The Register claims (link from booktrade.info) that the 'US Patent Office decimates Amazon's 1-click patent -- only five of 26 claims survive.'
Which is quite interesting, because, as I understood it, Amazon was earning revenue from any other web-based outfit which offered a similar facility.
And, what is more interesting, the patent claims were challenged by a New Zealand blogger, supported by funds donated by his readers.
In passing, of course, retired schoolmasters such as Mr Robinson will note that, in rejecting 5 out of 26 claims, the Patent Office was not 'decimating' at all. Strictly speaking, to decimate means (as Sir Ernest Gowers pointed out in Plain Words in 1948) to reduce by one tenth, not to one tenth. And here the Patent Office wasn't doing either.
Decimating was originally something done to mutinous troops. You shot every tenth man and the rest usually had second thoughts.
Sir Ernest offered the following example, drawn from a discussion of the misuse of the word 'literally' in the Times. It came from a penny dreadful: 'Dick, hotly pursued by the scalp-hunter, turned in his saddle, fired, and literally decimated his opponent.'
Forty years ago, my pupils in the top class for English used to enjoy that one.
*
The Times reports that there are plans afoot to make the Booker shortlist available free online.
*
Oh my God. Madame Arcati is a fan of Martin Amis. I would never have thought it. Well, at least I made the right guess about Madame's sexual tastes.
*
I read a news report last weekend which said that, on average, an American office worker receives 140 emails a day, and manages to look at less than half of them. One young woman reportedly deleted 30,000 unread emails, and felt a lot better afterwards.
My situation, mercifully, is not that bad, but I am still catching up on that two-week absence of computer. So, if you have written to me in the past month, and wonder why I am being so rude as not to reply, bear with me. You may yet get a response.
*
Crossword fan? Go to the OUP blog and try theirs.
*
Frank Beddor wrote Seeing Redd and The Looking-Glass Wars, and now I learn that he was producer of There's Something About Mary. His latest is a 'geo-graphic' novel called Hatter M. Wikipedia fills in the background.
There seem to be lots of reworkings of the Victorian stuff these days -- e.g. Lost Girls. Intriguing.
*
The braindead are always with us. The Salt Lake Tribune says, 'Publishers rarely issue new books over the summer.' Only about 2,000 a week, that is. Link from Publishers Lunch.
*
The Creative Commons blog has an interview with Brandt Cannici, creator of a web site called Strayform.com. This seeks to provide creative artists (for want of a better expression) with a platform through which they can perhaps obtain funding for their work. Strayform makes heavy use of the Creative Commons licensing system, which means, of course, no DRM or nonsense of that kind.
This looks to me like a good idea in principle, but it has some way to go, I feel, before it gets out of what is effectively the beta stage at present. It may, conceivably, offer a useful platform for writers at some point. Keep an eye on it.
*
The BBC lists the ten main ways in which you are persuaded to read (and preferably buy) a book. (Thanks to Bill Sinclair for the link.)
In the US, substitute Oprah for Richard & Judy.
By the way, speaking of Oprah, Publishers Lunch recently reported the case of Sarah Symonds. Ms Symonds is the self-published author of Having An Affair: A Handbook for the 'Other Woman'. Somehow or other Ms Symonds got herself taped for an interview to appear on Oprah on 10 October. When Hatherleigh Press publisher Kevin Moran heard about this, he promptly signed the book, with a little help from his distributor, Random House.
So that makes everything very simple, doesn't it? All you have to do, if you're a self-published author, is get yourself pre-recorded for Oprah, go see a publisher with a distribution setup, and all your problems are solved.
*
I have an idea for a short story, as yet unwritten. It's about a man who hates Christmas, especially when it starts on 1 October and continues until the end of January. This character has certain attitudes not entirely unrelated to my own, and he would not be too thrilled, I feel, by http://www.hollyclaus.com/. This is the story of Santa's daughter. And it is for kids. And it opens with a song.
Excuse me while I go and lie down.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Anne Enright wins Booker -- and what larks!
My dears, I haven't had such a good laugh over breakfast in years! I fair spluttered into my porridge.
The Booker prize, according to its official web site, 'promotes the finest in fiction by rewarding the very best book of the year'. And 'best' in these quarters is defined in terms of literary fiction.
It turns out that the 2007 prize was awarded last night. The winner was Anne Enright, who was apparently the outsider, and her novel The Gathering is 'a bleak story of a dysfunctional Irish family'. This is not, you will understand, a novel that I am about to rush out and buy. But nevertheless, the circumstances of the award provide much more entertainment than the average literary novel ever does.
The laughs came from the introductory remarks which were made by the Chairman of the judges, Sir Howard Davies. You can read all about it in the Times. Basically, what the Chairman had to say was that too many reviewers are far too kind to literary novels, being very reluctant to do anything except heap praise upon them. 'There appear to be some novels,' he said, 'where people leave their critical faculties at home.'
He quotes examples. Ben Okri's latest book was, he said, 'more or less unreadable, but you would never catch that from the reviews because of the status that Okri has achieved'.
J.M. Coetzee's latest was described by Sir Howard as 'a strange construct which I don’t think comes off as a novel. Yet it was treated with exaggerated deference by many reviewers.'
No! Who would have guessed it? Who would have thought that the literary establishment in London would be ensuring, with a few exceptions, that only nice things are said about lit'ry books, while books issued by small presses and written by unknown writers are steadfastly ignored?
Sir Howard, the Times said, stopped short of accusing authors of back-scratching, but the Times itself has more guts. In an editorial, the paper lays out the facts in plain English.
Such general thoughts as I have had upon the Booker prize appeared here in January 2005. I have nothing to add, except that you might like to sit back and watch it all happen to Anne Enright, the winner who wasn't expected.
The Booker prize, according to its official web site, 'promotes the finest in fiction by rewarding the very best book of the year'. And 'best' in these quarters is defined in terms of literary fiction.
It turns out that the 2007 prize was awarded last night. The winner was Anne Enright, who was apparently the outsider, and her novel The Gathering is 'a bleak story of a dysfunctional Irish family'. This is not, you will understand, a novel that I am about to rush out and buy. But nevertheless, the circumstances of the award provide much more entertainment than the average literary novel ever does.
The laughs came from the introductory remarks which were made by the Chairman of the judges, Sir Howard Davies. You can read all about it in the Times. Basically, what the Chairman had to say was that too many reviewers are far too kind to literary novels, being very reluctant to do anything except heap praise upon them. 'There appear to be some novels,' he said, 'where people leave their critical faculties at home.'
