Book prize farce, not honor

A month ago, I bemoaned the current state of high-profile literature, blasting a scene in which the "9/11 Commission Report" could be nominated for the National Book Award.

Yes, things have been better, and yes, the "9/11 Commission" isn't purist literature per se, but the blame doesn't lie with the book, it falls on the jacket flap.

On a little gold sticker that's graced many volumes: on the National Book Award.

And, hell, if I could turn my thoughts on said sticker into a 400-page yarn on the powers of memory and redemption in contemporary society, I might be on my way to procuring one myself.

Really, the "9/11 Commission Report" isn't terrible. It's not even bad - it's toned down, well written and unmistakably important. John Updike went so far as to say, "The King James Bible (is) our language's lone masterpiece produced by committee, at least until this year's 9/11 Commission Report."

When you think about it, what else is?

But why celebrate its accomplishment at what's been called by many the Academy Awards of the Literary Community?

Like the Oscars, the award frequently is given on the basis of significance rather than deservedness. It's a pat-on-the-back handed over to comeback novels and chart successes.

To meet the criteria, an author must either make waves from the limelight, break through to the mainstream or, more often, create "an epic vision of love and morality, loss and vision in a world torn apart by strife."

Or something like that.

It's a career builder or icing on the cake. It can make an author's career prodigious or an exit distinguished. But it's not worth a quarter the gravitas as a Pulitzer, to be mentioned in the same sentence as the PEN awards or even stacked beside the National Book Critics Circle Award.

The genre nominees often are similar, the small committees steered by a charismatic chairman who exerts his or her subtle influence on the ultimate picks.

But winners are still major award recipients, which leads to a damaging after-effect: the assumption of literary celebrity.

Literary celebrity breeds pretense, which in turn manufactures a dangerous brand of author whose self-assuredness overshadows any smidgeon of credibility.

Of course, this runs most rampant in fiction. Stephen Ambrose, in his lifetime, never won for nonfiction - but he probably could receive a lifetime achievement award.

After all, Stephen King did.

But, in the midst of all this big name-forging, where are the big names? The Ozicks, the Munros or, especially in 2004, the Roths?

In The New York Times Book Review, former National Book Award winner by no fault of his own, Jonathan Franzen, questioned the middling fame of fiction master Alice Munro.

But the chances that someone like Canada's Munro or another pre-established literary mainstay winning the National Book Award are slim to nil.

It's a political ceremony, and, in the end, will continue to play to hot-list talents, at least in the fiction-writing realm, rewarding ambition over accomplishment, concept past content.

It turns out the "9/11 Commission" didn't win, but, even if it did, the real problem wouldn't go away. The award should be just that: an acknowledgement of the significant achievements of an American talent.

If it's a national award, it's time to draw the line between memorable and meritous.

But, for now, I'm just giving up. How much is that illustrated "Da Vinci Code?"

Contact the A&E Editor at artsdesk@unc.edu.