one or two publishers left, I believe.”
“Well, yes. But they don’t publish books like this anymore.”
“What do they publish then?” The writer’s voice was bitter. “Magazines, mostly—like these.” The agent hurriedly drew a pair of flimsy periodicals from his case.
The writer accepted them with a wry smile and thumbed through the pages of bright photographs. He snorted. “Pretty pictures, advertisements mostly, and a few paragraphs of captions. Like the newspapers. Not even real paper anymore.”
He gestured toward the shelves of age-yellowed spines. “Those are magazines. Saturday Review. Saturday Evening Post. Playboy. Kenyon Review. Weird Tales. Argosy. And the others that have passed. Do you remember them? They contained stories, essays, articles, criticism. A lot of garbage, and a lot of things worthwhile. They contained thoughts.”
“Still, there’s some writing in the few periodicals that we have left,” the agent pointed out. “You could do that sort of thing.”
“That sort of thing? That’s not writing! Since the learned journals all went to computerized tapes, the only excuse for a periodical that’s left are these mindless picture brochures the ad companies publish. Damned if I’ll write copy for Madison Avenue! But what are you trying to get to?” he scowled.
The plastic pages of smiling young consumers fluttered back into the attache case. “I'm trying to say it’s impossible to sell your books. Any books. No one publishes them. No one reads this sort of thing anymore.”
“What do they read instead?”
The agent waved his hands in a vague gesture. “Well, there’s these magazines. One or two newspapers are still around.”
“They’re just transcripts of the television news,” the writer scoffed. “Pieced together by faceless technicians, slanted and censored to make it acceptable, and then gravely presented by some television father image. What about books?”
“Well, there are a few houses that still print the old classics—for school kids and people who still go to libraries. But all that’s been made into movies, put on television—available on cassettes to view whenever you like. Not much reason to read those—not when everybody’s already seen it on TV.”
The writer made a disgusted noise.
“Well, damn it, man!” the agent blurted in exasperation. “Marshall McLuhan spoke for your generation. You must have understood what was coming.”
“He didn’t speak for my generation,” the writer growled. “What about those last three novels that you did sell? Somebody must have read those.”
“Well, maybe not,” explained the other delicately “It was pure luck I found a publisher for them anyway. Two of them the publisher used just as a vehicle for Berryhill to illustrate—he has quite a following, you know. Collectors bought them for his artwork—but maybe some read the books. And the last one I sold... Well, that was to a publisher who wanted it for the nostalgia market. Maybe somebody read it while that fad lasted.”
Beneath his white mustache, the writer’s lips clamped tightly over words that would be ill-bred to use to a guest.
“Anyway, both publishers are defunct now,” his agent went on.
“Printing costs are just too high. For the price of half a dozen books, you can buy a TV. Books just cost too much, take too much time, for what you can get out of them.”
“So where does that leave me?”
There was genuine sympathy, if not understanding, in the agent’s voice. He had known his client for a long while. “There just doesn’t seem to be any way I can sell your manuscripts. I’m sorry—truly sorry. Feel free to try another agent, if you want. I honestly don’t know one to recommend, and I honestly doubt that he’ll have any better success.
“There just isn’t any market for books in today’s world. You’re like a minstrel when all the castles have fallen, or a silent film star after the talkies took over. You’ve got to change, that’s all.”
More than ever the writer seemed a wolf at bay. The last wolf. They were all gone too. Just the broken-spirited creatures born in cages to amuse the gawking, mindless world on the other side of the bars.
“But I do have some other prospects for you,” the agent announced, trying to muster a bright smile.
“Prospects?” The writer’s shaggy brows rose dubiously.
“Sure. Books may have outlived their day, but today’s writers still have plenty to keep them busy. I think a few of your old crowd may even still be around, writing for television and the movies.”
The writer’s face was dangerous.
“I’ve talked with the producers of two new shows—one of them even remembered that best-seller you had years back. They both said they’d take a