DURING MY CAREER AS A writer, the nature of literary prizes has greatly changed. In the 1960s we lived in a world far less cluttered with lists — in particular lists of bestsellers. One result was that judges were seldom blinded by dazzling commercial success. What they were looking for was the tortoise not the hare — a book that, although it might be a slow starter, would still be read 20 or 30 years later, but whose author needed immediate encouragement.

What changed that climate more than anything was the creation of the Booker Prize for Fiction at the end of the 1960s. It gained unexpected attention by virtue of provocative speeches made by its winners, who criticised Booker for its business ethics. When John Berger’s G won in 1972, he handed half his prize to the Black Panthers and attacked Booker for “sweating blacks” in the West Indies.

The following year, when J. G. Farrell’s The Siege of Krishnapur won, the author promised to use his money to research commercial exploitation for his next novel, The Singapore Grip. “Every year,” he announced, “the Booker brothers see their prize wash up a monster more horrid than the last.”

Would Booker McConnell soldier on or surrender to this unmannerly hostility? It was due largely to the quiet diplomacy of that doyen of bookmasters, Martyn Goff, that the sponsorship continued. In the 1970s I joined the committee that chose the judges and made the rules for the prize. It was then that I met Michael Caine, the chairman of Booker McConnell. He had set up the prize as a way to give back to literature something of what he had gained through buying the posthumous copyright of Agatha Christie, Ian Fleming and other successful authors.

Caine struck me as a formidable character. He was armed with a decisive stutter. I remember how devastatingly he used it to make sure that Philip Larkin, chairman of the judges in 1977, missed his train to Hull. In those days the shortlisted authors received no money — only the winner was handed a cheque at the prize dinner. I argued with Caine that we should give all shortlisted authors at least £1,000 (the winner originally got £5,000, increased to £10,000 in the tenth year). He disagreed. I persisted, goading him by saying that I thought he could afford it. As I raised my voice, quickened my speech, Caine hesitated more dramatically.

But his hesitations were triumphant. “Do you know, Michael,” he asked, “why the Booker Prize is so successful?” I murmured something about its similarity to the Prix Goncourt in France, but he raised his hand and silenced me. “They love it,” he said, “because it’s so unfair!” I had no answer. I had been so argumentative that I confidently expected to be removed from the committee. I was kept on for eight or nine years. Caine, I discovered, was held in such awe by staff of the multinational conglomerate that no one argued with him. He was delighted by the novelty of opposition.

Once I understood this, I recommended that the firebrand publisher Carmen Callil, founder of Virago, be invited to join us. She would give him all the opposition he could desire. At an early meeting he volunteered the opinion that the green Virago Classics covers were awful. Carmen shouted: “Are you colour blind?” The rest of us held our breath waiting for her to be sent out like a naughty schoolgirl. After a terrible silence, he said mildly: “Yes. I am a bit colour blind”. And we all began breathing again.

Our committee was criticised for appointing more men than women judges, resulting, it was alleged, in more male winners (which led eventually to the creation of the Orange Prize). I can reveal, however, that more women than men refused to be judges, less from temerity, I believe, than good sense.

Men seemed to enjoy the competitive spirit rather more than women. I was at the same dinner table as Anita Brookner in 1984, when she won with Hotel du Lac, and I can remember the look of absolute horror on her face as her name was announced.

Our most radical decision was to move the judges’ final meeting to the day of the prize dinner. The winner had been announced two or three weeks before the dinner, which seemed rather a second-hand affair full of funeral baked meats. Caine approved — perhaps, I thought uncharitably, because he could see the disappointment on the so-called losers’ faces as they paraded chequeless before the cameras. Several journalists warned us that they would not attend because they could not file in time for the next morning’s papers. In the end all but one turned up in their dinner jackets, ate their dinners and gave extra coverage to the event.

Shortlisted authors, I am happy to see, do now receive generous cheques. But perhaps I have helped into existence some of the more simplistic features of the present book prize circus. When a little-known writer wins, such as Keri Hulme with The Bone People in 1985, she must be prepared to be insulted. When a celebrated author, such as Martin Amis, fails to reach the short list, he is branded a loser and the judges accused of feminist bias. Little wonder that some, including Graham Greene, John Fowles and Margaret Drabble, refused to let their novels be submitted. At literary festivals these days the epithet “prize-winner” is randomly used to describe all authors. The job of judging has grown so time-consuming and controversial that writers list the prizes they have judged above those they have won in reference works.

But for all this, I grew very fond of Michael Caine and came to admire his long-suffering, secretly charitable spirit. When he gave a farewell lunch, rising to his feet and with peculiar grace and stammering out his special thanks to Carmen Callil, Martyn Goff and myself, I felt for a moment unexpectedly emotional.

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