He quotes examples. Ben Okri's latest book was, he said, 'more or less unreadable, but you would never catch that from the reviews because of the status that Okri has achieved'.
J.M. Coetzee's latest was described by Sir Howard as 'a strange construct which I don’t think comes off as a novel. Yet it was treated with exaggerated deference by many reviewers.'
No! Who would have guessed it? Who would have thought that the literary establishment in London would be ensuring, with a few exceptions, that only nice things are said about lit'ry books, while books issued by small presses and written by unknown writers are steadfastly ignored?
Sir Howard, the Times said, stopped short of accusing authors of back-scratching, but the Times itself has more guts. In an editorial, the paper lays out the facts in plain English.
Presenting the Man Booker Prize last night, Howard Davies referred to a curious habit of literary critics. Their curious habit is to review each other’s books fulsomely. Author X selects Author Y’s novel as her Book of the Year. Author Y reciprocates by reviewing Author X’s novel as the most ripping yarn since Rudyard Kipled and Haggard Rode. In London’s literary tent, everybody is related to, or in love with, or in debt to, or has expectations from, everybody else.Well, I told you publishing was a friendly business, only last week. 'Caveat lector,' says the Times. 'Select your reviewers (and books) with care.' Indeed.
Such general thoughts as I have had upon the Booker prize appeared here in January 2005. I have nothing to add, except that you might like to sit back and watch it all happen to Anne Enright, the winner who wasn't expected.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Stephen King (and my modest self) on the short story
Stephen King writes the introduction to The Best American Short Stories 2007, which he edited, and which I really must get hold of. Dave Lull kindly told me that the intro was published in the New York Times, and it is eminently worth reading. Theme: Is the American short story alive? Yes. Is the American short story well? No.
Now, as it happens I don't really enjoy Mr King's novels at all. We won't go into why. But several decades ago, when Mr King was a newbie, a leading American agent told me that, even if you don't like his material, you had to admit that, by God, the man could write.
He still can. And he puts his finger very precisely on what is wrong with the modern short story, whether American or otherwise. It's pussy-whipped, that's what's wrong with it. I speak metaphorically, and I paraphrase Mr King, but that's the gist of his argument. And the pussy to whom vast numbers of modern short-story writers are beholden is the vain hope that they might actually, one day, get published in the New Yorker. As if that goal was one which any sane person would consider important! The New Yorker short story is traditionally one in which absolutely nothing happens.
The audience for short stories has shrunk to the point where most of those reading the few magazines that still publish such stories are reading them in order to find out what gets published there, in the hope that they can do the same; and thus win a fellowship, or a teaching post somewhere, or acquire reputation as a writer of sensitivity and style. Thought and care for the kind of reader who used to read the pulp magazines and now watches football or reads the tabloids is a long way from their mind.
King read some hundred of stories before making the final selection for his anthology, and many of them, he says, 'felt show-offy rather than entertaining'. They were 'written for editors and teachers rather than readers', and they read like a 'fraidy-cat's writing-school imitation of Faulkner, or some stream of consciousness about what Bob Dylan once called "the true meaning of a pear".'
This is a recipe for disaster, as is blatantly obvious to anyone who bothers to read a so-called literary magazine.
Stephen King's intro to his 2007 collection is worth reading for its wonderful, loose, easy style, if for nothing else. Look how he expresses the truth with such informal but absolutely spot-on phrases as 'fraidy-cat's writing-school imitation'.
Fortunately, all is not entirely lost. There are places where you can find some stories which set out to entertain rather than impress, if you search hard enough, but by golly you have to search. And if there is one message which comes through from Mr King, with my endorsement, it is this: don't be afraid to write the damn thing. Do it your way. For preference, give it some balls, or the female equivalent. And for all our sakes, pay no attention to any of those creative-writing people.
'Talent,' says King, 'can't help itself; it roars along in fair weather or foul, not sparing the fireworks.' So, light the blue touch-paper and step well back.
Arising out of Stephen King's essay Maud Newton acts as hostess to short-story writer Jean Thompson, who nicely summarises some of the comment which the King NYT essay produced.
And, if you have the time and patience, you might care to look back at my own earlier statement of the position which is now so eloquently expounded by Mr King. On 16 March 2005, I gave some account of the official history of the short story; and then, on 17 March 2005, I provided a true history of the short story. These two essays are, I think, on reading them again, good combative stuff. And I stand by every word.
Now, as it happens I don't really enjoy Mr King's novels at all. We won't go into why. But several decades ago, when Mr King was a newbie, a leading American agent told me that, even if you don't like his material, you had to admit that, by God, the man could write.
He still can. And he puts his finger very precisely on what is wrong with the modern short story, whether American or otherwise. It's pussy-whipped, that's what's wrong with it. I speak metaphorically, and I paraphrase Mr King, but that's the gist of his argument. And the pussy to whom vast numbers of modern short-story writers are beholden is the vain hope that they might actually, one day, get published in the New Yorker. As if that goal was one which any sane person would consider important! The New Yorker short story is traditionally one in which absolutely nothing happens.
The audience for short stories has shrunk to the point where most of those reading the few magazines that still publish such stories are reading them in order to find out what gets published there, in the hope that they can do the same; and thus win a fellowship, or a teaching post somewhere, or acquire reputation as a writer of sensitivity and style. Thought and care for the kind of reader who used to read the pulp magazines and now watches football or reads the tabloids is a long way from their mind.
King read some hundred of stories before making the final selection for his anthology, and many of them, he says, 'felt show-offy rather than entertaining'. They were 'written for editors and teachers rather than readers', and they read like a 'fraidy-cat's writing-school imitation of Faulkner, or some stream of consciousness about what Bob Dylan once called "the true meaning of a pear".'
This is a recipe for disaster, as is blatantly obvious to anyone who bothers to read a so-called literary magazine.
Stephen King's intro to his 2007 collection is worth reading for its wonderful, loose, easy style, if for nothing else. Look how he expresses the truth with such informal but absolutely spot-on phrases as 'fraidy-cat's writing-school imitation'.
Fortunately, all is not entirely lost. There are places where you can find some stories which set out to entertain rather than impress, if you search hard enough, but by golly you have to search. And if there is one message which comes through from Mr King, with my endorsement, it is this: don't be afraid to write the damn thing. Do it your way. For preference, give it some balls, or the female equivalent. And for all our sakes, pay no attention to any of those creative-writing people.
'Talent,' says King, 'can't help itself; it roars along in fair weather or foul, not sparing the fireworks.' So, light the blue touch-paper and step well back.
Arising out of Stephen King's essay Maud Newton acts as hostess to short-story writer Jean Thompson, who nicely summarises some of the comment which the King NYT essay produced.
