For A Tiny Press, The Pulitzer Arrives Out Of Nowhere Paul Harding's publisher, the tiny Bellevue Literary Press, published only a few thousand copies of his first novel, Tinkers. Expectations were low. Then it won the Pulitzer Prize for fiction.

For A Tiny Press, The Pulitzer Arrives Out Of Nowhere

For A Tiny Press, The Pulitzer Arrives Out Of Nowhere

  • Download
  • <iframe src="" width="100%" height="290" frameborder="0" scrolling="no" title="NPR embedded audio player">
  • Transcript

An archive photo of Bellevue Hospital, the home of the tiny Bellevue Literary Press, which published Paul Harding's Tinkers. Courtesy of Bellevue Hospital Center Archives hide caption

toggle caption
Courtesy of Bellevue Hospital Center Archives

An archive photo of Bellevue Hospital, the home of the tiny Bellevue Literary Press, which published Paul Harding's Tinkers.

Courtesy of Bellevue Hospital Center Archives
Cover of Tinkers by Paul Harding

By Paul Harding
Paperback, 192 pages
Bellevue Literary Press
List price: $14.95

Read An Excerpt

When the Pulitzer Prizes were announced this past week, perhaps no one was more surprised than fiction winner Paul Harding. His novel, Tinkers, was released by a little-known publishing company with few works of fiction to its credit, the first time a book published by a small independent press has won the Pulitzer for fiction since 1981's A Confederacy of Dunces.

No one notified Paul Harding that he had won the Pulitzer. There was no congratulatory phone call. He wasn't sitting around with a group of friends waiting breathlessly for the news. Harding was alone when he checked the Pulitzer website, curious to find out who had won.

"I came as close to actually fainting as I think I ever have, because I literally just could not believe what I saw when it came up on the website," Harding says with a laugh. "And I kept refreshing and it just kept coming up Tinkers, Tinkers, Tinkers."

Harding's short novel is the story of a dying man, George Washington Crosby, and his relationship with his father, who suffered from epilepsy and eventually abandoned his family because of the affliction.

After Harding finished writing the book, he sent it out to agents and publishers, but there were no takers.

"I just put in a drawer for three years I guess, and just thought this'll be one I have in the file cabinets and I'll just start working on the next thing," Harding says. "And then it was published more or less through a series of ... wonderful, improbable accidents with the Bellevue Literary Press getting a hold of it and wanting to do it."

The Bellevue Literary Press was not exactly known as a powerhouse in the publishing world: The staff comprises editorial director Erika Goldman and an assistant. Their office is in a most unusual setting for a publishing company, "nestled," as Goldman puts it, "within the department of medicine at the New York University School of Medicine, which is at Bellevue Hospital."

Bellevue is a major center for emergency services in New York City, but it is probably best known in the public imagination as a mental hospital. The hospital's literary press was established five years ago, mainly for the publication of high-end medical books. But Goldman, a veteran of the publishing business, is also committed to releasing works of fiction with a scientific or medical theme. A publishing colleague who had passed on Tinkers because it didn't seem right for his company thought it might work for Bellevue.

'Tinkers' on NPR

In NPR's Best Debut Fiction of 2009 list, John Freeman wrote:

There are few perfect debut American novels. Walter Percy's The Moviegoer and Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird come to mind. So does Marilynne Robinson's Housekeeping. To this list ought to be added Paul Harding's devastating first book, Tinkers, the story of a dying man drifting back in time to his hardscrabble New England childhood, growing up the son of his clockmaking father.
The mystery and machinery of these ticking timepieces appear and reappear throughout this beautiful book, which cycles backward and forward in time, capturing with awful grace the unwinding of a life. George Washington Crosby, the book's dying hero, awakens out of delirium into the terror of his body's revolt. His loved ones, sitting nearby, might as well be in another country: that of the living, the healthy. Harding has written a masterpiece around the truism that all of us, even surrounded by family, die alone.

Goldman says she responded immediately.

"It just leapt off the page," she says. "You know it when a manuscript arrives that is several cuts above the norm, and this was, this was it."

Goldman ordered a first printing of 3,500 copies, a small but not unusual number for a first novel from a small press. Then a sales rep in San Francisco fell in love with the book. She got the book buyer at the independent bookstore Book Passage interested, and that book buyer brought Harding to the store for a signing event. Soon he was visiting other bookstores and started getting invited to speak at book clubs.

