“A man gotta have a code. ”—Omar Little, The Wire

1. Customers come first (see what we did there?).
2. We are not robots.
3. We are always open (which is handy). We are online 24/7 so feel free to contact us at any time about an order, if you need help with an order, if you want to know more about a book, whatever. We will reply as soon as we can. If we are busy we may not be able to reply immediately but we will do our best. Be patient we will reply.
4. We only stock books that we think are good (if we don’t stock an author who you think we should stock, convince us. Write us why we should include them and maybe we will)
5. What consitutes a good book. Hard to define what makes a good book. We follow Justice Potter Stewart definition of pornography, I don’t know what it is “but I know it when I see it.”
6. Ideas are free, but you have to pay for the book.
7. Readers before publishers. We support writers and will buy from publishers where possible. But if doing so is prohibitively expensive we reserve the right to buy from the marketplace. If a book is available cheaper elsewhere we will try to find the source. We care about authors. The best way we can think of to support them is to get as many people reading their books as possible.
8. Credit where credit is due. If we cite an author or choose to stock a book on an author’s recommendation it is only fair we mention them.
9. We buy books. If you have books you want to sell email with biblio info. and condition, and where possible a photo. We will agree price and pay in your preferred mode on receipt of book in described condition.
10. There is no 10. Sometimes there are only 9 things.

Judge Hand in Sheldon v. Metro-Goldwyn Pictures, supra

supra: “Borrowed the work must indeed not be, for a plagiarist is not himself pro tanto an “author” ; but if by some magic a man who had never known it were to compose anew Keat’s Ode on a Grecian Urn, he would be an “author,” and, if he copyrighted it, others might not copy that poem, though they might of course copy Keats’s. (Citations omitted). True, much of the picture owes nothing to the play… but that is entirely immaterial; it is enough that substantial parts were lifted; no plagiarist can excuse the wrong by showing how much of his work he did not pirate. We cannot avoid the conviction that, if the picture was not an infringement of the play, there can be none short of taking the dialogue.”

—A Frolic of His Own, William Gaddis (1994)

The gentle Turgenev (and one of our masters, surely

The gentle Turgenev (and one of our masters, surely, if we love this arrogantly modest art), writing about Fathers and Children—writing about himself—said: ‘Only the chosen few are able to transmit to posterity not only the content but also the form of their thoughts, and views, their personality, which, generally speaking, is of no concern to the masses.’ The form. That is what the long search is for; because form, as Aristotle has instructed us, the soul itself, the life in any thing, and of any immortal thing the whole. It is the B in being. The chosen few … the happy few … that little band of brothers … Well, the chosen cannot choose themselves, however they connive at it.

—William H. Gass, In the Heart of the Heart of the Country (preface).

Amend my misliving. And everything in me then said: I want to be like that

Amend my misliving. And everything in me then said: I want to be like that—like that aching phrase. So, oddly at a time when no one any longer allowed reading or writing to give them face, place, or history, I was forced to form myself from sounds and syllables: not merely my soul, as we used to say, but guts too, a body I knew was mine because, in response to the work which became whatever of me there was, it angrily ulcerated.

I read with the hungry rage of a forest balze.

I wanted to be a fireman, I recall, but by eight I’d given up that very real cliché for an equally unreal one: I wanted to be a writer.

a what? Well, a writer wasn’t whatever Warren was. A writer was whatever Malory was when he wrote down his ee’s: mine heart will not serve me to see thee. And that’s what I wanted to be—a string of stresses.

… a what?

The contemporary American writer is in no way a part of the social and political scene. He is therefore not muzzled, for no one fears his bite; nor is he called upon to compose. Whatever work he does must proceed from a reckless inner need. The world does not beckon, nor does it greatly reward. This is not a boast or a complaint. It is a fact. Serious writing must nowadays be written for the sake of the art. The condition I describe is not extraordinary. Certain scientists, philosophers, historians, and many mathematicians do the same, advancing their causes as they can. One must be satisfied with that.

—William H. Gass, In the Heart of the Heart of the Country (preface)

William H. Gass riffing on the major third in Middle C

Out of breath Mr. Hirk sat in silence for a few moments. When Monteverdi wished to say “joyful is my heart” he did so in the major third; when Handel refers to life’s sweetest harmonies he does so in the major third; what is central to the “Ode to Joy” but the major third? in La Traviata, when they all lift their glasses and cry “Drink!” “Libiamo!” they do so in the major third; and what does Wagner use, at the opening of The Ring, to describe the sensuously amoral state of nature? he employs the major third; then just listen to that paen of praise in Stravinsky’s Symphony of Psalms or the finale of Shostakovich’s Fifth, and you will hear again the major third.

