September 14–21, 2000

books

Nobel Oblige

Stephen King

by Andrew Ervin

In a matter of weeks, the Swedish Academy will announce the winner of the 2000 Nobel Prize in Literature. The Nobel is arguably the most prestigious literary prize in the world, its reputation due not just to the artistic pedigree but also to the enormous prize purse that accompanies it. There isn’t a writer alive who couldn’t use another 7.9 million kronors. That’s a stanza shy of a cool million dollars.

The first Nobel Prize in Literature was awarded in 1901 to one Sully Prudhomme. Since then, the Academy has chosen many deserving authors such as Thomas Mann (’29), Halldór Laxness (’55), Samuel Beckett (’69), and Joseph Brodsky (’87). However, one must question the judgment of any committee that can give Derek Walcott or Toni Morrison a million bucks (1992 and ’93 respectively) yet allow James Joyce, Jorge Luis Borges and William Gaddis to die in near-obscurity.

The process of choosing the winner is shrouded in secrecy and hearsay. It’s known that previous laureates can nominate writers for consideration, as may professors of history or literature and the leaders of certain national authors’ organizations. Otherwise, it’s a quasi-artistic/political process more convoluted than trying to secure a site for a downtown ballpark.

As with the Peace Prize, international relations can play a huge role in determining the winner. Winston Churchill won it in 1953 more for ridding the world of Hitler than for the artistic merits of his memoirs. And Nadine Gordimer brought the prize home to South Africa in ’91 as if to hammer the final nail in apartheid’s coffin. While Kenzaburo Oe is one of the more deserving winners in the prize’s history, it’s no coincidence that the Academy chose a Japanese author on the 50th anniversary of the Nagasaki and Hiroshima bombings.

The literary world is currently abuzz attempting to guess the next winner. The annual short list is a source of tremendous mystery and speculation, kind of like the sustained popularity of Tom Robbins. Here, we’re pleased to present four outstanding authors the Academy should seriously consider this time around.

Thomas Pynchon (American, b. 1937)

With V., Gravity’s Rainbow and even Vineland, Pynchon’s novels are among the most brilliant we’re likely to see in a long time. You should read them all. Before you finish, you’ll be making plans to start at the beginning again. There’s no better way to improve your vocabulary than by sitting down for a few days with a copy of Mason & Dixon, an unabridged dictionary and plenty of coffee. Pynchon’s agent should fax the "Byron the Bulb" excursus from Gravity’s Rainbow to Stockholm immediately. That passage alone qualifies him for the award.

Miklós Mészöly (Hungarian, b. 1921)

Mészöly is a risky choice because he might already be dead and, therefore, ineligible. No one seems to know if he’s still alive — not the clerk at the Budapest branch of the Central European University nor the friendly customer service folks at Amazon.com. The dust jacket of the most recent available edition of his works still uses the present tense, so let’s just assume he’s still alive, okay? Beyond his tremendous literary merits, Mészöly is an obvious political choice. Hungary is right now celebrating both the 1,000th anniversary of the founding of their homeland and the tenth anniversary of the collapse of Communism. Think of it. Our man Mészöly has survived the unspeakable terrors of the Nazi occupation, the harassment of Stalin-era censors and now the indignity of a decade of Western-style capitalism.

Alice Munro (Canadian, b. 1931)

If there’s such a thing as a perfect story, you can find it in Munro’s oeuvre. Since the publication of the collection Dance of the Happy Shades in 1968, she has composed one brilliant, taut short story after another, most set in rural Canada. Her writing style is simplicity itself. One story begins, "The solution to my life occurred to me one evening while I was ironing a shirt." And you believe her. Munro has the uncanny ability to take a personal anecdote and make it universally applicable. To read Munro is to learn about yourself.

Stephen King (American, b. 1947)

Yes, that Stephen King. Because of his immense popularity, King has earned the ire of literary elitists the world over. While popularity doesn’t necessarily equal greatness (see Crichton, Michael), one of the many wonders of democracy is that every once in a while, the masses get it right. King’s genius can be found in many places, particularly in his ability to take the metaphorical and make it literal. It’s a literary device that, in our time, only Franz Kafka and Dr. Seuss managed to pull off so well. In the short story "The Man Who Would Not Shake Hands," there’s an inscription carved in stone and aglow above a fireplace: "It is the tale, not he who tells it." Just this once, the Academy should bestow the award upon someone people actually read.