Translated into Northern Uzbek -- Garbo
By all reports, Charles Dickens had a look. Early in his journaism career, he put together a writerly outfit including vest and scarf/cravat, an ensemble which told the world he was someone special.
Many 19th century writers made an effort to establish themselves as skillful or someone who spoke with authority, but Dickens was among the smaller group, would-be celebrities. In the last couple of weeks, I've been reading the two-volume anthology American Fantastic Tales, edited by Peter Straub. Each volume ends with a detailed biography of the contributors, and whether the authors wrote full-time or as a sideline.
I've felt a great deal of kinship with some of the contributors, especially the authors of the first volume. Many led full lives independent of their writing. As the biographical details emerged, I a nostalgic pang got me; I yearned for an era in which it mattered more what you wrote, and it mattered less who you were.
I read a lot of modern fiction too, in book and magazine form, and these days the author is most often measured up by these factors: how many books they've written; which of these books have won or been nominated for major award; into how many languages their works have been translated.
This last ranking always sends me into a sullen place. I ponder making wild claims about potential languages my fiction may have appeared in -- Northern Uzbek, say, or Sunda, or modern Greek, or Gan. Sipping at my half-empty cup of lukewarm coffee, I tell myself that I could probably risk asserting these accomplishments, and who among the average readership could prove me wrong? Even if one of these people is fluent in Greek, let them prove to me that no press anywhere on any of those sunny islands has put out a dozen chapbooks of my humor essays.
I freely admit that I'm just cranky because it feels in these days of the celebrity-writer that in order to have something to say, one must Be Somebody. I compare this to the days when people like Fitz-James O'Brien or Madeline Yale Wynne, both authors whose work is included in American Fantastic Tales, sold work to magazines where the piece ran once. Even when stories were gathered into a collection, sometimes authors found out there'd be a single print run of the book. Even if they mostly sold and didn't end up piled on top of the Remainders table, the publisher calculated that there weren't enough potential buyers for a reprint. Then everyone moved on, and many years later, some literary detective uncovered the nearly-forgotten piece and modern readers got a chance at it.
Having wished things could be as they were in the past, of course another part of me is very glad I live now. Even twenty years ago, it could easily have been the case that every single copy of someone's writing could be destroyed or inaccessible. Bookstores have always had to clear the shelves for newer titles, and libraries can't hang onto novels no one's checked out for years.
As an author, I can tell you that even the writer may not end up with a copy of a book, having lent out the last of an out-of-print work without realizing it. And even if someone wanted to reprint a favorite work, the wearisome business of obtaining permissions by chasing down publishers, agents, or family members who moved without a forwarding address was often too daunting for even an enthusiastic fan.
How fortunate am I to live in the Internet Age. I don't have to compete for every pair of eyes belonging to a current reader; long after I am gone, my work will zip through cyberspace and appear (probably as a virtual narrator reading aloud via hologram) into any interested party's home or office.
Many 19th century writers made an effort to establish themselves as skillful or someone who spoke with authority, but Dickens was among the smaller group, would-be celebrities. In the last couple of weeks, I've been reading the two-volume anthology American Fantastic Tales, edited by Peter Straub. Each volume ends with a detailed biography of the contributors, and whether the authors wrote full-time or as a sideline.
I've felt a great deal of kinship with some of the contributors, especially the authors of the first volume. Many led full lives independent of their writing. As the biographical details emerged, I a nostalgic pang got me; I yearned for an era in which it mattered more what you wrote, and it mattered less who you were.
I read a lot of modern fiction too, in book and magazine form, and these days the author is most often measured up by these factors: how many books they've written; which of these books have won or been nominated for major award; into how many languages their works have been translated.
This last ranking always sends me into a sullen place. I ponder making wild claims about potential languages my fiction may have appeared in -- Northern Uzbek, say, or Sunda, or modern Greek, or Gan. Sipping at my half-empty cup of lukewarm coffee, I tell myself that I could probably risk asserting these accomplishments, and who among the average readership could prove me wrong? Even if one of these people is fluent in Greek, let them prove to me that no press anywhere on any of those sunny islands has put out a dozen chapbooks of my humor essays.
I freely admit that I'm just cranky because it feels in these days of the celebrity-writer that in order to have something to say, one must Be Somebody. I compare this to the days when people like Fitz-James O'Brien or Madeline Yale Wynne, both authors whose work is included in American Fantastic Tales, sold work to magazines where the piece ran once. Even when stories were gathered into a collection, sometimes authors found out there'd be a single print run of the book. Even if they mostly sold and didn't end up piled on top of the Remainders table, the publisher calculated that there weren't enough potential buyers for a reprint. Then everyone moved on, and many years later, some literary detective uncovered the nearly-forgotten piece and modern readers got a chance at it.
Having wished things could be as they were in the past, of course another part of me is very glad I live now. Even twenty years ago, it could easily have been the case that every single copy of someone's writing could be destroyed or inaccessible. Bookstores have always had to clear the shelves for newer titles, and libraries can't hang onto novels no one's checked out for years.
As an author, I can tell you that even the writer may not end up with a copy of a book, having lent out the last of an out-of-print work without realizing it. And even if someone wanted to reprint a favorite work, the wearisome business of obtaining permissions by chasing down publishers, agents, or family members who moved without a forwarding address was often too daunting for even an enthusiastic fan.
How fortunate am I to live in the Internet Age. I don't have to compete for every pair of eyes belonging to a current reader; long after I am gone, my work will zip through cyberspace and appear (probably as a virtual narrator reading aloud via hologram) into any interested party's home or office.
Garbo
I'm wearing a cravat...right now. Boy did that come out creepier than I meant it. That Bipi is a horror or a shrewd literary critic.
ReplyDeleteIt's probably very different now, for writers to get a story printed in Atlantic Monthly, or The New Yorker. Yes, those days are gone. But you are correct about the webs, even though I will most likely never find the little children's book I loved about a little babbling brook...
ReplyDeleteI'm wondering if the books that fall from the shelf hold any clues...Bipi may have a message!