greene? What happened to Saul Bellow and Philip Roth? Walker Percy's The Moviegoer was gone, as was John Cheever's The Wapshot Chronicle; and who should pop up in their stead but the hectoring Ayn Rand, represented by her dismal blockbusters The Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged.
Moreover
, just as the Modern Library list had done, the Radcliffe list ignored virtually all experimental fiction and many widely read contemporaries—from Beckett to Pynchon, from Joan Didion to Robert Stone. Finally, there were the profoundly eccentric rankings. Is Douglas Adams's The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy really better than anything written by Theodore Dreiser?
Somewhere in this is a lesson. Perhaps it's only that all lists are weird, but each list is weird in its own way.
[New Yorker, August 17, 1998.]
The MacDowell Medal
I was quite bowled over when John Updike telephoned last spring to tell me that he and the distinguished members of the committee had chosen me for the medal. I had of course heard of it and knew of its very special quality. But, in all honesty, I never thought it would come my way. I was very surprised, but gradually I cooled off and began to wonder at the reason for my intense mixed reaction. I began to feel a little troubled. I asked myself why news of such an honor—even one of the greatest prestige like the MacDowell Medal—should leave me with this sense of uneasiness. Was it because some inner voice told me that I might not really deserve it—that there were at least three or four writers whom I greatly admired whose work should have gained the accolade instead of mine? Or was it because the whole issue of medals and prizes had once more surfaced, this time beneath my nose, making me ask the question again: “Are prizes necessary, or even desirable?” Isn't satisfaction in one's work sufficient reward, and so forth? These are, of course, tiresome worries. I am a Gemini with a bifurcated ego, one branch of which delights in being stroked, while the other emits howls of dismay. I was at that moment rereading the stories of my fellow Virginian (although born in Boston), Edgar Allan Poe, and it suddenly occurred to me that some of the distress I felt may have come from the question I abruptly asked myself: “Had Edgar Allan Poe ever won a medal?” I went to the source book (an old and rather ponderous biography by one Edmund Clarence Stedman), in which I was puzzled to discover, among other things, that Poe suffered from, and may have even died in part from, a malady described as “platonic erotomania,” which baffled me for a long time because Stedman offered no explanation. I put aside, however, the search for this riddle, and was able to ascertain after diligent checking that, no, Poe had never won a medal. This fact so piqued my interest that I was led to further research on medals, especially of the nineteenth century and more particularly as they affected the culture of the United States and of Europe, and I came up with some provocative data that I want to share with you very briefly. I'm concentrating on literary artists, though I'm sure similar cases could be made in music and the visual arts.
In the 1800s, Europe rewarded its writers handsomely with medals and trophies. Victor Hugo was a major collector of laurels; he had a whole room filled with bronzes and statuettes that fed a self-esteem already swollen by public idolatry scarcely equalled in the history of literature. At the same time, the behavior of Gustave Flaubert is an example of the extreme ambivalence toward medals which artists have often displayed. There is no more crushingly contemptuous line in all of world fiction than the final sentence of Madame Bovary, where the narrator, simultaneously summing up his feelings for his least favorite character, the odious Monsieur Homais, and expressing his hatred of such bourgeois claptrap as the Legion of Honor, writes: “He has just been awarded the Legion of Honor.” It is the put-down par excellence. Yet, a few years after Madame Bovary appeared, the recently reviled but now redeemed Flaubert was himself offered the Legion of Honor, a medal which one biographer described the great man as accepting with “gleeful alacrity.” So much for the famous cold Flaubertian detachment. But the champion acquirer of medals has to be Henrik Ibsen. So great was the demand for Ibsen's presence at medal-giving ceremonies all over Europe that the dramatist wrote his plays for half the year and went collecting medals the other half. Departing Oslo, then known as Christiania, in the spring, he would head southward to Bonn and Leipzig, pause, then mosey on to Vienna and Budapest—at all of which places there were kings and princes to hang medallion-bedecked ribbons around his neck—and then, as summer grew ripe, he would pass on down to Torino, Milano, Rome, back up to Paris and Brussels, thence to London for a whole clutch of medals and on to Amsterdam, Dublin, and Edinburgh, returning at last, when the first chill breeze of autumn roiled the North Sea, to Norway, clanking with bronze and gold, so weighted down with the ornaments that overlaid his chest that he was actually seen to list slightly to port as he trudged down the gangplank into the arms of his cheering admirers.
