My father used to run a photography shop. It was the family business and when the time came to close it down there were boxes full of ancient miscellany to sort through. At the time I had been unwilling to go through them and simply put them in storage. This move appealled to both my innate laziness and my tendency to hoard. Now however, faced with rising storage costs and lack of alternative space, I've started the slow process and in doing so discovered this tome. Apparently written by one Timothy L. Marx, it dates to the 1920s and is an attempt at a guide to entering the world of publishing. It is hard to say who the actual author was. Neither my father nor grandfather have ever mentioned it, and there is no Timothy L. Marx on my family tree. Regardless of its origins, I'll scan some of the more interesting parts as and when I have time. Here's the introduction to start with.
Late last year I was knocking back some twisty twos with my chums at the club when during a lull in the chit-chat old Cuthers announced that he had written a book. He did this with no signposting of his intent and just blurted it out, as though the silence was so unbearable he would say anything to fill it. Dangerous disposition that, the man must avoid libraries like I avoid my relatives. Naturally we all laughed at this news, not so much as it was ridiculous, but because of the manner in which it had been delivered. Although it was slightly ridiculous. We were all at Eton together, but some of us were more there than others and frankly I could never understand how his parents had afforded the fees.
Poor old Cuthers seemed rather put out by this hilarity, so since it was nearly Christmas I took pity on him and told him I could get it published. Should be a doddle, I said. My Uncle Piers works for Penguin and I was sure he would be happy to publish Cuthers' opus magnum. I did have an ulterior motive. With Christmas approaching, I would soon have to make the dreadful rounds of visiting relatives in the regions, and having to submit to their demands to know what I was doing with my life, besides frittering it away in some West End establishments. A venture into publishing should shut the old bores up. So, winners all round, lets's have a tall glass of Green Imp to celebrate!
The gesture was well received and with Cuthers' ego restored, we ordered some champers and tiny toots and were well and truly on our way to Christmas. I was uncategorically a genius of the first water. What could possibly go wrong?
No comments:
Post a Comment