My own long-term interpretation of the writing trade has been that it is the turning of one's worst moments into money. And in Dick Francis and William Murray we have two writers who are ambidextrous, so to speak, and indeed are turning both their best and worst moments into revenue. These authors come out of their corners jabbing you instantly in the imagination and setting on edge your state of expectancy as they unfold with complacency-piercing words the contrasting worlds of horse racing on each side of the Atlantic. In Decider, Mr. Francis gives his somewhat more polite version, peopled by aristocrats in their country mansions. In We're Off to See the Killer, Mr. Murray gives us a rougher picture of lust and venery, peopled by a tougher-sounding brand of folk whose abodes are where their hats hang.

Resentfully blaming the genre because it sells so well and makes its creators rich, one sometimes wonders if the so-called literary world is out to ruin literature that can be so readily read, like these quite gripping books by two of the best writers in the business. For I somehow imagine that this must be the most exacting form for the literary craftsman, with every word you write there on the page forever to be used against you by your admiring but aware-eyed aficionados. But both Mr. Francis and Mr. Murray are clearly expert, even down to one of two stereotypical characters, as you would expect to find in the racing world. And there are no literary nonsense descriptions. Their words are precise, vivid and as brilliant literary as you can get.

Any mention of Dick Francis to one of his readers brings unrestrained eruptions of enthusiasm of every pleasant kind. Of course, Mr. Francis already enjoys the patronage of members of the British royal family, who eagerly devour his words—not a bad recommendation. But then on the other side of the Atlantic I imagine President Clinton to be a fan of William Murray's, and if he isn't yet, let me suggest We're Off to See the Killer instead of budget deficits for his bedside reading. Mr. Murray's hero, Shifty Lou Anderson, is a magician who bets on horses. In Mr. Murray's expert writing, there are many suspicious goings-on that even touch on the contemporary, with a corporation supplying arms to the former Yugoslavia.

We're Off to See the Killer has a much more carnal-minded and complicated plot than Decider. However, Mr. Francis is not far behind Mr. Murray in these matters. He comes from behind and rides at his shoulder, as it were, and in the final furlong his fast pace makes up for the lack of Mr. Murray's riotous sexual romping. With his hero an architect restoring ruins, Mr. Francis comes down the stretch with a hint of incest, wife beating and rape, edging up to be nose and nose with Mr. Murray and adding a nice touch of British morality, which, in your best aristocratic family tradition, has always meant keeping scandal quiet and paying to preserve a good name. In Decider, we can learn not only of horse racing but also of the behind-the-scenes business of running a racecourse and the internecine family disputes it can involve, which produce a fiery and violent climax.

In reviewing these two highly commendable works, I have to admit an ignorance, not of horses or racing but of this genre. And I would have once imagined that purveyors of this form of fiction had a much easier time than the so-called literary authors in putting together their stories. And I would have thought them a different breed had I not once actually encountered one of these writers and found him to be the most dedicated and serious of literary men. Such types are exemplified by Mr. Murray's and Mr. Francis' rapier use of words and the scrupulous attention paid to their authentic settings and how intimately they examine and know the worlds they write about.

The revelation happened during the more sumptuous days of television years ago, on a rainy Sunday morning in Manchester, England. The previous night, a public relations officer separately invited two writers to appear, representing the opposite, hostile sides on the question of obscenity. The intention of the program was to contrast a so-called serious author whose work had been banned with one who had become noted for his so-called less serious fiction and was not banned. The two antagonists were staying overnight in Manchester's best hotel. Informed that a chauffeured limousine was available to take them separately to the studio the next morning, each man declined, deciding instead to walk and find his own way to the television station through Manchester's then quite grim smog-bound and anonymous streets. In the drizzle the men arrived to confront each other on the entrance steps of the television studio.

I was one of these writers who chose to walk through the gloomy Sunday morning Manchester streets. The other was Ian Fleming. We both stood there wet and dripping, and soon to be contrasted to the nation on that Sunday afternoon, I as a scandalous author published by the Olympia Press in Paris, my book The Ginger Man having been recently ordered by a Manchester magistrate to be destroyed, and Fleming to be made an example of an unbanned purveyor of so-called popular pornography, eagerly and widely read by the British public. But Fleming, who knew he was to be used as a scapegoat, instead of recoiling at the sight of me, smiled and seemed relieved, holding out his hand to shake mine in recognition of the fact that we had both chosen to eschew ease and luxury for the discomfort of the rain in order to see the slums of Manchester on a foggy, cold morning. We both knew that we were equally serious authors whose lives were devoted to writing, which is hardly necessary to say of these two authors, Dick Francis and William Murray, whose books stand them in good stead and allow them to continue to turn their worst and best moments into money.