But John Campbell presented me with the Emerson quote and the request that I reverse it, only three years after the article had appeared. Had he seen it?
I wouldn’t be surprised if he had, and if, as soon as he had come across it or had had it drawn to his attention, copied down the quote and then waited for the first unwary science fiction writer to cross his threshold. (How thankful I am that it was I.)
Were he still alive (he would only be seventy-five today, if he were), I would ask him about it. I am quite sure, though, what his answer would be. It would be, “What difference does it make?”
So there arises the question: “If it is impossible to be completely original, how can you tell permissible influence from plagiarism?”
Well, it depends on the extent and detail of the borrowing. Based on that, it is possible to tell! It may not always be provable in a court of law, but, believe me, it is possible to tell!
Book Reviews
I have never made any secret of the fact that I dislike the concept of reviews and the profession of reviewing. It is a purely emotional reaction because, for reasons that are all too easy to work out, I strongly dislike having anyone criticize my stuff adversely.
I don’t think I’m alone in this. From my close observation of writers (almost all my friends are writers) they fall into two groups: 1) those who bleed copiously and visibly at any bad review, and 2) those who bleed copiously and secretly at any bad review.
I’m class one. Most of my friends aim at class two and don’t quite make it and aren’t quite aware that they don’t make it.
Unfortunately, there’s no way in which one can get back at a reviewer. I have sometimes had the urge to do some fancy horsewhipping in the form of a mordant letter designed to flay the reptilian hide off the sub-moron involved; but, except in my very early days, I have always resisted. This is not out of idealism but out of the bitter knowledge that the writer always loses in such a confrontation.
Instead, then, I take to muttering derogatory comments about reviewing and reviewers in general.
But I’m in a bad spot here. This magazine (which is the apple of my eye) not only has a regular book review column, but has other items, less regularly included, that review one or another of the facets of the science fiction field. If I really despise reviewing so, why is it I allow reviewing in the magazine?
Because I don’t really despise reviewing and reviewers. That is an emotional reaction that I recognize as emotional, and therefore discount. I am a rational man; I like to think; and in any disagreement between my emotions and my rationality, I should hope it is rationality that wins out every time.
Now let’s get down to cases.
A publisher to whom I was beholden asked me to read a book by an important writer and to give them a quote that could be used on the cover. I tried to beg off, but they insisted that I at least read it, and give it a chance.
So I did. I tried to read it-and the gears locked tight long before I finished. It seemed to me so unsuccessful a book that there was no way in which I could give it the quote that was wanted. I felt awful, but I had to call the publisher and beg off.
Now, then, assuming my judgment was correct, should that book be reviewed? Why say unkind things about it?
In the case of an ordinary bad book, one might wonder. At the most, it might only be necessary to say, “This is a bad book because-” with a few unemotional sentences added. You don’t crack a peanut with a sledgehammer.
An unsatisfactory book written by an important writer, however, requires a detailed review to explain why it seems to have gone wrong and where and how. This is not so much to warn off readers, who will probably have bought the book in great numbers anyway by the time the review comes out. It is because even a flawed book by a good writer can be an important educational experience.
Its failure can be used as a way of sharpening the general taste for the literary good. It will educate (properly reviewed) not only the reader, but the writer as well, the veteran as well as the neophyte.
And yet despite the value of such a review, I could not in a million years review the book myself. There are emotional objections. How can I say unkind things about someone else when I detest having someone say unkind things about me? If I can’t take it, I have no right to dish it out. Then, too, how can I review a book by a friend (or, possibly, a rival) and be sure of being objective?
If that isn’t enough, there are technical objections. Even if everyone were to grant that I am a whizz at writing science fiction, that does n ot necessarily mean that I’m a whizz at understanding what makes science fiction good and bad. Even when I feel a story to be bad I don’t necessarily have the ability to point out just where and how and why the badness exists.
So we have Baird Searles reviewing books for us. He has the talent for saying what needs to be said and I am grateful that he has.
Now consider what a reviewer must do, if he is to be good at his job.
