Archives for category: Reviews

IMG_0373The Bind is a graphic novel by William Goldsmith published in 2015 by Jonathan Cape. It tells the story of the creation in 1912 of a wildly extravagant binding of a poetry book, A Moonless Land, by Edward Skirmish, a poet bitten to death by a spider. Egret Bindings is jointly owned by two brothers, Guy and Victor Egret, though the ghost of their father, who founded the business, acts as our guide throughout, wafting here and there through the large bindery. Guy is the business man, though also a talented binder, and Victor, a creative genius of bookbinding, is the flamboyant impresario of the operation. The plot involves the making of duplicate fake copies of the jewel-encrusted binding using worthless jewels. Their obnoxious customer Mr Theodore Pointe has annoyed Victor by writing from New York to complain that the binding, for which he appears already to have paid, is late. Apparently he’s such an artistic collector that he never opens his objet d’art bindings, and this gives Victor the idea for the fake binding. He won’t be using a second set of sheets of the book — I guess that’s not obtainable — he’ll provide dummy pages with dummy text. “The uncut pages would contain nothing but filth.” He makes the staff work at night duplicating after hours the steps they’ve taken on the real binding during the day. Just why Guy should decide to make a second duplicate to dupe Victor isn’t altogether clear, but he does, fools Victor and fires him. Victor dies in the War. Guy, understandably depressed, is brought to his senses by being hit by a bus, throws the genuine A Moonlight Land into the Thames, and ultimately opens up a new Egret Bindings.

IMG_0375The style of illustration is loose and flowing, done by brush not pen, and this presents a bit of a problem in identifying which brother is doing what. The book is printed China by C & C Offset in shades of black (grey) and brown. The brown drops away when we go into flashback mode. This is of course not a how-to manual though we do get taken through the steps of binding a book. It’s fascinating to reflect that (as I assume to be the case) there really were establishments like this, retailing elaborate bindings to a customer-base that would line up to get into the showroom when it opened in the morning. One trembles to think what may lie in store for the new Egret Bindings after its opening in 1919.


Lots of people have said that the arrival of digital books should free us from the design constraints established over the centuries for printed books. Unsurprisingly action in this regard has been a while coming. Here are some early signs of development. The New World by Chris Adrian and Eli Horowitz is described in this Gizmodo post. I think the techy enthusiasm is a bit overstated. The New World is a fine book, but its technical “breakthroughs” are neat but not utterly amazing. You read it on the Atavist app which is available fee of charge. There are no page breaks: each chapter is one “page”. You scroll down till you get to the end. That’s logical. The text is unjustified, with a regular word space, an arrangement which (to me) is superior to say Kindle’s fixation with justification. When you get to the end of the chapter you swipe right to left to move to the next chapter. About half way through it reaches another title page labelled Cycle Two and at that point an arrow indicates that you start swiping left to right to navigate back as it were to the new chapters. In each chapter the text is enclosed in a colored box, maroon for Jane’s point-of-view and blue for Jim’s. When the viewpoint is shared the colors mingle, turning gradually to a deep purple. The final chapter is in its own Cycle, Three, and has no color border.

IMG_0134This zigzag navigation is picked up in the chapter heading design. Illustrated at the left is the start of the final chapter, in Cycle Three. When you start to work through the book you only see the top box above the text, which as you progress gets more and more zigs and zags; one for each chapter. When you make the turn to Cycle Two the second row appears and fills from right to left with zigs as you progress from chapter to chapter. The final Cycle contains only the one chapter and, as symbolized by the design, is in effect endless, finishing up with a repetition over and over of some phrases from Jane and Jim’s wedding vows. I am not 100% sure of this, but it appears that the narrative action has reached its furthest forward point at the switch over from Cycle One to Cycle Two, neatly mirrored in the reverse direction of your swiping from chapter to chapter. Cycle Two is flashback and Cycle Three a sort of beyond-the-grave kind of communication, I think. The chapter heading design does echo this rather well. The little box at the top left takes you to the front matter at any time, with the option of going to any of the Cycles — a sort of contents list.