And, if you have the time and patience, you might care to look back at my own earlier statement of the position which is now so eloquently expounded by Mr King. On 16 March 2005, I gave some account of the official history of the short story; and then, on 17 March 2005, I provided a true history of the short story. These two essays are, I think, on reading them again, good combative stuff. And I stand by every word.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Miscellaneous accumulations
A day or two ago, the Bookseller offered two stories right next to each other. One will attract huge headlines, and indeed already has done, and one will pass largely unnoticed, but it raised a small cheer from me.
Doris Lessing has won the Nobel prize. That's the first story. Well, at least she's more readable than most of those who get this accolade.
The other, rather more important piece of news, is that Orion have won a landmark libel case in the Court of Appeal. The Court has ruled in favour of investigative journalism; as a result, one allegedly bent copper and his supporters are left with a huge bill.
*
Judging by the web site, Ron Wulkan's novel The Gook Lover seems to be a cut above the average. Certainly it is written by a man who has had an extraordinary life and knows whereof he speaks. Having lied about his age, he found himself, aged 17, serving as a military policeman in occupied Japan.
*
David Loye is another World War II veteran, married to an internationally known holocaust survivor (Riane Eisler, The Chalice and the Blade). He was a television newsman back in the Ed Murrow days, and an award-winning author himself (The Healing of a Nation) in the Nixon era. Now he's running the Benjamin Franklin Press, dedicated to publishing books 'for the restoration of national and global sanity'.
David is has not entirely given up the idea that the world may have a future if we do the right things. Take a look for yourself.
*
Margaret Atwood told the Cheltenham Festival audience that young writers need an awful lot of luck. 'Writing is not a job description,' she said. 'A great deal of it is luck. Don’t do it if you are not a gambler.'
For a longer discussion of the same important truth, see my essay On the Survival of Rats in the Slush Pile.
*
In the Sunday Times, Rod Liddle does as thorough a demolition job on If I Did It as I have ever read. He describes it as:
*
Commenters on my piece last Thursday, about the PFD debacle and the generally matey atmosphere in publishing, have accused me of a certain lack of consistency. Surely, they say, I have always argued that modern publishing is all about the money?
Well, maybe. I would not claim to be immune to inconsistency, but here I think I have just not explained myself very well.
Yes, modern big-time publishing is mainly concerned with profit, whereas once the big-time publishers were more concerned with literary quality, the public good, the need for the truth to out, and all like that. But where do books come from, whether chosen for literary merit and general worthiness, or for their ability to sell in large numbers?
Answer, they come from writers and agents. And since big-time publishing often pays big money (by publishing's modest standards), everything depends upon judgement, track record, reliability, trust. An editor who is going to pay half a million for a book ideally wants it to come from a writer with a proven track record, and a well known agent who will advise her wisely in the writing and marketing of same.
These relationships take a long time to build up. If an agent departs from an agency, taking her clients with her, you can't replace her in the same way that you can replace a van driver or a copy typist. That's why I think the money men have got it wrong where PFD is concerned.
Incidentally, it seems to me that the really smart money men take a quick look at publishing, decide that it's an absurd business, and push off elsewhere. Consider the career of Luke Johnson. He was once a publisher, but described it as a 'terrible business… a barely rational industry.... You ship finished volumes to booksellers who only accept them on a sale or return basis, and demand at least 55 per cent trade discount, and pay 120 days later.'
Not surprisingly, Johnson has recently bought the UK division of Borders.
Doris Lessing has won the Nobel prize. That's the first story. Well, at least she's more readable than most of those who get this accolade.
The other, rather more important piece of news, is that Orion have won a landmark libel case in the Court of Appeal. The Court has ruled in favour of investigative journalism; as a result, one allegedly bent copper and his supporters are left with a huge bill.
*
Judging by the web site, Ron Wulkan's novel The Gook Lover seems to be a cut above the average. Certainly it is written by a man who has had an extraordinary life and knows whereof he speaks. Having lied about his age, he found himself, aged 17, serving as a military policeman in occupied Japan.
*
David Loye is another World War II veteran, married to an internationally known holocaust survivor (Riane Eisler, The Chalice and the Blade). He was a television newsman back in the Ed Murrow days, and an award-winning author himself (The Healing of a Nation) in the Nixon era. Now he's running the Benjamin Franklin Press, dedicated to publishing books 'for the restoration of national and global sanity'.
David is has not entirely given up the idea that the world may have a future if we do the right things. Take a look for yourself.
*
Margaret Atwood told the Cheltenham Festival audience that young writers need an awful lot of luck. 'Writing is not a job description,' she said. 'A great deal of it is luck. Don’t do it if you are not a gambler.'
For a longer discussion of the same important truth, see my essay On the Survival of Rats in the Slush Pile.
*
In the Sunday Times, Rod Liddle does as thorough a demolition job on If I Did It as I have ever read. He describes it as:
A book that is simultaneously morally disgusting and excruciatingly dull. A filthy little project that, although extremely brief (there’s a lot of padding in those 208 pages), succeeds in both boring the reader beyond endurance and making him gag.Furthermore, Liddle describes O.J. Simpson as a man who 'murdered his wife'. Where was the ST duty lawyer when that went to past the sub-editors? 'Spare yourself and don't buy it,' Liddle concludes.
*
Commenters on my piece last Thursday, about the PFD debacle and the generally matey atmosphere in publishing, have accused me of a certain lack of consistency. Surely, they say, I have always argued that modern publishing is all about the money?
Well, maybe. I would not claim to be immune to inconsistency, but here I think I have just not explained myself very well.
Yes, modern big-time publishing is mainly concerned with profit, whereas once the big-time publishers were more concerned with literary quality, the public good, the need for the truth to out, and all like that. But where do books come from, whether chosen for literary merit and general worthiness, or for their ability to sell in large numbers?
Answer, they come from writers and agents. And since big-time publishing often pays big money (by publishing's modest standards), everything depends upon judgement, track record, reliability, trust. An editor who is going to pay half a million for a book ideally wants it to come from a writer with a proven track record, and a well known agent who will advise her wisely in the writing and marketing of same.
These relationships take a long time to build up. If an agent departs from an agency, taking her clients with her, you can't replace her in the same way that you can replace a van driver or a copy typist. That's why I think the money men have got it wrong where PFD is concerned.
Incidentally, it seems to me that the really smart money men take a quick look at publishing, decide that it's an absurd business, and push off elsewhere. Consider the career of Luke Johnson. He was once a publisher, but described it as a 'terrible business… a barely rational industry.... You ship finished volumes to booksellers who only accept them on a sale or return basis, and demand at least 55 per cent trade discount, and pay 120 days later.'
