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This is the nightmare: the wolfing hour when the tide turns, the brain
sugars thin, and the ghost is ready and willing to be given up, you wake, sweating, sit up
in a rictus of fear; it is that dream again, the unimaginable, unspeakable horror - you are a
bookdealer attempting to put out a catalogue of books by winners of the Booker
McConnell Fiction prize. The conceit of it! An eldritch fantasy. And the chilling
realisation: it is still true. And worse. You have promised to write about it.
I had tried to work the other side of the tracks: mimeo'd
yelps with rusting staples, plague hospital nostalgia. More poetry and madness got itself
into print between 1962-1979 than at any other time in recorded history, and it remains as
collectable as rabies. To assemble an archive of the stuff is quite an achievement: like
bandaging the York Hall Vapour Suite Slipper Baths. When the wrappers are cut by
some nosy sawbones in a thousand years time - there will be nothing inside. One
sharp-nosed dealer has already spent any amount of time (and rather less money) in
gathering just such a tide of 60s flotsam: he usually comes out of these deals smelling
sweetly of old bank notes. I began, modestly,
with anything Jeff Nuttall didn't want. Whatever would fit, none too comfortably, into
two or three large sacks. I think he knew something that we don't: yet. He decided to put
two or three countries and a good piece of ocean between himself and his property. He
took an early retirement (didn't we all) and made for the sun, the other bit, where all the
Dalston gangsters don't go. A couple of kids he met on the beach promised to build him a
house. Which they did. Except for the roof. It was the rainy season: storms hulking in
off the Atlantic. But they're very good to their writers in Portugal. Mostly because they
got rid of them years ago. But that is another
story. Mr Edward Maggs, like all the best bookmen, confines his journalism to the
financial pages, where he recently suggested that anybody with loose change still rattling
in their pockets should buy into the Beat Generation. (This is about as likely as Pope
John Paul suggesting that "Road Floozie" by Darcy Glinto isn't a bad read. Come to think
of it, it's less likely!) However these convictions don't run quite deep enough for Mr
Maggs to soil his hands on a single item of the stuff from the splendid collection of 500
Beats that I generously offered to share. It's back
to Booker. (As the contortionist said to Tennessee Williams.) The polarization of the trade is now such that the old
isthmus is broken, it's under water: if you don't believe me take a look at a Book Fair (any
Book Fair), but pack an aqualung. It is still
possible to pass on the wrappered dreck, and the genre fictions, to the last unembittered
enclave of readers not yet in captivity (excluding Hebden Bridge, where they're waiting
for a communal giro). And it is, at least theoretically, possible (though not for you or me)
to sell the A-List stuff, the flyers. Some New York catalogues now price at over a million
dollars. You need 15,000 dollars to scratch an ear at auction. A presentation copy of
"Ulysses" costs more than a flat in Muswell Hill (and I know which I'd prefer). All
buying is on commission. It's Big Bang time. Credit trade. Percentages. Nervy caffeine
phonecalls. It happened 30 years ago in the "art" world and now its here. And you'd
better believe it. The English first-edition trade
is as much a strip of rented Californian carpet as any nuke-strike airbase. The only
difference is that they don't have a 9 hole golf course. But they're working on it. We now
enjoy our own low-rent versions of the New York sharks. Answering machine and three
months to pay. One of our finest from the Court
of Cecil ordered three books from my recent Booker list. They were all wanted across the
Atlantic. I asked, out of interest, how many English customers they had left. And was
told, "about 12." That's all they needed to float Christianity Inc., but that was at the
beginning. And this is the end. There has to be
some reason why all the bookdealers are writing novels. Martin Stone, one of the great
book-finders of the late 70ies/early 80ies, was reported as giving poetry readings on the
Left Bank with Ted Joans. And that is an augury to be watched by all you druids. He's
usually three years ahead of the game. The other
great poacher, driffield, has long since gone public. Deciding that the only thing left to
sell was his own bad reputation. It struck me, 17
catalogues ago, razor-sharp as always (The Booker Prize had then been going a mere 14
years), that there might be some change to be made by playing the parasite to the tide of
industrial slurry seeping from the skirts of the media now that the prize was worth
£15,000. Which is cheap publicity. Even if it's all bad. I put together a complete collection of the Winners without much trouble,
including a signed proof and signed copy, with wrap-around band, of "Midnight's
Children", and "The Sea, The Sea" which, for some reason, came in two dust-wrappers
(one for each ocean, I suppose). Only "Staying On" proved tough to find, I think it must
have been on TV. I offered the collection at three hundred pounds. And got two takers.
