He almost had me persuaded until I checked the theatres. There was no such movie—not playing Chicago, anyway.
Since I continually counseled men and women to accept life, to live it, to change themselves if necessary, but never to turn against creation or to abandon love and hope, never to fall for the machine or the corporation or to look for Father in their stocks and bonds, I was hardly in a position—even armed with the facts and figures—to try to fight the organization for the saving of Books and Brent. I did, however, two weeks before the series ended, take the audience into my confidence and explain the situation as fairly as I could. Mr. Quinlan had my talk monitored and agreed that I handled the matter with sincerity and truthfulness. There was nothing Red could do—he was tied to an organization that was too impersonal to respond to the concerns of a mere 20,000 people. We understood each other perfectly on this score.
But what happened after my announcement was something neither of us ever expected, even though we knew there were some people out there who bought books and wrote heartwarming letters. Phone calls began coming into the studio by the hundreds, letters by the thousands. One late afternoon, Red called me and said, “I knew you were good, but not that good. I just got a call from the asylum at Manteno protesting your cancellation. Even the madmen like you.” We both laughed but we were touched, too.
Letters, telegrams, and even long distance phone calls began to plague the chairman of the board in New York City. Letters by the score were sent to Mr. Minow in Washington. But the most beautiful letters were those directed to Hope and me, on every kind of paper, written in every kind of hand, some even in foreign languages. Until this has happened to you, it is impossible to imagine the feeling. The meaning of a mass medium strikes you and all at once it seems worthwhile to cope with the whole shabby machinery if you are able to serve through it.
Hope and I sat reading every bit of mail late into the night. She said: “Do you remember telling me what F. Scott Fitzgerald said?” I looked puzzled. “He said that America is a willingness of the heart,” she prompted.
I have indicated that Red Quinlan is a man who knows his business and his way around in it, and that he is also a man deeply enamored of the world of letters. He was even less ready than I to call it quits. He invited me to lunch one day, and after pointing out that, anyway, for the sake of my health the five-day-a-week grind was too much of a strain to be continued, he asked, “But how about once a week at a good hour with a sponsor?”
I hesitated. The columnists had broken the story of my demise at WBKB. Another station had shown interest and we had had preliminary talks. But the fact was, I couldn’t have asked for better treatment than WBKB had given me. Nobody ever told me what to do or how to slant my program. The crew on the set could not have been more helpful. I felt at home there. And while Hope had at first been concerned about the possibility of our lives being wrecked by the awful demands television exacted, she was now beginning to worry about the people who wrote in, telling about the needs that my show somehow ministered to. When Red sold the show on a weekly basis to Magikist, a leading rug cleaning establishment, there was really no doubt about my decision. When I met Mr. Gage, the president of the corporation, he said, “If my ten year old daughter likes you and my wife likes you, that’s enough for me. I’m sure everybody will like you. And we’ll try very hard to help you, too.” If you can just get that kind of sponsor, things become a good deal easier. But somehow, I do not think the woods are full of them.
Quinlan’s interest in conveying through television some of the excitement of the world of books and ideas also resulted in an interesting experimental program called “Sounding Board,” in which I was invited to moderate a panel of literary Chicagoans in a monthly two-hour late-evening discussion on arts and letters. Our regular panel consisted of Augie Spectorsky, editor of Playboy Magazine; Van Allen Bradley, literary editor of the Daily News; Fannie Butcher, literary editor of the Chicago Tribune; Hoke Norris, literary editor of the Chicago Sun-Times; Paul Carroll, then editor of the experimental literary magazine, Big Table; Hugh Duncan, author, and Dr. Daniel Boorstin, professor of American history at the University of Chicago. They were fine discussions and we kept them up for six months, but nobody would pick up the tab.
My approach to television performance, being untutored, is probably quite unorthodox. I do not work from notes. In preparation, I first read the book, then think about it, seeking connective links and related meanings. In the actual review of the book, I quite often stray into asides that assume greater importance than the review itself.
I never say to myself: this is the theme, this is the middle, this the end. I say: get into the heart of the book and let your mind distill it, and, as often happens, enlightening relationships with other books and ideas may develop.