In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

74 / H. Allen Smith H. Allen Smith (1907–1976), journalist and humorist, wrote books that were popu­ lar during the 1940s and 1950s and contributed many articles to a wide range of literary and popu­ lar venues, from Esquire and the Saturday Evening Post to Playboy and Reader’s Digest. Source: H. Allen Smith, Low Man on a Totem Pole (Garden City, NY: Double­ day, Doran, 1941), 39–41. On the day that ­ Sinclair Lewis was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature his publishers telephoned that he was driving in from Connecticut with his wife, a Miss Thompson, and that Mr. Lewis would sit for an interview within the hour. I started out of the World building and was walking toward the subway entrance , when Bowen2 of the I[nternational] N[ews] S[ervice] swished past me. Twenty minutes later I found him in the small crowd at the publishing house. There was a hard glint in his eye. ­ Sinclair Lewis came in and sat at a desk. The ladies and gentlemen of the press faced him, sitting in folding chairs brought in from a nearby funeral parlor. As the first Ameri­ can to win the Nobel award took his seat Bowen of the I.N.S. seized one of the folding chairs, marched up to the desk, placed it alongside Lewis, stuck his face into the novelist’s face and announced firmly: “I’m Bowen of the I.N.S. Congratulations.” Lewis looked at him, then at the rest of us, shrugged his lean shoulders and grinned. Whereupon Bowen of the I.N.S. sat down, back turned to the other reporters , and sprawled himself out on the desk so that he could gaze directly, at a distance of two feet, into the features of ­ Sinclair Lewis. Alarm came into the eyes of Lewis. He stared at Bowen of the I.N.S. for a long time, then slowly stood up. “Perhaps,” he said to Bowen, “perhaps you would like to sit in my chair.” “Ha!” cried Bowen of the I.N.S. “That’s a good one! No, I’ll stay right where I am. How does it feel?” “How does what feel?” asked Lewis, slipping back into his chair. 198 / Sinclair Lewis Remembered “To win this prize,” said Bowen of the I.N.S. “Well,” said Lewis, trying to make the best of an uncomfortable situation, knowing the rest of us were sitting there watching the little drama, realizing that he had to handle himself carefully or run the risk of making an ass of himself. “Well . . .” Bowen of the I.N.S. didn’t wait for an answer. “Listen,” he said, leaning even closer to Lewis. “What’re you gonna expose next?” Lewis glanced appealingly over the room. “What do you mean, what am I gonna expose next?” “I mean,” persisted Bowen of the I.N.S. “what’re you gonna expose next?” “What have I exposed already?” challenged Lewis. “Babbitt,” snapped Bowen of the I.N.S. “You exposed Babbitt and all the others , and now I wanna know what’s next on the list.” Lewis was patently irritated. “Young man,” he said, “I’m not, as you have it, gonna expose nothin’ next. I’m not in the exposin’ business. I’m—” “Oh yes, you are,” cried Bowen of the I.N.S. “I want a yarn out of this about what’s next. Now, come on. What’ll it be next?” “God damn it,” said Lewis, “I told you I’m not in the business of exposing things. I’m a novelist. I write novels. I don’t go around—” “Ah-­ h-­ h-­ h!”saidBowenoftheI.N.S.and,turningtofacetherestofus,grinned knowingly and winked, letting us know he was in control of this situation. Then he turned back to the furious winner of the Nobel Prize. “Let’s have it,” he insisted . “What’re you gonna expose next?” ­ Sinclair Lewis sat and looked at Bowen of the I.N.S. for a long time. Then he got up from his chair, walked around the desk and faced the rest of us. Someone —I think it was Louis Sherwin3 —went up to Bowen of the I.N.S. and whispered in his ear. What he whispered I don’t know, but Bowen of the I.N.S. abandoned his quest for an answer to that question, and the rest of us took over. It was pretty dull, too, after Bowen dropped out. ...

Share