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world of books was I able to tell the whole of the Nobel story, to interweave the omitted facts with a fictional plot, in my novel The Prize . But that was fourteen years later.
    Another form of censorship sometimes came from the subject about whom one wrote. I remember interviewing the late Raymond Chandler, the brilliant writer of hard-boiled mysteries and the creator of private detective Philip Marlowe, in 1946. I enjoyed and admired him without reservation, and found him refreshingly candid in his opinions of himself, his craft, his fellow authors. As I finished my story about him, I was particularly pleased by the following passage:
    “Chandler’s favorite conversational topic is the mystery story and its practitioners. He spares neither himself nor his fellows.
    “S. S. Van Dine? ‘I can’t read him. Philo Vance is utterly detestable. He’s just a second-rate imitation of the stage Englishman.’ Dorothy Sayers? ‘I like her as a writer, but her mysteries are lousy.’ Agatha Christie? ‘Her stories are phony, and worst of all, they cheat. Though The Murder of Roger Ackroyd was a good stunt.’ Ngaio Marsh? ‘I read her for a while, but now I find her tiresome.’ Freeman Wills Crofts? ‘A plodder.’ R. Austin Freeman? ‘Strictly gaslight and hansom cab, but one of my old favorites.’ Rex Stout? ‘Enjoyed The League of Frightened Men , then got weary of his work. Always liked Archie, but Nero Wolfe’s eccentricities are beginning to bore me. Of course, it’s hard to maintain eccentricities through a long series of stories.’ Ellery Queen? ‘I don’t like him at all.’ A. Conan Doyle? ‘I never shared the great admiration everyone has for Sherlock Holmes.’ Erle Stanley Gardner? ‘I like the books he’s written under the name of A. A. Fair, but his own Perry Mason stinks, and you can quote me. Erle is touchy, and he probably won’t ever speak to me again after this.’ Dashiell Hammett? ‘He probably influenced me. He’s tops, but I think he can be done better.’ Raymond Chandler? ‘His specialty is insulting people. He’s a poor plotter, a bad constructionist, and he finds it easier to criticize than to create.’”
    While my article on Raymond Chandler was being readied for publication, a New York columnist heard about this explosive passage and mentioned it in print. The next day. Chandler was on the telephone. He insisted that I kill that overly frank passage in my story at once. He admitted that he had said what I had written, and had said it all for publication, but now some of his fellow writers had been in touch with him and had convinced him that complete candor, in itself, was not a virtue. Reluctantly, I agreed to this censorship, and was forced to present a less candid Raymond Chandler to the magazine public.
    One of the unhappiest aspects of magazine writing, a subtle but persistent dishonesty that was necessary for survival, was that of giving almost every article a strong angle. The necessity of having an angle in every article still survives in the magazine field. But it was more widely in demand, although less harshly used, during the time when I wrote for magazines. It was not enough to think of a likely subject to write about, and then write about it as one truly found it (since this might invite waste, dullness, lack of instant audience appeal). To secure an assignment, the writer had to find in advance something in a prospective subject’s life that was unusual or bizarre—a “narrative hook,” an “attention grabber”—and promise to prove it true and to build the story around it, as well as use an offbeat point of view or theme. Once the assignment was obtained, with this prefabricated angle pledged for delivery, the writer had to research and interview to prove the validity of the angle, to build it up, so that it could support all the remaining facts. If the writer then found that the angle really existed, and did have the importance he had claimed for it, he