The proof of my book has arrived! Wow! I am not a writer and I have a book to prove it.
To get serious for a moment and ruin a perfect record of levity it is actually rather moving seeing five years of work in front of you. We cannot but marvel that I have for so long survived so much self-inflicted punishment, injecting into my pale veins in a spirit of hilarious research almost any chemical that came to hand. Oh and I wrote a book.
First things first. The cover is absolutely gorgeous. Due attention to the outside of a book and due contempt for its inside, is the proper relation between a man of sense and his reading material. Where would I be if people judged a cover by its book?
Well, I would be the first to tell you how beautiful I look. You would be the second.
As for the book? Well, you can’t fake bad writing. It’s a gift.
Actually, it’s better than I remember. You’ll find nothing wrong with my autobiography except my poor choice of subject. Fancy a fuck?
Jocasta my impossibly glamorous and beautiful editor calls up and we giggle on the phone for ten minutes. She has done such a brilliant job of this. It looks so beautiful. Her husband the great Matthew Hamilton was my editor for the writing of the book. He taught me that art is all about attack but the way to attack is not to appear to be attacking. It took me a while to understand that if you are going to build a Trojan Horsley to destroy the enemy, you better be sure it is a damn good-looking, well built Horsley, otherwise you will never get past the gates. You have to create a walled garden in which anarchy can flourish.
And now it is over to the equally talented Jocasta. With the same wisdom she knows that the package must be right for the contents ever to arrive. And what a package she has created. Maybe now it will arrive?
I asked her what would happen if she sold all the copies of my book she was going to print. “I’ll just print another ten” She said.
I’m very excited. I can’t wait for my autobiography to be published - for a man always looks dead after his life has appeared. I guess I am four eighths dead already. And there’s no after life of that I’m sure. No, Autobiography is now the only certain form of life after death.
What a day! I know you are not supposed to blow your own Trumpet an all. It is the perpetual boast of the Englishman that he never brags. But what else does a gentleman do with one’s trumpet? Eat it?
I am proud of myself. All that anguish. Being hired and fired. Adored and ignored.
It’s strange - you never really know whether perseverance is noble or stupid until it’s too late. I still don’t know. There is still a lot to go wrong. Publication, it seems, is the equivalent of childbirth. You spend month after month waddling about your home in a hysterical state. You can monitor heartbeats, take blood tests and decide on silly names. But it could still be still-born. It could still be strangled by its own umbilicus. Dandy in the Underworld. Coming soon to a remainder-bin near you.