Irving Wallace and the Good Book

Auberon Waugh

The Word Irving Wallace (Cassell £2.50) Close-Up Len Deighton (Cape £1.95)

The Word of Mr Wallace's title is, of course, the second Person of the Holy Trinity. This is his "most explosive, controversial and breathtaking novel to date" — I quote from the publisher's blurb. It is also a book which everybody expects — probably quite rightly — to sell over a hundred thousand copies, at any rate in paperbacks. Religion, sex, violence, an anti-establishment attitude — how can it fail?

Of course nobody should blame Cassell for trying to recoup some of the punitive libel damages awarded against them in the David Irving case. Similarly, I think reviewers -especially those who try to supplement their meagre earnings by writing the occasional novel — should be on their guard against feelings of bitterness or envy when they are reviewing such eminently successful novelists as Mr Irving Wallace. A writer's first duty is to be read. If a novelist consciously chooses to be read only by persons of high intelligence and cultivation, that is a self-indulgence comparable to the impoverished dressmaker who will only make dresses for beautiful women. The rest of us should read Mr Wallace attentively and in a spirit of humility, seeing what useful tips we can pick up. But when all this has been said, and all the proper noises have been made, I should also advise anybody who seriously contemplates reading this 575-page epic to keep a basin close at hand.

One can forgive almost anything in a novel which is mainly designed to capture the mass market except an absence of cynicism. Conceivably, of course, Mr Wallace is totally cynical, laughing up his sleeve like Woody the Woodpecker as he trots out his stunning conclusion, which will have housewives up and down the country crying in their sleep and bring a lump to the throats of hardened British servicemen stationed miles from home: Enjoying the melting snow on his face, he mouthed the answer to himself: Truth is love.

But it reads with the most appalling sincerity: "Hello, Angela" he called to her, "I love you, you know."

She came running, plowing (sic) through, the ;now, toward (sic) him. " Darling " she called back, "my darling!" And then she came into his arms at last and he knew, he knew that he would never let her go.

After the success of Love Story, what else could one expect? Here, then, is Mr Wallace's story: a public relations man, Steve Randall, is tempted to accept the account of Cosmos Enterprises, a vast capitalist concern (representing for our modern mass readership, the forces of evil) on condition he does not accept the account of the Raken Institute. The Raken Institute is dedicated to exposing the "unspoken, un written conspiracy by America's. big business . . . against the public at large and the common good" In other words, it represents sweetness, youth, idealism, truth, love — a sort of American Private Eye.

Before Steve can make this agonising choice, he is asked to accept the account of a firm which claims to have found a new, earlier Gospel — the Gospel of St James. This Gospel proves (1) that the Jews were not responsible for the crucifixion and (2) that Christ was resuscitated, rather than resurrected, after being taken down from the cross. Its message is so explosive, controversial, breathtaking etc that Steve has to take a leisurely shower and change into his Italian silk bathrobe before reading it, when, as he expected, "justice, goodness, love, unity and finally eternal hope would enter a materialistic, unjust, cynical machine world spinning closer and closer toward (sic) Armageddon."

So Steve sits down to read the sayings of Jesus according to St James. Needless to say, they have "uncanny relevance to the world today, sayings concerning exploitation of the poor by the wealthy and the ruling class, sayings concerning the need for a compact among nations to end war and colonialism, sayings on the necessity of education for all . . . and two sayings that actually prophesied that one day men would stride the planets of heaven at a time when the earth verged on selfdestruction."

Anybody with the brains of a minnow could tell that this new gospel was a fake, but American heroes traditionally take a little longer to work things out. No sooner has he put down the Good Book (Wallace frequently refers to it as the Word — a misunderstanding of scriptural terminology, I imagine) than a lady called Darlene visits him in his bedroom and starts unbuttoning the front of her blouse, "Wow, let's get into bed — no more wasting time, let's celebrate." He rebuffs her — she has misunderstood his customary affability for a desire to marry her. This resistance of carnal temptation makes the book more serious somehow, more sincere, especially as we have already learned about Darlene that

she was attractive and she exuded sensuality . . her breasts were firm and pear shaped .. Outside of bed, she was restless, useless, dumb, flighty. In bed, she was a mink, tireless, inventive, pleasure-giving, fun. The centre of her intelligence, Randall once concluded, was entirely in her vagina.

What a devastating way to describe Darlene: tireless, inventive, pleasure-giving fun—everything Mr Wallace is to his forty million-odd readers. The rest of the book is taken up with Steve's adventures, convincing himself that the Gospel is a forgery, trying to convince the publishers, falling foul of Big Business and deciding at the end to devote his life to exposing corruption in the Raken Institute which brings us to the proposition that truth is love.

e Nothing of course, could be less t sive or controversial than this. Villa 5trip not be denied is that Mr Wallace the platitudes together with grea,tfcr,d terity than any writer alive; and ly interesting to discover what clic!' acceptable to the mass market at t111,50;' flattering its intelligence, and erYs'aof in its sluggish mind the vvisdorn age. The only reason I extend the Ps misanthropy which these books aloleY0 cite to include the author is beeatistile lace so obviously writes with all cerity and passion of a genairielY

rate nature. P: Deighton, by comparison, aPre: most buccaneer cynic, and olle j

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the best of all possible luck With it's0 e: is what the morons like, Len, Y°I1 to them. There is little room left to tice to his latest novel, except to his books seem to get better and oi The central joke in Close-Up ig th,epd dustry once again. A starrY-eLea writer starts on the traditionally evidar show-business biography of a 5aPerr*1 " Now, no show-biz creep, Pete.;11 warts and all portrait and data!' licity boys!" — and finds that his feet of the most malodorous clay,ijo reads it not so much for insight 0

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Forbes has already bored us theme and I have no doubt For,rteia0t sion is more authentic than vvii`ice As for the jokes, everybody who,d had anything to do with HollyWu'ar back with them. But they Alle; to arhuse: four extras play plaster carcass of a horse; on sac'ber one — "Bookbinder tried to reinel, to look embarrassed "; on 011%; extras acting soldiers in the jung' Your Japs are a bit plump" cloYs " They usually play tycoons then

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It may be true that Deighton vioir0 formula; if so one must congratti on having found a successful „ keeps the mass audience amuse making anyone else feel sick.