The book was wrapped in an outer cover that bore a
recommendation of its contents, starting with a hideous split
infinitive and describing it as an exquisite social comedy written
from within. On the whole it seemed to the author that his book was
flying false and undesirable colours, and since art lies outside the
domesticities, he was hardly relieved when his wife told him that
she thought the binding was very pretty. The author had shuddered no
less at the little paragraphs that the publisher had inserted in the
newspapers concerning his birth and education, wherein he was
bracketed with other well-known writers whose careers at the
University had been equally undistinguished. But now that, like
Byron, he found himself famous among the bacon and eggs, he was in
no mood to remember these past vexations. As soon as he had finished
breakfast he withdrew himself to his study and wrote half an essay
on the Republic of Letters.
In a country wherein fifteen novels--or is it fifty?--are
published every day of the year, the publisher's account of the
goods he sells is bound to have a certain value. Money talks,
as Mr. Arnold Bennett once observed--indeed today it is grown
quite garrulous--and when a publisher spends a lot of money on
advertising a book, the inference is that some one believes the
book to be good. This will not secure a book good notices, but
it will secure it notices of some kind or other, and that, as
every publisher knows, is three-quarters of the battle.
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