Contrast, if you will, this European cornucopia of honors with the situation as it existed at the same time in our country. No one cared a fig for literature. No medals for Edgar Allan Poe, no medals for Fenimore Cooper or Hawthorne, no medals for Whitman. No medals, no prizes, no annual publishers’ awards, no seals of approval from a book critics circle, no fellowships, no grants, no MacDowell Colony, nothing. It may have seemed a bleak and ungenerous society when compared with Europe, if anyone bothered to make the comparison, and certainly nineteenth-century American writers were unrewarded when likened to their present-day counterparts, yet it is hard to believe that the existence of awards and honors might have improved the quality of the work of our literary ancestors. There is something about the immense and tormented loneliness of the writers at that time—an alienation far more intense, really, than the one rather facilely attributed to our own period—that makes it plausible to think that their work might have been violated, perhaps even irreparably damaged, had that loneliness been intruded upon by anxieties over winning a prize. Like all artists, they were hungry for recognition, and this a few of them got, though most failed to receive anything like renown commensurate with their genius; it may be that at least part of the splendor of their achievement derives from the very loneliness and obscurity out of which it flowered. One thinks with relief of Emily Dickinson never having had to compound her existential dread by missing out, once again, on the Bollingen, and only horror could attend contemplation of what twentieth-century book chat might have achieved back in those days, the gossip churning about Melville's stupendous, perennially doomed quest for the Pulitzer, or a MacArthur grant going to Mark Twain, who didn't need it.
The twentieth century, however, has offered no dearth of awards in America. Only France exceeds us in the bestowal of public bouquets to flatter the artistic self (in France it is often literally nothing but a bouquet). But the trouble is that the proliferation of awards has frequently debased the very concept of honor, and laurel branches descend indiscriminately upon the brows of the journeyman and the hack. If, as in my Presbyterian childhood, every boy and girl wins a Bible, there is not much feeling of distinction. More seriously, the reputedly prestigious prizes become tainted, like virtually everything else in the nation, by commercialism or, worse, by political infighting which results in cowardly compromises and the award going to individuals of stunning mediocrity. But perhaps one should not complain too strenuously about this situation and rejoice rather in the knowledge that a nation which has had so little use for aesthetic endeavor has developed sufficient maturity to honor genuine artists, no matter how imperfect their achievement. Who knows, maybe artists in America will someday gain the repute now enjoyed by health food advisors and anchorpersons.
In an election year, I do not think it vainglorious to proclaim or echo, once again, that poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world. The recent conventions in Atlanta and New Orleans, with their bloated self-love and obscene jingoism, would convey to a man from Mars, or even from Italy, the impression that American politicians and their camp followers are drunk with power and totally insane. And the impression would be largely correct. With important and revered exceptions—and one wonders how Jefferson and Franklin D. Roosevelt ever managed to survive, much less triumph—politicians have ill-served their fellow man in our Darwinian struggle toward the light. The departed writer of whose gifts, in many ways, we most stand in need—I am thinking of H. L
. Mencken—once contemplated the long list of American presidents, rolling off their names with heady delight: Harding, Fillmore, Taft, Hayes, not one but two defunct Harrisons, Taylor, Tyler, Pierce, Polk, Buchanan, Garfield, McKinley, on and on. Mencken wrote that their names had all the incantatory magic of a “roll call of mummified Sumerian kings.” I have not meant to be frivolous in conjuring Mencken's list but to juxtapose it against another list, which strikes me as being its antipodean opposite, and constitutes the reason why I am standing here today. I am speaking, of course, of the roster of distinguished artists who have received the Edward MacDowell Medal before now. The name of any one of these dedicated and greatly gifted men and women could not fail to inspire admiration; taken in aggregate, the group—all twenty-eight of them—represents the brightest constellation of American talent that could be assembled in the latter half of this century. The combined power of their creation has provided, I suspect, the invisible counterforce, the equilibrium, which has helped keep our bedeviled nation from the barbarism and darkness—the political vandalism—into which, suicidally, it keeps threatening to plunge. Their work has been of supreme value to the world, and to be asked to join their company flatters me beyond measure.
My Generation: Collected Nonfiction Page 44
