Harold Bloom is still fuming
over the National Book Foundation’s decision to bestow an award on horrormeister Stephen King
for his “distinguished contribution” to letters. By that measure, Bloom harrumphs, J.K. Rowling
ought to get the Nobel Prize. As far as he’s concerned, “there are four living American novelists”
— and only four — “who are still at work and who deserve our praise.”
The lucky fellows are Thomas Pynchon, Philip Roth, Cormac McCarthy and Don DeLillo. (I
suppose Saul Bellow isn’t working any more, not that I’m such a fan.) To dispute the
distinguised professor would be foolish, given his academic credentials and his way with
women. But if DeLillo makes his list, I have to wonder whether Bloom’s
judgment hasn’t cracked in his old age. And let’s face it, if you want to intimidate someone, just
say “Gravity’s Rainbow.” That is the Pynchon novel. Has anybody besides Bloom
finished it?
Meantime, isn’t he taking the National Book Foundation more seriously
than it deserves? Nelson Algren, who won the first National Book Award for “The Man With the
Golden Arm,” once told me he tried to hock the medal it came with and couldn’t get
five bucks for it.
