gostei, de adorar -

da entrevista de Carlos Vaz Marques a Alberto Manguel, no Pessoal e Transmissível de ontem.

e uma das razões porque amei. para ler mais bem paginado no site do autor, em pdf, aqui.

PUBLISHING TODAY

Alberto Manguel

Sometime in the Age of Thatcher, Reagan and Mulroney, English speaking
readers became ignorant. First, translation into English was
practically stopped: today, less than 0.1% of everything published in
English is a translation, and that includes Japanese computer manuals.
Having once been the keen discoverers of Kafka, Camus, Sartre,
Unamuno, Neruda, Dürrenmatt (in the first half of the twentieth century,
for instance,) English-speaking readers locked themselves into
something worse than an imperial mentality, since the Empire forced
them at least to look outside England: into a state of stolid contentment.
Readers and writers in English today know practically nothing of
what is taking place in the cultures of the rest of the world. Step into a
bookstore in Bogotá or Rotterdam, Lyons or Bremen, and you can see
what the writers from other countries are doing. Ask in Liverpool,
Vancouver or Los Angeles who Antonio Lobo Antunes or Cees
Nooteboom are (two of the greatest living authors, the first Portuguese,
the second Dutch) and you will be met with a blank stare. But such a
question would probably not be asked, because English-speaking readers
have became prisoners of their own language, living off whatever the
publishing industry chooses to feed them.

Even the literature written in English has become, by and large,
watered down to canteen fare. Of course there are many exceptions, and
great writers are writing superb literature all the while, but they work in
an atmosphere of intellectual numbness. And, while it has always been
true that a new author has difficulty in finding a publisher, now even
authors with notable careers are having trouble finding a home for their
books. In the English-language publishing world of today there is no
middle ground for literature: formulaic fiction and bland non-fiction
occupy the shelf previously destined for literary works, which have
moved either to small "experimental" publishers (as they used to be
called) or to university presses. Doris Lessing's English publishers told
her a few years ago, after her eightieth birthday, that she wrote "too
much" and that they found it difficult to continue publishing her work;
her American publishers first turned down her novel The Cleft on the
advice of their marketing department and then reluctantly accepted to
bring it out "as a kindness." Bloomsbury, the publishers who once dared
publish Nadine Gordimer and Margaret Atwood (authors who've become
now "safe" modern classics and therefore still published by them,) now
bring out Jane Austen and Charles Dickens in editions for an illiterate
audience with cute introductions by best-selling "chick-lit" novelists
such as Meg Cabot, of The Princess Diaries fame. In her introduction to
Pride and Prejudice, Ms Cabot writes: "OK, so I'll admit it: I saw the
movie first... But, as I had discovered from reading Peter Benchley's
book Jaws, sometimes there are scenes in the book that aren't in the
movie... The movies always leave something out. Which is what makes
Pride and Prejudice such a joy to read over and over. Because you can
make up your own movie about it -- in your head." The Bloomsbury
edition also includes spoof interviews with the dead author: "My first
book to make it into print was Sense and Sensibility..." and so on.
Random House's Vintage imprint now publishes its novels with a how-to
guide at the back, visibly intended for book clubs. These guides are
demeaning catechisms that tell the reader what to think. I've had a fair
experience with book clubs, and its participants are usually not idiots
who need artificial guides to literary conversation.

But readers can be browbeaten into believing that they're not
clever enough to read on their own. Like most things in our culture
today, the publishing industry tends to undermine our belief in our own
capabilities. I am certain that the vast majority of people are capable of
intelligent reading if they are not made to feel inferior through theoretical
jargon and specious arguments of authority; they have the experience and
curiosity that enable them to ask intelligent questions and suggest
thought-provoking answers. And if not everything on the page is obvious
to them on a first reading, then (as teachers used to tell their students,)
they can "look it up." Today, what the publishing industry is saying to its
readers is this: "You’re not capable of understanding on your own,
you’re not experienced enough to enjoy a book without our help.
Therefore, we will produce 'easy' books for you and assist you along with
'easy' answers." It used to be a truism that a measure of difficulty added
to the pleasure of an undertaking. Now difficulty is a fault to be avoided
at all costs, especially at the expense of our intelligence. The keyword of
our culture today is stupidity.

