Philip Swallow, Morris Zapp, Persse McGarrigle, the lovely Angelica - the jet-propelled academics are on the move, in the air, on the make, in
Small World
'The most brilliant and also the funniest novel that he has written'
Frank Kermode in the London Review of Books
'A wonderful tissue of outrageous coincidences and correspondences, teasing elevations of suspense and delayed climaxes'
Anthony Thwaite in the Observer
At the other end of the room soemone banged on the table and began making a speech. 'Frightful man, Ringbaum,' Skinner whispered into Persse's ear. 'We published one of his books about four years ago, I say published, we took the sheets for five hundred copies, had to remainder most of them, and on the strength of that he conned me into giving him and his wife lunch today and I haven't been able to get rid of them since. He bores the pants off you and she seems to be some kind of nymphomaniac - kept playing footsie with me in the restaurant. Damned embarassing with Gloria there, I can tell you.'
At precisely that moment, Persse became aware of the presence of another's leg against his own. He turned to find mrs Ringbaum standing very close to him. 'Are you really as poet?' she said breathily. The breath was heavily scented with gin. 'Yes, I am,' said Persse.
'Would you write a poem to me,' said Mrs Ringbaum, 'if I made it worth your while?'
'One can't produce poems to order, I'm afraid,' he said. He took a step backwards, but Mrs Ringbaum followed, glued to him like a ballroom-dancing partner. 'I don't mean money,' she said.
'Thelma,' said Howard Ringbaum querously from behind her back, 'am I allergic to anchovies?' He was holding up a small sandwich with a bite-shaped hole in it. Persse took advantage of this distraction to put Skinner between himself and Mrs Ringbaum. 'What was that you said about my book?' he asked Skinner.
'Oh, you haven't had my letter? No? That's Gloria, she's been getting a little bit slack, lately. Well, I'm afraid we had a very negative report on your proposal. Ah, I see Rudyard Parkinson is making the biography award.'
A man with muttonchop whiskers and a plump, self-pleased countenance had mounted the platform and was addressing the assembled guests. It was a speech in praise of somebody's book, though the smirk hovering round his lips seemed somehow to twist and devalue the sentiments they uttered, and to solicit knowing titters from his audience.
'Rudyard Parkinson ... You've read his books, haven't you, Howard?' said Thelma Ringbaum.
'Absolute crap,' said Howard Ringbaum.
Persse opened himself another bottle of Guinness, using Ronald Frobisher's technique. 'So you don't want to publish my book after all?' he said to Felix Skinner.
''Fraid not, old man.'
'What did your reader say about it, then?'
'Well, that it wouldn't do. Wasn't on. Didn't stand up. In a word.'
'Who is he?"
'I'm afraid I can't tell you that,' said Felix Skinner. 'It's confidential.'
There was a burst of applause, and flashlights blinked, as the biographer went up to reeive his prize from Rudyard Parkinson. 'He isn't here tonight, by any chance' said Persse wistfully. 'Because if he is, I'd like to fight him.'
Felix Skinner laughed uncertainly. 'No, no, he's along way from London. But a very eminent authority I assure you. Ah, Rudyard, how very good to see you. Marvellous speech!'
Rudyard Parkinson, who had yielded the platform to Ronald Frobisher, smirked and brushed his whiskers upwards with the back of his hand. 'Oh, hallo Skinner. Yes. I thought it went down pretty well.'
Felix Skinner performed introductions.
'This is a real privilege, Professor Parkinson,' said Howard Ringbaum, holding onto Parkinson's hand and gazing raptly into his eyes. 'I'm a great admirer of you work.' 'Kind of you,' Parkinson murmured.
'Howard! Howard, that's Ronald Frobisher,' cried Thelma Ringbaum excitedly, pointing to the platform. 'You remember, I was reading one of his books on the plane on the way over.'
'I recommend your book on James Thompson to all my students,' said Howard Ringbaum to Rudyard Parkinson, ignoring his wife. 'I've written a few articles on the subject myself, and it would be a real pleasure to-'
'Ah yes, poor Frobisher,' said Parkinson, who seemed to prefer this topic of conversation. 'He was up at Oxford when I was a young Fellow, you know. I'm afraid he's burned himself out. Hasn't published a new novel for years.'