Atavist has recently been recipient of an injection of funds Capital New York tells us (via Publishing Executive Insight). Here’s a story from NiemanLab, via Ink, Bits, & Pixels, describing some improvements they are making. We wish them luck and look forward to yet more innovation. I do think that their approach is better than the enhanced e-book route (see this Publishing Perspectives story). I believe a book is a book, and a movie is a movie. If I decide to read the book, I doubt if I’m going to want impulsively to switch over in medias res to a movie clip, or a suggestive photo, or whatever bell or whistle is on offer. We’ll see.

Is it amusing that these born-digital books like The New World and The Silent History are being picked up by traditional publishers for regular print publication? Probably inevitable, and after all why not?

The romance community is rather remote for me, but The Passive Voice brings us news of trouble in paradise. Specifically the trouble relates to pseudonymity — is it OK for a reviewer to travel under a pseudonym if that results in their seeing all the bitching about their reviews, which nobody would dream of doing to their face? The piece is pretty long. I’m not sure the anonymous poster has much of a complaint in the end. Surely we all have to assume that everything we say in public — and what’s more public than the internet — is heard by all who might be interested? To think that anything you write on-line is not going to reach everyone who might be interested is just self-deception. In the olden days we were told that insulting remarks written on a postcard were potentially actionable for libel because there was a legal assumption that a postcard would have been read in transit. Same problem surely.

UnknownOn Paper by Nicholas Basbanes is a large, handsome book published by Knopf. Given their commitment to fine book making, exemplified by their informing readers about typefaces in a colophon (I guess maybe they’ve stopped doing this) it’s a little surprising that they don’t tell us what paper the book was printed on. I don’t think they did anything extra special though: it’s a perfectly nicely formed cream/natural sheet, probably 55#, bulking at about 384ppi. It gives the book a satisfying heft, and has been nicely printed.

I’m afraid I find Nicholas Basbanes’ writing utterly soporific. By all rights I should love what he does — he writes about stuff I am fascinated by — but I seem unable to finish any of his books. The subtitle of the book may hint at my problem: The Everything of its Two-Thousand-Year History by a Self-Confessed Bibliophiliac. The bit about the Bibliophiliac is actually not really part of the subtitle: it’s more a catch-line on the jacket. But that’s the bit that gets me I suspect. It’s just overdoing it. You’ve got a perfectly good story here: don’t gussy it up with fancy writing. Having managed to struggle on to about two-thirds of the way through, I can’t really remember anything I’ve learned from his book, though it is true that the account of visiting hand papermakers in China with which the book starts does go pretty well.

Meanwhile I get, via Publishing Cambridge, this THES review of Lothar Müller’s White Magic, (Polity Press). It sounds from the review  a more lively book, but of course the review of On Paper in The TLS is what made me want to read that book in the first place. White Magic seems an altogether livelier account: one can get a pretty good flavor at Amazon’s “Look Inside” feature.

When life was slower and less efficiency-driven we used to spend time thinking about which paper was most appropriate for this or that book. The rule at the University Printing House in Cambridge was that mathematics would always be printed on a smooth white sheet. The less scientific you got the yellower the paper could be. Belles lettres (does such a category really exist or is it just a handy label for those lightly literary books published for the carriage trade?) might get a cream laid paper, with, if you wanted to go really wild, a watermark. We tended to want to put an entire series on the same paper: thus all the volumes of The Letters of D. H. Lawrence would be printed on the same Mohawk sheet. The trouble with this is that such series take years to complete, and in the meantime mills rationalize their lines or even go out of business without regard to whether you have finished your series or not. Some university presses have inventoried large quantities of paper and book cloth for this reason: with often tragic results. After a few years knocking about in a warehouse your stock will by looking slightly different, and will certainly be less than you started out with. Damage, decay and loss are endemic, though leaking roofs are rarer. Now that our industry is so driven by profit targets and ever greater efficiencies, the idea of buying paper for an individual book is incredible. Now we use a couple of standard sheets and sizes, and shoehorn our books into the mould.

