The World Is My Home: A Memoir

by James A. Michener

  Like thousands of others that year, I chuckled over his salty advice, and just when, two thirds of the way through the masterpiece I said to myself: ‘Well, he can’t work this vein any longer,’ he launched into a high-level philosophical discussion as to whether you should cut into the door of your finished outhouse a star or a crescent moon, and his justifications for first one, then the other were humor of the most uproarious kind. The book was a tremendous success.

  Did The Specialist in any way affect or diminish the chances of serious writers working at the same time? Hemingway was first publishing his stories then, Edith Wharton and Susan Glaspell were at the apex of their careers, and Scott Fitzgerald and Theodore Dreiser were working away. I doubt they gave even a passing thought to the fact that Chic Sale was outselling all of them, just as today I doubt that Saul Bellow or Joyce Carol Oates bewails the fact that the latest steamy novel of sex and mayhem outsells their more serious work.§ Books like The Specialist are irrelevant and we must expect that many times in each century some book of no value will sweep the nation, with no deleterious consequences. Such books do not even detract from the sale of good books, because the two markets are not the same; they do not seem to help other writers but they do help bookstores, and thus indirectly help writers.

  But wait! I must not say anything that might be considered as denigrating Chic Sale because he achieved something I never will. The latest edition of the Random House Dictionary contains this entry:

  Chic Sale, Facetious. an outside privy. [from the pen name of Charles Partlow (1885–1936), American actor and author of The Specialist (1929), a humorous treatise on outhouse construction]

  He entered the English language as a proper noun while his peers Edith Wharton and Theodore Dreiser did not.

  Far more serious than competition from bad or worthless books is the changing structure of American publishing, in which conglomerates with no history of interest in books and certainly no experience in the patient cultivation of young authors, sweep in, gobble up a publishing company with historic antecedents and change the pattern of publishing completely. The new owners, concerned only with the bottom line of financial success, mess around with their toy for a while, force old ownership to make all kinds of wrong moves, and far too often find that the 8 percent they can earn on capital investment in publishing is distressingly lower than the 35 percent they can make on some other arm of their diversified business. In disappointment and sometimes disgust they scour the marketplace to unload what they now recognize to have been a bad gamble. The original fine house, much weakened, staggers into the network of some other corporate owner no better qualified to direct a publishing firm than the first.

  I had two chilling experiences with this denigration of a once noble profession. When Bennett Cerf and his longtime partner, Donald Klopfer, two gentleman publishers of fine character, felt for inheritance reasons they must take Random House public by selling to a corporation, I demurred about being handled in the future by a conglomerate with no interest in books. ‘What happens to me,’ I asked, ‘if the wife of the president doesn’t like my next manuscript?’ and Bennett said reassuringly: ‘No need to worry, she likes your books.’ Years later, when Random was dumped by that same conglomerate and was being peddled around the country like a used carpet, a buyer was rumored to have been found at last, one abysmally unqualified to direct a publishing house, and I geared up to start a movement among my fellow writers to leave Random House if the sale went through, and it became obvious to the would-be buyer that a publishing house without its writers was not going to be attractive. When a new group of young men, the Newhouse brothers, with a family history of being interested in magazines and books, stepped in to buy, I and others breathed easy again.

  An inescapable consequence of such sale and resale of the great American houses is that less emphasis is being placed on books and more on profits. This is fine for writers like me with proven track records; if we wished to forget all past principles we could toss our services into grandiose bidding wars and earn even more than we do today, to the destruction of everyone, especially ourselves. From that day I rode up Fifth Avenue to find a home for my second book I have never spoken to another publisher, nor would I so long as my fellowship with Random House remained congenial. It would be unthinkable,‖ and I have never envied other authors who have skipped from one publisher to another, for I have not seen that it profited them much. I’m told they sometimes get a big initial advance for switching, but in subsequent years their careers have not advanced; more often they have deteriorated because of the jumping around.

  If well-established writers profit from the big sums being pumped into publishing by the new corporate owners, who loses? Everyone else, I fear, but especially the beginning writers on whom the hardboiled new managers cannot afford to waste their time. Most of the houses today cannot even bother to read unsolicited manuscripts—and my Pulitzer Prize–winning first novel was so submitted under a nom de plume—because they spend their time trying to lure some established writer who is deemed about ready to break into ‘the big time.’ It is easier and cheaper to buy a writer than to develop one. I often wonder what such houses and editors are thinking about, because each year established writers like Toni Morrison are a year older and Saul Bellow gets longer in the tooth. They can’t be around forever. If our new system is not geared to help young writers through the painful and nonproductive developing years, from what other source can the new Norman Mailers and Gore Vidals come?

  Friends warned me that my indifference to business details might one day lead to trouble, and they were right; disaster did strike and it was largely my fault. A group of men with whom I had the closest association in a television project conceived the idea of putting together some scripts we had been working on, unsuccessfully as it turned out, and publishing them as a book. They asked permission to refer to my name, since I had been associated with the filming, and I consented, for the films had been narrated but not written by me.

