I formally entered my book in the Pulitzer Prize Competition, having gotten instructions for doing that, and an entry blank on 16 July. A couple of weeks earlier I had written those in charge of it to find out how to have a book considered for a prize (so I could send them Of Manywhere-at-Once). My entering my book in the competition was, of course, absurd, as I noted in my diary; I had to send the Pulitzer people 4 copies of my book and $20, not to mention a biography and a photograph of myself. I sent one of my college graduation pictures, by then eight years old but looking much more out of date than that. I had very few pictures of myself, not believing film should be wasted on bald-headed men.
My book had, I thought, one chance in a million of winning but a chance or two in a hundred that someone would actually read it, which would be nice. The main purposes of my wasting the money were two: to assure that when I pointed out twenty years later (now, in fact) how my work had been ignored by the Pulitzer Prize people, they wouldn’t be able to claim they couldn’t honor my book because it had not been entered in the competition; and to circulate my name at least a tiny bit.
A book (on ants, I believe) by the biologist Edward O. Wilson beat out mine, incidentally, as did–I’m sure–scores of much lesser books. I have to admit that his book was probably worthy of the prize (and I am a big admirer of his sociobiology). I still believe mine will one day be considered more important. His did not open up any new territory in an important field the way I believe mine did.
Tags: Bob Grumman