9781590171998_jpg_200x450_q85Stoner is “a perfect novel” said Morris Dickstein in the review that got it all going. Stoner himself is a “perfect protagonist” according to Ruth Rendell. The book stumbled upon first publication and has been reissued a couple of times since, but it wasn’t until its publication by New York Review Books in 2006 that it really took off. Here’s a Publishers Weekly story from April 2013 about the book’s success, which continues to this day.

Last week I went to a book event organized by The Community Bookstore at the Brooklyn Public Library on the 18th of November at which Ruth Rendell, Honor Moore, and Daniel Mendelsohn discussed the book under the moderation of Liesl Schillinger. It was an altogether excellent event. And it got me thinking that Stoner is a rather bookish book.

William Stoner, (Bill to his colleagues, Willy to his awful wife) deliberate, steady, slow-moving man, transfers from agriculture to English literature after a classroom epiphany, when he is unable to find the words to say what Shakespeare’s Sonnet 73 “means”. Later, as a graduate student instructor “He found his release and fulfillment in the classes in which he himself was a student. There he was able to recapture the sense of discovery he had felt on that first day, when Archer Sloane had spoken to him in class and he had, in an instant, become someone other than who he had been. As his mind engaged itself with its subject, as it grappled with the power of the literature he studied and tried to understand its nature, he was aware of a constant change within himself; and as he was aware of that, he moved outward from himself into the world which contained him, so that he knew that the poem of Milton’s that he read or the essay of Bacon’s or the drama of Ben Jonson’s changed the world which was its subject, and changed it because of its dependence upon it.”

The story of William Stoner’s life, Stoner, changes the world which is its subject, Stoner, because of its dependence on him. Books are or stand for his deepest love, and books mark his life’s progress. In a book naked of metaphor, written in simple, slow-moving language reflective of the protagonist’s own internal dialog, the hidden surprise is that the entire work is a meta-metaphor. Stoner isn’t living his life so much as reading a book about it. Panelists spoke about Stoner’s passivity and lack of intervention in events going on around him. Events, often quite dramatic, do come up. Stoner, however, takes in the events reflectively and for the majority of us justly, and then turns to the next page. When his wife would rant at him “. . . Stoner looked upon it all—the rage, the woe, the screams, and the hateful silences—as if it were happening to two other people, in whom, by an effort of the will, he could summon only the most perfunctory interest.” His action consists in deciding not to act, as we all must do when reading a book. We sometimes feel like shouting “Bill, don’t do it” but we never do. We remain silent. Readers always remain silent, but not unchanged. Stoner is no different; he is reading the book of his life, the book of life.

Maybe it’s no more than a cheap coincidence, but if Stoner had been working in a British university his job title, as he never got promoted from assistant professor, would have been Reader.

Stoner published one book, a revision of his PhD dissertation. He took up the dissertation quite early in his difficult marriage and “decided that a book was possible; by early spring he was far enough along to be able to write the first tentative pages.  ¶ It was in the spring of the same year that, calmly and almost indifferently, Edith told him that she had decided she wanted a child.” The baby girl and the book were both beautiful, and loved by their father. His attitude to his manuscript was typically self-deprecating — “. . . though he was not altogether pleased with it he sent it to a publisher. To his surprise the study was accepted and scheduled for publication in the fall of 1925.” “His expectations for his first book had been both cautious and modest, and they had been appropriate; one reviewer called it ‘pedestrian’ and another had called it ‘a competent survey’. At first he had been very proud of the book; he had held it in his hands and caressed its plain wrapper and turned its pages. It seemed delicate and alive, like a child. He had reread it in print, mildly surprised that it was neither better nor worse than he had thought it would be. After a while he tired of seeing it; but he never thought of it and his authorship, without a sense of wonder and disbelief at his own temerity and at the responsibility he had assumed.”

