tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-66345671676118468732024-02-07T21:09:36.918-08:00The Black Dogs of Despair Reading RoomPanicswitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04074225770192887676noreply@blogger.comBlogger1125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6634567167611846873.post-56359773750820640942012-01-23T16:48:00.000-08:002012-01-24T23:22:10.041-08:00The Folly of The Paper Book<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzExVJlhN41TDScTmBCxDIXClKbny-rV967nEUZIHFXwz27vJw8D98sgIEecl-Hx1FF8_haTtZFNqQRAmi9WlupmUhOlKLjItwddnKqK7i7JzrxwADN_72d8sBlVvCHiKqnOa3VRkvod8f/s1600/folly+of+the+paper+book+insert.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzExVJlhN41TDScTmBCxDIXClKbny-rV967nEUZIHFXwz27vJw8D98sgIEecl-Hx1FF8_haTtZFNqQRAmi9WlupmUhOlKLjItwddnKqK7i7JzrxwADN_72d8sBlVvCHiKqnOa3VRkvod8f/s200/folly+of+the+paper+book+insert.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Quincy Pickle's "Eel Blood Pon M'Soul"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
"The novel, as we know it, is about to change." Edward Ambergris beamed
at the audience before him. They, for their part, squatting uncomfortably
on their ricketty wooden chairs, glared back at him with narrowed, yellow
eyes. Word had leaked out about what was to be proposed and the air in
the lecture hall was thick with anger and dark mutterings.<br />
<br />
Edward
continued. "The traditional novel is a work of art, steel pages
anchored to a granite spine, set in the most exquisite of locations, but
consider the drawbacks-"<br />
<br />
"There aren't any!" An unseen voice shouted from the audience.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a>Edward
smiled weakly. "A novel is displayed in a single location. Anyone
wishing to read it must travel there, and then pay a shilling to read
the particular pages on display that day, all within their alloted time.
It can take many years and a small fortune for an ordinary man or woman
to read a single work."<br />
<br />
"Art is nothing without suffering!" The
same unseen voice. Then after a slight pause, "Their suffering,
obviously, not our suffering."<br />
<br />
"Ladies and gentlemen, please,
open your minds to this possibility," Edward said. He held out a crude,
rectangular lump, then the entire assembly gasped as he split it open to
reveal the pages within. "See? Pages! Made from paper."<br />
<br />
The
unseen voice revealed itself. Marmaduke Cotterbum. "Paper is for
wrapping gifts and wiping your arse, you little upstart. What
relationship could it posibly have with the novelist's art?"<br />
<br />
"With
this," Edward said, waving his paper book, "every man, woman and child
could have their own copy of a novel. Still for a shilling but their's
to read wherever they choose, whenever they choose to read it."<br />
<br />
"Ridiculous,"
Cotterbum said. "A novel is supposed to be read at a location of the
author's choosing, allowing for climate, scenery and a myriad other
details to aid and enhance the appreciation of the work."<br />
<br />
"Especially
if the land's to be had for cheap!" A different unseen voice shouted.
Cotterbum, snorted, apparently unhappy to be on this particular side of
anonymous barracking.<br />
<br />
"But don't you want your work to be read?"
Edward asked. "A printing press can produce, literally, hundreds of
copies of your novel every day." He stepped to the floor and handed the
book to Cotterbum. "Just imagine a copy in every hand."<br />
<br />
Cotterbum
tore the book in half and handed it back to Edward. "Only a fool would
want something so intangible, you dolt." He narrowed his eyes. "You
propose that these printing presses will mass produce my novel like pots
and pans. So what's to stop anyone from copying it?"<br />
<br />
"Ah!"
Edward said, "it would only be legal for printers with an official
license to copy the work, keeping track of how much is to be paid to the
author. However, after a certain amount of time I imagine it would be
in everyone's interest for the work to be freely available to anyone
that wants a copy."<br />
<br />
The room fell silent.<br />
<br />
A wizened old
man was helped to his feet with the assistance of those to either side.
"Young man," he said, the words escaping as a loud world-weary sigh. "I
rely upon the revenue from novels to put food on my table. Would you
have me starve?"<br />
<br />
Edward's collar was feeling particularly tight,
so he hooked a finger into it to take a deep breath. "Of course not,
mister... might I ask your name, sir?"<br />
<br />
"Silas Humpwinkle," the old man said with all the expectation of a man who assumed he need say no more.<br />
<br />
"Mister Humpwinkle, I'm sure the novel you wrote will-"<br />
<br />
"Oh,
I didn't write it," Silas interrupted. "My great grand-father wrote it,
but I am now the sole beneficiary, and be assured, I have become
mightily accustomed to the money that it brings me. It puts food on my
table, sir!"<br />
<br />
"And paid for an army of whores and cart loads of opium," a loud whisper chimed in from several rows back.<br />
<br />
"Life
has been most satisfactory," Silas said, his gummy mouth twisted in a
leer. He thrust a crooked finger in Edward's general direction. "And how
do you propose I make my living with no money coming in?"<br />
<br />
Edward looked helpless. "Couldn't you write your own novel?"<br />
<br />
The
old man spluttered and clutched his chest. After swallowing a generous
dollop of brandy from a proffered flask, he said, "That's your answer?
That only a man who creates something should be expected to profit from
it. Madness and idiocy. I have heard enough!"<br />
<br />
Silas turned
sharply to leave, but mis-judged the move and over-spun slightly so that
he was facing his chair. He contemplated this for a while, obviously
weighing up the wisdom of a counter-turn, but eventually began to
shuffle sideways, bumping and stepping upon those still seated. Once he
had made it to the aisle, all about the hall rose to leave, but in
deference to the old man they let him lead them out, so that it was a
very long time before they had all finally stormed off.<br />
<br />
Edward looked forlornly at the torn pages of the book in his hands. "But it seemed such a good idea..."<br />
<br />
---<br />
<br />
<i>Old story I've resurrected for the sake of putting something up.</i>Panicswitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04074225770192887676noreply@blogger.com2