Two other men joined us for lunch at the club. One was a heavy-set man of Greek descent named Peter DeMet who controlled large interests in the television world. The other was Matt Veracker, general manager of WBKB. We ate a good lunch and talked in generalities until Quinlan asked me if I had read any good books lately. I had just finished a collection of short stories by Albert Camus and was particularly taken by a piece called, “Artist at Work.” As I told the story, DeMet seemed suddenly very interested. But the conversation went no further. We shook hands all around and broke up.
Less than an hour later, Quinlan called me at the shop and asked me to come right over to his office. I could tell as I walked in that something was on the fire. Red came around the desk and sat down with me on the couch. “Stuart,” he said, “we have an open half hour following a new science show that the University of Chicago is sponsoring. How would you like to have it?” This was in 1958 when astro-physics had burst upon the public consciousness. Hence the science show.
“I’ve even thought of the name for your show,” Quinlan continued. “Books and Brent.”
I still remained silent, caught in an enormous conflict. I did want the show ... to prove something to myself. But at the same time I didn’t want to be bothered, I didn’t want to get caught up in the hours of study the job entailed. And I no longer needed the money or a listing in the local TV guides to bolster my ego. Yet I wanted the chance again.
Red noted my hesitation and, although slightly nettled by my lack of enthusiasm, recognized that I was not giving him a come-on. He went to the phone and said, “Ask Dan Schuffman to step in here.”
Danny took over the argument. The price was set, with promise of a raise within twelve weeks. The show would run from September through June, no cancellation clause, no commercials sandwiched in to break up the continuity of my presentation. I had complete control over the choice of books and what I would say about them. Everything was settled. Now all I had to do was tell Hope!
It wasn’t easy. Hope knew something was on my mind and refrained from asking about it until the children were in bed. Then I told my story. It would be five days a week at the frightening hour of eight o’clock in the morning. Hope took the whole thing in and accepted the situation. But we both had strong misgivings.
I went to work. Each book had to be read and pondered the night before I reviewed it. Asking myself of each volume what in essence it was really about, what meanings and values it pointed to, was the crux of the matter and a most difficult undertaking. Every morning I delivered my presentation and then ran to the bookstore. I came home at six, had dinner, and started preparing for the next morning. It was impossible to entertain or to see friends, and I was half dead from lack of sleep. Finally, to lessen the strain of five shows a week, Red suggested that Hope appear with me on the Friday shows for a question and answer session, cutting the formal reviews to four a week. Again it took some persuading—Hope would have nothing to do with it unless she “looked” right, “sounded” right, and could offer questions that were sincere and significant. She did all of these things superbly and for the next three years appeared with me every Friday.
Still, it was a grueling task. I wanted to give the very best I could each day, and I felt that I was being drained. But what was really killing my drive was the suspicion that I was working in a vacuum. After all, who could be viewing my dissertations on the problems of man and the universe at eight in the morning? I decided it would probably be appreciated all around if I quit like a gentleman. So one morning, after about eight weeks of giving my all to what I judged to be a totally imaginary audience, I interrupted[interrupted] whatever I was talking about and said, “You know, I don’t think anyone is watching this program. I’m very tired of peering into two red eyes and talking books just for the sake of talking. I believe I’ll quit.”
What I really meant to say, of course, was, “If anyone is watching, won’t he please drop me a note and say so.” But it didn’t come out that way. I walked out of the studio thinking it was all over.