Whatever happened to W.'s publisher? Once the most generous and gregarious of men, he insisted upon travelling hundreds of miles to visit W. and take him out to dinner. They spent days going over the proofs, which were properly proofread (not like yours, W. says, which was farmed out to Malaysia). And he'd decided on a full colour cover to the paperback – an expensive undertaking, W. notes. Granted, the final version still had typos on the first page (to my amusement) and even in the blurbs on the back (which I found even funnier), but it was a handsome volume, and one of a series of handsome volumes.
But what's happened to the publisher? He's gone out of business, that much is clear. You can't get the books anywhere, which always amused W. As soon as it was in print, it was out of print, he said. It was always and already out of print, he said, which was fitting, he said. Luckily, he got a box of free copies, says W., which he sent to his friends. Were it not for that, no one would believe it had existed, W. says.
To W., it's completely inconsequential whether the book is in print or not. You should always publish with friends, he says, and the publisher was a friend. But where is he? He doesn't reply to emails or telephone calls, W. says. Doubtless there's no longer a computer in his office, nor a telephone, he says. Doubtless the office has long been stripped and demolished, he says, and he's sitting sobbing in the ruins, W. says.
You should always publish with friends, W. notes, and that's all he wants from his vanished publisher: a sign of friendship, of their shared failure. That's all he would want from any of his friends, who are all failures, whether they know it or not.
Lars Iyer's Blog 