It is easy enough to write a book. The difficulty is to sell the
production when it is finished. That, however, is not the author’s
business. Nevertheless, the labours of the writer are not over when he
has completed the last paragraph of his book. He has, then, in most
cases, to find a title for it.
This, I maintain, should be a matter of little difficulty. I regard a
title as a mere distinguishing mark, a brand, a label, a something by
which the book may be called when spoken of—nothing more.
According to this view, the value of a title lies, not in its
appropriateness to the subject-matter, but in its distinctiveness.
To illustrate: some years ago a lady entered a bookseller’s shop and
asked for “Drummond’s latest book—_Nux Vomica_.” The bookseller without a
word handed her _Lux Mundi_.
To my way of thinking _Lux Mundi_ is a good title inasmuch as no other
popular book has one like it. So distinctive is it that even when
different words were substituted the bookseller at once knew what was
intended. That the view here put forward does not find favour with the
critics may perhaps be inferred by the exception many of them took to the
title of my last book—_Bombay Ducks_.
While commending my view to their consideration, I have on this occasion
endeavoured to meet them by resorting to a more orthodox designation. I
am, doubtless, pursuing a risky policy. Most of the reviewers were kind
enough to say that _Bombay Ducks_ was a good book with a bad title. When
criticising the present work they may reverse the adjectives. Who knows?