Middle C, William H. Gass

—not a mensch among them— from Middle C, by William H. Gass

When young and full of fellow feeling, Professor Joseph Skizzen has been tormented by the thought that the human race (which he naïvely believed was made up of great composers, a few harmless lecherous painters, maybe a mathematician or a scientist, a salon of writers, all aiming at higher things however they otherwise carried on) … that such an ennobled species might not prosper, indeed, might not survive in any serious way—symphonies sinking like torpedoed ships, murals spray-canned out of sight, statues toppled, books burned, plays updated by posturing directors; but not, older, wiser—more jaundiced, it’s true—he worried that it might (now that he saw that the human world was packed with politicians who could not even spell “scruple”; now that he saw that it was crammed with commercial types who adored only American money; now that he saw how it had been overrun by religious stupefiers, mountebanks, charlatans, obfuscators, and other dedicated misleaders, as well as corrupt professionals of all kinds—ten o’clocks scholars, malpracticing doctors, bribed judges, sleepy deans, callous munitions makers and their pompous generals, pedophilic priests, but probably not pet lovers, not aborists, not gardeners—but Puritans, squeezers, and other assholes, ladies bountiful, ladies easy, shoppers diligent, lobbyists greedy, Eagle Scouts, racist cops, loan sharks, backbiters, gun runners, spies, Judases, philistines, vulgarians, dumbbells, dolts, louts, jerks, jocks, creeps, yokels, cretins, simps, pipsqueaks—not a mensch among them—nebbechs, scolds, schlemiels, schnorrers, schnooks, schmucks, schlumps, dummkopfs, potato heads, klutzes, not to omit pushers, bigots, born-again Bible bangers, users, conmen, ass kissers, Casanovas, pimps, thieves and their sort, rapists and their kind, murderers and their ilk—the pugnacious, the miserly, the envious, the litigatious, the avaricious, the gluttonous, the lubricious, the jealous, the profligate, the gossipacious, the indifferent, the bored), well, now that he saw it had been so infested, he worried that the race might … might what? … the whole lot might sail on through the floods of their own blood like a proud ship and parade out of the new Noah’s ark in the required pairs—for breeding, one of each sex—sportscasters, programmers, promoters, polluters, stockbrokers, bankers, bodybuilders, busty models, show hosts, stamp and coin collectors, crooners, glamour girls, addicts, gamblers, shirkers, solicitors, opportunists, insatiable developers, arrogant agents, fudging accountants, yellow journalists, ambulance chasers and shysters of every sleazy pursuit, CEOs at the head of a whole column of white-collar crooks, psychiatrists, osteopaths, snake oilers, hucksters, fawners, fans of funerals, fortune-tellers and other prognosticators, road warriors, chieftains, Klansmen, Shriners, men and women of any cloth and any holy order—at every step moister of cunt and stiffer of cock than any cock or cunt before them, even back when the world was new, now saved and saved with spunk enough to couple and restock the pop … the pop … the goddamn population.

Middle C, by William H. Gass

Franz Kafka’s ‘The Problem of Our Laws’

Short Cuts

Franz Kafka

translated by Michael Hofmann

Our laws are unfortunately not widely known, they are the closely guarded secret of the small group of nobles who govern us. We like to believe that these old laws are scrupulously adhered to, but it remains a vexing thing to be governed by laws one does not know. I am not thinking here of various questions of interpretation and the disadvantages that stem from only a few individuals and not the population as a whole being involved in their interpretation. These disadvantages may in any case be overstated. The laws after all are so old, centuries have worked on their interpretation, even their interpretation has in a sense become codified, and while there is surely room still for interpretation, it will be quite limited. Moreover, the nobility has no reason to bend the law against us, if only because the laws were in their favour from the very beginning, the nobility being outside the law, and that is why the laws seem to have been given exclusively into their hands. There is wisdom in this disposition – who could question the wisdom of the old laws? – but it remains vexing for the rest of us. Presumably that is not to be avoided.

Even these seeming laws can only be guessed at. It is a tradition that they exist and were entrusted to the nobility as a secret, but it is not more than an old – and by virtue of its age, a plausible – tradition, nor can it be more, because the character of the laws demands that their existence be a matter of secrecy. If we citizens have from time immemorial closely observed the actions of our nobles, if we own books written about them by our forefathers and have in a sense taken their lessons forward; if we think we can discern in these infinitely detailed chronicles certain principles that would appear to suggest the existence of a law here or there; and if we try to govern our behaviour in accordance with these most carefully sieved and ordered conclusions – all this still remains very doubtful, perhaps nothing more than a game of logical inference, because quite possibly the laws we try to guess at don’t exist at all. There is a small body of opinion that upholds this belief and that seeks to prove that if any law exists, then its form can only possibly be: the law is what the nobility do. This body of opinion sees only arbitrary acts on the part of the nobility, and disdains the folk tradition, which in its opinion has brought only slight, more or less accidental benefits, and done a great deal of serious harm, since it has given the people a false sense of security towards coming events, and left them helplessly exposed. The harm is indeed undeniable, but the large majority of our people sees its cause in the insufficient weight of tradition, and believes that much more work should be done on it, and that its materials, however vast they appear to us, are still far too small, and that centuries will have to pass before it is sufficient. This view, so pessimistic where the present is concerned, only brightens up with the belief that one day a time will come when tradition and its study will reach full term, everything will have been made clear, the law will have become the property of the people, and the nobility will have disappeared. This is not said with any animus towards the nobility, not at all and not by anyone; better to hate ourselves because we are not yet able to be found worthy of the law. And that is why this on the face of it very attractive opinion, which believes in no law as such, has remained so small, because it completely accepts the nobility and its right to exist. There is a necessary self-contradiction here: a party that would reject the nobility as well as belief in the laws would straightaway have the entire population behind it, but such a party cannot come into being, because no one dares to reject the nobility. We live on the razor’s edge. An author once put it this way: the only visible unquestionable law that has been imposed on us is the nobility, and who are we to rob ourselves of the only law we have?
Franz Kafka’s ‘The Problem of Our Laws’ – ‘Zur Frage der Gesetze’ – was translated by Michael Hofmann.

—London Review of Books, Volume 37, Number 14, 16 July 2015