Wellington Leg: In the final days of the pre-election frenzy the Republicans began using the word socialism to terrify the constituency into voting their way. Given the backdrop of extraordinary economic events the word socialism sounded friendly, almost gentle, like a cold medicine to avoid with extensive alcohol use. Republicans were reduced to bystanders at a five alarm fire warning of dire consequences to the water supply if we don’t stop dousing the flames. Looking back it’s a classic moment when public officials, accustomed to running amok with electoral emotions, froze in mid scream as Godzilla’s mighty foot came down. The squelching aftermath of political failure has infected the publishing industry, not as cause and effect, but as part of a similar blossoming of late stage awareness that scaring the audience is scaring themselves .
I Didn’t Mean to Destroy Book Publishing: It’s pretty hard to scorch Tokyo without serious collateral damage to institutions viewed as innocent bystanders in an epic moment such as this. Writers were put on earth to suffer but that agony was intended as a private and seedy passage through circles of hell invisible to ordinary folk. Writers need publishers the way cold sufferers need their meds and their excessive alcohol consumption in order to delay recovery. Writers are supposed to fall into gutters, not publishers. The fact that very little about the relationship between writers and publishers is healthy makes no difference. The ideal is that great work sways a skeptical house into acceptance by sheer force of quality. The author is hardly presentable, perhaps dead in a perfect circumstance. Dead authors are not invited to confess their sins on television. Well, maybe they get invited but they certainly don’t show up. But their work lives on! Imagine the sacrifice. Of course that ideal may have tarnished a time or two. Publishing people once announced that Pamela Anderson had written a novel, and ominously for the sanity of all, publishing people published it. Still the punishment does seem excessive for the occasional crime. Pam did promise a sequel. Perhaps it will prove to be the final book our civilization produces.
Writers now are beginning to understand that we may outlive the august houses against whose sturdy plate glass we press our noses. The guilt prone may assume some responsibility for this disorderly demise the theory being that if only we kept our end of the bargain all would be well. This is a Bastille unstormed; it’s crumbling away.
Grab a stone and some crazy glue. We need these people.