Not that the readership is stupid. But an organized publishing
industry wants us to believe that we are not sufficiently gifted. Notice
that I say "publishing industry" and not publishers. There used to be a
time when publishing (though traditionally reviled by writers) was an
educated, literary entreprise undertaken by people with a love for books.
If it made money from its authors --and several did-- it was more a
question of happy chance than ruthless method. But since the 1980s,
publishing companies, bought up by large international corporations,
began to apply industrial methods to the making and distribution of
literature. Having discovered that books are sold and bought, the
managers of these corporations reasoned that books could be bought and
sold like any other artifact, from pizzas to sports cars. This conclusion is
based on a misunderstanding -- and here I know I will be accused of
elitism, an ancient insult traditionally cast at readers. Books are indeed
sold and bought, but that is a circumstantial fact of their existence, not
their defining essence. Unlike the merchandise on which our societies
build their economies, books are intellectual repositories, the holders of
our experience, imagination and memory. We have decided to exchange
and share the products of these abstract qualities (literary creations) by
means of ordinary commercial systems, because in some remote past we
deemed this to be the simplest method of transmission. But that does not
mean that we actually buy and sell a text, merely its receptacle. When
you buy Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice you are not buying the story
of Pride and Prejudice, you are buying a pile of bound paper containing
a system of ink stains in which we have agreed to encode Austen's story.
I'm reducing the transaction to an almost absurd simplicity in order to
make my point: that we confuse contents and container, another
unfortunate characteristic of our society today. To feed this confusion,
the multinational corporations have turned publishing companies --as
well as bookstores-- into supermarkets and imposed supermarket rules to
the commerce of books. Whether a book is to be published or not is now
decided not by the editor (more or less trained to read manuscripts and
assess their literary value) but by the marketing department staff whose
literary skills are at best not proven. Decisions are made based on
projected sales, an economic tool that does not apply to literary books,
only to manufactured fake books, that is to say, to books created
according to formulas for a specific market and a specific time. Somerset
Maugham once said that to write a good novel there were three rules, but
that unfortunately no one knew what they were. The administrators of
these publishing companies believe otherwise: since there are rules for
imposing a certain brand and type of soft drink on the market, why not
apply these rules to impose a certain author and a certain book? As a
consequence, books now have a "sell by" date, like boxes of cornflakes,
since booksellers cannot stock an infinite number of titles and publishers
force them to take their ready-mades. Backlist titles (the classics old and
modern on which our civilization is based) tend to disappear in a circular
reasoning that argues that since they are not much requested they
shouldn't be stocked and they shouldn't be stocked because they're not
much requested. Furthermore, a huge investment in these fake books is
made in TV chat shows, targeted advertising, purchased bookshop
window space, etc. to ensure that a book will sell (though even these
blockbusting tactics do not always work.) Bookstore chains have joined
this scam. While in old-fashioned bookshops (most of which have
disappeared in the wake of these takeovers), booksellers recommended
what they liked and judged appropriate for a certain reader, in the chain
outlets the employees must display the books in hierarchical spaces for
which publishers have paid. Readers are thereby duped into thinking that
what they are offered by the bookseller is the best, while it is merely the
most richly promoted.

Why are we not up in arms about this? Why are we, readers, such
cowards? Perhaps we think that this onslaught of idiot's fare will not
affect us individually, that it is the other, that imaginary beast we call
"the masses," who will be the victim, the dumb consumer. But that is
simply not true. No writer writes in a vacuum, no artist creates in an
echoless room. Literature, art, exist through interchanges, from author to
reader to author, along generations, so that Homer speaks to us today by
means of a multitude of responding voices, and we, the readers, enrich
Homer every time we open the Iliad. If the process is interrupted, (as
happens during dictatorships, for instance, when readers lose their books
and writers are silenced,) even though a few brave souls may carry on, it
takes a very long time for the majority of readers to reconnect with the
circle of voices that preceded them. The great problem is that the
destruction of anything (in this case, the prestige of intellectual
knowledge and the respect for our cultural achievements) is a terribly
fast process; its reconstruction (because I believe the time will come
when we will have true publishers and booksellers once again) is
heartbreakingly slow. Perhaps we will be lucky and the great
multinational companies who have seized upon the book as another
means to make money, will realize what readers and writers, editors and
booksellers, have always known: that if you want to make money, don't
deal with books. Be an industrialist, a real-estate promoter, a politician,
but don't bother with literature. Perhaps they will realize that their real
fortune comes from the sale of weapons (as in the case of the Lagardère
Group, owner of Little Brown and Warner Books among many other
imprints,) not of the novels of Vladimir Nabokov, and will let the whole
messy little business drop. Perhaps a period of catastrophe will follow,
but (allow me a clichéd lyrical ending) a new, truer publishing world will
emerge from the ruins, no doubt from the continuing efforts of the small,
persistent editors and booksellers who have somehow managed to
survive. I hope so.

---

o bold é meu pois