1) A reviewer must read the book carefully; every word of it, if possible; even if it seems to be very bad. This is an extraordinarily difficult job. It is the mark of an unsuccessful book if it is hard to read; if it is clumsy, wearying, uninteresting, dull, monotonous, insulting to the intelligence, predictable, repetitious, infelicitous-any or all of these things. When you and I read a book of this sort, we stop reading. A competent reviewer mustn’t. He must stick to it to give the book an utterly fair shake.
2) A reviewer must read with attention, marking passages perhaps, taking notes perhaps, so that he won’t have to work from memory alone in writing his review, so that he won’t make factual errors or unreasonable criticisms.
3) A reviewer must read with detachment and not allow his judgment of the book to be twisted by his judgment of the writer. He may know a writer to be an irritating boor and yet realize the writer’s book may be great. He may know a writer to be a saint, and yet realize the writer’s book may be awful. He must concentrate on the book and only on the book.
4) A reviewer must not only be a person of literary judgment, but he must have a wide knowledge of the field, so that he can exert his judgment of the book against the context of other books by the author, of books by other authors of similar experience or similar intent, and of the field in general.
5) A reviewer must be a competent writer himself, for the most literarily penetrating review ever written loses its point if it, itself, is so badly written that any reader grows bored, irritated, or confused.
6) Finally-and this is the point where even the cleverest reviewer (perhaps especially the cleverest reviewer) can come a cropper-the review must not be a showcase for the reviewer himself. The purpose of the review is not to demonstrate the superior erudition of the reviewer or to make it seem that the reviewer, if he but took the trouble, could write the book better than the author did. (Why the devil doesn’t he do it, then?) Nor must it seem to be a hatchet job in which the reviewer is carrying out some private vengeance. (This may not be so, you understand, but it mustn’t even seem to be so.)
These are not easy conditions to meet; and the fact is that though there are many reviewers, there are not many good reviewers.
And why not? Probably all reviewers will gladly accept Sturgeon’s Law (that ninety percent of everything is crud) with respect to the books they review-and it holds just as solidly for the reviews they write.
And is there anything a good book reviewer must receive from the editor for all that is expected of him? Certainly! In a word, independence.
When an editor hires a book reviewer, he doesn’t (or shouldn’t) buy a scribbler who has agreed to put the boss’s opinions into words. No, it is the book reviewer and his opinions that have been hired. The book reviews in this magazine do not necessarily express the opinions of George, Shawna, or myself- although they might. In fact, George, Shawna, and myself do not necessarily agree among ourselves as to the worth of a particular piece of writing.
But it is the reviewer’s opinions you want, not ours; and it is his you will get. He is the professional in this respect.
Baird Searles, in my opinion, is one of the good reviewers, and we are glad we have him, and we hope he stays with us a long time. He does not ask us for our views before he writes his column and if (inconceivably) he asked us, we wouldn’t tell him.
And it’s because reviewers can be like Baird Searles that we have a review column.
What Writers Go Through
Every once in a while I get a letter that strikes a chord. Jeanne s. King of Marietta, Georgia, suggested that I write an editorial on what writers go through. Her tender heart bled for writers and I think she has a point.
First, let me make it clear what I mean by “writers.” I don’t want to confine the word only to those who are successful, who have published bestselling books, or who crank out reams of published material every year (if not every day), or who make a lavish living out of their pens, typewriters, or word processors, or who have gained fame and adulation.
I also mean those writers who just sell an occasional item, who make only a bit of pin money to eke out incomes earned mainly in other fashions, whose names are not household words, and who are not recognized in the street.
In fact, let me go farther and say I even mean those writers who never sell anything, who are writers only in the sense that they work doggedly at it, sending out story after story, and living in a hope that is not yet fulfilled.
We can’t dismiss this last classification as “failures” and not “real” writers. For one thing, they are not necessarily failures forever. Almost every writer, before he becomes a success, even a runaway supernova success, goes through an apprentice period when he’s a “failure.”
Secondly, even if a writer is destined always to be a failure, and even if he is never going to sell, he remains a human being for whom all the difficulties and frustration of a writer’s life exist and, in fact, exist without the palliation of even an occasional and minor triumph.