The Prize

she called it incredible and ridiculous, and stated that the honour really belonged to Dreiser. In 1954, Ernest Hemingway said that Carl Sandburg, Bernard Berenson, or Isak Dinesen should have had the award before him. Three years later, Albert Camus said, “Had I been on the Swedish jury, I would have voted for Malraux.” This brings us to Andrew Craig. What other author alive would you consider as deserving as, or more deserving than, yourself of the honour you are receiving here?’

Craig struggled with his conscience briefly. Leah had begged him not to derogate himself. But honesty forbade evasion or silence. Yet he hated to name names. There were so many. Well, without fully exposing his inferiority, why not complete candour?

‘I cannot name one author more deserving than I-because there are half a hundred who should have this prize before me. There are at least ten in the United States, perhaps fifteen in England and France, several in Japan, and many more elsewhere. I can think of several in Scandinavia, certainly one right here in Sweden.’

‘Would you name Sweden’s candidate?’ asked the young man from Bookseller Magazine.

‘I’m reluctant to name names-second-guess your Academy-but I will say that I’ve read two novels by your Gunnar Gottling, and for all his irreverence, explicit sexuality, crudity, he is a major talent.’

‘He does not qualify in certain areas.’

‘Well, I don’t know the facts,’ said Craig, ‘and I have no wish to argue in favour of authors who should be here in my place. You asked if there were others that I thought should be here in my stead, and I said yes. I’m sure no author can ever be certain that he alone, above all others, deserves the world’s highest literary compliment. Nor, I am sure, can any annual award satisfy the entire public.’

The Svenska Dagbladet reporter had risen. ‘Mr. Craig, I suppose you are acquainted with our Nobel machinery? Former Nobel winners are allowed to nominate. French and Spanish and other recognized Academies are allowed to nominate. Professors of literature in universities are allowed to nominate. And, of course, our own Swedish Academy has given itself eligibility to nominate. These nominations are submitted in person or by cable or by letter. I am sure you know all of this-’

‘No,’ said Craig truthfully, ‘I had no idea of all these formal preliminaries.’

‘Of course, I am leading up to a question,’ said the Svenska Dagbladet reporter. ‘Please bear with me a moment longer. Early in 1950, I am informed, there were over one hundred nominations for the literary prize from abroad. Many were from America, and not one included the name of William Faulkner, of Oxford, Mississippi. Consequently, our own Swedish Academy nominated Mr. Faulkner, and then voted him the prize for 1949, which had been held open. I am also informed, from an excellent source, that you won your prize in the very same fashion. Did you know that?’

‘I had not heard it, no.’

‘You were not nominated by your fellow countrymen in America or any other nation abroad. You were nominated right here in Stockholm, by our Swedish Academy, who then later voted you the prize.’

‘Again, I can only say I am grateful-now doubly so.’

‘The point I am leading up to is-why was it left for a Swedish jury, so far from your homeland, to introduce your name? In short, why are you so neglected-unappreciated, I should say-in your native America?’

Craig shook his head. ‘You’ve posed a tough question. Well, I’ll do my best. For years, Faulkner was relatively obscure because his admirable Yoknapatawpha County was obscure-in the eyes of critics and public alike. Happily, your Swedish jury, with the insight of distance, found him less so. My output has been relatively neglected, in my own country, for similar reasons.’

‘Obscurity?’

‘Yes, I think so. I write about the present, but I write about the present in terms of the past. Most Americans have been conditioned to believe that historical fiction should be romantic and escapist. To them I am an odd duck, out of joint with time. My historical fiction does not fit the popular mould. It is neither romantic nor escapist, but puzzlingly realistic, and touches their contemporary lives. It worries them. It confuses them. They find my method obscure, and they turn their backs on it. For some reason, which is a mystery to me, your Swedish jurors understood what I was doing and admired it. I was fortunate to find understanding an ocean and half a land away from where I live.’

The London Spectator man was on his feet. ‘Mr. Craig, you were especially cited for The Perfect State and Armageddon. The Academy called them “writings in support of humanitarian ideals”. Can you elucidate, in your own words, the humanitarian ideals these two novels represent?’

‘Certainly. In The Perfect State, I was saying that communal government cannot work unless the nature of man is changed. I doubted if the nature of man would change, or even that it should. I was saying that the socialized state-now exemplified by Communism-was basically anti-man, and could not dominate man, and that man would fight it and survive it. I was saying this was true in Plato’s day, and it is true in our day. As to Armageddon, I was simply adding my voice to many, to remind readers of the magnitude of catastrophe conceivable on this planet, and of their own microbe-insignificance and helplessness in the face of it. It was as if ants had finally invented their own insecticide. I was pointing out that, at best, man is a frail, wispy creation, with an uneasy and precarious foothold on earth, and that he had better think twice about outdoing the Maker in competing for destruction. Perhaps the Maker challenged man with Pompeii and Herculaneum and the Lisbon ’quake and Krakatoa, but He did not obliterate him. By imitating God, without God’s wisdom and mercy, man can destroy his kind forever with nuclear weapons, his homemade Krakatoas.’

The La Prensa man from Buenos Aires looked up from his pad with a question. ‘Sir, do you have another work in progress?’

‘Too long in progress, I’m afraid.’

‘Is that the novel entitled Return to Ithaca that I’ve heard about recently?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is this also a novel set in an historical frame?’

‘No, it’s modern, it’s contemporary.’

‘Isn’t this the first time you’ve gone modern? What made you change?’

Craig hesitated. He had always wanted to be a part of his time, and had been afraid, and it had been Harriet who had encouraged the project. But Harriet was the dead past, and they were wanting to know about the present. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied, ‘except that’s the way this new idea came to me. Possibly, too, like most writers, I felt I’d been in a rut and wanted a change of scenery. I guess I got tired of my costume parties-decided that the Mardi Gras was over-wanted to remove the mask and show the world my own face. I’m not sure. I’m just repeating the first thoughts that come to mind.’

‘Sir, can you tell us what the new novel is about?’ It was the Japanese gentleman from Yomiuri Shimbun.

‘This much-a twentieth-century Odysseus, his wanderings through the labyrinth of life, fending off its monster perils, fighting attacks-from within and without-on his liberty to speak and think, on his right to worship alien gods or none at all, on his ethics and moralities in averting poverty. It’s an oft-told tale, but each generation must tell it in its own way. I hope I live long enough to write it.’

A lady from Aftonbladet spoke up. ‘What authors, now regarded as classical, influenced you?’

‘I won’t vouch for any direct influences, but I know who has interested me and moved me. Will that do? Very well. The writings of Tolstoy, Stendhal, Flaubert and Sir Richard Burton meant a good deal to me. The life Shelley lived, that rather than his poetry, was valuable to me.’

‘Are you aware, sir, that Shelley was also one of Alfred Nobel’s favourites?’

‘No, I wasn’t.’

‘Oh, yes, he adored Shelley’s philosophy and rebellion. Nobel’s only published book, a tragic play, Nemesis, was based on the same theme Shelley used in The Cenci.’

‘I’d certainly like to read Nobel’s play,’ said Craig.

‘I’m afraid that would be almost impossible,’ said the Aftonbladet lady. ‘After his death, Nobel’s relatives burned every copy of that play they could find. Since it was a horror story, they felt that it was not worthy of a legendary prize-giver. I believe only three copies survived.’