IN A SHORT piece for Carol Shields and Marjorie Anderson’s Dropped Threads, June Callwood observed about old age: “I don’t know what death is, but it can’t be worse than the curse of an optimistic nature that learns nothing from discouragement.” Though June had meant this to apply to herself, it would also be a very astute observation about book publishers.
Writing this memoir has forced me to think about both my love of books and the business of books. I think that publishing is more of an avocation than a business. It lacks predictability. It sells books fully returnable or, as it often seemed to me, lends them to booksellers with an option to buy, should they choose to do so. Publishing, then, requires some government funding, though not on the scale that Bombardier or the film industry does. If English Canada’s population were triple its present size, and if our country didn’t share a language with the United States, Canadian publishers could probably manage without subsidies. Had the French forces prevailed instead of the British on the Plains of Abraham in 1759, I think we would have a relatively healthy book industry.
At both McClelland & Stewart and Key Porter we were publishing more than a hundred books a year, and every one of them had the potential to be plagued by gremlins: typesetters who lost pages, indices that were five or six pages out, jackets that didn’t fit, chapters gone missing from the printed book, entire shipments gone off the rails or into the ocean. My favourite book disaster is the one where an army of hungry weevils ate two skids of an expensive art book and the binder chose bankruptcy over paying for the damage. Today’s computer-based production systems have reduced the frequency of errors on the page, but they have created a new set of problems. Yet publishers persist, always hoping for that perfect book.
Our industry relies on the brilliance of writers who may or may not produce a manuscript in any given year. Without them, there would be no book business. And it relies on a dedicated group of people (many more than those I have acknowledged in this book) who believe in the value of books.
I grew up believing that those who have the power of words can shape our memory and our history. My wise grandfather used to tell me that smart dictators first jail the writers. It’s always been thus in Russia, whether under the czars or Stalin or Vladimir Putin. In 1989, the Iranian Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini issued a fatwa ordering Muslims to kill novelist Salman Rushdie. I was proud of Canada for being the first country to welcome Rushdie and of Ontario Premier Bob Rae for being the first government leader to appear on stage with him during the 1992 PEN Canada benefit. In his short speech, thanking all those responsible, Rushdie reflected not so much on his own fate but on the fate of all writers who were killed or imprisoned.
Publishing is still a very personal endeavour, relying on the talents and commitments of a few inspired, grievously underpaid stalwart individuals. We call them editors and publishers. At a gathering of lawyers—I have attended several of these over the years—a very successful corporate lawyer asked me why I would want to be in the book business. I told him it was because I loved it. Much has changed during the years since I first entered 25 Hollinger Road, there have been some winners and some losers, but the essentials have remained the same. There has also been much to celebrate: for example, the House of Anansi fiftieth anniversary in 2017 with the publication of Dennis Lee’s Heart Residence; the happy handover of ECW Press to its co-publisher, David Caron; the continuing efforts by Chapters/Indigo’s CEO Heather Reisman to support books in Canada even as US bookstore chains decline. Digital books have not destroyed the audience for books; in fact they may have expanded it. The television series based on Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale became the most successful drama series on TV in 2017, and the second season started in 2018. The Amazon Canada First Novel Award celebrated its 42nd year in 2018 with Michael Kaan’s The Water Beetles taking the first prize. Past winners include Michael Ondaatje, Nino Ricci, and Madeleine Thien.
Over my forty-year career, I can honestly say that I looked forward to every day at M&S and Key Porter Books, and more than a few days at Doubleday and Seal. Like many of my colleagues, I have enjoyed being a publisher and miss the companionship of my peers, the moment of recognition when a new manuscript reveals itself to be a work of art or insight, or sheer brilliance. I miss the delight of holding one of our new books in my hands; I love even the smell of fresh book pages. I can rarely resist wanting to share books with friends and family. Though I still worry about some of my stupid decisions, in hindsight, I do not think I would have chosen a different life.
In reflecting on my own writing, I have come to realize that I invariably return to my childhood. I have written about Hungary and Hungarians—both real and imagined—about the troubles faced by Central Europe, about the defunct Hapsburg empire and its descendants, and about my own strange family. Even The Appraisal, my 2017 novel, relies on what I have learned about the realities of today’s confused Central Europe. Most of my writing is a way to understand the world.
Margaret Atwood said that writing involves “negotiating with the dead.” I have been aware of this throughout the years it took me to complete this memoir, much as Atwood herself had negotiated with Susanna Moodie, and Pierre Berton had negotiated with the men who built the railway, and Basil Johnston had negotiated with his school friends and his ancestors. I negotiated with Jack and Al, Margaret and Irving, Leonard and Farley, George and Doris, and what I ended up with is never the whole truth, but it is as truthful as I could make it.
I give the last word to Margaret Laurence. From The Diviners: “Look ahead into the past, and back into the future, until the silence.”