Luck, altruism, shrewdness, parsimony, industry, generosity, and what some authors (and librarians, perhaps) call hardness of heart have always been the characteristics of a…
Abstract
Luck, altruism, shrewdness, parsimony, industry, generosity, and what some authors (and librarians, perhaps) call hardness of heart have always been the characteristics of a successful publisher. He has first of all been a man of energy, sure of his own judgement, ready to accept losses, and (after success) conceited about his flair. In early days ready to work until all hours and to read every manuscript submitted to him (although comparatively few unsolicited manuscripts are worth publishing), he has been forced with the growth of his business to accept advice from employees of a peculiar type—those who, with no wish for glittering rewards, can tell him exactly what he needs to know about the inevitable avalanche. He has made friends in all professions; and these friends, also disinterested, have lent him their brains, instructing him in all sorts of possibilities in their own fields. He has used these friends without scruple.
To myself, as it must be to all who love browsing among the delightful annals of literature, Mr. Hoppé's devoted recension of The Reader's Guide to Everyman's Library is a…
Abstract
To myself, as it must be to all who love browsing among the delightful annals of literature, Mr. Hoppé's devoted recension of The Reader's Guide to Everyman's Library is a peculiar treasure. But it also stirs extraordinary memories; for of all men now alive I was closest to Everyman's Library in its first hours of life. The series was known to me before it was born, before it received a name which for more than half a century has been familiar to the whole world. “Everyman's Library”; how hard to believe that this was once no more than “new series” and that Ernest Rhys struggled for weeks in vain to discover a distinctive title. When this came to him, he excitedly shouted “Eureka!” and, still shouting, but sedately, under his breath, ran to demand audience of J. M. Dent.
The other day, when addressing a select gathering of publishers, I was asked by one of those present how reviewing today compared with the reviewing of fifty years ago. I said…
Abstract
The other day, when addressing a select gathering of publishers, I was asked by one of those present how reviewing today compared with the reviewing of fifty years ago. I said that fifty years ago an important book would be noticed in all the chief periodicals within a fortnight of publication, and that even a first novel by an unknown writer had between thirty and forty reviews before the end of a month. The reviews of the important book would be long; the reviews of the first novel, though shorter, would be separate and serious. These impressions, delivered on the spur of the moment, were confirmed by a senior publisher in the audience.
Every lover of books, and every professional writer, owes a debt to libraries which he can never ex‐aggerate. Whether they lend, or must be visited, they supply the material for…
Abstract
Every lover of books, and every professional writer, owes a debt to libraries which he can never ex‐aggerate. Whether they lend, or must be visited, they supply the material for quite half his knowledge. He begins with a few oddments upon his father's shelves—my own early contacts with literature were an imperfect New Testament, three dumpy volumes, dated 1799, of The Spectator, miniature editions of Pope, Burns, and The Arabian Nights Entertainments, and about thirty volumes of the orange‐peel coloured Penny Poets—and proceeds ravenously to wider collections of greater or lesser worth. The quality of these wider collections is all‐important.
As I look back, I find that, for me, as for many old men, the book of greatest influence is the Book of Life; and as one who has been extraordinarily lucky in friendships I know…
Abstract
As I look back, I find that, for me, as for many old men, the book of greatest influence is the Book of Life; and as one who has been extraordinarily lucky in friendships I know that close contact with other minds has been of superlative value. From quite early boyhood I had friends of intellectual quality, and as I grew up I benefited from close association with such men as Arnold Bennett, H. G. Wells, A. G. Gardiner, and others, all my seniors, and all shrewd observers of history and the current scene. Nevertheless the love of books, and the constant reading of books, have partially made up for almost total lack of schooling.
The other day, a special correspondent of The Times repeated what he said was a familiar and general criticism of the Third Programme: “The Third (as a recent talk on Professor R…
Abstract
The other day, a special correspondent of The Times repeated what he said was a familiar and general criticism of the Third Programme: “The Third (as a recent talk on Professor R. H. Tawney reminded us) must stop mistaking an Oxford accent for broadcast brilliance … In this greatly reduced but highly important programme there is less room than ever for the lacklustre broadcast, no matter who delivers it.” In other words, broadcasting, like writing, is an art; and it must be addressed to listeners, as books are addressed to readers, who are known as the Public. If talk or book condescends, it will alienate those who come eagerly to it; if it is dry, nobody will attend; and if it is too agreeable the more priggish critics will suspect the talker or writer of a hideous sin.
SINCE the year 1940, there have appeared two major reports on the Public Library system in Great Britain. The first, “The public library system of Great Britain: a report on its…
Abstract
SINCE the year 1940, there have appeared two major reports on the Public Library system in Great Britain. The first, “The public library system of Great Britain: a report on its present condition, with proposals for post‐war re‐organisation” by Lionel R. McColvin, appeared in 1942. It suggested sweeping changes in the organisation of the public library system, more radical and far‐reaching than those embodied in the recent recommendations of the Library Association for local government reform. On library co‐operation, the report was equally radical, though certain similarities with the recommendations of the second report are apparent.
TO some, Annual Estimates this year may have a nightmarish quality. Not perhaps so much in the safe areas to which many who had the means to do so have gone with those means and…
Abstract
TO some, Annual Estimates this year may have a nightmarish quality. Not perhaps so much in the safe areas to which many who had the means to do so have gone with those means and no doubt are contributing part of them to the local exchequers; but in the so‐called “dangerous” areas which have lost them and their means and have, because of their liability to air raids, huge expenditure on A.R.P., the librarian may have a severe battle to get what he needs to maintain his work. Our own policy would be to concentrate, so far as is possible, upon the book fund and on salaries. If these can be retained at a fair amount much good will ensue.
For me the earliest number of The Library Assistant still has upon it the silver glow which in middle age belongs to remembered dreams. To our Bournemouth Library in 1898 the…
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For me the earliest number of The Library Assistant still has upon it the silver glow which in middle age belongs to remembered dreams. To our Bournemouth Library in 1898 the modest bantling came, its pale blue cover crowded with advertisements, on the front of binder and bookseller; of the Cotgreave indicator and magazine racks on the back. A simply‐printed affair of twelve pages, as unpretentious as a country‐town bulletin, but a veritable window into life for many, however, and, in my sober judgment, a chief influence in the making of the library spirit of to‐day.
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON would have delighted in the deep irony of his own idle words, penned in a letter to William Archer in October 1887. His early death in Samoa, itself a…
Abstract
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON would have delighted in the deep irony of his own idle words, penned in a letter to William Archer in October 1887. His early death in Samoa, itself a symbolic reflection of an incredibly romantic life, short but full of incident and perfectly constructed for journalistic highlighting, inspired a spate of fulsomely admiring biographical studies which at one time threatened to obscure his true talent. Essay upon essay, book after book, some merely appreciative, some approaching adulation, poured from the presses until literary criticism proper was engulfed in a myth of quite extraordinary dimensions.