Publishing Past, Present, and Future
by Jason Epstein
W. W. Norton & Co.
144 pages, $21.95
When someone asks me why I became a fiction writer, I usually say simply, "Vladimir Nabokov." I had read plenty of great writers before discovering him, but Nabokov wasn't just another writer—he was a magician. Years before anyone had heard the term "virtual worlds," I experienced them in the pitch-perfect prose of the exiled Russian, where artifice and realism dovetail seamlessly into each other, and every phrase is a small narrative miracle. "Esthetic bliss," Nabokov called his goal as a writer, and he delivered it.
One of my most prized literary possessions is nothing more than a paperback: a 1956 issue of The Anchor Review, which was a literary review manufactured as a paperback book and distributed to stores along with individual titles from the Anchor Books imprint. This particular issue contains the first American publication of an excerpt from Lolita. That alone would make it a collector's item, but it's particularly notable because the ostensible premise of Nabokov's best-known novel ("ostensible" because Lolita is not simply about an older man's affair with a preteenage girl) caused a scandal that kept the book itself from finding an American publisher for nearly three more years. Unless you could get your hands on the 1955 edition from Olympia Press, the Paris publisher that originally brought out Joyce's Ulysses, that issue of The Anchor Review was all the Lolita there was in the United States until 1958.
Nothing more than a paperback. We can say that now, but back then such books were small miracles in themselves. My treasured copy of The Anchor Review dates from the "golden age" of literary paperback publishing, when someone had the bright idea to use a disreputable mass-market technology to make serious reading available to, and affordable for, the growing postwar audience that was created in part by the G.I. Bill.
That someone was Jason Epstein. In 1951, at the age of twenty-two, in the first year of his first job in publishing, he created Anchor Books at Doubleday and single-handedly invented the "trade paperback," which the entire industry soon imitated. I thought I knew the whole story behind the publication of Lolita, but I didn't know that amid the phony morality invoked to keep the novel out of print, Jason Epstein was forced to draw an authentic moral line in his professional life. Although he possessed enough editorial autonomy to publish the Lolita excerpt in his Anchor Review, Doubleday refused to publish the novel itself. "For me during these hopeless negotiations over Lolita it was as if I had been mistakenly placed in an asylum," he writes in Book Business, his new memoir and meditation on publishing. "Censorship by the courts was bad enough. Anticipatory censorship by a publisher was outrageous." Eight years after making publishing history by creating Anchor Books at Doubleday, Epstein left the company.
Jason Epstein is now one of the great men of American publishing in our time, having gone on to become the editorial director of Random House, a co-founder of The New York Review of Books, and the creator of such innovations as the Library of America and The Reader's Catalog (an attempt to create the definitive mail-order bookstore). Like me and countless other people, he had a magical encounter with serious books as an undergraduate, and he has now spent fifty years trying to extend that magic through the world while working in an industry determined to go in precisely the opposite direction.
Book Business is a fascinating little memoir of a brilliant career spent at the junction of commercial enterprise and intellectual exhilaration. It's getting a lot of attention in the world of new media, mainly because Epstein spends a couple of its chapters (previously published in The New York Review of Books) discussing the opportunities now offered by digital technology to do what he has been trying to do throughout his career: resuscitate serious publishing and bookselling, and America's literary life itself, even as the material essence of those institutions—paper and ink—begins to recede from the world.
Storytelling—transmitting the wisdom and history of the tribe through word, gesture, and song—is an innate human function. The publishing industry, constrained by obsolete technologies and a constricted marketplace, now implements this transmission poorly. Prospective new technologies foreshadow the possibility of a reconstructed industry, one that will perform its historic task with unprecedented scope and unimaginable consequences.
This has struck many people as an irony worth remarking upon—the gray eminence of printed books talking like a Webhead—but when reading Book Business one sees that it's not ironic or surprising at all. Epstein has always been a hybrid creature, half man of letters, half entrepreneur. In other words, a publisher. Alongside his recollections of Edmund Wilson and W. H. Auden he recounts his fascination with the details of setting up businesses and learning how to run direct-mail campaigns. Not surprisingly, the operations guy in him finds the power of digital production appealing, while most purely literary people find it frightening (if they think about it at all).
But Epstein's interest in digital technology goes beyond operations and into the realm of heroic crusade. In the 1950s, dimestore paperback technology was a sword that he pulled from the stone, and with its power he gave genuine literature to the folk. Since then, there has been a woeful absence of magic in the land, and publishing has "deviated from its true nature," as Epstein puts it, "by assuming, under duress from unfavorable market conditions and the misconceptions of remote managers, the posture of a conventional business. This has led to many difficulties, for book publishing is not a conventional business."