Monday, April the 5th, 2004
back to: title, date or indexes
Perhaps the novelist Julian Barnes is to blame, since his novel Flaubert's Parrot was a huge bestseller. I haven't read it myself, so offer no opinion. What bothers me is that the title of the book has seemingly cast a spell over the entire British publishing industry. That format—[historical figure]'s + [everyday or whimsical object]—now infests the shelves of our bookshops to the point of teeth-gnashing despair. At first, only fiction caught the bug—Hemingway's Chair and Lenin's Trousers spring to mind—but once non-fiction contracted the virus, the plague was unstoppable. Yesterday, browsing desultorily in Waterstone's, I came upon the following within about five minutes: Pandora's Breeches; Wittgenstein's Poker; Rembrandt's Whore; Dorothy Parker's Elbow; and Schopenhauer's Porcupines, not to mention Schopenhauer's Telescope. I could go on, but I already feel quite ill.
A significant side-effect of this wretchedness is that in some cases one suspects the very content of the book has been twisted to fit the title. Giles Milton's Nathaniel's Nutmeg was ostensibly a history of the early spice trade, a subject of interest in itself. But because of the imperatives of the title, the author buoys up a single character—Captain Nathaniel Courthope—and gives him an importance in the narrative that is simply unjustifiable. I have no doubt that Giles Milton knows this, and knows that it damages his book, but bows to what is required by theBritish publishing industry—a contemptible, money-grubbing, market-driven playground for the alumni of Oxford and Cambridge universities, rife with nepotism. Even the witless goons who run it must surely learn when enough is enough?
This is one reason, of course, why Hooting Yard appears on the web. Renamed Sir Matt Busby's Cistern or Spinoza's Rhubarb, it would probably attract a five-figure advance … but only if the content were tailored to meet the requirements of the intellectually bankrupt poltroons who sign the cheques. I prefer to plough my lonely furrow. End of rant.