"So I went to people's houses and hung out with groups of eight to a dozen people and sat in people's living rooms and talked about the book and art and all sorts of pleasant things," Harding says.

The book, which had won glowing reviews from The New Yorker and the Los Angeles Times, started to benefit from a sort of ephemeral "word of mouth" buzz, Goldman says.

"This is a real phenomenon. It's not hyped. It's not heavily marketed and spun," Goldman says. "It's just passionate readers falling in love with a gorgeous work of literature and sharing the wealth."

Paul Harding drummed in the band Cold Water Flat. Tinkers is his first novel. Gary Ottley hide caption

toggle caption
Gary Ottley

Paul Harding drummed in the band Cold Water Flat. Tinkers is his first novel.

Gary Ottley

Eventually Tinkers had gotten enough attention in literary circles that the Pulitzer committee called Goldman and asked her to submit it for the award. But neither she nor Harding ever expected it to win.

About 15,000 copies have been published, and since the award, Bellevue has ordered another run, of 30,000. But even before winning the Pulitzer, Harding had gotten a contract for two new books, though not with Bellevue. His new publisher will be Random House; Goldman gave him her blessing. And the Pulitzer, he says, belongs to her and Bellevue as much as it does to him.

"When I step back a little bit," Harding says, "[I] just think this is just one of these really, really cool, wonderful literary anecdotes. But then what's mind-blowing to me is that I happen to be the protagonist."

Excerpt: 'Tinkers'

Cover of Tinkers by Paul Harding

George Washington Crosby began to hallucinate eight days before he died. From the rented hospital bed, placed in the middle of his own living room, he saw insects running in and out of imaginary cracks in the ceiling plaster. The panes in the windows, once snugly pointed and glazed, stood loose in their sashes. The next stiff breeze would topple them all and they would flop onto the heads of his family, who sat on the couch and the love seat and the kitchen chairs his wife had brought in to accommodate everyone. The torrent of panes would drive everyone from the room, his grandchildren in from Kansas and Atlanta and Seattle, his sister in from Florida, and he would be marooned on his bed in a moat of shattered glass. Pollen and sparrows, rain and the intrepid squirrels he had spent half of his life keeping out of the bird feeders would breach the house.

He had built the house himself -- poured the foundation, raised the frame, joined the pipes, run the wires, plastered the walls, and painted the rooms. Lightning struck once when he was in the open foundation, soldering the last joint of the hot-water tank. It threw him to the opposite wall. He got up and finished the joint. Cracks in his plaster did not stay cracks; clogged pipes got routed; peeling clapboard got scraped and slathered with a new coat of paint.

By Paul Harding
Paperback, 192 pages
Bellevue Literary Press
List price: $14.95

Get some plaster, he said, propped up in the bed, which looked odd and institutional among the Persian rugs and Colonial furniture and dozens of antique clocks. Get some plaster. Jesus, some plaster and some wires and a couple of hooks. You'd be all set for about five bucks.

Yes, Gramp, they said.

Yes, Dad. A breeze blew through the open window behind him and cleared exhausted heads. Bocce balls clicked out on the lawn.

Noon found him momentarily alone, while the family prepared lunch in the kitchen. The cracks in the ceiling widened into gaps. The locked wheels of his bed sank into new fault lines opening in the oak floor beneath the rug. At any moment, the floor was going to give. His useless stomach would jump in his chest as if he were on a ride at the Topsfield Fair and with a spine-snapping jolt he and the bed would land in the basement, on top of the crushed ruins of his workshop. George imagined what he would see, as if the collapse had, in fact, already happened: the living room ceiling, now two stories high, a ragged funnel of splintered floorboards, bent copper pipes, and electrical wires that looked like severed veins bordering the walls and pointing towards him in the center of all of that sudden ruin. Voices murmured out in the kitchen.

George turned his head, hoping someone might be sitting just out of view, with a paper plate of potato salad and rolled slices of roast beef on her lap and a plastic cup of ginger ale in her hand. But the ruin persisted. He thought he called out, but the women's voices in the kitchen and the men's voices in the yard hummed uninterrupted. He lay on his heap of wreckage, looking up.