In middle age Stoner experiences an all-consuming love affair; and starts to write another book. “What he wanted to do in this new book was not yet precisely clear to him; in general, he wished to extend himself beyond his first study, in both time and scope. . . . The possibilities he could see so exhilarated him that he could not keep still.” In an intense passage he and Katherine remain almost secluded all summer in her apartment, writing and making love. Each is writing their own book. “For hours at a time she would sit at the tiny desk against the wall, her head bent down in intense concentration over books and papers, her slender pale neck curving and flowing out of the dark blue robe she habitually wore; Stoner sprawled in the chair or lay on the bed in like concentration.” “Then they would make love, and lie quietly for a while, and return to their studies, as if their love and learning were one process.” “‘Lust and learning,’ Katherine once said. ‘That’s really all there is, isn’t it?'”

Departmental politics take his love and most of his meaningful teaching from him. He abandons the second book. Later, reading Katherine’s book “he marveled at how truly he could see her even now. Suddenly it was as if she were in the next room, and he had only moments before left her; his hands tingled, as if they had touched her.”

Cancer takes him. On his deathbed he dizzily gropes for his one book. “It was his own book he sought, and when the hand held it he smiled at the familiar red cover that had for a long time been faded and scuffed.”

“It hardly mattered to him that the book was forgotten and that it served no use; and the question of its worth at any time seemed almost trivial. He did not have the illusion that he would find himself there, in that fading print; and yet, he knew, a small part of him that he could not deny was there, and would be there.

“He opened the book; and as he did so it became not his own. He let his fingers riffle through the pages and felt a tingling, as if those pages were alive. The tingling came through his fingers and coursed through his flesh and bone; he was minutely aware of it, and he waited until it contained him, until the old excitement that was like terror fixed him where he lay. The sunlight, passing his window, shone upon the page, and he could not see what was written there.

“The fingers loosened, and the book they had held moved slowly and then swiftly across the still body and fell into the silence of the room.”


John Williams: Stoner (1965) New York Review Books. Williams’ two other great books, Butcher’s Crossing (1960) and Augustus (1972), have also been reissued by New York Review Books. If you have not read these, please do so.

There was a flurry of activity on the SHARP listserv recently about the iniquity of publishers’ trying to foist e-books onto reviewers. With very few exceptions these academics all condemned the trend. Many said that there was no way they’d write a review if the publisher diss-ed them by fobbing them off with an e-book. This attitude is of course understandable: academic journals do tend not to pay their reviewers, so a copy of the book ends up being the only reward for writing the review, beyond of course such value as comes from reading the material, and getting your name out there once again. Some conspiracy theoreticians even detected in all this a plot by publishers to kill off the printed book and subject all readers, willing and unwilling, to the inadequate substitute which they claim is the e-book.

I’m wondering if this protest was sparked by a letter to The Times Literary Supplement of 23 May 2014, from Hope Leman of Corvallis, Oregon (LinkedIn tells me she’s a Research Information Technologist there). She is all for e-books and on-line reviewing, counting this as a “new golden age where everybody is a potential book reviewer”. She tells us “University presses are quite courteous about providing review copies and prestigious ones like Oxford University Press and Yale University Press are making their books available to non-academic, non-professional reviewers like me on NetGalley because they know we will blog and tweet about their books, and that never hurts.” This seems to me to be all, more or less, that needs to be said — but clearly the established reviewers voicing their opinions in the SHARP discussion wouldn’t agree.

