Research by Philip Kerr Page A

simultaneously handed in his notice. It was, as John himself describes, his
Keep the Aspidistra Flying
moment, which is a novel by George Orwell wherein the hero, Gordon Comstock, quits an advertising agency and takes a low-paid job so that he can write poetry instead. Of course the major differencebetween John Houston and Gordon Comstock was that there was nothing low-paid about John’s future prospects; he had obtained a lucrative three-book deal with a leading British publisher and very soon he landed similarly generous deals with American, Japanese, German and French publishers which seemed likely to make my former boss a millionaire before the first book was even published. But still he was not satisfied; he quickly discovered that publishers possessed none of the marketing and advertising skills that John himself had; in those days publishing was full of gentlemen with bow-ties and cigarette-holders who had an eye for good books but no idea how to sell them. And it was typical of the man that instead of spending his advance money on a house or a car John used it all to advertise
The Tyranny of Heaven
on television and radio, with the result that it was soon a number one bestseller. After that the people at John’s publishers were not inclined to disagree with him about anything very much.
    It was about this time that John called me up and invited me out to lunch. He told me he wanted to pick my brains about my army service in Northern Ireland for his follow-up novel and I pretended I was happy to let them be picked, although in truth I rather envied his success and hardly wanted to see him for fear that this might show. On the principle that lightning never strikes in the same place twice I’d let myself imagine that John’s being published made it much less likely that the same good fortune would happen to me. But I put a smile on my face and went along to a restaurant near Masius in St James’s Square called Ormond’s Yard, bit my tongue and congratulated him effusively and thanked him for the signed copy of his novel which, of course, I’d not dared read in case it was actually any good. I’m afraid this is a very typical reaction among writers. No one reads anyoneelse’s stuff if they can possibly avoid it: we’re an insecure, spiteful, jealous lot. Nothing confounds like a good friend’s success; and as Gore Vidal once said, ‘Whenever a friend succeeds, a little something in me dies.’
    ‘
The Tyranny of Heaven
? What’s that?’ I asked John. ‘Shakespeare?’
    He shook his head. ‘John Milton. If you’re looking for a good title you’ll find there are lots of good titles in Milton, old sport. Shakespeare, no. Don’t waste your time looking for a title in fucking Shakespeare. He’s been raped more than a Berlin housewife. But Milton’s great. Nobody reads Milton these days.’
    ‘Congratulations,’ I said, inspecting the signature and the dedication in his novel. ‘I understand it’s already a bestseller.’
    ‘True. But it’s America where I want to make it big, not here. In publishing terms this country is a sideshow with goldfish.’
    ‘Easier said than done.’
    ‘Not really. Whatever it is you’re writing my advice is to make the thing American-centric, if you’ll pardon that word. Get yourself an American hero and you’re halfway to the big money, old sport.’
    Old sport
. He used to say that a lot; and since John’s favourite book is
The Great Gatsby
and ‘old sport’ seems to be Jay Gatsby’s favourite phrase, I sometimes wonder how much of Gatsby there is in John. He is as he would tell you himself, entirely self-invented: describing his own humble Yorkshire origins he used to say, ‘It doesn’t matter where the fuck you come from; what matters is where you’re going.’ And that is John’s whole philosophy, in a nutshell.
    ‘I just happen to be English, old sport. But that’s not who I am or who I want to be. Yorkshire is a dump. I hate the place.Never want to