Not surprisingly, Johnson has recently bought the UK division of Borders.
Friday, October 12, 2007
A Midsummer Night's Dream
Last night to the Theatre Royal, Bath, to see an unusual production of A Midsummer Night's Dream.
The British Council is a government-sponsored body, intended to 'build mutually beneficial relationships between people in the UK and other countries and to increase appreciation of the UK’s creative ideas and achievements.' In 2004, the Council invited the director Tim Supple to direct a theatre production with performers in India and Sri Lanka. This is the result.
The production was a fair while in gestation. In 2005 Supple worked with hundreds of performers in a variety of cities and other locations in India. He eventually narrowed his choice of performers down to 60, and, after a final difficult month, selected 22 to appear in this play. The only Englishman involved is the director.
What we have here is a most unusual, if not unique, style of production. In the first place, each actor usually speaks Shakespeare's lines in the language which he or she normally uses to perform. So the text is spoken in seven different languages.
Next, we have an amazing mixture of dazzling costumes, an extraordinary set, acrobatics, music, movement, dance, and ever-changing lighting, all built around and integrated with the framework of the play, with which most of the audience are already familiar. The outcome is an extraordinary theatrical experience, and one which I warmly recommend to you.
That being said, you do need to be aware of what you are letting yourself in for. This is not a normal Shakespeare production. I saw three people leave during act one, and the couple next to me did not return after the interval. And one could occasionally criticise the direction, in that the main thrust of the play sometimes gets lost in the spectacle. Most of the audience loved it, however; and this particular audience was much younger in average age than is normally the case at the TRB.
This production has already been widely performed in England and will, I gather, tour in Australia, New Zealand and parts of the US. Keep an eye open for it.
For further discussion see the Guardian blog.
The British Council is a government-sponsored body, intended to 'build mutually beneficial relationships between people in the UK and other countries and to increase appreciation of the UK’s creative ideas and achievements.' In 2004, the Council invited the director Tim Supple to direct a theatre production with performers in India and Sri Lanka. This is the result.
The production was a fair while in gestation. In 2005 Supple worked with hundreds of performers in a variety of cities and other locations in India. He eventually narrowed his choice of performers down to 60, and, after a final difficult month, selected 22 to appear in this play. The only Englishman involved is the director.
What we have here is a most unusual, if not unique, style of production. In the first place, each actor usually speaks Shakespeare's lines in the language which he or she normally uses to perform. So the text is spoken in seven different languages.
Next, we have an amazing mixture of dazzling costumes, an extraordinary set, acrobatics, music, movement, dance, and ever-changing lighting, all built around and integrated with the framework of the play, with which most of the audience are already familiar. The outcome is an extraordinary theatrical experience, and one which I warmly recommend to you.
That being said, you do need to be aware of what you are letting yourself in for. This is not a normal Shakespeare production. I saw three people leave during act one, and the couple next to me did not return after the interval. And one could occasionally criticise the direction, in that the main thrust of the play sometimes gets lost in the spectacle. Most of the audience loved it, however; and this particular audience was much younger in average age than is normally the case at the TRB.
This production has already been widely performed in England and will, I gather, tour in Australia, New Zealand and parts of the US. Keep an eye open for it.
For further discussion see the Guardian blog.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Publishing is a very friendly business
There was one occasion in the past when I proposed to my agent that we should deal with a particular matter in a thoroughly brisk and businesslike way, setting out on paper, in clear terms, what we would and would not accept.
My agent was not happy. 'Michael,' she said, 'what you have to remember is that publishing is a very friendly business.' She might equally well have used the word 'personal'.
The point which my agent was making, and I belatedly accept it, is that selling books is not like selling fish or buttons. Everything depends on personal judgement and personal interaction. A writer offers a manuscript to an agent, and the personal reaction of that agent is central to whether the agent takes the book or not. And ditto when an agent approaches a publisher. And then again when the press agent seeks to place the author on a chat show.
It is tempting to grumble bitterly about this, and to complain about the old-boy network and the public-school mafia and the literary cliques, and so forth. But it has been shown, time and time again, that it is easy to overlook books which could, properly handled, be enormously successful; and, equally, it is easy to become over-enthusiastic about books which prove to be duds. So much depends on trusting other people's judgement, and knowing their track record.
(The same is true, incidentally, of the theatre. With knobs on. Appearing on stage is a mighty scary business, and if you're going to do it you want to be on stage with people whom you know and trust. People who understand the traditions and the conventions. Which is why many actors are the sons and daughters of other actors, or people in the business.)
All of which leads me to the sad case of the mighty UK literary and talent agency PFD. As mentioned here once or twice recently, this agency has fallen into the hands of the money men, who simply do not understand the ethos of publishing. Consequently agents and clients are fleeing in all directions.
In the latest Publishing News, Andrew Franklin explains it all rather well. I must say that I have seen better formatted articles for on-screen reading -- some white space between the paragraphs would help -- but it's worth struggling with.
If only CSS understood the difference between shareholders and stakeholders, how much better handled this business might have been. Perhaps they're just not very good businessmen.
My agent was not happy. 'Michael,' she said, 'what you have to remember is that publishing is a very friendly business.' She might equally well have used the word 'personal'.
The point which my agent was making, and I belatedly accept it, is that selling books is not like selling fish or buttons. Everything depends on personal judgement and personal interaction. A writer offers a manuscript to an agent, and the personal reaction of that agent is central to whether the agent takes the book or not. And ditto when an agent approaches a publisher. And then again when the press agent seeks to place the author on a chat show.
It is tempting to grumble bitterly about this, and to complain about the old-boy network and the public-school mafia and the literary cliques, and so forth. But it has been shown, time and time again, that it is easy to overlook books which could, properly handled, be enormously successful; and, equally, it is easy to become over-enthusiastic about books which prove to be duds. So much depends on trusting other people's judgement, and knowing their track record.
(The same is true, incidentally, of the theatre. With knobs on. Appearing on stage is a mighty scary business, and if you're going to do it you want to be on stage with people whom you know and trust. People who understand the traditions and the conventions. Which is why many actors are the sons and daughters of other actors, or people in the business.)
All of which leads me to the sad case of the mighty UK literary and talent agency PFD. As mentioned here once or twice recently, this agency has fallen into the hands of the money men, who simply do not understand the ethos of publishing. Consequently agents and clients are fleeing in all directions.
In the latest Publishing News, Andrew Franklin explains it all rather well. I must say that I have seen better formatted articles for on-screen reading -- some white space between the paragraphs would help -- but it's worth struggling with.
