The
threatened crisis in publishing has nothing to do with the prices paid to
authors, which on the whole are now fairly just (very different from what
they were twenty years ago, when authors had to accept whatever was
condescendingly offered to them). And if a crisis does come, the people to
suffer will happily be those who can best afford to suffer.
THE NOVEL OF THE SEASON
[_11 July '08_]
The publishing season--the bad publishing season--is now practically over,
and publishers may go away for their holidays comforted by the fact that
they will not begin to lose money again till the autumn. It only remains
to be decided which is the novel of the season. Those interested in the
question may expect it to be decided at any moment, either in the _British
Weekly_ or the _Sphere_. I take up these journals with a thrill of
anticipation. For my part, I am determined only to decide which is not the
novel of the season. There are several novels which are not the novel of
the season. Perhaps the chief of them is Mr. E.C. Booth's "The Cliff End,"
which counts among sundry successes to the score of Mr. Grant Richards.
Everything has been done for it that reviewing can do, and it has sold,
and it is an ingenious and giggling work, but not the novel of the season.
Pages:
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35