The treason of the clerks

PERSONAL COLUMN SIMON RAVEN

The English, we are told, do not buy books. A man rich enough to fork out thirty shillings for a round of gins, which vanish for ever in a few moments, will recoil with anguish and outrage when asked to pay the same sum for a stoutly bound volume which would provide hours of pleasure for himself and his entire family. There are two reasons for this particu- lar form of stinginess. The first is that books, like medicine and education, are coming to be thought of as something to which everyone has a `right'; they should simply be there when wanted—free. The second is that most English- men regard writing as a spare--titne amusement which anyone, given the inclination, can take up as easily as collecting stamps; it is not `proper' work, and people are therefore reluc- tant to pay proper money for it.

With the first of these attitudes I am not, in this essay, concerned. What I wish to consider here is a line of thought suggested by the second reason for eschewing books—by the common notion, that is, that writing is only a hobby and that we can any of us write a book if we want to. Lamentably enough, this is per- fectly true; anyone who can write at all can string out 70,000 consecutive words and claim to have composed a book. So far there is no barm done—quite the reverse: the occupation is peaceful and often beneficial as therapy.

The only trouble is that so many of the resultant lucubrations find their way, not merely into publishers' offices, but actually into the bookshops. The ill-written and boring memoirs of fishermen, shoeblacks, lieutenant- generals and egotistical priests, the vapid fic- tions of ladies of fashion and pretty teenagers, the preposterous theories of quack scientists —anything and everything which might just pos- sibly have a new 'human angle' or a topical gimmick to sell it is thrust on the market, thus reinforcing in the public mind the impression that book-making is an amateur business and that anyone who is not positively -certifiable is capable of adding his quota.

A recently coined and convenient term for such merchandise is `non-books'; and the point to notice about the trade in them is this.

Although there is an element of hazard in their publication, it does, on the whole, bring in handsome profits; otherwise it would not have been so prominent for so long or have in- creased so conspicuously in volume. At first sight, this may seem to contradict what I said earlier—that the public is reluctant to buy. The contradiction is easily resolved. When buying non-books, people are buying just that —non-books. These have a ready sale because they are skilfully presented and advertised so as to arouse prurience or low curiosity or fantasy yearnings.

Forty Years a Prostitute or A King's Story are bound to find purchasers because many people are excited by the idea of prostitutes or enjoy day-dreaming about being kings—Only when the glossy volume has been carried home does disillusion set in. The writing, it appears, is lifeless, the revelations are nugatory, the only juicy piece of gossip turns out to be the one so temptingly quoted in the blurb; and that, the reader- tells himself, is all you get from books. As a result of this let-down, dis- credit is then imputed to all authors whatso- ever, including those, particularly those, who make serious professional claims, for here are people with the impertinence to seek a con- tinuous career and livelihood from work which the public well knows (has it not read Junkie's Delight and 1 Married the Aly Khan?) to be trivial, shoddy and inept.

Each time a buyer, having forgotten his pre- vious disappointment -and, being titillated by a piquant photograph of a naked bottom on the cover, succumbs to the lure of another_ non- book, his .contempt for the wor/d-of letters in- creases and the likelihood that he will ever buy a genuine volume of literature (which does not even have a naked bottom to recommend it) dwindles yet further. He may still be pre- pared to risk some money in the hope of being shocked or titillated, but for the rest . . . no. Now, the obvious answer for the publisher is to put naked bottoms (however irrelevant) on the covers of his serious books, in the hope that these will be mistaken for non-books and achieve substantial sales accordingly. This, of course; is common practice in the paperback trade; but hardback publishers, by and large, are fastidious men who are proud of their `quality' wares and disdain to vulgarise them.

Although they are certainly not above making money out of the non-book racket (which is by now essential to their survival), they have a real sense of literature and when they are putting out a literary work they present it with the dignity they know it deserves. They have an almost masochistic relish, one some- times feels, for the lower sales which must probably result from such- sedate procedure: bat after all, publishing is still a `gentleman's profession' rather than a trade; and in any case there is always the chance of a good deal with the paperback people, whose endearing and perennial vanity it is to procure `prestige names' for their lists and (bless their hearts) to pay generously for the privilege.