One of our genuflecting-to-the-west carpetbaggers turned it down on the grounds that it
didn't contain "The White Hotel". No matter that "The White Hotel" had never won the
Booker Prize. No self-respecting American, at that time, would buy anything without
"The White Hotel". Claridges nearly went out of business. That book might have sprung
directly from the head of a computer with the perfect genetic cocktail for the U.S.
best-seller list: psycho-analysis, soft porn, guilt, opera, fur, Jewish Angst and plagiarism.
And once it took off in America, lamblike, we followed. D.M. Thomas should have
stopped there. With each new book another slab of masonry falls off The White
Hotel. I bounced back next season, to ape
Hollywood, and give the world "Booker Two". I found "Staying On" in Farringdon Road
for 25p. It was slung back by a runner, who decided it that it was too thin to be worth
anything; or perhaps he was allergic to that particular shade of green. This time I got bogged down looking for first editions
of Stanley Middleton's "Holiday" and Bernice Rubens' "Elected member". (Those titles
sound as if they should get together). Both of these books are easy to find in second
editions: almost every shop in the sticks has one. Or more. Plenty of time is wasted in
opening them, swearing and chucking them back. I couldn't quite bring myself to use that
old stand-by, the razor blade and the piece of sandpaper, favoured by certain rogues,
who'll emasculate any reprint for you before you can boil enough water to steam off a
library label. Born again virgins a speciality. No, this was ridiculous. I'd never do it again. To get shot of them I offered
the collection at the lower price of £220. My enthusiasm had already died. There were
no takers. This is the same pattern that
publishers go for. The first novel is the taster, just to put the new name into a few
reviews: the second novel is the loss leader. Actually it's the first book the auther wrote,
has been rejected by 17 publishers on both sides of the Atlantic, is rescued, "revised", got
out, fast, to cash in on the modest succes d'estime of its predecessor. This second book is, of course, savaged. Where it is
mentioned at all. The wretched writer goes away, back to the job at the Tutorial college,
struggles for a few years, researching obscure incidents in the history of the Peruvian
llama wool trade, comes up with a third book, twice as fat, packed with parentheses; this
is crucial. The reviewers are impressed, or too bored to read it all. He's unlucky if he
isn't shortlisted on the spot. Then he can forget
the whole vulgar business. And become a reviewer himself; a television critic, for
preference. This has the advantage that he never has to leave home; and needs to do
nothing except be funny. Do it well enough and he'll be on television himself. And given
the chance to adapt someone else's first novel as a film-script. Which pays well and
doesn't smear his reputation by actually getting made. Contrary to popular rumour, there
are plenty of free lunches. It was the time of
unriveted leaves, bonfires, pagan rites: and the Booker Prize again. I added a few
undistinguished extras and upped the ante to £230. And was overwhelmed with orders.
The statutory 3 years, since I had the idea, had passed. I knew it was time to quit. There
were phonecalls from New York. They were hot
for Graham Swift and Julian Barnes; Martin Amis was fading; Ian McEwan, the merest
outline. The ones that were still in print traded fastest. Anything else was a
lottery. There was a whole generation out there
of post-Connolly collectors. They had decided to go for the New Fiction. And the New
Fiction had better look out. All it means is - you buy new books. But if you miss them,
say, "In Patagonia" - it could cost you £60 over published price in less than ten years.
The same for William Boyd: in five. Graham Swift: in two. The Black Hole approaches.
