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Notts knots
It was good to see expatriate octogenarian Cecil Roberts looking so spry on his recent visit to England. His customary geniality seemed in danger of deserting him however. Ten years ago, when his native Nottingham was planning a new city library, Roberts donated £7,000 towards a manuscript room to house the works of British writers. The library has never been built — one of those facts of life which he has accepted philosophically over the years in the gentle hope that it one day might be.
Recently, events took a more sinister turn. Mr Roberts has now been informed that since the civic authorities have now given way to the great Local Authority, his £7,000 can now be used for whatever purpose the new incumbents may happen to see fit. It seems that the only way for Mr Roberts to ensure that the gift is not earmarked for the edification of Nottingham Public Lavatories is to turn himself into a registered charity.
No cakes, no ale
The sad case of Gabriel Josipovici — the novleist who was awarded the £500 Somerset Maugham prize only to have it taken away again because he was merely a British subject and not British by birth — has already been fully aired. There seems no doubt that everyone acted in good faith: the publishers Gollancz who submitted Josipovici's Mobius the Stripper in the knowledge that previous winners included V. S. Naipaul and George Lamming; the author himself who knew that an earlier novel of his, The Inventory, had been shortlisted for the Somerset Maugham award in 1969; and the Society of Authors, administrators for the prize, who felt unable, after legal advice, to stand by their original choice.
What remains extraordinary in all of this is the time it took the Society to reverse that decision. Mr Josipovici who, by the way, is also an accomplished dramatist and critic has never made any secret of his origins. The cover of his study The World and the Book (first published in 1971) states clearly that -he was born in Nice in 1940 of Russo-Italian and Romano-Levantine parents". The Evening Standard repeated that very phrase in its diary column of 30th May. And yet is was not until 26th June five days before the presentation was due to be made that the Society decided to have second thoughts. Since the prize organisers apparently do not read the Evening Standard and plainly did not read The World and the Book, perhaps I might counsel them to become acquainted with both.
Awful times
While the Somerset Maugham debacle was in full cry, another talented writer arrived in London to receive the Hawthornden award "for a best work of imaginative literature by a writer under 41". He was the New York-based surgeon Dr Oliver Sachs, author of Awakenings. No sooner had he started to unpack his bags than he received a telephone call from an earnest man from the Times. "Are you the author who was awarded a prize and has just had it taken away again?" the reporter asked. Only after repeated assurances from his publishers Duckworth did Dr Sachs feel able to continue unpacking.
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