Bookend
Bookbuyer
BOOKBUYER was intrigued to see a book/folio of poems, drawings and watercolours by Marcel Marceau at a party recently. The work has been lavishly published as a limited edition by Aline Almayen in France recently at an enormous price — about £150. The colour processing particularly is impressive, and some of the clown-figures have the force of selfportraits. Marceau, gesticulating restrainedly and turning over the luxurious pages, admitted with Gallic sang froid that his work is very good. Indeed it is, but how is it that the French manage to get away with self-esteem? Bookbuyer was reminded of the great designer Erte, at a similar party, with a similar book, this spring: his gifts and temperament don't seem to have damaged his business talent either. Marceau is at the moment discussing a contract with Tambimuttu of the Lyrebird Press for several books of this sort, starting with this one. The English edition would not be a luxury one, though — Tambimuttu wants to make Marceau available to students, and would price a hardback at about £2.75. He is however helping to dispose of the limited edition, and hopes to have dramatic sales in the US. Marceau has not yet finalised the arrangement, but it is unlikely that the deal will be anything but convenable.
And talking of perspicacious Latins, Salvador Deli has made a deal with the publisher Peter Owen, who mentioned a price well over £5,000. But the perfide albion seems to have had one of the last smiles — he got Dali to autograph one or two books, and to do a ' squiggle ' for him. If Dali is unaware of the prices such treasures are fetching, Mr Owen surely is not. In fact he said that another time he would take along a more expensive book for autographing. Mr Owen sounded unenthusiastic on hearing that Bookbuyer intended to mention this deal with Deli; Atticus is supposed to be doing an exclusive story shortly. But isn't all publicity good publicity?
Two people enjoy the accolade of three books appearing about each of them this winter: Igor Stravinsky and Edward Paisnel the Jersey rapist. The Stravinsky trio, consisting of conversations, biography and reminiscences, will no doubt be worth reading; but can the vulturous concentration on Paisnel be justified as anything other than the worst kind of sensationmongering? Robert Hale scoops the dung heap with The Beast of Jersey, by his wife, Joan Paisnel ("a Jekyll and Hyde figure '
. , . "evil cunning "); followed by W. H. Allen's The Jersey Monster by Ronald Maxwell (" sex maniac" . . . " dead of night" . . . "slumbering children and young women from their beds "); and finally Hamish Hamilton's The Untimely Silence by Ward Rutherford (" tax
avoidance facilities " . . . "enclosed societies " . . . " atmosphere "). Poor Jersey.
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