From the publisher’s point of view what’s to make of this? Well obviously we are not trying to kill off print. Quite the opposite: most publishers suffer from an almost debilitating love of the printed book. So why send out e-books for review? Money is the short answer. SHARP members are mostly academics, so we are dealing with academic books here. These do not print in large quantities. Reviews will be important in helping to sell the book, though probably not as important as our audience assumes. There’s no real way of tracking whether a sale results directly from a review. A couple of good reviews in prestigious journals will help establish a climate of opinion, affected also by the prestige of the author, and to some extent the publisher, so that a few extra libraries may be motivated to purchase. This may come about by a small number of academics requesting the book from their library, having just seen the review. Unfortunately reviews in academic journals tend take quite a while to appear: a rave review in a specialist journal two or three years after publication is nice, but not much of a sales booster.

So what proportion of the print run is the publisher to send out as review copies? The publisher will have a list of journals to which they will be sending a review copy because they believe that journal is likely to run a review. They will also get requests from journal review editors, and often individual scholars who would like to write a “freelance” review. You can’t send a book to everyone who asks: you certainly need to have books left on hand to sell! Sometimes the publisher’s publicity department will get a call from a journal requesting a review copy, even though they know one was mailed already. The journal editor may have initially decided against reviewing, and the first book has slipped into the second hand market, or the book may genuinely have been mislaid, or the first person to whom they sent the review copy may have declined after a few weeks, neglecting to return the book. The demand is pretty elastic: how to ration? The digital proof provides a ready answer — you could fill every request for a review copy from NetGalley.

One of the SHARP reviewers’ beefs was the difficulty of reading academic books in digital format. At first many digital versions were hard to navigate, but this is not I believe a consequence of the digital format, it’s a consequence of poor application of the digital format. Without any evidence, I assume this is improving all the time, as we gain experience and expertise. It ought in theory to be easier to check a note in a digital file than as an endnote in a printed book, though we do often have such difficulty getting back to the text call-out that after a few attempts we stop trying. Tables can be problematic, and tying artwork to text call-out can be a challenge. But we must be getting better at this sort of thing, mustn’t we?

Now bloggers (and there are lots and lots of them) have been added to the pile of review copy requests. In theory I could ask CUP for a review copy of The Cambridge History of the Book in Britain, Volume 1, c.400-1100 — after all a blog called “Making Book” could reasonably be expected to review such a thing. The fact that it costs $187.00 should make someone think twice before sending it to me, but if it was available through NetGalley why wouldn’t they send it to me (unfortunately it appears not to be): if I do review it, it can’t do any harm (though of course it wouldn’t I fear do much good); and if I don’t, ditto. So nowadays publishers can fill almost every request for a review copy by sending a digital file, the marginal cost of which is essentially zero after the cost of uploading it to NetGalley. The specialist reviewers complaining about this will just have to accept the situation — or stop writing reviews I fear. The economics of book publishing just make it impossible to send a review copy off to everyone who might review the book. Now it would seem possible to me to reach a sort of compromise — the e-book goes off, the review editor assesses whether or not to do a review, and in response to some sort of guarantee that the review will really happen, the publisher supplies a print book. Still, even that seems like it might cost too much in admin overhead to be a viable plan.

There is now a risk that publishers could easily end up giving a e-review copy to everyone who might be interested — i.e. saturating the market with freebies. Not a good sales model. So I expect, as more and more people cotton to NetGalley, publishers will become more restrictive on who they allow in by that route.

Returning to the academic’s point of view, we should acknowledge the power of prepublication reviewing. In return for a modest fee academics review unpublished manuscripts writing reports for publishers which often provide guidance to the author who can revise the manuscript as suggested. This peer-reviewing activity underpins the whole academic publishing enterprise: a university press simply cannot employ a specialist in every discipline, and without peer review the quality of the list would inevitably decline. So the same academics who complained in the SHARP exchange are the ones we rely on to pre-vet our lists. Alienating them doesn’t seem like a great idea.

Reports crop up from time to time of a book here or there bound in human skin. Sounds totally creepy to us nowadays, especially after World War II. But of course preserving relics of famous people, saints especially, has a long, and not unrespectable history. Publishing Cambridge provides a link to this post from The British Library English and Drama blog by Julian Walker which talks about the significance of touching things touched by famous authors. Clearly original manuscript is an obvious contender, but it goes further.