It's a Battlefield as the man said. You are not dealing in proven (i.e. listed for "O" level)
quality; you are playing with fashions. Like it or not. You're very welcome to ignore it
altogether. Follow your own taste and you can't go wrong. Especially if you haven't got
any. Close your eyes and think of Ian Fleming. Collecting the Booker, or any other prize, is playing safe: it is letting
someone else tell you what is worth having. With books there are no gilt-edged safety
bets, just guilt-edged failures. The Booker
McConnell Prize for Fiction was set up in 1968 "as a result of discussions between B.M.
and the Publishers Association about the need for a significant literary award in Britain,
along the lines of the Prix Goncourt in France." Some pretty heavy dining goes into the
Goncourt. It's for serious trenchermen only. The Booker is settled over a couple of
tea-bags and a digestive biscuit. That first year
Dame Rebecca West sat among the judges and Stephen Spender managed to get leave of
absence from the CIA. You couldn't have any serious board of anything with Stephen
Spender. The shortlist included Iris Murdoch, Muriel Spark and a brace of novelists
whose books had been filmed, unsuccessfully, by Joseph Losey. The prize went to P.H.
Newby's prophetically titled "Soemthing to Answer For". And the world cried, if it cried
anything, "who?" P.H. Newby works for the
BBC and is highly respected, but nobody reads him or collects him. He hasn't been heard
of since. Next time out Dame Rebecca was
joined on the panel by Lady Antonia Fraser, as the intellectual crumpet, and Prof Richard
Hoggart, for some solid moral ballast. Comoners need not apply. It was beginning to
look like an undress rehearsal for "What's My Line?" Iris Murdoch was again shortlisted. She might as well be perpetually
shortlisted: she comes up with a calibre book once a year, always well-made and
respectfully received. William Trevor also was shortlisted. The prize went to Bernice
Rubens. Lady Antonia kept her seat for 1971.
Saul Bellow joined her. That must have used up the expense fund: they dropped the other
two judges. Doris Lessing made the first of three appearances on the list; Elizabeth
Taylor her one and only. The prize went to V.S. Naipaul. Which brings up the question of who exactly is eligible? The answer seems
to almost anyone from the territories exploited by Booker McConnell and no-one from
the so-called Common Market. So far the prize
had alternated neatly between author who use two initials and those who favoured a
single christian name. Naipaul took the cheque
and then slapped the hand that was trying to feed him. He didn't feel the necessity of
withdrawing from the whole circus. The event
became newsworthy for the first time and John Berger kept up the good work. He
roundly denounced his benefactors and gave half the money to the Black Panthers.
Neither of these organisations (Berger and the Paers) have featured in the media from
that day to this: both remain mildly saleable in Stoke Newington. The selections since then have not, often, been farcical,
if they have rarely been inspired. The only title the Booker can claim to have "made" is
"Midnight's Children"; though it helped to create a market for Anita Brookner novels. As
a genre. Like a "Dick Francis" or a "Len Deighton". A quotable annual offering. She
works deftly in a style that could be described as pointillist Mills & Boon. The list has managed to miss out on John Fowles,
Martin Amis, Bruce Chatwin, A.N. Wilson: so it can't be all bad. It has also missed
Angela Carter, Peter Ackroyd, Iain Banks, Simon Raven, Elaine Feinstein, P.D. James,
Ruth Rendell - or any crime or fiction. No Moorcock please, we're British. But then it was never more than a marketing device: an enema up the
Entropy Tango of English Fiction. As such it has been a modest success. The trick is to
find something for the punters to buy between shortlists. As an area to collect - I'd say,
forget it. But I'm almost always wrong: or I wouldn't be hacking out this pap for
driffield. Which reminds me, he lied, of the
dying words of King George V, which have been widely but inaccurately reported as
"Bugger Bognor!" In fact, a courtier had just rushed up the stairs with news of the latest
odds on the great literary sweepstake. "Bugger Booker!" he grunted, rolled over and
expired. My ambition had been to write the first
piece on the Booker Prize that did not employ the word "hype" and I almost made
it. ********************
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