Bury My Heart At W. H. Smith’s. Brian Aldiss

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      Along came the reporter from the Local Paper. He proved to be as embarrassed as I was. He took a few notes, brushing back a lock of hair from his forehead as he did so. It immediately fell back again. Later, I had a few drinks with him. He was a poet. His name was Adrian Mitchell. His first novel, If You See Me Comin’, was published while he was working on the Oxford Mail.

      Parker’s, meanwhile, ordered two hundred and fifty copies of Brightfount. A poster was produced with a photograph of me in the shop. A whole window was filled with my pink-jacketed book. Over in Blackwell’s, they became pretty suspicious of me.

      Then the reviews began to come in. Suppose the reviewers did not find the book amusing, I thought to myself. Well, if they don’t enjoy the thing, I never have to write another. It was a weasel thought. I would like to think I never thought it.

      Fortunately, the reviewers took a lenient view.

      Years like 1955 are few and far between. There were the Observer short story prize for ‘Not For an Age’, early short stories published, Brightfount a success, and my first child, Clive, born. A thrilling hope filled me. Perhaps I might redeem the wasted years and prove myself of some worth. It was never making money which interested me, but making good.

      After Brightfount, Faber went on to publish my science fiction. I was fortunate to be with the one publisher in London at that time where people liked and understood science fiction. Sir Geoffrey Faber and his daughter Ann and fellow-director Charles Monteith all read it. Charles had just had his great success in discovering William Golding and Lord of the Flies, a novel he rescued from the slush pile. Both Charles and Golding were SF readers. Charles, who became my editor, was ever generous, hospitable and amusing. He had fought in Burma, and was wounded in the Arakan, generally reckoned to be the nastiest sector of the Burma theatre.

      Faber parties were rather alarming. The company was then housed at 24 Russell Square, on a corner. With what awe one approached the building. The Faber list was a comprehensive one, beginning with literature and moving through Hugh Ross Williamson and David Stacton to science fiction, nursing and gardening. Those guests who wisely feared to join the incense-burners grouped round John Lehmann – such men as Cyril Connolly, W. H. Auden, Professor Trypannis, and other sweet singers – could easily find themselves entangled in discussions concerning mastectomy and hydrangeas. Daniel George, a celebrated littérateur of his day, was kind and amusing, treating the event like a day at the races, naming, with annotations, each celebrity as he or she entered. ‘There goes Colin Wilson. You can tell he slept on Hampstead Heath last night. And that’s Alfred Duggan, who never sleeps …’

      One could be spoken to by T. S. Eliot at Faber parties. He had his office near Charles’s. I was taken to meet him in his room containing the famous pencil portraits by Wyndham Lewis of Eliot and Pound. Eliot had the look of a rather shabby eagle. He was polite and talked of the paperclip over-population problem. This was Eliot being the publisher; he was not in his poet persona.

      It was pleasant to be treated as a writer, but there remained the nagging question, Was one actually a writer? Only when four or five books had accumulated on the shelf did it seem that something stood between me and mortality. Many more years had to pass before I woke one morning and realised that I was – inextricably, irremediably, incurably – a Writer. And no one could take that away from me; I had that greatest of securities, a life’s work, and could afford to play other than safe in various ways.

      There is the brute necessity of earning a living. Some writers, highly praised, gain little financial reward. The great James Joyce industry came too late to aid the living Joyce – penury in Zurich and all that. Some writers, highly praised, enjoy massive financial reward: Anthony Burgess, I’m happy to see, is classed as a millionaire. Yet there are writers who receive no critical laurels – the sort who are never reviewed in the TLS or the literary weeklies – but are several times richer than Burgess. Some writers who gather no critical praise reap no financial reward either. And there are authors like Graham Greene who seem to have everything.

      LESSON ONE: Financial reward is no criterion of an author’s merit.

      LESSON TWO: Financial failure is no criterion of an author’s merit.

      In the past, I have felt pressure on me to write a book a year. That is, a novel, a collection of short stories, or a nonfiction book. This year, 1989, I happen to be writing three books, though not all may pass the winning post of completion.

      Behind me lies a year where I wrote nothing fruitful, unless a thousand letters are fruitful, which I doubt.

      As to why I wrote nothing. Over the seven previous years, I wrote the three long Helliconia novels, a total of almost half a million words. Into those novels, I tried to pour all that I knew, of writing and of the world. My endeavour was to encompass all my experience. After that, the ground had to lie fallow.