As I believe I made very clear during the Puppies years, I have neither respect nor desire for awards. They’re subjective and they’re popularity contests among the sort of bureaucratic people who infest every organization. The only sort of awards that interest me are championships and I have no shortage of those from individual high school conference championships to college team championships. I also won three European football promotions, which are the very best form of team championship.
A number of people have suggested that my work in evolutionary biology and population genetics should merit some sort of award, others have said that the Triveritas and solving the Agrippan Trilemma should be considered historic, award-winning work. They may even be correct, but I’m not going to waste any time waiting for critical acclaim for two reasons.
Here is the first: awards are fake and retarded. Star Wars didn’t win Best Movie in 1977. And even worse, Tolkien was passed over by the Nobel prize jury because his storytelling was deemed inferior to that of that literary giant Ivo Andrić, whose stature appears to have been largely manufactured by Yugoslavian communists in the interests of pushing post-war international socialism and whose work has been entirely forgotten, to the extent it was ever known in the first place.
When J.R.R. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings books appeared in the mid-1950s, they were met with very mixed reviews, an unsurprising reception given that nothing like them had been written for adult readers since Edmund Spenser’s epic 16th century English poem The Faerie Queene, perhaps. At least, this was the contention of reviewer Richard Hughes, who went on to write that “for width of imagination,” The Lord of the Rings “almost beggars parallel.”
Scottish writer Naomi Mitchison did find a comparison: to Sir Thomas Malory, author of the 15th century Le Morte d’Arthur — hardly misplaced, given Tolkien’s day job as an Oxford don of English literature, but not the sort of thing that passed for contemporary writing in the 1950s, notwithstanding the serious appreciation of writers like W.H. Auden for Tolkien’s trilogy. “No previous writer,” the poet remarked in a New York Times review, “has, to my knowledge, created an imaginary world and a feigned history in such detail.”
Auden did find fault with Tolkien’s poetry, a fact upon which critic Edmund Wilson seized in his scathing 1956 Lord of the Rings review. “Mr. Auden is apparently quite insensitive — through lack of interest in the other department,” wrote Wilson, “to the fact that Tolkien’s prose is just as bad. Prose and verse are on the same level of professorial amateurishness.” Five years later, the Nobel prize jury would make the same judgement when they excluded Tolkien’s books from consideration. Tolkien’s prose, wrote jury member Anders Österling, “has not in any way measured up to storytelling of the highest quality.”
The note was discovered recently by Swedish journalist Andreas Ekström, who delved into the Nobel archive for 1961 and found that “the jury passed over names including Lawrence Durrell, Robert Frost, Graham Greene, E.M. Forster, and Tolkien to come up with their eventual winner, Yugoslavian writer Ivo Andrić,” as Alison Flood reports at The Guardian.
The second reason is that I’ve noticed how becoming an “award-winner” appears to mark a transformation from being someone whose occupation is doing things to someone whose occupation is being someone who formerly did things. It’s hard to write, it’s hard to work, and it’s even hard to think if your time is taken up with speeches, signings, conferences, and playing the role of a public intellectual. As much as I enjoyed the opportunity to meet and spend time with Umberto Eco, it doesn’t escape my attention that all of his best work preceded his becoming a global public figure.
And he’s hardly alone in this regard. What did any of the New Atheists do after being lionized by TIME Magazine? It might as well have been Tiger Beat. And as for Jordan Peterson, well, his life is a nightmare very nearly as awful as Mr. Peterson’s own self-chronicled nightmares. Won’t you taste my beautiful cousin, grandma…
Even the manufactured mediocrities are enervated by their false acclaim. John Scalzi was never a great science fiction writer and his pastiches in no way merited the recognition and awards they received. But they were nevertheless better than the schlock he can barely summon up the energy to scribble these days.
I recognize that there will be those who very strongly believe that I need have no worries in this regard because my work is fundamentally wrong, materially harmful, and more likely to be censored than rewarded. Which is fine, they’re entitled to their ignorant opinions; the idea that they are even capable of having a substantive opinion on Darwin, Haldane, and Kimura, let alone Agrippa, is more than a little amusing.
But I’d much rather have the time and the freedom to write 20 more books and 50 more papers, and translate hundreds more previously untranslated works, than devote even one weekend per year to going through the tedious rituals of being a public intellectual deemed important by the gatekeepers.
Speaking of which, having finished the translation of all of the waka from Genji Monogatari, I will be publishing them in a separate volume of bilingual poetry. Due to the interest from the Library subscribers, we will make a special leather edition available at some point in the future.
うき世には
I long for a place
that is not this world of sorrow;
my heart turns toward
the mountain path
of those who have renounced it.