Novelist as a Vocation(15)

My reluctance stems from another problem, too. Suppose I were to criticize a work under consideration, and someone said to me, “Who are you to be so high and mighty? What about the stuff you have written?” What could I say in reply? I could only agree. I prefer to avoid that situation if at all possible.

Please don’t misunderstand—by no means am I denigrating writers (my comrades in arms) who sit on literary prize juries. There are those who are able to focus on their work single-mindedly, while at the same time objectively critiquing works by new writers. They must have a mental switch of some sort that allows them to play that dual role. I can only extend my deepest respect and gratitude to them. Sadly, however, I cannot join their group. I need time to make decisions, and even then, I often make the wrong ones.



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I have written very little about literary prizes until now. That is because the media tend to play them up irrespective of the quality of the works. Nevertheless, as I said at the outset, that short column about my relationship to the Akutagawa Prize has made me think that the time has come to weigh in on the topic. Otherwise, I fear that a strange misconception might arise that, if left unaddressed, could harden into commonly accepted fact.

It is not as easy as it looks, though, to talk about what that article claims, given its fishy origins and its contentious nature. The more I bare my soul, the less believable—and the more arrogant—I sound. Like a boomerang, my attempt to correct the record could come flying back even faster. When all is said and done, though, I think that honesty is the best policy under the circumstances. For at least some of my readers are sure to believe me.

What I wish to emphasize above all is that a writer’s own individual qualities are their most important possession. A literary prize should indirectly reinforce those qualities and not be considered a form of compensation. Still less should it be taken to sum up who the writer is. If the prize manages to reinforce the writer’s capacity in a positive way, then it is a “good prize”—if it doesn’t, or if it interferes with the writer’s work or becomes a burden, then unfortunately it can no longer be called a “good prize.” Hence Algren threw away his medal and Chandler was prepared to turn down a trip to Stockholm (though I can’t know if he would have followed through on that had he actually won the Nobel).

Literary prizes thus mean vastly different things to different people. Their significance depends on an individual’s standpoint, on the writer’s circumstances and the way he thinks and lives. You can’t lump us all together. That is really all I want to say on the topic of literary prizes. You can’t make sweeping statements about them, one way or another. So you should avoid that, too!

Not that what I have asserted here is likely to change things in any real way.





On Originality





What is originality?

That’s a hard question to answer. When we say that a work of art is “original,” what exactly do we mean? What are its qualifications? These kinds of questions only make us more and more confused when we try to answer them head-on.

The noted neurologist and author Oliver Sacks had this to say about originality, in his essay “Prodigies” from the book An Anthropologist on Mars:

    Creativity, as usually understood, entails not only a “what,” a talent, but a “who”—strong personal characteristics, a strong identity, personal sensibility, a personal style, which flow into the talent, interfuse it, give it personal body and form. Creativity in this sense involves the power to originate, to break away from the existing ways of looking at things, to move freely in the realm of the imagination, to create and recreate worlds fully in one’s mind—while supervising all this with a critical inner eye.[1]



This is a profound definition, precise and to the point. Yet laying it out this way seems to leave something unsaid…I can only fold my arms and wonder.

Perhaps the concept of “originality” can be understood more easily if we set direct definitions and rational theories aside and look instead at concrete examples. I remember, for example, the thrill I felt on first hearing the music of the Beatles—I think it was “Please Please Me” on the radio when I was fifteen. I have never forgotten how I felt at that moment. Why such a strong reaction? Well, I had never heard a sound like that, on top of which it was just so cool. It’s hard to put into words why I found it so wonderful, but it totally blew my mind. I had felt much the same thing a year earlier the first time I heard the Beach Boys sing “Surfin’ U.S.A.” “Wow!” I had thought. “This is amazing, not like anything else I’ve heard!”

Looking back, it was the originality of these groups that enthralled me. Their sound was new, their music different than what anyone else was doing, and its quality was far and away the best. They had something special. Something even a fourteen-or fifteen-year-old kid clutching a dinky AM transistor radio with crummy sound could instantly understand. It was that simple.

Far less simple is articulating that difference. In fact, nothing could be more difficult. There’s no way I could have done it back then, and even now, as a professional wordsmith, it taxes my linguistic abilities. A somewhat technical approach is required—yet too analytical an explanation can’t tell the whole story. It’s faster to listen to the music. Your ears will tell!