PUBLISHING AND THE WAR
By GEOFFREY FABER
FFEW of those who carried on as publishers during the last war are still alive and publishing ; and it is strange how little they have to tell their fellow-publishers about the conditions which lie ahead of us today. If these conditions resembled the conditions which developed between 1914 and 1918, then the publishing world would have reason to expect, after the first stage of readjustment, something in the nature of a boom—an experience which it has not enjoyed for years. War encourages reading. Both to the fighting forces and to civilians it brings long hours of bore- dom and anxiety, which books alleviate as nothing else can. It intensifies emotions, makes men more receptive to the things of the mind, more willing to think and to feel, at the same time as it puts them in greater need of distraction and amusement. It is safe to say that in 1939 these factors will not be less powerful than in 1914; on the contrary, restric- tions placed upon public entertainments and public move- ment must enormously strengthen them.
But there are other factors—partly known, mainly un- known—which may make it difficult for publishers to make the most of the great opportunity which confronts them. The most obvious of these comes under the label of "dis- tribution." Huge readjustments of population are bound, at least for a time, to upset the normal channels of supply. Perhaps the effect will be less than might be expected, because a very large proportion of the evacuated population is not much given to reading. Yet some effect there must be. Moreover, the shift from the evacuated to the neutral and receiving areas must put a continuing strain upon the whole transport-system of the country ; which must be largely reorganised for the distribution of vital necessities. All this will, no doubt, clear itself up in no very long time, provided that transport is not progressively restricted, and not hindered by the effects of aerial bombardment. Damage to the railways and to the main roads might very easily make the distribution of books extremely difficult. By far the greater part of book-buying, as between the bookselling and the publishing halves of the book trade, is done in London, and must, almost certainly, continue to be done in London. The problem of distribution is, therefor; a problem of first importance.
Next comes the question of manufacture. This, for publishers, depends mainly on their ability to obtain paper, on the ability of printing-houses up and down the country to staff their machines, on the ability of bookbinders up and down the country to obtain cloth and boards, and on the maintenance of communication by road and rail between papermills, printers, binders, and publishers. A paper con- trol has already been set up by the Ministry of Supply, and the most urgent representations have been made to the authorities on behalf of the Publishers' Association to safe- guard as far as possible the supplies of paper for books. There are good grounds for hoping that the paramount importance, for the public morale, of maintaining an ade- quate flow of new books, including fiction, is understood in official quarters.
To the technical problems of distribution and manufac- ture must be added others of a less immediately obvious kind. The first of these concerns the great difficulties which many, if not all, publishing-houses will experience in keeping a sufficient and sufficiently experienced staff. Book-publish- ing is a far more exacting business than most people realise. Every book needs meticulous and intelligent attention at each stage of its development from manuscript to volume form. Apart from this, it has often to be edited at one end, always to be publicised at the other. Again, the mere busi- ness of keeping, handling, packing and despatching a multi- form and continuously changing stock, in a publishing house of any size, calls for a considerable and experienced staff. If anything like an adequate output of books is to be main- tained, an adequate staff is essential.
The other "less obvious" consideration is one impossible to assess. Paper, print and publishers are all useless, if the books are not written. For the last year shrewd observers on the backstairs of the book world have been noting a progressive decline in the quantity and quality of worth- while manuscripts. The reason is easy to see. Ever since Munich the atmosphere of Europe has grown more and more unfavourable to creative literary work. A time of recurring crises, with intervals of heightening tension and a growing fear lest civilisation may have been fatally betrayed by the democracies—such a time dries up the wells of imaginative thought. "How can I write with the world in this state?" is a cry I have heard more than once in the last few months. Now that the decision has been taken to fight, and the nation has resolved to end the new barbarism in Europe, there should be a lifting of this deadweight from the minds of writers. But other influences may take its place. The effects of A.R.P. are depressing enough to ordinary people ; to many authors they will be disastrous, unless they live in the less vulnerable parts of the country. And there is a more insidious danger than this. The type of mind which expresses itself in literature is apt to be more than ordinarily conscious of the pressure of events and opinion. It is also apt, at times, to despise its own nature, to crave for the plain job of the plain man. In a prolonged modern war, with the whole community tightly organised for a collective struggle, a writer will need an uncommon resolution, and an uncommon conviction that authorship is his proper and most valuable form of service, if he is to prevent himself from being used by the unintelligent will of the hcrd, or of the bureaucracy, for tasks better performed by others.
To readers of The Spectator it is needless for me to defend the values of literature. Those values rise to their highest point in a war undertaken in order to save the world from barbarism. The function of the author, at such a time, becomes infinitely more important than at any other. That is not to say that literature, in war, should consist of nothing but noble sentiments. Literature—as I have argued before, in resisting the demand for a censorship—has to be taken as a whole, as the one means which the nation or the race has of "thinking aloud." It must express all moods, and appeal to all needs. It lives by freedom—by the very freedom for which we are now to fight. May some such conception as this unite our writers and give them, each in his own particular kind, the courage and the gaiety which the country will look to them to exhibit. I have said little about the plans which publishers have made, for there is little to be said. Some offices have moved, in whole or in part, from London, but there has been no general migration. It would seem that, for the present at least and so long as possible, the publishing trade will remain concentrated in or close to London. It will continue to operate to the maximum of its capacity. So far as the autumn season is concerned, there will be no shortage of new books, though there will naturally be a considerable reduction of output. To look farther ahead is difficult ; but most publishers are no doubt doing, as my own firm is doing—planning to maintain as nearly as possible a normal output. It is too early yet to say whether costs will rise to such a height that the prices of books will have to be increased. I trust not. It is the policy of the Government to prevent a rise in prices ; though the high cost of com- pulsory insurance of saleable goods against war risks, if it is applied to books, can only be met by a surcharge related to published prices.
As for the type of new book which is most likely to be in demand, and therefore most likely to be published, I do not myself anticipate any very startling changes. It would not surprise me if the demand for crime stories decreased ; imaginary violence loses its attraction in the presence of real violence. Books about the war, and the future reconstruc- tion of the world, are likely to have a vogue. Poetry may receive a new stimulus. Fiction of all kinds should begin to see better days. I should expect that any book which is born of honest and serious thinking will be more willingly read than in peace-time. And there is certainly a huge public waiting for the first new writer who can catch the note of humour, which is the natural reaction of our race to danger.
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