The second floor fell on him, with its unfinished pine framing and dead-end plumbing (the capped pipes never joined to the sink and toilet he had once intended to install) and racks of old coats and boxes of forgotten board games and puzzles and broken toys and bags of family pictures—some so old they were exposed on tin plates—all of it came crashing down into the cellar, he unable to even raise a hand to protect his face.

But he was nearly a ghost, almost made of nothing, and so the wood and metal and sheaves of brightly printed cardboard and paper (MOVE FORWARD SIX SPACES TO EASY STREET! Great-Grammy Noddin, shawled and stiff and frowning at the camera, absurd with her hat that looked like a sailor's funeral mound, heaped with flowers and netting), which otherwise would have crushed his bones, dropped on him and fell away like movie props, he or they facsimiles of former, actual things.

There he lay among the graduation photos and old wool jackets and rusted tools and newspaper clippings about his promotion to head of the mechanical-drawing department at the local high school, and then about his appointment as director of guidance, and then about his retirement and subsequent life as a trader and repairer of antique clocks. The mangled brass works of the clocks he had been repairing were strewn among the mess. He looked up three stories to the exposed support beams of the roof and the plump silver-backed batts of insulation that ran between them. One grandson or another (which?) had stapled the insulation into place years ago and now two or three lengths of it had come loose and lolled down like pink woolly tongues.

The roof collapsed, sending down a fresh avalanche of wood and nails, tarpaper and shingles and insulation. There was the sky, filled with flat-topped clouds, cruising like a fleet of anvils across the blue. George had the watery, raw feeling of being outdoors when you are sick. The clouds halted, paused for an instant, and plummeted onto his head.

The very blue of the sky followed, draining from the heights into that cluttered concrete socket. Next fell the stars, tinkling about him like the ornaments of heaven shaken loose. Finally, the black vastation itself came untacked and draped over the entire heap, covering George's confused obliteration.

Nearly seventy years before George died, his father, Howard Aaron Crosby, drove a wagon for his living. It was a wooden wagon. It was a chest of drawers mounted on two axles and wooden spoked wheels. There were dozens of drawers, each fitted with a recessed brass ring, pulled open with a hooked forefinger, that contained brushes and wood oil, tooth powder and nylon stockings, shaving soap and straight-edge razors. There were drawers with shoe shine and boot strings, broom handles and mop heads. There was a secret drawer where he kept four bottles of gin. Mostly, back roads were his route, dirt tracks that ran into the deep woods to hidden clearings where a log cabin sat among sawdust and tree stumps and a woman in a plain dress and hair pulled back so tight that she looked as if she were smiling(which she was not) stood in a crooked doorway with a cocked squirrel gun. Oh, it's you, Howard. Well, I guess I need one of your tin buckets. In the summer, he sniffed heather and sang someone's rocking my dreamboat and watched the monarch butterflies (butter fires, flutter flames; he imagined himself somewhat of a poet) up from Mexico. Spring and fall were his most prosperous times, fall because the backwoods people stocked up for the winter (he piled goods from the cart onto blazing maple leaves), spring because they had been out of supplies often for weeks before the roads were passable for his first rounds. Then they came to the wagon like sleepwalkers: bright-eyed and ravenous. ometimes he came out of the woods with orders for coffins—a child, a wife wrapped up in burlap and stiff in the woodshed.

He tinkered. Tin pots, wrought iron. Solder melted and cupped in a clay dam. Quicksilver patchwork. Occasionally, a pot hammered back flat, the tinkle of tin sibilant, tiny beneath the lid of the boreal forest. Tinkerbird, coppersmith, but mostly a brush and mop drummer.

George could dig and pour the concrete basement for a house. He could saw the lumber and nail the frame. He could wire the rooms and fit the plumbing. He could hang the drywall. He could lay the floors and shingle the roof. He could build the brick steps. He could point the windows and paint the sashes. But he could not throw a ball or walk a mile; he hated exercise, and once he took early retirement at sixty he never had his heart rate up again if he could help it, and even then only if it were to whack through some heavy brush to get to a good trout pool. Lack of exercise might have been the reason that, when he had his first radiation treatment for the cancer in his groin, his legs swelled up like two dead seals on a beach and then turned as hard as lumber. Before he was bedridden, he walked as if he were an amputee from a war that predated modern prosthetics; he tottered as if two hardwood legs hinged with iron pins were buckled to his waist. When his wife touched his legs at night in bed, through his pajamas, she thought of oak or maple and had to make herself think of something else in order not to imagine going down to his workshop in the basement and getting sandpaper and stain and sanding his legs and taining them with a brush, as if they belonged to a piece of furniture. Once, she snorted out loud, trying to stifle a laugh, when she thought, My husband, the table. She felt so bad afterward that she wept.