If only CSS understood the difference between shareholders and stakeholders, how much better handled this business might have been. Perhaps they're just not very good businessmen.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
More catch-ups
This morning, three British crime novels; each of them excellent, in its way, but all rather different.
Denise Mina: The Dead Hour
Back in August, I reviewed Denise Mina's The Field of Blood, which was the first in a series of novels about Paddy Meehan, a fat girl of Irish Catholic origins, living in Glasgow in 1981, and working for a newspaper. The Dead Hour is number two in this series.
The year is 1984. We're still in Glasgow, but Paddy has moved up a rung on the journalism ladder. She's now a junior reporter, and stuck with the night shift, which nobody wants, following police cars and ambulances. In the course of pursuing this thankless task, she inevitably stumbles across a crime, meets a lot of hard, vicious men (and that's just her colleagues and the police), and gets into all kinds of physical and moral difficulties.
Several decades ago, at the end of the golden era of detective fiction, the whodunit and the private-eye books of the time had become very formulaic. The more thoughtful commentators on that kind of fiction had begun to murmur about the need for a crime novel which combined the best features of the blood and thunder brigade with some of the character analysis, and other virtues, of the literary and mainstream novel. Well, it's not often found, even these days, but Denise Mina can do it.
Side by side with the story of plain, fat Paddy, who is her family's sole provider, we get the story of another young woman, much the same age, who is beautiful, has access to money, and has never done a day's work in her life. Unfortunately she's a coke-head, which leads, as always to trouble.
I am not a believer in the need for characters to 'grow', and I'm especially not keen on analysts who talk about a character's arc, and all that shit. But Paddy does grow, and develop, before your very eyes, and that's just fine, the way Mina does it. Paddy is a consistently interesting and convincing character.
Much recommended, but start with the first in the series.
This book ends, by the way, with a cliff-hanger which will make you gasp. But fear not. Number three in the series is available.
Very nicely designed by Bantam: royal octavo, set in 12/16 pt Garamond.
Peter Robinson: The Summer That Never Was
Of the three authors whose books are reviewed in this post, Peter Robinson is the one who has written the most books and has had the greatest amount of commercial success and critical recognition. (The Summer That Never Was made the New York Times bestseller list.) The fact that I like him the least of the three is neither here nor there: simply a matter of personal taste.
Robinson's series character is Inspector Banks, a British policeman of the old school. He has now, by my count, featured in 18 books, published over a twenty-year period. The Summer That Never Was first appeared in 2003, sixteenth in the series.
This is a long book, featuring parallel investigations into the disappearance of two teenage boys, forty or so years apart. Both investigations are headed up by women police officers, with Banks assisting each, either formally or informally.
This is a long book (489 pages), and in addition to hearing a lot about the investigations we also learn a great deal about the characters and backstories of Banks, his former lover Annie, and the woman he fancies now, Michelle. This is all well observed stuff, well written, thoughtful, literate, and cultured.
Why then am I not wildly enthusiastic? Well, for my taste the style is curiously old-fashioned, with a slightly plodding pace. The book feels as if it could have been written thirty years ago. But if it had been, the publisher would have wanted a book only half the length.
The cover quotes a blurb about how Banks is for those who miss Inspector Morse. But to my mind this book is not like Morse at all. It's more like Alan Hunter's books about Chief Superintendent Gently (1955 onwards); or W.J. Burley's books (1968 onwards), about Inspector Wycliffe.
But... Robinson is a big seller, so obviously lots of people find this very acceptable.
L.C. Tyler: The Herring Seller's Apprentice
Very stylish; very English; amusing, dry, clever, tricksy, draws on the best of the detective novel's past, and is clearly the work of a man who has read widely in the genre. He also has that old-fashioned virtue, much overlooked these days, namely a command of the language.
This is a Macmillan New Writing publication. The cover, painted by Mark Thomas, is excellent, and sets the tone nicely, as does the novel's subtitle: A gripping tale of murder, deceit and chocolate.
The two principal characters here are a writer (Ethelred) and his agent (Elsie). The latter is a forthright, plainspoken lady, who is described as 'very honest' in her assessment of her clients' work: on page 6, for example, she states that Ethelred's latest manuscript is 'crap'. When asked to be more specific, she says, 'dog's crap'. But Ethelred seems used to it.
Between them, these two look into the disappearance and death of Ethelred's former wife. And that's all you need to know, really.
In tone, this reminds me somewhat of the great and much-missed Colin Watson; and ditto Joyce Porter and her Inspector Dover. I have to confess (or boast) that I saw the Big Surprise coming; but then I am a deviously minded sod, with some experience of writing these things myself. And the ending of this book, like much else in it, is capable of more than one interpretation. So, as I said at the beginning, tricksy stuff. Keep your wits about you while you smile.
Denise Mina: The Dead Hour
Back in August, I reviewed Denise Mina's The Field of Blood, which was the first in a series of novels about Paddy Meehan, a fat girl of Irish Catholic origins, living in Glasgow in 1981, and working for a newspaper. The Dead Hour is number two in this series.
The year is 1984. We're still in Glasgow, but Paddy has moved up a rung on the journalism ladder. She's now a junior reporter, and stuck with the night shift, which nobody wants, following police cars and ambulances. In the course of pursuing this thankless task, she inevitably stumbles across a crime, meets a lot of hard, vicious men (and that's just her colleagues and the police), and gets into all kinds of physical and moral difficulties.
Several decades ago, at the end of the golden era of detective fiction, the whodunit and the private-eye books of the time had become very formulaic. The more thoughtful commentators on that kind of fiction had begun to murmur about the need for a crime novel which combined the best features of the blood and thunder brigade with some of the character analysis, and other virtues, of the literary and mainstream novel. Well, it's not often found, even these days, but Denise Mina can do it.
Side by side with the story of plain, fat Paddy, who is her family's sole provider, we get the story of another young woman, much the same age, who is beautiful, has access to money, and has never done a day's work in her life. Unfortunately she's a coke-head, which leads, as always to trouble.
I am not a believer in the need for characters to 'grow', and I'm especially not keen on analysts who talk about a character's arc, and all that shit. But Paddy does grow, and develop, before your very eyes, and that's just fine, the way Mina does it. Paddy is a consistently interesting and convincing character.
Much recommended, but start with the first in the series.
This book ends, by the way, with a cliff-hanger which will make you gasp. But fear not. Number three in the series is available.
Very nicely designed by Bantam: royal octavo, set in 12/16 pt Garamond.