  Grabbing this approval and leaping into action, they put together a mishmash of stuff, not one word written by me except for excerpts from some things I had published long ago for which they had acquire permission from the publisher. With the aid of skilled editors they produced a manuscript that read as if I had written it. Then, to make it even more inviting, they composed a foreword with which I had nothing to do and, by a ruse, obtained a signature of mine, which they reproduced in facsimile and attached to the spurious foreword. They issued the book to a public that had been deceived at every point, dressing it in a gaudy cover to make it more inviting. I overheard them boasting: ‘The agent says anything by Michener is bound to be a best-seller. Our royalties will be in boxcar numbers, real boxcars.’

  When I first caught sight of the book, James A. Michener’s U.S.A., I was aghast. It was fake from start to finish, a complete deception and in parts a forgery, a triumph of editorial legerdemain and the most cynical merchandising, but I was powerless to halt it without going to court and creating a public scandal. That I refused to do, for I had been taught to avoid the courts, but I was delighted when the book proved to be a disaster. I was even more pleased to learn that the huge edition that had been printed in expectation of an easy kill had remained largely unsold.

  In the years that followed I have often heard of the ingenious tricks used by the publisher to unload his thousands of unsold copies, and though I have been disgusted by the devices and have tried fruitlessly to stop them, I have been amazed at their inventiveness. About once a month some reader asks me to autograph this disgraceful job and I usually refuse, but if the person says: ‘I have all your other books and wanted to have everything you’ve written,’ I sign it ‘Not by James A. Michener’ and then explain the fraud. One woman spoke for all when she said: ‘Well, that does make it a collector’s item,’ and this happens just often enough to keep me mindful of my shame.

  I have had only one redeeming moment in connection with this episode. One afte
rnoon while autographing books at a bookstore in Washington, an interesting-looking man in his late forties appeared in line with no book to sign, but he did carry a handsome wood-and-leather box about the size of a book. When he reached the desk where I sat he said: ‘I have something special to show you, Mr. Michener. My company provides expensive gifts for big corporations to purchase as Christmas presents for their best customers to whom it would be undignified to give a turkey. I’ve bought up a lot of your books and had these beautiful cases made. Of course, the box costs many times what we have to pay for the book, but when they’re put together, they make an impressive gift, don’t you think?’

  They did, and when I handed the sample back I said: ‘It’s more appropriate than you might think. In a sense you’re still giving them a turkey.’ Later, the proprietor of the bookstore explained, in answer to my questions: ‘There’s a dozen ways of getting rid of unsold books that look fairly good in their colored jackets. That boxing business was one of the best.’

  ‘How much does the publisher get per copy in a deal like that?’

  ‘Worst case I ever heard of was nineteen cents a copy. A good-looking book like yours could fetch as much as eighty-nine.’ Cocking his head, he asked: ‘Why are you still smiling?’ and I replied: ‘Because I feel wonderful.’

  I realize that much of what I’ve been saying in the preceding pages must seem like crocodile tears: ‘He accepts the royalties, laments their inequity, but does nothing to correct the situation.’ I have often heard this charge and must now rebut it, my behavior in the case of our art collections being typical.

  When it became apparent that I was going to receive substantial sums from my writing, my wife and I reached the decision: Since we earn our income from the arts, each April, after we’ve paid our taxes, we will plow whatever is left back into the arts. Choosing first the exotic and relatively little-known field of Japanese prints, I studied that subject, made myself a fourth-rate expert, consulted with the great scholars and museum curators and published five books on it. Only when I felt I knew a little something did we begin to collect some six thousand of the finest prints in the low-priced days before the rest of the world began to prize them. Never intending to keep such treasures to ourselves, we placed them on permanent loan with the Academy of Art in Honolulu, where the public could enjoy them.

  Aware that we could never collect real Titians and Rembrandts, we decided to focus on American paintings done during my lifetime, from 1907 on. Starting methodically, as before, I carefully analyzed some sixty scholarly works on the subject, after which I understood American painting in this century about as well as an amateur could. Specifically I knew which painters the experts considered the worthy masters but also, more important, which appealed to me personally. Aided by my wife, who has an affinity for the most advanced artists of the modern schools, we quietly spent our yearly royalties until we had some four hundred major canvases, not the ultraexpensive ones like those of Jackson Pollock and Willem de Kooning, but fine works by most of their distinguished contemporaries. Again, since we had not assembled these paintings for ourselves alone, we placed them on extended loan at the University of Texas in Austin, where art students could use them.

  What happened next astounded us. Because we had striven always to acquire the best, we were vaguely aware that we had some rather fine works, but for many years we paid little attention to market prices. But in the mid-1980s we began to hear of explosions in the market. The essays I had written about Japanese prints had helped spur such a tremendous interest in them that single prints for which we had paid perhaps five hundred dollars were now selling to Japanese businessmen, who were coming late into the market in an effort to recover national treasures, for two hundred thousand, while a complete set of some famous series by either Hokusai or Hiroshige might go for a million. Less spectacular but equally amazing, the worth of our American paintings had also escalated wildly while we were not looking, so that what we had accumulated as an intellectual and artistic exercise had been transmuted into a small fortune. And that posed a problem, for we had certainly never collected art in order to make a profit, nor, with my attitude toward money, could we accept a reward we had not earned.

