me, confused and nervous and thus inarticulate and unintelligible too.” “Okay, that ought to do it,” she says. “Thanks, Bob,” and the TV lights go out, and another reporter, holding a pen and pad, says “What will you do now that you’ve won, Mr. Bermmeister?” and he says “Do? Finish my dinner tonight, but I know you mean something different. But I hardly started it, and I mentioned my hunger, so if my plate’s still there, and probably — no, no doubt — call my kids and my mother and wife’s folks to tell them I’ve won. I told them I’d call, but only if I won, so I also told them not to expect to hear from me. And I don’t know, I guess there’ll be some celebrations somewhere, at least where I teach, and oh yeah, and this is probably the most important thing — in ways, the only important thing in what I’ll do with the award…I wish, I’m not a publicity seeker but I wish the cameras were still on for this but that’s okay, do what you want,” and waits a few seconds for the woman TV interviewer to react but her back’s still turned to him while she talks to another woman and the cameras and lighting equipment are being torn down…“Anyway, if it’s possible, to use my win as a platform — I don’t know if that’s the way to say it — but for the novelist, the Indian living in England, on the lam, really, lying low, constantly guarded by English cops…oh, God, I suddenly forgot his name but it’ll come, but the one the Iranian government and Islamic fundamentalists there…the mullahs…all, really, together, for you know, one doesn’t operate without the other in that country, and both groups, religious and political…well, they’re interchangeable and the same, aren’t they? and both feverishly behind it…the ransom for his assassination, calling on every Moslem in the world, or at least of their sect — I mean, is that supposed to be religious? — and then not rescinding the call even after the guy—” and the reporter says “You mean, to use your platform to speak out against this threat,” and he says “Yes yes yes, but not a platform, but what’s his name? I feel lousy I can’t come up with it. I mean, he’s a first-rate writer, tremendous, one of the world’s best, maybe not with that book, but that’s not my point — but that also, my memory lapse with his name probably has to do with the excitement tonight and my hunger and tiredness — oh, I’m not making myself clear,” and the reporter says “Don’t worry about that. And about this writer, there already are, if I’m not mistaken, many well-known writers and writing organizations — the Authors League, for one — doing something along these lines. Though one more voice, and surely someone of your stature now, won’t hurt the cause. But my question was somewhat more mundane than that. Will your publisher, because of your new stature, be sending you on the road with your book now that it’s won? Any special appearances — TV, for instance — and do you think this attention will change you from the relatively unknown but hard-working, demanding craftsman you’ve been to someone whose new-found celebrity will stop him from getting to his work as much as he wants?” and he says “No question it won’t. And my publisher’s just a small guy so I doubt — small in the sense his house is; his publishing house; he’s actually about six-four or — five — I doubt they have anything expensive planned for me like a book tour. But ask the editor there, Miss Lassner,” and points to her and she says “We’ve lots of plans, lots. Rob has a great smile and disposition and has promised to be generous with his time for a short while, so it’s a whole new ballgame now, I say happily,” and another reporter says “Bob, you really don’t use a word processor? For up on the stage before you said — the sound wasn’t too good so I didn’t catch it all — but about a manual typewriter,” and he says “Manual, sure; tried and true. I like the keyboard action of it, what can I say? I’m like a pianist on my machine, banging out my anger and frustrations and such, not that that’s what a pianist does — it’s different, of course, and some of what I bang out’s even positive. But it’s what I learned on, though self-taught learned, and the word processor — three fingers, I mean, my typing, and if my left thumb’s especially dexterous that day — or maybe it’s the right,” and he types in the air with both hands, “the left, then that thumb on the space bar. But the word processor — well you know, those things are complicated and cold, which’d take weeks out of my work to learn how to use — months, forever. And with their justified margins and perfect print, well, looking so good on the screen it makes you feel your work’s maybe that good too, so, illusions, things done before they’re done, besides your eyes. But if I was starting out today, say — a kid just out of college, a newsperson like you, but your age and my sex, with nothing at the paper or radio or TV station but processors to work on, or even a semi-whiz at computers or electronics, so with some feel of what runs those things, well then of course…anyway, manuals are what I do and am used to, and they’re also light and one piece, not three separate sections to sling over your shoulders when you travel and weigh you down, and I can even clean the keys myself, use the vacuum cleaner to suck up the dust out of the chassis, and so on,” and other questions—“Why the title Scorch?” and he says “Because I didn’t want to call it Bernard — the main character’s given name,” when the reporter looks confused, and the reporter says “What do you mean?” and he says “I would’ve said ‘Christian’ but he’s not. Just kidding, I know what you asked, but you know, scorch, what the word reverberates — did I say ‘reverberates’? ‘Resonates’ is what I meant — that everything in the book or just about goes up, is hot. Not sent up but that too in a way…it’s supposed to be a fiery book, a dry, sizzling, burning, fast, even an excoriating book, but I’m also not very adept at explaining about myself or my work, just as I’m probably not at anything — explaining, I’m saying”—all of which are innocuous and slight and he feels he answers insufficiently and insipidly if sometimes stupidly because of his tries at humor or plain speech or eloquence with fancy words, and then the reporters thank him — not one thing did I answer right, he thinks, not one except maybe the title thing…no, nothing, which will make people think who see or read the interview or hear it on radio “This fop wrote that book? Not one I’m going to borrow or buy.” A couple of them wish him good luck, and one says “Hope you make a killing,” another, when the others are no longer near, says “Off the record, Bob, with your family and job and all the other chores every responsible adult has to do, how have you been able to write so much? I’m a novelist too, albeit not as successful,” and he says “I just hack away at it but not like a hack, chip by chip if I have to, ten to fifteen minutes at a time lots of times plus a coupla weekend hours when my wife and I spell each other, and you can print that if you want,” and the reporter says “No, that was just for me, thanks,” and he returns to the table with the editor, apologizing for bringing her into it when he could see she didn’t want to and for giving such a sappy interview, and she says “What are you saying? Any publicity is good publicity so long as you don’t cuss out America too sharply or say you’ve a liking for little boys or girls. And yours was fine — your great smile, your words, one could see the serious writer’s mind working — we must have sold another thousand copies from it,” and he says “You can’t mean that; I was a grade-A schmuck,” and she says “Cross my heart and hope you get a