Believing the Hype

Yesterday, I observed that, while I wasn't buying the story of the "sequel/prequel in the bank vault," that I would probably buy the book.

Since then, others have questioned the story, and Jim Horwitz provides a somewhat enigmatic response in Watson: Is she heartbroken because the original is being soiled by a second book, or suggesting that we've become too cynical to have appreciated the original, were it released today?

I strongly suspect the latter, and, though I pointed out that the moral of that great, spare novel is impossible to miss or to argue with, I'm sure the current culture of snark would find a way.

On the other hand, the doubts I've read come in two forms:

1. That the manuscript is a fake, the 21st Century equivalent of the Hitler Diaries. This takes a little more scamming than I'm comfortable with accepting, but, then, so did the Hitler Diaries. Der Stern was gullible enough to fall for those and there was plenty of jumping-for-joy in their offices, too, before the truth began to emerge.

Perhaps, though, a better parallel came when Clifford Irving produced his phony autobiography of Howard Hughes while Hughes was still alive, counting on his target being such a recluse that he wouldn't come forward to challenge it.

2. That Harper Lee had not "lost" the piece, did not want it published and is, in her infirmity, being railroaded by greedy hangers-on. Unfortunately, that one is not so hard to accept.

We shall see. Perhaps she's really behind all this, though, like that Toast writer, I certainly don't believe the quotes in the press release ever came out of her mouth.

I've written some of that bushwa on behalf of publishers and advertising clients and it all smells very familiar.

Meanwhile, this seems to be the best analytical piece so far.

 

What I'm reading in the meantime

The current arc in Sally Forth has jumped everything forward a decade and it's been an interesting experiment to see Hilary in her 20s instead of middle school. It starts here.

What struck me about today's is that I've been reading "Good-bye to All That," Robert Graves' classic account of his life in World War I, and I am through the war (and thus nearly through the book) and just last night came upon a passage where he talked about the poems he wrote in the years following his return from France:

I published a volume of poems every year from 1920 to 1925; after The Pierglass, which appeared in 1921, I made no attempt to please the ordinary reading public, and did not even flatter myself that I was conferring benefits on posterity; I had no reason to suppose that posterity would be more appreciative than my contemporaries. I never wrote unless a poem pressed to be written. Though assuming a reader of intelligence and sensibility, and envisaging his possible reactions to my words, I no longer identified him with any particular group of readers or (taking courage from Hardy) with critics of poetry. He was no more real a person than the conventional figure put in the foreground of an architectural design to indicate the size of a building.

So say we all. Well, some of us.

Nelle Lee used to, I know.

See yesterday's thoughts on the difference between what we say we believe and how we behave.

 

Not about comics, nor particularly funny

Something else in Graves struck me, by the way.

I was on a plane reading about how Graves, having been so badly wounded at the Somme that he was reported dead both in the newspapers and in a letter from his CO to his parents, somehow survived his wounds and, after an extended convalescence, returned to the front because he could not stand the excessive patriotic ferver at home.

England looked strange to us returned soldiers. We could not understand the war madness that ran about everywhere, looking for a pseudo-military outlet. The civilians talked a foreign language, and it was newspaper language. I found conversation with my parents all but impossible.

He quotes a stirring, maudlin, patriotic essay by an anonymous "Little Mother" urging everyone to support the gallant lads, then tells how he and Seigfried Sassoon (known as "Mad Jack" for his insane, murderous forays into No Man's Land), both by now strong critics of the war, volunteered to go back.

Siegfried said that we must 'keep up the good reputation of the poets' -- as men of courage. Our proper place would be in France, away from the more shameless madness of home-service. There, our function would not be to kill Germans, though that might happen, but to make things easier for the men under our command.

At which point I switched planes and was treated to an in-flight promo by United, praising itself for the number of veterans it hires and thanking them for their service.

It was very stirring and patriotic.

(To bring it on topic, let me remind you of
Joe Sacco's massive layout of the Somme)

 

Speaking of England and arcs you should follow:

Edison Lee is on an extended (well, I hope it's extended) fantasy arc that is good fun so far. It starts here.

I don't get to read ahead, but I'm fairly confident it won't inspire any deep and troubling thoughts.

I'm not sure I praise that approach sufficiently.

 

 

Comments

[Bob]

Mike - just a note that your "Clifford Irving" link goes to the Hitler Diaries site.

[Mike Peterson]

Thanks - fixed. Better late than never. (On the road with wonky connections and few chances to check messages.)