Back in 1974 John Hersey published
a kind of diatribe of a nightmare
novel, My Petition for More Space,
which I undertook to review for a
nice little paper in a coastal par-
adise which had managed just fine,
thanks very much, before the Gol-
den Gate Bridge made it a commut-
ers' cockpit. He stated the prob-
lem of infinitesimal tenancies in
the most disturbing way, and al-
though his report from Hiroshima
had given him carte blanche to
say whatever he liked thereafter,
this hadn't much lifted his mood.
Unfortunately, I managed to weed
my library of that volume right a-
way, so as I now contemplate fur-
ther compression, I can't exploit
its argument to my advantage anew.
How do we succumb to the collect-
ing of authors? I realize, I ad-
dress a crisis which the ubiquit-
ous "reading tablet" has eased,
only to replace it with an out-
break of acquisitive promiscuity
without any of the stimulation
of exerting judgment. My guess
is that there must have been a
writer somewhere along the way,
who eventually got better after
Timon of Athens. But for every
Shakespeare there is, notorious-
ly, a fellow who should have
been liberated to go outdoors,
by The Glass Menagerie. Still,
you don't gain much shelf space
by sacrificing Small Craft Warn-
ings, just to lug Ackroyd's one
good book, Dickens, from pillar
to post. By the same token, who
could not embrace the vacuum of
the desert island, with the Ox-
ford English Dictionary? There,
at least, endless reward absolves
the larder, especially with the
sweet revenge of obsolescence.
Is anything more elegant, than
a usage expunged by progress?
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