It’s easy to imagine all of us, over dinner at the Frankfurt Book Fair, sharing reasons for our gratitude to Roger. Reasons presumably personal and perhaps secret, about which I’ll say nothing. But I’d like to offer a few words about one particular reason we certainly all feel grateful to him. Roger, in fact, more than anyone else, helped us to solve a mystery that is contained in the following question: why is publishing so pleasurable? I certainly don’t want to suggest that this is a question of general interest. In fact, I doubt there are many in the outside world who ask it. Indeed, some would think that only a person who is in some way disturbed could ask a question like that. And yet such people exist and, consciously or unconsciously, are obsessed by that question. But who? Publishers themselves. Why, in fact, does anyone become a publisher? Certainly not for money, as the history of publishing amply demonstrates; and certainly not for the enjoyment of power, since any power the publisher has can only be fleeting and elusive, often insufficient to last more than a season. And I hope that no one is thinking of the word culture, since good manners require that it should not be mentioned, at least among educated people.
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So what is left, apart from simple pleasure? We might not think it, looking at the expression on the faces of many of our colleagues here at Frankfurt. But anyone who had anything to do with Roger was compelled to believe it. Five minutes with him was enough to understand that there must be something wrong if the publisher’s work is not frequently interspersed with laughter. And so, if our life as a publisher fails to offer sufficient opportunities for laughter, this means it’s just not serious enough. And Roger was a very serious publisher. For Roger, books, authors, and publishers were all linked by a golden chain of stories. And a laugh or a smile now and again is a good sign when we find ourselves in the midst of a sequence of stories, if only as a counterpoint to the stories themselves, which can tend to be rather gloomy. And so the life of one publisher would contribute to this chain with a wealth of oral stories, which obviously run the risk of being lost if ever this chain is broken. In Roger’s case we know we have nothing to fear, since the key to his trove of stories is in the safe hands of a single person: Peggy Miller. And I’m sure Jonathan Galassi will keep up this tradition no less than the publishing house’s many others. Roger was the fascinating, stern, and reassuring custodian of these stories, similar to one of those magnificent Indian chiefs portrayed by George Catlin, in which Baudelaire had recognized the archetypes of the dandy. Something of this kind came to mind when I saw him at his office desk or at his stand here at Frankfurt or with a martini before him at the Union Square Café. From his stories, which he used to recount with that irresistible drawl, we have all learned quite a number of valuable lessons we couldn’t have been taught elsewhere. As publishers, we can hope for nothing better than to succeed in following that example, trying to be a part of the fun that Roger was able to spread throughout the publishing world for so many years. And if we have to stick to one rule, let it at least be the one that Joseph Brodsky—who, among other things, was one of the strongest links between us—once suggested as we were talking about Roger: “Whenever in doubt, he chooses the generous course.”
When a publisher dies, his name generally appears in the newspapers followed by those of his authors, as if each of them were medals. In Roger’s case, I’m sure that his best authors would be proud to see their names and the titles of their books followed by these simple words: “Published by Roger Straus.”