Irving Wallace - The Prize

‘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.’

Craig nodded his thanks for the information, and then acknowledged the Expressen representative.

‘Mr. Craig, I understand you have visited Sweden before?’

‘Yes, after the war.’

‘We always welcome opinions on our country, good or bad. Do you have any?’

‘Well, I don’t think I’m qualified-’

‘What have you liked about Sweden?’

Craig was amused by the journalist’s persistence. ‘All right. I’ve liked-let me see-most of all I’ve liked the island of the Old Town, Carl Milles’s fountain in Haymarket Square, your lobster in cream sauce, the store called Svenskt Team, your actresses Greta Garbo, Ingrid Bergman, Märta Norberg-especially Miss Norberg-why won’t she do more plays?-and what else, do I like? Yes, the trip to Uppsala by boat, Orrefors glass, your cooperative movement, your abolition of poverty, and, yes, Ivar Kreuger-I don’t want to outrage you, but the grandeur of the man fascinates me. That’s a partial list.’

‘And the other side, Mr. Craig-what have you not liked about Sweden?’

‘That’s not quite fair.’

‘You are not the type to like everything.’

‘Of course, no one does. All right. I’ll be brief, and not elaborate. I think you put too much store in conformity, you make too great a virtue of politeness and manners, you have sex but too little romance, you reap the benefits but suffer the consequences of the middle way-no highs and lows, over blandness, over neutrality. I love Sweden, but these are the things I love least of all. I would not speak of these things, but we are here to question and answer, and that is my answer.’

Craig had half a minute’s respite, as the reporters wrote. He made a gesture towards taking up his glass, but saw that it was empty. He filled his brier and lit it.

Across the room, a young woman in a Robin Hood hat was standing. Even at the distance, Craig could see that she was blinking nervously.

‘I am Sue Wiley of Consolidated Newspapers, New York,’ she said loudly. ‘Do you have any objections to personal questions, Mr. Craig?’

‘Many objections, I assure you-’

Several reporters tittered.

‘-but I acknowledge your right to ask them,’ Craig continued. ‘By being here, I’m fair game, I suppose. And I do confess, I’m more interested in Charles Dickens’s relationship with Ellen Ternan than in his paper heroines. I must assume your readers are, too. So, though I’m a reticent person, Miss Wiley, do go ahead.’

Sue Wiley remained standing. ‘Speaking of relationships, who is the lady you have travelled to Sweden with?’

He did not like her tone, or its edge, and he sat up. ‘She’s my sister-in-law, Miss Decker, and she’s quite inoffensive and having a marvellous time, thank you.’

‘Your wife was killed in a car accident three years ago.’

Since it was an announcement and not a question, Craig did not reply to it. But he did not like Miss Wiley’s prosecutor mannerism, either.

‘Do you have any immediate plans to marry again?’ she demanded.

This was impertinent, and Craig tried to contain himself. ‘I have none. If I had, it would remain my own business.’

Sue Wiley stood unabashed and blinking. ‘I want to ask you about your work habits.’

That was better, and Craig’s arm muscles eased slightly. ‘Okay,’ he said.

‘Do you find that drinking hard liquor stimulates the imagination?’

Craig tightened, and he pulled himself completely upright on the couch. The clever, insensitive bitch, he thought. He was in for a dogfight, and smelt it at once. ‘You were inquiring about my work habits,’ he countered coldly.

‘Yes, Mr. Craig, that’s what I’m talking about. I have my research. It’s no secret, is it? I’ve met and heard of writers who use dope because it helps their work. Look at De Quincey. I have it that you drink when you work.’

He would not concede a public display of bad temper. All eyes were upon him, and he forced a smile to his lips. ‘Miss Wiley, if I drank when I worked, I wouldn’t write at all.’