People talk about publishers “discovering” writers, but that verb is overdramatic. Usually, the most that can be said for a publisher is that he “recognises” a writer. That’s certainly what happened with André Deutsch and Vidia Naipaul. There was not much “discovery” about being told by the Jamaican novelist Andrew Salkey that he thought a young man of his acquaintance who worked for the BBC’s Caribbean Service was probably a very good writer. Might he tell him that I would read his stories? I could hardly have said “no” even if I’d wanted to, which I didn’t. Ours was still a comparatively young publishing house, needing to follow up every possibility as keenly as we could.

Soon after that, we met Vidia in a coffee bar, where he handed over the typescript of Miguel Street. He was probably shy and very nervous, but the impression I gained was one of reserve verging on haughtiness.

I read the stories – and enjoyed them very much. André had a strong prejudice against collections of stories and refused to let us put down money for it, but he allowed us to say that we would publish it later, if the author could launch his career with a successful novel. And luckily, Vidia did happen to be well on the way with a novel, The Mystic Masseur, which got such good reviews that it had to be considered successful.

So there we were in 1959, with VS Naipaul on our list, and I was his editor. Which is again an inaccurate word, because if ever a writer needed no editing it was Vidia, whose books could always have gone straight from typist to printer with no intervention from anyone. An editor’s job, in such a case, is basically to keep on saying “Darling, you’re wonderful”.

With every one of his books, there was a pattern. First came a long period of peace while he was writing, during which we saw little of him and I would often have liked to see more, because I would be full of curiosity about the new book. Then, when it was delivered, there would be a short burst of euphoria, during which we would have enjoyable meetings and my role would be to appreciate the work, to write the blurb, to hit on a jacket that pleased both him and us. Then came part three: postpublication gloom, during which his voice on the telephone would make my heart sink – just a little during the first few years, deeper and deeper with the passage of time. His voice became charged with tragedy, his face became haggard, his theme became the atrocious exhaustion and damage (the word damage always occurred) this book had inflicted on him, and all to what end? Reviewers were ignorant monkeys, publishers (this would be implied in a sinister fashion rather than said) were lazy and useless: what was the point of it all? Why did he go on?

He was, therefore, displeased with the results of publication, which filled him always with despair, sometimes with anger as well. Once he descended on me like a thunderbolt to announce that he had just been into Foyles of Charing Cross Road and they didn’t have a single copy of his latest book, published only two weeks earlier, in stock – not one! Reason told me this was impossible, but I have a tendency to accept guilt if faced with accusation and this tendency went into spasm. Suppose the sales department really had made some unthinkable blunder? Well, if they had I was not going to face the ensuing mayhem single-handed, so I said: “We must go and tell André at once.” Which we did; and André Deutsch said calmly: “What nonsense, Vidia – come on, we’ll go to Foyles straightaway and I’ll show you.” So all three of us stumped down the street to Foyles. Once we were in the shop, André cornered the manager and explained: “Mr Naipaul couldn’t find his book. Will you please show him where it is displayed?” “Certainly, Mr Deutsch”; and there it was, two piles of six copies each, on the table for “Recent Publications”. André said afterwards that Vidia looked even more thunderous at being done out of his grievance, but if he did, I was too dizzy with relief to notice.

In 1975, we received the 13th of his books – his eighth work of fiction – Guerrillas. For the first time I was slightly apprehensive because he had spoken to me about the experience of writing it in an unprecedented way. Usually he kept the process private, but this time he said that it was extraordinary, something that had never happened before: it was as though the book had been given to him. Such a feeling about writing does not necessarily bode well. And as it turned out, I could not like the book.

So I told him. I began by saying how much I admired the many things in the book that I did admire, then I said that I had to tell him that two of his three central characters had failed to convince me. It was like saying to Conrad: “Lord Jim is a very fine novel except that Jim doesn’t quite come off.”

Vidia looked disconcerted, then stood up and said that he was sorry they didn’t work for me, because he had done the best he could with them, there was nothing more he could do, so there was no point in discussing it . . .

The next day, Vidia’s agent called to say that he had been instructed to retrieve Guerrillas because we had lost confidence in Vidia’s writing and therefore he was leaving us.

For at least two weeks I seethed . . . then, in the third week, it suddenly occurred to me that never again would I have to listen to Vidia telling me how damaged he was, and it was as though the sun came out. I didn’t have to like Vidia any more! I could still like his work, I could still be sorry for his pain; but I no longer faced the task of fashioning affection out of these elements in order to deal as a good editor should with the exhausting, and finally tedious, task of listening to his woe.

Diana Athill talks to Patrick French about his biography of VS Naipaul, on Saturday, April 5, 10am, and discusses her memoir, Somewhere Towards the End, on Friday, April 4, 12pm

OXFORD: WHERE TO STAY AND HOW TO BOOK

This year’s Sunday Times Oxford Literary Festival runs at Christ Church from Monday, March 31 to Sunday, April 6. To get a flavour of the festival, and to immerse yourself fully in the atmosphere of Christ Church, you can stay at the college, either by booking individual rooms for a starting price of £53 per night, B&B, or by taking advantage of our two-night festival packages, available exclusively to Sunday Times readers:

March 31-April 1: accommodation and breakfast at Christ Church, plus tickets to see Sebastian Faulks, Clarissa Eden, Oliver James and Rita Carter. Prices from £130.

April 2-3: accommodation and breakfast at Christ Church, plus tickets to see Seamus Murphy discussing Afghanistan with Anthony Loyd; the Penguin readers’ evening with Catherine Bailey, Jane Johnson and Jeremy Page; Dragons’ Den judge Peter Jones; Mark Tully; and Adam Mars-Jones talking to Margaret Drabble. Prices from £137.

To book your stay, call 01865 286848/286877 or e-mail festival@chch.ox.ac.uk.

BOOKING TICKETS

To book tickets for events at the festival, go online at www.ticketsoxford.com (24hr booking until March 31 at 10am) or telephone 0870 343 1001.

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