Vicissitudes Revisited

To the Editor:

I enjoyed Professor Jack B. Ridley’s saga of short-lived international fame and renown, which flowed from acceptance of his article by a prestigious journal in Great Britain. (“Vicissitudes of an Obscure Scholar,” Perspectives, September 1983). It brought back memories of my own march to academic immortality, also linked to a journal in England, and also strewn with unforeseen ambuscades laid by the muses of mediocrity determined to make mockery of my brilliant career.

It began one summer three, perhaps four, years ago with a letter from England asking me if I would care to contribute to the first issue of a new journal; let’s call it the International Prestige Review (IPR hereafter) to save us from libel and possible litigation. The imitation arrived on rich stationery with the seal of the IPR printed across the top in two different-colored inks. Already acquainted with publishing and the costs of colors—not to speak of two colors—I was properly im­pressed. Also, a letter arriving in the Deep American South from somewhere like Ipswich, or Essex, or Sussex, or some other “ich” or “ex” deepens the impression on us provin­cials, even though Ipswich, Essex, or Sussex may be as culturally for removed from Lon­don as Tuscaloosa is from New York.

Second , I was being invited, presumably on the basis of my already ample reputation, to contribute to a major, new journal. What new laurels to add to my curriculum vitae! However, I resisted. I really hadn’t done any new research in the field of prestige in years, having moved to another area. Besides, I couldn’t possibly have anything finished in the six to eight months the editor had posit­ed. Reluctantly I drafted a letter to Mr. Botsworth, turning down the honor. However, the pull on my self-esteem was too strong to send a categorical no. I hedged my re­sponse with a “well, although I could promise nothing but a synthesis of articles of mine, I do have a few roles of microfilm on the subject from earlier days which may have some relevance and might add a couple of new wrinkles to the subject.” But on the timing I was adamant. “However, I could never have this prepared in six to eight months given my present commitments.” There, I said it. What two better ways arc guaranteed to turn off any editor than to say you have virtually nothing new to offer and you can’t even meet deadlines?

The response came back in the return mail. Ah, dear Professor Clayton, but of course you can have an extension on time and I shall be looking for your article, synthesis, synthesis plus new materials, or whatever with great pleasure. I was trapped. Still, the IPR possessed beautiful stationery and Botsworth wrote from Ipswich, or Essex, or Sussex.

In the intervening months I began to work on my article, again reinvigorated by the subject, as most of us are wont to be once we get into it. In the meantime, Botsworth sent me the first flyer for the IPR and there was my name, sure enough, on the lead article, no less. Botsworth asked if I might help in advertising the IPR in the US. But, of course, I answered, and within a few weeks there arrived fifty or a hundred flyers and I distributed them to friends here and there. After all, who isn’t interested in prestige?

Finished with the article, I sent it off to Botsworth ahead of schedule. My first proofs arrived within a couple of months and I greeted them like we all do: with a feeling prompted by something akin to witnessing the Resurrection or handling your first baby. A miracle. The proofs seemed to be a bit rough and the footnotes were in a shambles, but what a small price to pay for fame. Back they went to Botsworth.

But the new corrected proofs were slow in coming back across the Atlantic. Indeed, Botsworth himself seemed to have become embroiled in matters. At least that’s what I figured. Why else hadn’t he answered promptly like before? The press of getting the new journal out must be indeed time-consuming. I waited. And waited. I am pa­tient. However, after about six months I wrote Botsworth in Ipswich, or Sussex, or Essex, a nice but somewhat insistent letter.

The answer came in a month or two. Ah, sorry dear Clayton, but I’ve had some problems with IPR. It seems that nobody has subscribed yet and we arc having to adjust to making possible new arrangements. Would I be willing to expand my article and Botsworth would publish it as a monograph, since it appeared that IPR may not publish its first number for quite some while.

My reaction altered between outrage, dis­appointment, and utter astonishment. All that time invested in nothing? Expand it to a monograph-length work? On the basis of a roll or two of old microfilm? Impossible. I wrote back to old Bots. Publish it as it is, or . . . . What?

Old Bots never answered. My last letter apparently never even arrived in Ipswich, or Sussex, or Essex. I subsequently discovered that Botsworth’s address was no longer viable. “Return to Sender, Address Unknown.” His printer was suing for costs and old Bots was on the lam. After a year or two I man­aged to place the article with a reputable journal in the field of prestige, and it was through the editor of that journal that I learned of Bots’s demise.

Fame, of course, is but a transitory and fleeting commodity. I don’t know how much more I have learned from the above. One thing is for sure. I’ll never again be a sucker for two-colored stationery from Ipswich, or Sussex, or Essex.