David Lodge - Small World by Author's Note Page A

Merrie Olde Round Table,’ where they put on these mock medieval banquets,” said Philip Swallow. “I’ve never been myself, but Busby assured us it’s good fun. Anyway, he’s booked their team to lay it on here tonight.
    They have minstrels, I understand, and mead, and…”
    “And wenches,” Persse volunteered.
    “I say,” said the man in the charcoal grey suit, turning smoke-bleared eyes upon Persse and treating him to a yellow-fanged smile. “It sounds rather fun.”
    “Oh, hello McGarrigle,” said Philip Swallow, without enthusiasm. “Have you met Felix Skinner, of Lecky, Windrush and Bernstein? My publishers. Not that our professional association has been particularly profitable to either party,” he concluded with a forced attempt tempt at jocularity.
    “Well, it has been a teeny bit disappointing,” Skinner admitted with a sigh.
    “Only a hundred and sixty-five copies sold a year after publication,” said Philip Swallow accusingly. “And not a single review.”
    “You know we all thought it was an absolutely super book, Philip,” said Skinner. “It’s just that there’s not much of an educational market for Hazlitt these days. And I’m sure the reviews will come eventually, in the scholarly journals. I’m afraid the Sundays and weeklies don’t pay as much attention to lit. crit. as they used to.”
    “That’s because so much of it is unreadable,” said Philip Swallow. “I can’t understand it, so how can you expect ordinary people to? I mean, that’s what my book is saying. That’s why I wrote it.”
    “I know, Philip, it’s awfully unfair,” said Skinner. “What’s your own field, Mr McGarrigle?”
    “Well, I did my research on Shakespeare and T. S. Eliot,” said Persse.
    “I could have helped you with that,” Dempsey butted in. He had just come into the bar with Angelica, who was looking heart stoppingly beautiful in a kaftan of heavy wine-coloured cotton, in whose weave a dark, muted pattern of other rich colours dimly gleamed. “It would just lend itself nicely to computerization,” Dempsey continued. “All you’d have to do would he to put the texts on to tape and you could get the computer to list every word, phrase and syntactical construction that the two writers had in common. You could precisely quantify the influence of Shakespeare on T. S. Eliot.”
    “But my thesis isn’t about that,” said Persse. “It’s about the influence of T. S. Eliot on Shakespeare.”
    “That sounds rather Irish, if I may say so,” said Dempsey, with a loud guffaw. His little eyes looked anxiously around for support.
    “Well, what I try to show,” said Persse, “is that we can’t avoid reading Shakespeare through the lens of T. S. Eliot’s poetry. I mean, who can read Hamlet today without thinking of Prufrock’? Who can hear the speeches of Ferdinand in The Tempest without being reminded of ‘The Fire Sermon’ section of The Waste Land? ”
    “I say, that sounds rather interesting,” said Skinner. “Philip, old chap, do you think I might possibly have another one of these?” Depositing his empty glass in Philip Swallow’s hand, Felix Skinner took Persse aside. “If you haven’t already made arrangements to publish your thesis, I’d be very interested to see it,” he said.
    “It’s only an MA,” said Persse, his eyes watering from the smoke of Skinner’s cigarette.
    “Never mind, the libraries will buy almost anything on either Shakespeare or T. S. Eliot. Having them both in the same title would be more or less irresistible. Here’s my card. Ah, thank you Philip, your very good health… Look, I’m sorry about Hazlitt , but I think the best thing would be to put it down to experience, and try again with a more fashionable subject.”
    “But it took me eight years to write that book,” Philip Swallow said plaintively, as Skinner patted him consolingly on the shoulder, sending a cascade of grey ash down the back of his suit.
    The bar was now crowded with