  After a brief review of the alternatives we decided that the only responsible course was to give the art to the public, which had in a sense paid for it through the purchase of my books. The Japanese prints would go to Hawaii, about which I had written a book, the American art to Texas, the subject of another book.

  I have no excessive hang-ups about the money I’ve earned, no sense of guilt. I earn every dollar I receive, refuse to do any writing for free, and advise all young writers who consult with me: ‘Safeguard your financial safety.’ I do not mean ‘Write for money,’ an attempt that is usually self-defeating, but I do mean that the would-be writer must be self-protective, and many will recall my asking them: ‘Now, what are you going to do about money? Will your parents assist if things go poorly the first years? Will your wife (or husband) be willing to take a job?’ Life taught me the preeminence of survival, and I am eternally grateful that good fortune enabled me to escape the misery of George Gissing’s doomed characters.

  But I do also have that strong liberal conscience that makes me morally ill at ease with recent national policies that shower rich men with tax advantages while depriving the poor of necessities. I know that I am not entitled to windfalls that reach me in this immoral way and feel that I must dispose of them lest they contaminate me. Driven by this curious mix of pragmatism and idealism, I consulted the two saints whose precepts guided my life: Paul, who preached, ‘Keep it pure. Keep it clean,’ and James, who argued: ‘It isn’t what you say, it’s what you do.’ Obedient to their counsel, I made the following decisions, supported always by my wife, who shared my attitudes:

  Because young American writers encounter new difficulties these days in launching their careers, we have given all the royalties from seven of my novels to the graduate writing schools of three different universities to provide fellowships for would-be writers.

  Because American poets have a difficult time getting a hearing, we gave the royalties from another book to programs that would help them get published here and in Europe.

  Because we would not want to take royalties out of a foreign country in which we had worked extensively, we gave all the royalties from books published in Canada and Poland to programs in those nations for the support of young writers.

  Because we want to encourage bright young people to enter publishing, we gave the royalties of another book for graduate internships at a university press where the recipients concentrate on the various skills required in bookmaking.

  Because we are mindful of the contributions made by our colleagues at the localities related to our books, we have funded scholarships for the children of war correspondents and space experts.

  And because we hear constantly of older writers who have fallen on difficult times, we have allocated the royalties from another book to a society whose generous members care personally for such writers.

  Thus we share our royalties with young writers to help them get started and with older ones to help them end their lives with dignity.

  Some years ago when President Reagan and his wife wanted to honor citizens who had given private support to the arts and letters in America, their inquiries led to me. I knew nothing of how I was chosen, but when the group gathered in the White House—corporate givers mostly—the president’s staff revealed that their research showed that my wife and I had given to various projects relating to writing a total of eight million dollars. Since then we have divested ourselves of our art windfalls, and that sum has grown considerably. It must be obvious that when I die the legally required half of what’s left will go to my wife and the balance to colleges and universities. Of course, when she dies, her share will be distributed in comparable fashion, but which institutions will benefit she will not tell me.

  By what seems a series of fortunat
e accidents I shall have earned a deal of money from writing and will have given it all away. With my background I could not have done otherwise.

  * * *

  * When a friend sought a blurb for his novel, I wanted to contribute a touch of class and wrote: ‘This fine novel explains what transpires on a hot Saturday afternoon.’ His editor replied: ‘I fear you do not know the meaning of that word,’ and when I checked, I didn’t. Transpire and perspire are cousins. On that hot Saturday a man who sweated through his pores perspired. If the moisture seeped through his skin he transpired, hence the second meaning to leak out later: ‘In the next week it transpired that she had stolen the $5,000.’ However, a big new dictionary that came out shortly thereafter listed this third erroneous meaning “to occur, to happen” with the note: ‘As used by J.A. Michener’ and when the next big dictionary appeared, my usage was listed in first place, but with a long note to the effect that purists still avoided it. Since I am the patron saint of the new definition, I try to flaunt the word at least once in each of my books.

  † In this way Random House, without having spent a dime for a phone call or a dollar for lunch, acquired me as one of its writers. One day, before his retirement, the longtime president, Bob Bernstein, stopped me and said: ‘I just heard how you got here, Michener. I figure we owe you that first bus fare,’ and he handed me a nickel, conveniently forgetting that from the lower end of Fifth Avenue I would have used the more elegant bus line reserved for that flashy boulevard, for which the fare was ten cents.

  ‡ Thus within a brief time after publishing some stories and a book, I was approached by two major agents—one a charlatan, the other a genius—and two major magazines. This experience was not unique. Many beginning writers are approached by New York scouts, always on the prowl seeking promising young talent. In Matthew Brucolli’s instructive Conversations with Writers, both William Price Fox and Wallace Makefield, distinguished teachers of writing, relate stories much like mine, of having published something and then being invited to write a great deal more. That is the goal for which a young, would-be writer is entitled to shoot.