Peter Robinson: The Summer That Never Was
Of the three authors whose books are reviewed in this post, Peter Robinson is the one who has written the most books and has had the greatest amount of commercial success and critical recognition. (The Summer That Never Was made the New York Times bestseller list.) The fact that I like him the least of the three is neither here nor there: simply a matter of personal taste.
Robinson's series character is Inspector Banks, a British policeman of the old school. He has now, by my count, featured in 18 books, published over a twenty-year period. The Summer That Never Was first appeared in 2003, sixteenth in the series.
This is a long book, featuring parallel investigations into the disappearance of two teenage boys, forty or so years apart. Both investigations are headed up by women police officers, with Banks assisting each, either formally or informally.
This is a long book (489 pages), and in addition to hearing a lot about the investigations we also learn a great deal about the characters and backstories of Banks, his former lover Annie, and the woman he fancies now, Michelle. This is all well observed stuff, well written, thoughtful, literate, and cultured.
Why then am I not wildly enthusiastic? Well, for my taste the style is curiously old-fashioned, with a slightly plodding pace. The book feels as if it could have been written thirty years ago. But if it had been, the publisher would have wanted a book only half the length.
The cover quotes a blurb about how Banks is for those who miss Inspector Morse. But to my mind this book is not like Morse at all. It's more like Alan Hunter's books about Chief Superintendent Gently (1955 onwards); or W.J. Burley's books (1968 onwards), about Inspector Wycliffe.
But... Robinson is a big seller, so obviously lots of people find this very acceptable.
L.C. Tyler: The Herring Seller's Apprentice
Very stylish; very English; amusing, dry, clever, tricksy, draws on the best of the detective novel's past, and is clearly the work of a man who has read widely in the genre. He also has that old-fashioned virtue, much overlooked these days, namely a command of the language.
This is a Macmillan New Writing publication. The cover, painted by Mark Thomas, is excellent, and sets the tone nicely, as does the novel's subtitle: A gripping tale of murder, deceit and chocolate.
The two principal characters here are a writer (Ethelred) and his agent (Elsie). The latter is a forthright, plainspoken lady, who is described as 'very honest' in her assessment of her clients' work: on page 6, for example, she states that Ethelred's latest manuscript is 'crap'. When asked to be more specific, she says, 'dog's crap'. But Ethelred seems used to it.
Between them, these two look into the disappearance and death of Ethelred's former wife. And that's all you need to know, really.
In tone, this reminds me somewhat of the great and much-missed Colin Watson; and ditto Joyce Porter and her Inspector Dover. I have to confess (or boast) that I saw the Big Surprise coming; but then I am a deviously minded sod, with some experience of writing these things myself. And the ending of this book, like much else in it, is capable of more than one interpretation. So, as I said at the beginning, tricksy stuff. Keep your wits about you while you smile.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Catch-up reviews
The pile of books which deserve a mention on this blog is getting worryingly large, so let's try to reduce it a bit.
Rupert Everett: Red Carpets and Other Banana Skins
Rupert Everett, act-or of this parish, has written a couple of novels (at least one of which, he tells us, was a roman a clef) but Red Carpets is his autobiography. So far, one might add, since he is not that old (born 1959).
I call him an act-or because to my mind he belongs firmly within that group of theatrical personalities (theatrical even if they never appear in the theatre) who are known in some English circles as luvvies. Luvvy is a slightly unkind term, implying an excessive friendly and self-obsessed, pretentious approach to life. Every so often Private Eye runs a column giving quotes from such slebs.
My memory tells me, and a Google search confirms, that the UK publisher (Little, Brown) paid an awful lot of money for this book (£1 million, reportedly), and succeeded in selling only a modest number of copies (15,000, according to BookInfo.Net).
All of that being so, I wasn't expecting a great deal from Red Carpets, and it therefore came as a pleasant surprise. My first note says: 'Why did this not sell? It's a bit too good really, isn't it? Actually it is a lot too good. Classy in the extreme.'
You can see very easily how some editor might fall in love with this book, and bet the farm on it. Unfortunately, sales don't depend upon what editors and I think about things: it's all down to the punters, who, by and large, prefer Jordan (think big knockers).
Everett takes us through most major stages of his life. He was brought up as a Catholic (or Roman Catholic, as John Betjeman used to insist on it being phrased), and educated at Ampleforth, a well known English school. Thereafter he went into acting, and in his time has co-starred with the likes of Sharon Stone and Julia Roberts.
All in all, Mr Everett has had a fascinating life. Though essentially gay (he describes himself as queer, which is an old-fashioned English version of gay), he has had affairs with some beautiful women. His deepest love, however, seems to have been reserved for his dog, Mo. His account of Mo's death is carefully observed: he has the true writer's disease of being highly observant, even when distressed, high, or drunk.
The key to the whole thing is that Everett can write. No hint of a ghost writer here, take my word for it. [Later note. Actually, don't do any such thing. Madame Arcati tells me that the book was ghosted by Justine Picardie. Well, someone can sure as hell write, and the ghost has done one hell of a job.] His portraits of the likes of Paula Yates and Fred Hughes are full of insights, and movingly written.
Overall, Red Carpets is thoroughly recommended, but it helps if you're (a) English, (b) deeply interested in show business, and (c) tolerant of the gay world and luvvies in general.
Thanks to Martin Rundkvist for recommending this book. I should have had more faith in his judgement.
By the way, before I forget. Rupert E will shortly be seen in the new film version of St Trinians. He plays -- oh, but you've guessed -- the headmistress. Now this, I have to see. My guess is that the ghost of Alastair Sim is stirring uneasily.
Judith Martin: No Vulgar Hotel
Judith Martin is much better known as Miss Manners, under which name she advises Americans on how to behave. In her private life, however, she is more than a little taken with the city of Venice. This book is subtitled 'The desire and pursuit of Venice', and it is both a valuable guide for visitors and for those who want to go several steps further and actually live in the city.
And, er, that's about it really. The book will make an ideal present for anyone who is about to go to Venice, or, having been there, talks longingly about going back one day soon. Though not encyoplaedic in format, No Vulgar Hotel certainly constitutes an encyclopaedia of information about what is perhaps the most glamorous, romantic and compelling of all cities.
It's worth noting, in passing, that, in the Renaissance, Venice was the publishing capital of the world, with some 1,500 presses. The greatest of Venetian publishers was Aldus Manutius, who not only invented italic type but also pocket editions and -- best of all -- the rejection letter.
Venice can also lay claim, I think, to having invented the concept of Intellectual Property. The patent system originated there in the fourteenth century, and Marcus Antonius Coccius received the first known copyright in 1486.
