WHEN, in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for an author
to dissolve the bands which have connected him with his publishers,
a decent respect for the opinions of mankind requires that he should
declare the causes which impel him to the separation.
The war between authors and publishers has been a conflict of ages.
On the one side, the publisher has been looked upon as a species of
Wantley dragon, whose daily food was the brain and blood of hapless
writers.
"Devouréd he poor authors all,
That could not with him grapple;
But at one sup he ate them up,
As one would eat an apple."
On the other side, the author has been considered, like Shelley, "an
eternal child" in all that relates to practical business matters,
and a terrible child at that,--incapable of comprehending details,
and unreasonably dissatisfied with results. A definite illustration
will sometimes throw more light on a general principle than reams
of abstract discussion. But in matters of this sort, definite
illustrations are very hard to come at. In any case of trouble between
author and publisher, it is for the interest of the latter that it
be kept as quiet as possible. Even if he be unquestionably right,
and the difficulty be owing solely to the author's inexperience and
impracticability, the ill odor of having had a quarrel will hardly be
neutralized by any knowledge of its causelessness. The sympathy of the
public is more likely to be with the author than with the publisher.
The author also is held to silence by various considerations. The
difficulty of getting at the real state of the case, and the misgiving
which results from it; the always unpleasant nature of the controversy;
the obtrusion of one's private affairs, as if it were a theme of
general interest; the uncertainty of any good to be obtained; the
fatigue and disgust of the quarrel itself,--a thousand circumstances
combine to make it appear altogether easier and better to let the
matter go than to take the trouble of any adequate presentation or
explanation of it. But as he is never quite satisfied, he can never
quite let it go; and though there come not a real thunder-storm
crashing among the hills, but clearing the skies, there are low
mutterings and occasional flashes, which betoken a signal discontent of
the elements.
Thus exists the chronic feud between authors and publishers; partly
traditional, partly experimental; a matter often for outward jest,
but quite as often of deep and serious import. It is a sort of
bush-whacking, in which every man whacks on his own account, and
frequently does not know that there is any other bushwhacker than
himself. So the warfare goes on, but to no end. Nobody learns wisdom
from another man's experience, because the other man keeps his
experience to himself.
I propose to supply what the theologians call a "felt want," and to
become the historian of a contest all of which I saw, and part of
which I was. From the confusions of long misunderstanding I would fain
evolve an intelligent and lasting peace. "When," in the language of Dr.
Johnson, "I am animated by this wish, I look with pleasure on my book,
however defective, and deliver it to the world with the spirit of a
man that has endeavored well." If it be instigated by any other motive
than pure benevolence, the fact will doubtless appear in its progress.
Should my little cask of oil be poured out in vain upon the stormy
waters,--should I, instead of soothing their rage, be whelmed beneath
it,--there remains the consoling assurance that no one else is involved
in my fate.
It would be hypocritical to apologize for the intrusion of private
affairs upon public notice, when it is notorious that there is
nothing the public so dearly loves, nothing upon which it so eagerly
fastens, nothing which it so greedily devours, as private affairs.
Indeed, the privacy of affairs seems to be sometimes the only element
of interest they possess, and the delight which the public finds in
them is proportioned to the amount of good manners it was necessary to
sacrifice in order to get at them.[1]
I give fair warning that this narration is not intended to be of
interest or value to any but authors and publishers. A log-book is
not generally considered very entertaining reading, yet it may be
scanned with great eagerness by those who are following the track
it chronicles. This is simply the log-book of a desperate voyage, a
careful knowledge of which may prevent many a young mariner from being
drawn into it himself.
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