None of that, however, affects the basic issue, this being that the market is swamped with gimmicky and cleverly got-up non-books, which are taken by their readers for literature and lead to its instant disrepute. When this issue is raised, most people, even intelligent 'people, shrug hopelessly, mumble something about the price of democracy and popular education, and leave it at that: it is all, they imply, beyond remedy. This may be so; but there is one thing at least which we can do about it we can ensure matters get no worse.

We can point out, to those few who are willing to listen, that there is a difference be- tween literature and non-literature (however expensively packaged) and wherein this differ- enceconsists. We can maintain a critical know- ledge of proper standards, even if the public at large refuses to respect them. Those whose duty it is to maintain such knowledge are, of course, schoolmasters, dons and literary critics of the order which writes reviews for respon- sible journals: for schoolmasters and dons as such I am now too old to answer; but of critics and reviewers I do know something, and I have no hesitation in saying that they are faffing us dismally.

For the crucial point is this non-books are currently being accorded, even in journals of merit and distinction, the critical accolade which was formerly reserved for serious work. They are being given space, that is to say, and they are being given praise—by those who should know better. Standards have been lowered in order that non-books may be treated with respect. At a time when literary editors are being asked to give up columns and pages to other interests, they always seem to find room, nevertheless, for a piece on the latest book about (as might be) the mistresses of Errol Flynn. To be more precise, let me now instance just three significant ways in which reviewers (consciously or not) are stinting their duty in order to accommodate non-books.

In the first place, little or no attention is paid, in assessing contemporary books, to their grammar,..systax-and style. It is thought to be pedantic, these days, to complain about the first two and somehow 'undemocratic' to insist on the last. The attitude seems to be that every- one does the best he can and that no one must be made to feel 'inferior' because he is sloppy or uncouth. Style, we are given to understand, is in any case an artifice; what we should be looking for is sincerity, compassion (etc, etc). One result of reviewers' refusal to comment on style and grammar is an increasing neglect (as it were in sympathy) of their own.

The second thing I remark about our re- viewers-'is their extreme reluctance to weak adversely, for any reason, of any book in which the sentiments and tone are predominantly liberal- or left-wing. If an author proclaims a belief in (e.g.) equality, then no matter how lame his arguments or how feebly these are expressed, we are expected to be 'grateful' to him for his 'timely enlightenment' (etc). The edifying intention is taken for the performance. On the other hand, a well-argued or imagina- tive book which leans to the right is often either ignored altogether, or categorically dis- missed in a few spiteful lines at the bottom of a column.

Third and last (of what could be a much longer and very wearisome catalogue); there is little attempt to assess rhythm and construc- tion. As any conscientious writer knows, one of the most difficult and worthwhile things to achieve in a book is the balanced exposition of the thesis (or, in a novel, the plot), without longueurs and overemphases on the one hand or evasions and omissions on the other. But critics, while they seldom acknowledge sound construction when it is before them, are quick to praise convenient evasions as 'experimental' or 'impressionist' technique. One is driven to conclude that they positively resent the exer- cise of real skill as an outmoded and ,anti- social' practice.

There are, it is true, excellent and unbiased critics still writing in many papers; but most of them are senior men and women who in the nature of things will soon be gone. It is the younger reviewers, with certain honourable exceptions, of whom I am complaining here, and -I do so with no apology as they are show- ing no signs at all of amendment. It is one thing that public taste should have been cor- rupted to the point where literature is no longer distinguished from the confessions of crooked footballers or the glutinous pieties of politi- cians on the make; it is quite another thing that the body of critical authority should con- done and even approve of this situation. We have already tossed a splendid Empire away out of deferPnre, to progressive fads; for God's sake let's not dump our literature as well.