Hair of P. B. Shelley and Mary Shelley bound into a manuscript volume

Hair of P. B. Shelley and Mary Shelley bound into a manuscript volume

Locks of hair contained in brooches or necklace pendants were more of a thing a hundred years and more ago.  Maybe I come from an unemotional family, but I am not aware of a single instance where I have encountered a real relic of a family member — or actually anyone else. I suppose we have all heard of people who get their baby’s first bootees bronzed — and I’m willing to believe that such things exist. But the impulse seems totally alien to our modern sensibility, doesn’t it?

“Medieval relics were ‘created’ by laying cloths on the bones of saints – the cloths would have the same power as the bones.” I did not know this. I guess that means that taking your paperback edition of Frankenstein to the British Library and laying it on top of this manuscript volume, should endow it with some magical powers. Those who believe in the power of touching a relic should probably accept this too. For me Shelley’s or Mary Shelley’s works, even in modern edition form, are a sufficient relic of the authors. Their toe-nail clippings would not add anything to my experience. But collectors . . .

Here’s a review of Frankenstein, written by the author’s husband before publication, but not printed apparently until 14 years later. He liked it! (You can read this by clicking on the image. It can be accessed, as can more items from the Library by clicking on the links in Julian Walker’s piece.) The article following it, about raising a public subscription to secure Abbotsford for the use of Sir Walter Scott’s family, is actually more interesting to me.


As most people in publishing are aware, Kirkus Reviews is a monthly magazine which reviews a sizable proportion of the books published each year. They work from bound galleys (Advanced Readers Copies) so that the reviews can be available before publication to assist bookstores and librarians in their purchasing decisions. This year it celebrates its eightieth anniversary. (By coincidence it was for a short time owned by The New York Review of Books, which is also celebrating an anniversary this year — its fiftieth.)

Clay Smith, Kirkus’ features editor, has written a useful history of the publication in the latest issue — this is available online.

As reported by Publishing Perspectives today, “In celebration of this year’s anniversary, Kirkus Reviews is holding a contest to give away a literary tour of New York. The winner will receive two round-trip tickets to Manhattan, two nights’ stay at the Library Hotel, two passes to the Greenwich Village Literary Pub Crawl, bookstore gift certificates, breakfast at a round table at the Algonquin and more. The contest is now open and will close on October 22, 2013, with the winner announced the next day. Visit to enter or learn more.”

John B. Thompson, a professor of sociology at Cambridge has written about publishing before  — am I right in thinking that I remember that he along with Tony Giddens was involved in setting up Polity Press in Cambridge in 1984? It may be a reflection of the soundness of his work (or my lack of critical faculty) that as I read Merchants of Culture:The Publishing Business in the Twenty-First Century, 2nd edition, I kept saying “I know, I know”. The book is about trade publishing about which I really don’t know anything much, except what I’ve picked up over the years as an outsider looking on.

Thompson identifies three huge transformative influences affecting trade publishing in the past 20 years — the growth of literary agency; the growth of the book selling chains; and the conglomeration of publishing companies. The combined effect of these three influences he demonstrates to be entirely baleful, leading to desperate over-publishing, and an almost suicidal race to the bottom as panicky editors seek to signup instant books to fill the gap in the turnover demanded by their corporate owners. Publishers (or trade publishers) are shown to be whiplashed between ever more powerful agents demanding more money for their authors, and ever more powerful book selling chains, demanding higher discounts. Discounts he identifies as the main problem in Britain, where best-selling books cannot get to that status without the help of the supermarkets. In America he sees the larger and larger author advances as the bigger problem.

He quotes one former CEO of a large corporation “The agony and the ecstasy of the book publisher starts out with high returns in the first part of the year, disappointing sales and postponed publication dates and then sheer absolute terror as he or she contemplates the financial results based on what is actually known at that point.” Where’s the ecstasy?

