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.” But otherwise, the invitations to talk about himself, about his influences, and about his work had dried up.They always did, eventually.No one was interested in Clint Lewes anymore.There was nothing else for it but to write another novel.But what did one write a novel about? Though he had written thirty-seven of them, he had no idea how to go about it.Did one begin with a character? His family and friends were all bone-weary of being cast, more or less undisguised, in his romans à clef, and no one else came to mind.Did one begin with a setting? The study of a popular but critically underappreciated—doctor, perhaps? Or did one begin instead with an event, and allow one’s setting and characters to take the shape dictated by the exigencies of plot? He clutched at this proposition hungrily, as if he had discovered one of the eternal laws of literature, and looked around the room for events.But nothing moved.He ran to the window and was disgusted to see only two children digging holes in the lot across the street; he had already written a novel about spelunking.He ransacked his past for memories of things that sometimes happened to human beings, but his life and the lives of everyone he knew seemed uncannily devoid of circumstance.The single most common question he was asked by fans and interviewers was the one about where his ideas came from; and though he was careful to expunge from his answers all trace of amusement, condescension, or boredom, the question had always struck him as rather stupid.Today, however, he would have paid any price to remember what his answers had been.Where did he get his ideas from? Experience? Imagination? Books?He had torn open the dictionary and was contemplating the dramatic possibilities of the word “partridge” when the telephone rang; he had forgotten to unplug it.He lunged for the receiver as though he would devour it.“Hello, yes, Clint Lewes speaking, who is calling please, hello?”It was his agent, Rob Robson.Did Clint happen to know offhand of any out-of-print books that might be reissued? Harbor Mountain were doing a series of Forgotten Classics for their fall list.Clint did not; but he said, “Yes, certainly, lots—when do you need them by?”“Oh, no rush.”Rob Robson was an unusually competent and effective agent, but Clint had no way of knowing that, having never had an incompetent one.Besides, he was constitutionally incapable of believing that everything possible was being done at all times to keep his name in the public mind.Therefore, Rob’s unflappable lack of urgency acted on him like an allergen, throwing his entire body into a state of agitation and near-panic.“Will tomorrow be soon enough?”That was how Clint Lewes came to be writing a scholarly introduction to Gravy Train when, a month later, Rob Robson called him about the Godskriva Prize.After a frantic process of sortilege and cross-reference in the university library’s stacks, he had seized upon Gravy Train as one of the most obscure novels of the century; it was a small step from there to the conclusion that it was one of the most overlooked and underappreciated novels of the century; and from there no step at all to the conviction that he was the man best equipped to rescue it from oblivion and establish it firmly in the canon—while simultaneously establishing Clint Lewes as one of the preeminent literary theorists of his age: the man who had discovered Brownhoffer.His enthusiasm for this project had suffered a blow when, in the course of clearing the copyright, he had discovered that Brownhoffer was not dead, but teaching creative writing at a seedy community college.There was something disreputable and depressing about living neglected authors, perhaps because there were so many of them.Also, being alive, they were liable to say things that you had not foreseen, things that did not conform to your image of them or to your interpretation of their work; they did not belong utterly to you the way dead authors did.Clint had spoken briefly to Brownhoffer on the phone, and had found him at first suspicious and rude, then pompous and magniloquent.So, for the time being, he abandoned the idea of the critical biography and confined himself to a close exegesis of the novel, written in a tone, simultaneously abusive and self-congratulatory, that would hopefully make readers feel simultaneously stupid and grateful.Clint was familiar with the Godskriva Prize as the most prestigious of all the literary awards he had never been nominated for.It was bestowed each year on the best novel published in any human language, and brought with it a sum of cash commensurate with its prestige.This year, according to Rob Robson, the Godskriva Collective had announced, or were about to announce, a new prize, to be awarded once only—for the best novel of all time.Did Clint want to be on the jury?Clint hesitated; wouldn’t his being on the jury disqualify his own novels from being chosen? But he did not hesitate long.The certain prospect of power outweighed the uncertain possibility of recognition, however distinguished.And in some dim recess of his heart, Clint realized that he was not the sort of novelist who won literary prizes.His was an inferior product; that was why he had to spend so much time and effort advertising himself.How he envied men like Brownhoffer!—geniuses who could produce in a vacuum great works of literature that needed no one to publicize or defend them!Which gave him an idea.“Okay.I’ll do it.”“Great.I’ll submit your name to the committee.”“You mean they didn’t ask for me?”“I’m sure they’re just waiting to hear you’re available.”But this was insufficiently definite for Clint, who immediately launched his own personal campaign for selection.He flew to Oslo and hand-delivered copies of his books to the Godskriva directors; he let it be known, through the medium of his book reviews, that he was underoccupied, widely read, and in a reflective, munificent mood; he took everyone he had ever met out for lunch and casually pumped them for information; he sent telegrams to everyone who had ever written a novel and reminded them how fond he was of their work.His efforts paid off.The members of the jury-selection committee, terrified of committing any unpopular or controversial choice, solicited the opinions of a wide array of consultants; these consultants in turn hired their own consultants, and so on, till nearly every person who had ever written, published, or read a novel had been given a chance to nominate someone they believed likely to vote for the novels they had written, published, or read.Clint, by sheer force of his unrelenting ubiquity, was on several people’s lists.His name, with fifty others, was put in a hat; and his, with only eleven others, was pulled out.Two hundred novels, all acknowledged classics, were distributed to the jury in advance.They were asked to submit their ten favorites—as well as up to five novels not on the list—as the foundation for further discussion
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