Based on name recognition alone…

Jeremy Taylor is a 25 year old American book editor working for Pearce Learner in London. He lives in a swanky flat, has a fancy coffee machine, and goes to work in a designer suit. When he arrives at the office, his fierce corporate boss is fuming about a rival publisher’s signing of the new novel by Irvin Gattinger, a once famous writer who hasn’t produced in years.

Jeremy is impressed: “based on name recognition alone, it’ll be an instant success“. He is even more impressed when he is sent off to Tuscany to persuade another once famous novelist (and his personal hero), Weldon Parish, to start writing again after twenty years, and give Pearce Learner the bestseller the boss craves.

Tuscany is lovely, he falls for the writer’s horse-mad daughter, gets Weldon back tapping at the keys of his old typewriter, and discovers his inner novelist. Needless to say Jeremy ends up staying in Italy.

Wow! Is this what happened to all those 25 year old editors we used to know?

Shadows in the Sun (2005)

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We hold a dead book in our hands

In Vladimir Nabokov’s The Real Life of Sebastian Knight being published is what the narrator yearns for, when, in Paris, he first sees his half-brother’s new book “The Doubtful Asphodel announced in an English paper”.

“And as I sat there alone in the lugubriously comfortable hall, and read the publisher’s advertisement and Sebastian’s handsome black name in block letters, I envied his lot more acutely than I had ever envied it before.”

As is the case with many books about writers there is little mention of publishers and publishing, although we do hear something of Sebastian Knight’s lackadaisical dealings with the profession. What a lark that “The Funny Mountain was published simultaneously in two American magazines, and Sebastian was at a loss to remember how he managed to sell it to two different people”. The first publisher of The Prismatic Bezel spotted an obvious libel and “advised Sebastian to modify the whole passage, a thing which Sebastian flatly refused to do, saying finally that he would get the book printed elsewhere – and this he eventually did”. When the book was published it “fell completely flat” and “was appreciated at its true worth only when Sebastian’s first real success caused it to be presented anew by another firm (Bronson), but even then it did not sell as well as Success, or Lost Property.” Bronson is the only publisher mentioned, and the author’s successes are not attributed in any way to publishing expertise.

Books are central to the story V unfolds, and his view of The Doubtful Asphodel obliquely presages now overworked predictions of the death of the book: “The man is dead, and we do not know. The asphodel on the other shore is as doubtful as ever. We hold a dead book in our hands. Or are we mistaken?”

Vladimir Nabokov, The Real Life of Sebastian Knight, 1941

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Peasenhall recommends a good book

When chat show host Jack Harris dies, his old friend David is commissioned to write a biography. The publisher is also an old friend, Caroline Bliss, “editorial director of Maypole Books, A Division of Something Nasty”.

At Maypole Books they love David’s title. “I call Sarah and tell her the book’s called ‘That’s All We Have Time For’. Sarah rings back to say that Caroline Bliss loves it and she loves it and everyone loves it in the office, which is open-plan to make love spread faster.

In case you haven’t guessed, Sarah is an eager young publishing recruit, who “writes down everything Caroline says, nodding muppetly. She’s a sarah in the Young Publishing Army. Many of her fellows will fall along the way. In this building alone, in the next twelve months, they’ll probably lose two sarahs, a poppy, various kates. But Sarah will survive. She knows what has to be done: agree with Caroline Bliss.

We learn a lot about Jack, David, their families, lovers and friends, but the biography never gets published quite as planned. But at least David is rescued from his life working in a bookshop in Suffolk, from where he “has dispersed enlightenment in all directions” for fourteen years.

This is not the Suffolk of the eighteenth century, most easily approached by boat. This is the Suffolk of email, where a book I recommended to the Person from Peasenhall was electronically touted that very morning to her friend in New Zealand.

They must know a thing or two about good books in Peasenhall.

Jon Canter, Seeds of Greatness, 2006

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What publishers do for love

There is a delicate publishing leitmotif in Lisa Appignanesi’s The Things We Do For Love. Tessa Hughes works at the ‘Press’ in Cambridge “and within a few months” of marrying Stephen Caldwell, a geneticist at Trinity College, she “had been promoted to commissioning editor”. Tessa wants children, but on her birthday Stephen gives her “yet another book, she who had spent all her life surrounded by them, reading, editing, publishing. But what could he give her since he wouldn’t give her the only thing she really wanted? A child.

Her quest to find out the truth about Stephen (and to get the child she craves) takes her across Europe, where she meets the sensuous but devious Ted Knight. When Ted gives her a present of perfume, she tells him that she “once edited a book on smell”; she teases him about finding authors for her at a conference in Prague; when she threatens him with her knowledge of poisonous mushrooms, he supposes she “once edited a book about them” (in fact she “had a world expert for a teacher”, a previous equally unsuitable lover). By the end of the book Tessa is on her way back to England with her husband. She prepares for a life in which she may be pregnant by either Ted or Stephen, and she may adopt the infant child of a poor refugee she encountered in Prague.

She remembered that on her return to Cambridge, there would be a history of the South Slavs waiting for her, perhaps another on nineteenth century vice squads.” These books might come in handy as she brings up her adopted daughter and tries to avoid further encounters with sinister characters like Ted Knight.

