When is it out, the second book? When’s it coming out, the second book? This week, isn’t it? It’s coming out this week, isn’t it, the second book? The first book wasn’t enough, was it? There had to be a second book. The first book, by itself, was insufficient, but why did there have to be a second book? Why a second book, when the first book was so wretched? Or was it because the first book was wretched that there needed to be a second book? Was it because of the wretchedness of the first that there had to be the second?
The first book: wretched, and the second book? Did you think the second book wouldn’t be just as wretched as the first? Didn’t you think: the first book was wretched, and the second book … will also be wretched? How was it you could summon the hope that the second book would be better than the first? How was it you could find strength enough to hope that the miracle would be achieved and the second book would be better than the first? For it wasn’t better, was it? And that was inevitable, wasn’t it? In what other direction could it have gone? What else might have happened?
The first book: wretched. The second book: also wretched. Did you really think things would change with the second book? Did you really think something had changed between the first book and the second one? Nothing changed, did it? Nothing changed, between the first book and the second, did it? The second book, like the first book: wretched. The first book: wretched, like the second book: also wretched. How amusing it was for me to learn as soon as the first book was out that there was to be a second book! How funny to learn of the second book that would follow on the heels of the first!
For all your modesty, you’re full of hubris, aren’t you? You think you’re special and unlike the others, don’t you? Whereas in fact you are just like the others, and worse than the others. Whereas you, compared to the others, are lacking in what allows them to refrain from writing a second book which repeats exactly the same errors as the first book. Restraint: that’s what you lack, isn’t it? Measure: that’s what lacking in you, isn’t it? The first book was bad, so what did you do? Take a few years out? Spend a few years thinking and meditating? No: you wrote a second book. As soon as the first book was done, you began the second book.
It wasn’t enough that the first book was wretched – you had to write a second book, too, didn’t you? And tell us, what did you hope to gain from the second book? What did you hope to achieve? To redeem the first book – well you didn’t do that, did you? To abolish the memory of the first book – well that’s what you didn’t do. You were the author of one bad book, weren’t you – just one. And now – now – you are the author of two bad books. You weren’t content to write one bad book, you had to write another. First one, then the other. First one book and then another, on the heels of the first book.
And have you learnt your lesson now? Have you learnt that there is absolutely no chance of you writing anything of quality? Have you learnt of your total inadequacy with respect to writing? Has it be burnt into you as it should be burnt? Has it been branded on your forehead as it should be branded: BAD WRITER? Because you’ve won awards for it, haven’t you – bad writing? Who else but you could have won such an award? Who but you would be capable of it – an award for bad writing? I’ll bet they made that award up especially for you. I’ll bet they dreamt up that award especially for you and gave the award to you and then discontinued the award as soon as you received it, didn’t they?
Think of what the others could have written in your place. Think of what others might have achieved, had they been given all your chances. You’re an usurper, aren’t you? You occupy a place others should have, and you do so through luck. Yes, you were lucky as others were unlucky, weren’t you? You were lucky, others unlucky, and so you found yourself in a place where you could begin writing books.
An oeuvre – is that what you dreamt of making? An oeuvre – was it that you dreamt of putting together, volume by volume? Your collected works – was it that of which you were dreaming? But instead, what have you realised? One book – botched, a second book – also botched. And a third – is there to be a third book? Are you going to make it a trilogy: three botched books? Is there to be a third bad book? And then, if there’s a third, why not make it a tetralogy? If there’s to be a third, why not a fourth?
Have you the decency to stop now? Have you learnt to keep it under control and to stop? You haven’t, have you? You’re going to continue, aren’t you? You have other books you’re going to write, haven’t you? There’s more to come, isn’t there? You’re not going to be content with two, are you? When’s the next one going to be written – and the one after that? When are they coming out, the next volume and the one after – your oeuvre? When are they going to come out, your collected works?
What a life! What a travesty of a life, writing in the place others could have had to write something worthwhile! Who let you write a book? Who let you write one book and then another? Why aren’t people preventing you writing books? Why aren’t they writing you strong letters of complaint, day after day about your books? Why aren’t there people at your door crying out against your books?
I’ll tell you why: because no one cares about books, that’s why. Because your books are the least interesting thing in the world, that’s why. Because your books, like other books, are produced at a loss, that’s what. A publisher’s potlatch, that’s what. A sop to the academic community, that’s what. In the end, you were lucky, by some strange lapse you were allowed to publish something, and then, by another lapse, you were allowed to publish something else, weren’t you?
Do you think you could have published something in the old days? Do you think you could have brought out a first book and then a second book when there was proper peer review and proper editors? Because it wouldn’t have happened, would it? You’re a sign of what is wrong with the entire publishing industry, aren’t you? That you published one book and then another is a sign of what is wrong with the whole industry, isn’t it?
What happened? When did it collapse, the publishing industry? When did it occur, the great collapse? Because it happened, didn’t it? They published your first book, didn’t they? And then, to compound the error, they published your second book, didn’t they? Because it’s out in the next few days, isn’t it? It’s out, published to an indifferent world, isn’t it? Why didn’t they have the sense to pulp it? Why didn’t they pulp the whole edition? Why didn’t they spot your first book and then your second book? How did you slip them past them? How did you slip a first book and then a second book past them?
But in the end, you slipped nothing by them, did you? It wasn’t due to your cunning or your cleverness that you slipped a book by them, is it? For in truth, they didn’t care what they published, did they? In truth, it didn’t matter them, what they published, did it? No searchlights were seeking to pick you out, were they? No sentries were posted on the gate, were they? You slipped nothing by, that’s the truth. They came to your door and knocked on their door, didn’t they? Came to your door and knocked on your door and asked you whether you had anything to publish, didn’t they?
And what did you say, when they asked you the first time? Yes, please. And what did you say, when they asked you the second time? Yes, please. Did you think you were published because of your reputation? Did you think it was the good esteem in which you were held that got you published? In the end, it’s an indictment of the entire publishing industry that you’ve published another book. In the end, it’s a sign that everything’s gone wrong with the publishing industry that you’ve published a second book.
Lars Iyer's Blog 