The stubbornness of some of the country women with whom Howard came into contact on his daily rounds cultivated in him, he believed, or would have believed, had he ever consciously thought about the matter, an unshakable, reasoning patience. When the soap company discontinued its old detergent for a new formula and changed the design on the box the soap came in, Howard had to endure debates he would have quickly conceded, were his adversaries not paying customers.

Where's the soap?
This is the soap.
The box is different.
Yes, they changed it.
What was wrong with the old box?
Why'd they change it?
Because the soap is better.
The soap is different?
Nothing wrong with the old soap.
Of course not, but this is better.
Nothing wrong with the old soap. How can it be better?
Well, it cleans better.
Cleaned fine before.
This cleans better -- and faster.
Well, I'll just take a box of the normal soap.
This is the normal soap now.
I can't get my normal soap?
This is the normal soap; I guarantee it.
Well, I don't like to try a new soap.
It's not new.
Just as you say, Mr. Crosby. Just as you say.
Well, ma'am, I need another penny.
Another penny? For what?
The soap is a penny more, now that it's better.
I have to pay a penny more for different soap in a blue box? I'll just take a box of my normal soap.

George bought a broken clock at a tag sale. The owner gave him a reprint of an eighteenth-century repair manual for free. He began to poke around the guts of old clocks. As a machinist, he knew gear ratios, pistons and pinions, physics, the strength of materials. As a Yankee in North Shore horse country, he knew where the old money lay, dozing, dreaming of wool mills and slate quarries, ticker tape and foxhunts. He found that bankers paid well to keep their balky heirlooms telling time. He could replace the worn tooth on a strike wheel by hand.

Lay the clock facedown. Unscrew the screws; maybe just pull them from the cedar or walnut case, the threads long since turned to wood dust dusted from mantels. Lift off the back of the clock like the lid of a treasure chest. Bring the long-armed jeweler's lamp closer, to just over your shoulder. Examine the dark brass. See the pinions gummed up with dirt and oil. Look at the blue and green and purple ripples of metal hammered, bent, torched. Poke your finger into the clock; fiddle the escape wheel (every part perfectly named—escape: the end of the machine, the place where the energy leaks out, breaks free, beats time). Stick your nose closer; the metal smells tannic. Read the names etched onto the works: Ezra Bloxham–1794; Geo. E. Tiggs–1832; Thos. Flatchbart–1912. Lift the darkened works from the case. Lower them into ammonia. Lift them out, nose burning, eyes watering, and see them shine and star through your tears. File the teeth. Punch the bushings. Load the springs. Fix the clock. Add your name.

Tinker, tinker. Tin, tin, tin. Tintinnabulation. There was the ring of pots and buckets. There was also the ring in Howard Crosby's ears, a ring that began at a distance and came closer, Until it sat in his ears, then burrowed into them. His head thrummed as if it were a clapper in a bell. Cold hopped onto the tips of his toes and rode on the ripples of the ringing throughout his body until his teeth clattered and his knees faltered and he had to hug himself to keep from unraveling. This was his aura, a cold halo of chemical electricity that encircled him immediately before he was struck by a full seizure. Howard had epilepsy. His wife, Kathleen, formerly Kathleen Black, of the Quebec Blacks but from a reduced and stern branch of the family, cleared aside chairs and tables and led him to the middle of the kitchen floor. She wrapped a stick of pine in a napkin for him to bite so he would not swallow or chew off his tongue. If the fit came fast, she crammed the bare stick between his teeth and he would wake to a mouthful of splintered wood and the taste of sap, his head feeling like a glass jar full of old keys and rusty screws.

From Tinkers by Paul Harding. Copyright 2009 by Paul Harding. Published by Bellevue Literary Press. Used by permission of the publisher. All rights reserved.