Rush to print
Patrick Cosg rave
Everybody who has written a book -other than the kind of book under discussion— is familiar with a certain kind of stomachchurning feeling which manifests itself on receipt of the finished product. It is akin, I rather suppose, to the feeling of a mother beholding her wizened baby the morning after. Did I do that ? Did I know all that ? Were those my judgments? Under normal publishing conditions the author, unlike the mother, sees the product of his sweat, labour and dreams about nine months after he has delivered it. She has at least the advantage of seeing the completed work immediately after her labour. 'Writing a book is an adventure', wrote Winston Churchill. 'To begin with it was a toy, an amusement ; then it became a mistress, and then a tyrant.' How different if the finished book, the artefact of the imagination, could be completed and presented in weeks rather than months.
And so many books are. The world of the so-called 'instant' book is a curious one. The product is designed to meet an immediate need which cannot be satisfied by even the very lengthy newspaper articles now fashionable; and its success can be gauged from the fact that the first book on the Entebbe raid, William Stevenson's Ninety Minutes at Entebbe( Bantam 85p) is already on the bestseller lists. In theory, there is nothing difficult about producing a book within weeks. but it is expensive; the publishers have to be pretty certain there is a strong market, for they do not expect it to have a long life; and reliable authors, who can produce copy very quickly, are thinner on the ground than one might suppose. Given the economic climate in recent years--and in particular the high cost of paper —publishers have therefore tended to shy away from a form once so popular that Macmillan London considered committing themselves to a separate list of instant books.
Since a strong market is required, and sufficient time must not be allowed for the enthusiasm of readers to cool, instant book subjects must be dramatic, involve lots of human interest, and present an impressive array of inside information. It can, too, be death, to arrive late in the field. Thus, for example. though the Entebbe raid is a dream subject for instant book publishers, I rather fancy that Mr Stevenson (and his assistant Mr Uri Dan, the chief correspondent of the Israeli newspaper Mit'ariv) will give a sound market beating to Yehuda Ofer's Penguin Special Operation Thunder, a much slimmer and more patchy book (70p).
The drama, the meticulous planning, the story-book daring, of the Israeli Army's penetration of Amin's stronghold are exciting to read about, and will remain so how
ever often or badly the tale is told. And, indeed, it cannot be said that either book is very distinguished. Mr Julian Meltzer's translation of Mr Ofer's work is barely literate; the text itself frequently meanders; and the background to the Israeli decision to intervene is sketchy in the extreme. Mr Stevenson's story is much fuller and he does not, fortunately, resist the temptation of the instant book writer to flesh out his volume with whatever documentary material happens to be available. Thus we have not only generous excerpts from the Security Council debate on the raid, but also full transcripts of Colonel Bar-Lev's telephone conversations with President Amin, including the hilarious talk that ended the series, in which Bar-Lev thanks Amin for his help and Amin replies in desperate puzzlement, clearly unaware that the raid is already over, and the hostages safe.
But it is still a clumsy, banal and ill-written book. Especially when he tries to strike an epic note Mr Stevenson achieves only bathos. Checking on whether that other epic event in Israeli history—the Six Day War — produced any better instant monuments I found myself re-reading Randolph and Winston Churchill's account, put together within days. It provides a remarkable synthesis of battlefield action and world politics, is written crisply, and would easily bear reprinting today, It shows that the job can be done, and that the instant book need not be clumsy, or scrappy, or ill-written.
One solution, of course, is to employ a number of authors. There has just come my way a symposium from the Council on American Affairs, China: The Turning Point, which contains fifteen erudite and impressive essays on American policy towards China. From conception to appearance on the bookstalls it took four weeks. Its only challenger that I have recently come across is Mr John Stonehouse's My Trial (Star Books 95p). Here the publishers had the advantage of Mr Stonehouse's unbelievable egotistical loquacity and, much though their technical enterprise deserves praise, the text is tiresome beyond belief, consisting of 229 pages of puling outrage. (A similar performance can be expected from Mr Peter Hain, whose account of his trial for bank robbery is due out shortly from Quartet at 90p.) Most publishers' editors appear to be quite resigned to the proposition that haste, sloppiness, self-indulgence and brevity of life are all inevitable characteristics of instant books: Their aim is a short life and a quick kill, and then on to the next project. But many distinguished books have been written, if not published quickly: John Buchan never took more than a few weeks over his thrillers, and William Faulkner's A Man Lay Dying was written in days.
Proof that the proposition is not invariably true is offered by Mr Colin Smith's Carlos: Portrait of a Terrorist (Sphere 95P). Mr Smith is the Observer's chief roving reporter and his dossier on the Venezuelan thug who is now the most wanted man on
Israeli lists is meticulously researched, in the main very well-written, and thorough in every department. At its heart is the Venezuelan himself, a nihilist drunkard, disliking the Arabs, probably working for the KGB, depressed by his failure with Englishwomen. Surrounding this core is a carefully built analysis of Terror International, the liaison network of terrorist organisations, threatening all stable governments except those of Eastern Europe, South Yemen and Libya. With Mr Smith Sphere have conquered all the problems and difficulties of the instant book.
Given that publishers again seem willing to make the investment in rapidly produced volumes, given that there are few technical obstacles to speedy production, it seems that we need only the authors to ensure a steady flow of these undeniably entertaining, and occasionally worthy, productions. Concentration, dedication, information, the forensic capacity needed to carry a conception through from beginning to end at speed, and a loyal friend standing by to eliminate solecisms and repetitions— these are all the writer needs. Surely hundreds of journalists are already beating down publishers' doors?
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