Ghost Writer, 1946

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In Paris, Jean d’Halluin had just founded Scorpion Publishing. The editor was proud of his new agency, and had grand visions of sweeping the literary world, unearthing and publishing the next generation of great authors. Scorpion was going to be a huge success; he could feel it in his bones, but so far it was struggling to get off the ground. Jean d’Halluin went out looking for prodigiously talented writers, and planned to put together a loyal stable of talent. But the literary world could be a cruel mistress, and the passing weeks brought one disappointment after another. The young publishing house did not inspire confidence among established writers, and the only people who approached him were hacks or swindlers. Still, d’Halluin kept his chin up in spite of these setbacks. The months and years went by with barely a trickle of success. Jean d’Halluin’s attitude began to sour. To hell with Nobel Prizes and literary accolades, and with the Latin Quarter snobs who looked down on him. He didn’t need an address book full of illustrious names, or a pile of Goncourt awards – what he needed was a best-seller. Something that everyone could read, and that got people talking. Jean d’Halluin had decided to do things the American way: cause a stir, eat up column inches in the papers, and ask questions later. He wanted to find a Henry Miller, a writer who was irreverent and indecent (ideally an alcoholic, for good measure). It would take a writer who could make the middle class shudder, and titillate everyone else. A writer who could be shameless, someone unbothered by fine phrasing or the intricacies of tone. But who might that be?

Quite unexpectedly, the author whose interest was piqued by this challenge turned out to be one of the highest literary brows in France. A noted snob famously lacking in playfulness, it was none other than Boris Vian who responded to Jean d’Halluin’s open call. As it happened, Vian was bored and in search of an influx of cash. His idea was to write the best-seller under a false name, and to pass himself off as an American author whose work had been banned in his home country. Writing was among Vian’s many vocations, but the joy of a good hoax would bring another kind of satisfaction. After all, why not send up the literary world and give the critics something to fume about? Poking a stick at the Ethics and Morals Committee sounded like fun. The author had recently been snubbed by the Pléiade Awards for his novel l’écume des jours, and had revenge on his mind. He was eager to get started – which was fortunate, for Jean d’Halluin gave him only ten days to write his best-seller. It was time to put pen to paper; Vian was twenty-six and had no trouble pulling all-nighters, using alcohol to keep his quill wet. And so, at a breakneck pace, the pages gave birth to one of great shocks of French literature: I Spit on Your Graves. It was the story of Lee Anderson, a mixed-race man from the southern United States, seeking revenge for his brother who had been lynched for his love affair with a white girl. The novel was full of violent, erotic scenes. It was also firmly anti-racist, which gave it a perfect alibi: such a book would of course have been censored in America. It was the perfect hoax, and long column inches would be devoted to it.

It was 21 November 1946. I Spit On Your Graves was set to be released exclusively in France, having ostensibly been banned in its own country. It was billed as “the novel America would not dare to publish.” The author was listed as Vernon Sullivan, with Boris Vian credited as the translator. Jean d’Halluin’s long-awaited success was finally within sight: the novel sold 120,000 copies in two years. Scandal was good for sales, and every time the press took offence at the book, the more their readers descended on the bookshops. Boris Vian and Jean d’Halluin laughed privately at their success; it was a pleasingly elegant fraud. However, many readers were not fooled. Rumours began to circulate among fans. They nudged and winked and whispered. Who was the real author of J’irai cracher sur vos tombes? How had the unknown Jean d’Halluin managed to get his hands on a banned American book? The fact that a heavyweight like Boris Vian had been called in to translate raised eyebrows, too. France’s post-war Cartel of Social and Moral Action took Boris Vian to court. The author was at a loss how to extricate himself from the hoax, and even went as far as having the novel translated into English so he could present a false original to the judge.

In 1948, worn down by the legal proceedings, Boris Vian finally confessed to being the author of J’irai cracher sur vos tombes. By that time, the stunt had made a lot of money. Did the best-seller make up for the Pléiade Award? Perhaps only Vernon Sullivan could say.

Alan Alfredo Geday