The publisher, W.W. Norton, clearly didn't expect this book to sell in significant numbers, because it is not particularly well presented and the illustrations are not well reproduced.
Hugleikur Dagsson: Is This Supposed To Be Funny?
Yes, is the answer. And is it? Yes, in places.
HD is the most famous cartoonist in Iceland, though on the evidence given here he can barely draw more than stick figures. What he can do is think up utterly outrageous, shocking, and sometimes disgusting things for his stick men and women to do and say.
Is This is HD's second book, and his first led the UK's downmarket Sun newspaper to declare firmly: 'Ban this sick book'. Which should constitute a warning to anyone. The Sun points out that the first book has become a cult classic in Iceland, 'where during the winter there are only three hours of sunlight each day'. As if that explains the phenomenon.
Samples? Oh, all right then. If you insist. Daddy figure to child figure: 'Put broken glass in Mummy's food and I'll give you a pony.' Also: female figure arising from bed, with male figure still in bed: 'Our sex life is like a box of chocolates -- my fingers are brown and sticky after we're done.'
This would possibly be a suitable present for a young person of a crude frame of mind. But take a look at the book before buying.
Terry Pratchett: Making Money
And finally, Mr Pratchett.
Mr P's new book didn't get much of a fanfare. But then it doesn't need a fanfare, does it? All it needs is to appear in the shops, and thousands of people buy it. In the most recent week for which there are figures, Making Money sold 37,425 copies, easily taking it into the number one slot.
Making Money is, as you would expect, a Discworld novel: either the 31st or the 35th, depending on who's counting and what you include. Anyway, the point is that, if you have never read a Discworld novel, this is not the best place to start. Start at the beginning and work your way through the lot.
Those who are already familiar with the Discworld will know what to expect, and will meet a whole host of old friends. Even before you get into the story, however, you will note, no doubt, that the book is handsomely printed and typeset (11.75 on 15 pt Minion, which is eminently readable; although there are those who say that the kerning is a bit tight, particularly after full stops, and I can see their point). You will also note that Mr P has taken to giving us old-fashioned chapter headings, in which the contents of the chapter are briefly encapsulated; as if one actually needed an incentive to read on.
As for plot -- well, Mr P must be psychic, or have a very good crystal ball. Why? Because the story is all about banking, and what it is that causes us to have faith in banks, and what causes runs on banks; and all like that. The timing could not be more apposite, because within the last few weeks the UK banking system has undergone precisely that kind of crisis of faith.
As usual, the book is very funny. But it is, of course, an English form of humour. We learn, for instance, that the ruler of Ankh-Morpork once had an ancestor who had people torn apart by wild tortoises; it was not a quick death.
The book is much more than funny, of course. It is, in places, touching and sad; and, in a note on page 334, I described it as beautiful.
Now that's a funny word to use about a Discworld novel isn't it? Beautiful. Do you think that after all these many decades of reading, and all these many thousands of books, do you think that I might be going... Well... you know... a little bit... peculiar?
Rupert Everett: Red Carpets and Other Banana Skins
Rupert Everett, act-or of this parish, has written a couple of novels (at least one of which, he tells us, was a roman a clef) but Red Carpets is his autobiography. So far, one might add, since he is not that old (born 1959).
I call him an act-or because to my mind he belongs firmly within that group of theatrical personalities (theatrical even if they never appear in the theatre) who are known in some English circles as luvvies. Luvvy is a slightly unkind term, implying an excessive friendly and self-obsessed, pretentious approach to life. Every so often Private Eye runs a column giving quotes from such slebs.
My memory tells me, and a Google search confirms, that the UK publisher (Little, Brown) paid an awful lot of money for this book (£1 million, reportedly), and succeeded in selling only a modest number of copies (15,000, according to BookInfo.Net).
All of that being so, I wasn't expecting a great deal from Red Carpets, and it therefore came as a pleasant surprise. My first note says: 'Why did this not sell? It's a bit too good really, isn't it? Actually it is a lot too good. Classy in the extreme.'
You can see very easily how some editor might fall in love with this book, and bet the farm on it. Unfortunately, sales don't depend upon what editors and I think about things: it's all down to the punters, who, by and large, prefer Jordan (think big knockers).
Everett takes us through most major stages of his life. He was brought up as a Catholic (or Roman Catholic, as John Betjeman used to insist on it being phrased), and educated at Ampleforth, a well known English school. Thereafter he went into acting, and in his time has co-starred with the likes of Sharon Stone and Julia Roberts.
All in all, Mr Everett has had a fascinating life. Though essentially gay (he describes himself as queer, which is an old-fashioned English version of gay), he has had affairs with some beautiful women. His deepest love, however, seems to have been reserved for his dog, Mo. His account of Mo's death is carefully observed: he has the true writer's disease of being highly observant, even when distressed, high, or drunk.
The key to the whole thing is that Everett can write. No hint of a ghost writer here, take my word for it. [Later note. Actually, don't do any such thing. Madame Arcati tells me that the book was ghosted by Justine Picardie. Well, someone can sure as hell write, and the ghost has done one hell of a job.] His portraits of the likes of Paula Yates and Fred Hughes are full of insights, and movingly written.
Overall, Red Carpets is thoroughly recommended, but it helps if you're (a) English, (b) deeply interested in show business, and (c) tolerant of the gay world and luvvies in general.
Thanks to Martin Rundkvist for recommending this book. I should have had more faith in his judgement.
By the way, before I forget. Rupert E will shortly be seen in the new film version of St Trinians. He plays -- oh, but you've guessed -- the headmistress. Now this, I have to see. My guess is that the ghost of Alastair Sim is stirring uneasily.
Judith Martin: No Vulgar Hotel
Judith Martin is much better known as Miss Manners, under which name she advises Americans on how to behave. In her private life, however, she is more than a little taken with the city of Venice. This book is subtitled 'The desire and pursuit of Venice', and it is both a valuable guide for visitors and for those who want to go several steps further and actually live in the city.
And, er, that's about it really. The book will make an ideal present for anyone who is about to go to Venice, or, having been there, talks longingly about going back one day soon. Though not encyoplaedic in format, No Vulgar Hotel certainly constitutes an encyclopaedia of information about what is perhaps the most glamorous, romantic and compelling of all cities.
It's worth noting, in passing, that, in the Renaissance, Venice was the publishing capital of the world, with some 1,500 presses. The greatest of Venetian publishers was Aldus Manutius, who not only invented italic type but also pocket editions and -- best of all -- the rejection letter.
Venice can also lay claim, I think, to having invented the concept of Intellectual Property. The patent system originated there in the fourteenth century, and Marcus Antonius Coccius received the first known copyright in 1486.