Who should read this engrossing book? In some ways the obvious candidates, people working in publishing, for literary agents, or for the bookselling chains probably already know what Thompson describes. It’s great that he does describe it, as the world of trade publishing is ever-changing. He has described one ground change, and no doubt others will follow, so for posterity it’s good to have this description of the reality of the first decade of the 21st century. Students in publishing courses must be reading it. Aspiring authors would do well to read it, though it may put them off their planned career-path. But of course, change is constant, and optimism has to be a big part of the authorial make up, so the (to me) awful warning to authors carried by Chapter 10 may just glide past them. Things are changing faster and faster. Let’s hope this book doesn’t turn into a work of history.

I did read this on my iPad. As a Kindle book it cost me $9.99. This may make me part of the problem.

I love a book that gets out into the world with something wrong. How much more interesting is the Library of America volume which claims on the title page to be by Herman Meville? More run of the mill are the two books I’m correcting at work just now because we printed them without indexes. Or the recent edition of Aristophanes: Peace which we were printing with a duplicate of page 135 in place of page 125: When I supplied a corrected book to the professor at Vassar, he emailed his class with the missing page 125, under the heading “May the whole Peace now be with you”. When I was a teenager I read a Penguin biography which (I now realize) lacked the final signature. I puzzled over why a biography of Charles Dickens would leave him alive, if ailing, but never thought that there might be a section missing, and that I should have returned it to the publisher for replacement. (Well, maybe I wasn’t that naïve; perhaps I just couldn’t be bothered to find out about the last few hours.) I have retained a copy of a book about massage from a previous job, in which one illustration contains, in place of a finger, a Photoshopped penis. It took quite a while for anyone to notice this and complain to us. I also have one of the few surviving copies of a linguistics book which as editor I approved with a laugh and a shrug when the subeditor queried the use of first names only of members of the Kennedy White House in slightly suggestive examples of linguistic usages. The entire stock had to be pulped when the US office determined the book to be libelous. A lesson there about the difference between the legal systems on either side of the ocean — or is it, as I still suspect, a lesson about marketing department pusillanimity?

I just read Italo Calvino’s If on a winter’s night a traveller, the whole premiss of which is the quest for a complete copy of a novel, this novel, which the main character, the Reader, starts reading in chapter one, but discovers to be a miscollated copy which contains only the first signature of the book, duplicated throughout.  When he goes to the bookseller he’s told that the publisher has announced the problem had affected the entire run, and that the sig he’d been reading is actually the start of a completely different book by a Polish author. He opts for a copy of the Polish novel, as he’d become hooked on that first sig.  A replacement copy contains, however, entirely different content from what he’d been reading before.  He gets fascinated by this new book though, but comes to a point where the pages start to be blank. He realizes anyway that it probably isn’t the Polish novel anyway, as the names don’t sound Polish. So it goes on in a quest to find the complete text of something, always frustrated by yet another publishing defect.

I liked it immensely, but then I would wouldn’t I?  All these manufacturing errors, missing manuscript pages, inaccurate translations etc. are right up my alley. Some critics talk about it as being too slick, too easy, to contrived. I really don’t like critics who always feel they have to find some fault in a book. I have friends who love, and are extremely knowledgeable about, musical theater. Every show they go to seems to turn out to be lousy because it doesn’t match up to this or that platonic ideal. Same with many opera goers. Just because the soprano didn’t do it as well as Callas really doesn’t matter to me: she did it well enough to make for an enjoyable evening. I really cannot expect to be present at the best performance ever of any show you care to name, and to allow that disappointment  to ruin it for me is a good way of wasting the price of the ticket. I think this all comes from the same impulse that requires an editor to find mistakes in any proof you show them. If they can’t find an error, that shows that they haven’t been looking closely enough. Finding the error shows they are expert at their job, just as finding the inadequacies in the opera production shows that you know a lot about opera.