Lisa Appignanesi, The Things We Do For Love, 1998

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A Herring Connection

In the latest of L.C.Tyler’s Elsie and Ethelred Mysteries, The Herring in the Library, the obscure crime-writer and his agent are embroiled in the death of Sir Robert “Shagger” Muntham. While Ethelred’s publisher does does not appear in the plot, Elsie makes her view of the profession clear when talking to Ethelred.

“You should probably get on with some work. We need to keep your publisher happy. Just remember that writers are to publishers what sheep are to shepherds. Viewed collectively, you’re essential – in fact they’d look a bit silly without you. Individually, however, you are all just so many mutton chops and a woolly hat.”

L.C.Tyler, The Herring in the Library, 2010

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Publishing and Power

The unexpected use of “good Anglo-Saxon names” makes the characters like people “you meet in the street”, and adds to the tension and terror in Thomas Keneally’s The Tyrant’s Novel. Here a writer from an unnamed country calling himself Alan Sheriff, seeks asylum and tells how the leader of his country, ‘Great Uncle’, enlisted him in the service of his political goals.

Great Uncle said again, I want you to do me a favour, Alan. I want you to do, that is, the state a favour. I don’t pretend it won’t be demanding. The situation is this. In four months the G-7 meet, as I say, in Montreal. My plan is to release a book in New York at that time, published by a bona fide publisher, bearing my name, which displays to the world the suffering of my people, and their patriotic inventiveness in the face of sanctions. You can put it better than that, I know. I want it to be a subtle novel, with heroes and some villains. I want it to be a book an American would enjoy reading.

Everything is set up –“ Pearson Dysart in New York have the publisher primed, but they insist they need three months to get the word of this extraordinary literary coup into the market and to attend to publishing the book. And, of course, to let it leak into the market that they have signed a contract with the notorious Great Uncle, and that the manuscript of the novel is very good.

Alan conceals the fact that he has buried the only remaining copy of his recently completed manuscript (paper and computer file) with the body of his wife, who has suddenly died of a cerebral aneurism. It is eventually exhumed. In another part of the story a friend already in exile writes to tell Alan that a package that “claimed to come from the University Press” contained the head of his “former file manager from the Cultural Commission”. Earlier a friend of Alan justifies submitting his book to the censor: “How much different is it, he asked, than having a Western publisher who wants to smarten up a manuscript according to what’s fashionable?

When the book is complete, the Great Uncle proposes making Alan his “storyteller laureate”, “Shostakovich to my Stalin, Molière to my Sun King”. Books and publishing are shown as powerful forces in international affairs and writers can produce texts to order in both totalitarian and commercial contexts. When he escaped, the only thing Alan carried “which resembled a document was a folded-up dust jacket from the American edition of my book”, showing that it is Alan’s publishability that is important to all concerned. It may also be what enables the writer to escape the tyrant’s clutches.

Thomas Keneally, The Tyrant’s Novel, 2004

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We don’t want rats in Burton’s!

Poetry could create much more of a publishing sensation in the days of the Forsyte Saga than it does now.

In a centre of literature such as London, where boooks come out by the half-dozen almost every day, the advent of a slender volume of poems is commonly of little moment. But circumstances combined to make the appearance of The Leopard, and other Poems a ‘literary event’. It was Wilfrid’s first production for four years. He was a lonely figure, marked out by the rarity of literary talent among the old aristocracy, by the bitter, lively quality of his earlier poems, by his Eastern sojourn and isolation from literary circles, and finally by the report that he had embraced Islam.

In John Galsworthy’s Flowering Wilderness a publisher sees the potential of Wilfrid Desert’s new book of poetry, and is prepared to create the necessary ‘buzz’. “He who was Compson Grice Ltd had from the first perceived that in ‘The Leopard’ he had ‘a winner’ – people would not enjoy it, but they would talk about it. He had only to start the snowball rolling down the slope, and when moved by real conviction no one could do better than he.

The fuss creates a success for the publisher even greater than expectations, but things do not go well for the poet. “Wilfrid’s mood when he left his publisher at ‘The Jessamine’ was angry and confused. Without penetrating to the depth of Compson Grice’s mental anatomy, he felt that he had been manipulated.” He is expelled from Burton’s club, “not for the apostacy, but for the song he’s made about it. Decency should have kept him quiet. Advertising his book! It’s in its third edition, and everybody reading it. Making money out of it seems to me the limit.

We don’t want rats in Burton’s!” is one member’s verdict, and the club committee is particularly influenced by an article in The Daily Phase which “had a long allusive column on the extreme importance of British behaviour in the East. It had also a large-type advertisement. ‘The Leopard and other Poems‘, by Wilfrid Desert: published by Compson Grice: 40,000 copies old: Third Large Impression ready.”

It’s a matter of some curiosity that Burton’s Club was, according to Jack Muskham, “founded in memory of a very great traveller who’d have dared Hell itself“. Is this the same Richard Burton who travelled in disguise to Mecca and translated One Thousand and One Nights? Surely that Burton would have been more sympathetic to Wilfrid’s predicament than to the hypocrisy of The Daily Phase.

John Galsworthy, Flowering Wilderness, 1932

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