The publisher, W.W. Norton, clearly didn't expect this book to sell in significant numbers, because it is not particularly well presented and the illustrations are not well reproduced.
Hugleikur Dagsson: Is This Supposed To Be Funny?
Yes, is the answer. And is it? Yes, in places.
HD is the most famous cartoonist in Iceland, though on the evidence given here he can barely draw more than stick figures. What he can do is think up utterly outrageous, shocking, and sometimes disgusting things for his stick men and women to do and say.
Is This is HD's second book, and his first led the UK's downmarket Sun newspaper to declare firmly: 'Ban this sick book'. Which should constitute a warning to anyone. The Sun points out that the first book has become a cult classic in Iceland, 'where during the winter there are only three hours of sunlight each day'. As if that explains the phenomenon.
Samples? Oh, all right then. If you insist. Daddy figure to child figure: 'Put broken glass in Mummy's food and I'll give you a pony.' Also: female figure arising from bed, with male figure still in bed: 'Our sex life is like a box of chocolates -- my fingers are brown and sticky after we're done.'
This would possibly be a suitable present for a young person of a crude frame of mind. But take a look at the book before buying.
Terry Pratchett: Making Money
And finally, Mr Pratchett.
Mr P's new book didn't get much of a fanfare. But then it doesn't need a fanfare, does it? All it needs is to appear in the shops, and thousands of people buy it. In the most recent week for which there are figures, Making Money sold 37,425 copies, easily taking it into the number one slot.
Making Money is, as you would expect, a Discworld novel: either the 31st or the 35th, depending on who's counting and what you include. Anyway, the point is that, if you have never read a Discworld novel, this is not the best place to start. Start at the beginning and work your way through the lot.
Those who are already familiar with the Discworld will know what to expect, and will meet a whole host of old friends. Even before you get into the story, however, you will note, no doubt, that the book is handsomely printed and typeset (11.75 on 15 pt Minion, which is eminently readable; although there are those who say that the kerning is a bit tight, particularly after full stops, and I can see their point). You will also note that Mr P has taken to giving us old-fashioned chapter headings, in which the contents of the chapter are briefly encapsulated; as if one actually needed an incentive to read on.
As for plot -- well, Mr P must be psychic, or have a very good crystal ball. Why? Because the story is all about banking, and what it is that causes us to have faith in banks, and what causes runs on banks; and all like that. The timing could not be more apposite, because within the last few weeks the UK banking system has undergone precisely that kind of crisis of faith.
As usual, the book is very funny. But it is, of course, an English form of humour. We learn, for instance, that the ruler of Ankh-Morpork once had an ancestor who had people torn apart by wild tortoises; it was not a quick death.
The book is much more than funny, of course. It is, in places, touching and sad; and, in a note on page 334, I described it as beautiful.
Now that's a funny word to use about a Discworld novel isn't it? Beautiful. Do you think that after all these many decades of reading, and all these many thousands of books, do you think that I might be going... Well... you know... a little bit... peculiar?
Monday, October 08, 2007
We have lift-off
So to speak. My computer now works, and should be better than it was before, though I am not making a final judgement until it has been running a few days. However, I should be able to post things here as usual, beginning tomorrow.
The backlog of emails, however, will take rather longer to cope with, so if you are expecting a reply please bear with me.
The backlog of emails, however, will take rather longer to cope with, so if you are expecting a reply please bear with me.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
Free speech is all very well, but...
The little man who labours away in the back room of the computer shop tells me that, come Monday, he may be in a position to sew my right arm back on (metaphorically speaking). So who knows -- next week normal service on this blog might even be resumed.
In the meantime, here's something for you to think about.
We have often noted here, you and I, that the libel laws of England provide wonderful cover for those who have something to hide: R. Maxwell being a splendid (and helpfully dead) example. All you need is lots of money to pay the lawyers. And over the past few weeks we have occasionally noted that billionaire Sheikh Khalid bin Mahfouz has used said libel laws to force Cambridge University Press to pulp all copies of a book which said things about him that he didn't like (see, for instance, the post of 1 September).
You might have thought, were you not fully briefed on these matters, and deeply cynical, that the UK newspapers would have brought their readers fully up to speed on this issue, since it involves (doesn't it?) the principle of free speech: a principle in which you might have thought, were you not fully briefed et cetera et cetera, the UK newspapers had a deep interest.
But no. It turns out that, as usual, money doesn't just talk; it screams its bloody head off. What is more, it gets its way.
The fearless UK fortnightly Private Eye at least has the balls to tell readers what is happening. As of the time when the Eye went to press, the lawyers who protect the UK media against their own excesses have ensured that every mention of the Sheikh in question has been deleted.
The Observer, says the Eye, was all set to run a piece on Mahfouz by Nik Cohen, but the lawyers spiked it. The Spectator was going to do a piece by Brendan O'Neill, which listed all the titles that Mahfouz has succeeded in getting pulped. O'Neill' s essay concluded that Mahfouz is 'almost single-handedly determining what we Brits may read and hear about contemporary terrorism.' But, again, the story never appeared.
In the meantime, here's something for you to think about.
We have often noted here, you and I, that the libel laws of England provide wonderful cover for those who have something to hide: R. Maxwell being a splendid (and helpfully dead) example. All you need is lots of money to pay the lawyers. And over the past few weeks we have occasionally noted that billionaire Sheikh Khalid bin Mahfouz has used said libel laws to force Cambridge University Press to pulp all copies of a book which said things about him that he didn't like (see, for instance, the post of 1 September).
You might have thought, were you not fully briefed on these matters, and deeply cynical, that the UK newspapers would have brought their readers fully up to speed on this issue, since it involves (doesn't it?) the principle of free speech: a principle in which you might have thought, were you not fully briefed et cetera et cetera, the UK newspapers had a deep interest.
But no. It turns out that, as usual, money doesn't just talk; it screams its bloody head off. What is more, it gets its way.
The fearless UK fortnightly Private Eye at least has the balls to tell readers what is happening. As of the time when the Eye went to press, the lawyers who protect the UK media against their own excesses have ensured that every mention of the Sheikh in question has been deleted.
The Observer, says the Eye, was all set to run a piece on Mahfouz by Nik Cohen, but the lawyers spiked it. The Spectator was going to do a piece by Brendan O'Neill, which listed all the titles that Mahfouz has succeeded in getting pulped. O'Neill' s essay concluded that Mahfouz is 'almost single-handedly determining what we Brits may read and hear about contemporary terrorism.' But, again, the story never appeared.
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