(Excerpt from How to Publish a Book by Timothy L. Marx, 1928)
My so-called chums at the club have been getting rather snippy about our friend Cuthers lately. Asking how his latest novel is coming along, and whether it's been translated into English yet, that sort of barbed cajolation. It's water off a slow duck's back to Cuthers of course. The man could withstand a full verbal assault of his mental faculties and remain cheerfully aloof. If only I were the same. Since I have effectively become his literary agent, I take these slights against his admittedly also slight talents deeply personally. Something would have to be done about the situation before I responded in a way that would get me censured by the club.
On leaving one evening under a considerably pregnant cloud, I strode down Wardour Street at a pace that only a man propelled by his own furious disappointment can fully maintain. This was certainly true in my case, as I ran out of steam turning the corner into Brewer Street, whereupon I paused to collect myself. On a nearby wall a poster was picked out by the streetlight. It was advertising a public reading of Conan-Doyle's Sherlock stories. I groaned with such gravity that a passing lady, who I recognised as a regular around those parts, cackled at my misfortune in a way that unsettled the gentleman who was escorting her. It was then my turn to be amused as she turned up her feminine charm before he made his escape, leaving their transaction incomplete.
Conan-Doyle had caused me some recent headaches, but returning to the fly poster, I saw that it wasn't the great writer himself doing the reading. It was someone I'd never heard of before. I don't recall the name exactly, but the fact I didn't recognise it got the old brainbox beating a happier drum. What if I got Cuthers to do a public reading? Not of his own work of course, that doggerel won't stand up to the public scrutiny of an auditorium. However it seemed that Sherlock Holmes was fair game. I could coach him into reading some Sherlock Holmes tales, then flog his knock-offs to the audience afterwards. I was so delighted with this revelation that I winked at the poster before wending my way home.
Persuading Cuthers was surprisingly easy. In retrospect I had vastly under-estimated his ego, and there was no question that he would want to undertake a public reading, even if it were somebody else's text. At the time of course I was merely delighted that he was so agreeable to the idea, and quickly arranged the use of a room upstairs in a pub in Fitzrovia. This may seem small given my prior mention of auditoria, but I thought it best to start small, given how badly wrong schemes involving Cuthers had gone before.
I should not have worried. The reading went well. Cuthers proved to be an engaging reader, and perhaps this is his best role, acting as a conduit between a genuinely talented author and a willing audience. In a way he was pipe in a plumber’s scheme, and to my delight I managed to route some money through that pipe. The audience was modest, but I sold a few copies of Cuthers' books. With each one, I was anticipating larger future audiences and greater profits.
My plan went swimmingly at first. The bookings increased, as did the books sold. The possibility of breaking even on this whole ridiculous enterprise was tantalisingly close. Then, alas, I booked him in at a small theatre in Islington that I am forbidden to name by legal agreement.
The crux of the problem was one of projection. According to Cuthers, reading from a book in front of a small audience in a relatively small room was fine because everyone could hear him clearly enough, even when he was also occupied with the whole business of turning the pages of said book. He further explained that he had been to see a classical pianist perform recently, and he had someone sitting behind him who turned over the sheets of music for him. That, he said, would be appreciated in an oratory scenario such as that we were about to enter.
I was in two minds about this. My most immediate thought was that I wasn't going to pay someone to turn the pages of a book for him. The second was that the premise was ridiculous. For pianists, changing pages of the score takes a hand away from the keyboard, whereas when reading aloud, no hands are required. I put this to him and after a worrisome period of mental digestion Cuthers agreed that he could in fact read and turn pages at the same time in a larger venue.
The argument settled, I introduced him on stage then left to set up my bookstall at the rear of the theatre. I was only as far as spreading an attractive silk sheet over a trestle table when it became apparent that my star had become frozen in the limelight. I hurried along stage left to reach a position where I could anonymously hiss at him from the wing.
He held the book against his face to hide the words he mouthed at me. Apparently he didn't think he could project his voice far enough with a book held in front of him. Ideally, he explained, the words would be projected nearby, somewhere in front of him so that he could read them without the distraction of the physical book. I told him he was talking absolute kedgeree and fiddle-poke. There was no way I could devise such a contraption in time for the reading, which I reminded him was supposed to be happening at that very instant. He should just get on with it. We could discuss improvements afterwards.
He was adamant, and the crowd was becoming restless. I weighed the important considerations, such as how many books I needed to pay for the hire of the theatre, and relented. I magnanimously emerged from the wings to take up the offer of page turner. I make no bones about it being beneath me, as my main thoughts were with getting out of there financially ahead. Had Cuthers played me? I cannot say, as matters become even murkier when he accidentally chinned me while handing me the book.
What happened next is unclear. Cuthers excuse is that I had snatched the book from him in a very agitated manner, and caught off-guard, he hadn't immediately released his grip. The consequence of this was that I punched myself in the face with the hand clutching said book. The less clear turn of events is what followed the punch. I regard myself a gentleman, so the reports of my stripping down to my waist and demanding settlement by the Queensbury rules is both unthinkable and also likely, in that order.
