Casualties of Forgiveness. Part V
“Words are singular, meanings plural!” Rafter screamed. “It’s fucking tragic!”
The publisher sank back into his chair, tired, four p.m. on a Thursday.
“Fine, Sousa, fine,” he began in a monotone voice. “But I told you, I’m not going to publish it without words. Write it yourself, get someone else to write it, let me write it, I don’t give a shit. It’s not getting published without dialogue and some titles.”
“But it’s perfect. It’s fucking perfect!”
“It makes no sense. The pictures, what they mean, how they relate. You’ve got characters standing around saying nothing. Your readers need guidance.”
“It doesn’t need words!”
“What happened to the guy who usually writes for you. Luke whatever?”
“It doesn’t need Luke whatever!”
“It missing something.”
“The world needs new ways to listen and interpret,” Rafter said. “Language never finds anything. It no longer offers meaning. It’s an empty carousel. It’s a stupid animal chasing its own tail.”
Rafter gestured maniacly, supposedly to show these things. He looked around desperately for a pen.
“And English is the worst animal of all, prostituted by too many false lovers and capitalists.”
He’d found one and was sketching exactly what he meant.
The publisher glanced at the pad, saw nothing but abstract lines.
“You’re not popular enough to publish obscure things.”
“The images are perfect. How does adding deficiency make the art better?”
“It’s always the same conversation, Sousa. ‘It’s perfect, it’s fucking perfect.’ And then you sketch some justification. You need to compromise. You need to learn how to take criticism. Do you really expect me to publish this without a coherent storyline?”
Rafter gathered himself. His mind returned to places it’d long wandered from.
The publisher watched his compulsive gestures. Leg bopping furiously. Cracked knuckles and volatile eyes. He’d worked with him before, knew the drill. Heard the latest rumours of disappearance and self-mutilation. He’d half expected a madman to walk through the door. Rafter looked surprisingly neat, hair short, aviator glasses, even a vague contentment behind the cluttered thoughts and caffeine blood. But still the same conviction. Every time the same disappointment.
Rafter resented having to sit there and defend himself in English. A language dry heaving after a century of sordid nights. A language of confinement and circular arguments. He began muttering in Italian.
“Excuse me?”
“Che cosa!”
“Let me explain how this game works. We publish what you create, people buy it, get something out of it, critics use words to describe what you’ve done, react to it, write blurbs or whatever. You talk about whatever you want on some panels – maybe that little carousel metaphor, that was witty – you get paid, and you go home.”
“That’s how it works,” Rafter mimicked.
“Then why do you walk out on interviews and forums? Why do you ignore questions and start yelling God knows what? We work hard to set things up, Sousa. And you act like a prima donna or lost boy. This isn’t the music industry, you can’t get away with this shit. Ever heard of not biting the hand that feeds you?”
“It’s a cliche.”
“So are you, Sousa. You’re naïve, pretentious and stubborn. Do you know how many people would kill to get something published? And here you are making demands. Look, I’m not insensitive to artistic ideals and all that bullshit. I appreciate your passion. But we’ve got a contract to uphold. The book is good. I don’t understand it, but it’s interesting. I think with a developed story it’ll sell. We’re not talking about cheesy one-liners and cartoon clichés. We’re talking about poetry. Your pictures beg for a story, they beg for language in spite of your ideals.”
The publisher began to flip through the manuscript.
“Here for example, page 88, I really like this. But it’s a bit plain without dialogue, you know? Words would help slow it down a little, let some of the story sink in. Have the girl say “Ever feel like you’re being watched?”, or have him call her something affectionate, like “Sweetheart,” or “Baby.”
“I want speechlessness.”
“It’s simple, Sousa. Two options. You keep it perfect and it stays perfect, but only in your own head. Or you let it grow and offer it to the world.”
Rafter shrugged.
“Write it in Italian, no translations.”
At first the publisher thought it was some juvenile joke. But weeks later he heard Rafter was in breach of his contract with D&B Publishing. He had cashed his advance but left no copy of the manuscript. He and Isabella were parading around southern Italy. Train tickets throughout Europe charged to company accounts.
The publisher sank back into his chair, tired, four p.m. on a Thursday.
“Fine, Sousa, fine,” he began in a monotone voice. “But I told you, I’m not going to publish it without words. Write it yourself, get someone else to write it, let me write it, I don’t give a shit. It’s not getting published without dialogue and some titles.”
“But it’s perfect. It’s fucking perfect!”
“It makes no sense. The pictures, what they mean, how they relate. You’ve got characters standing around saying nothing. Your readers need guidance.”
“It doesn’t need words!”
“What happened to the guy who usually writes for you. Luke whatever?”
“It doesn’t need Luke whatever!”
“It missing something.”
“The world needs new ways to listen and interpret,” Rafter said. “Language never finds anything. It no longer offers meaning. It’s an empty carousel. It’s a stupid animal chasing its own tail.”
Rafter gestured maniacly, supposedly to show these things. He looked around desperately for a pen.
“And English is the worst animal of all, prostituted by too many false lovers and capitalists.”
He’d found one and was sketching exactly what he meant.
The publisher glanced at the pad, saw nothing but abstract lines.
“You’re not popular enough to publish obscure things.”
“The images are perfect. How does adding deficiency make the art better?”
“It’s always the same conversation, Sousa. ‘It’s perfect, it’s fucking perfect.’ And then you sketch some justification. You need to compromise. You need to learn how to take criticism. Do you really expect me to publish this without a coherent storyline?”
Rafter gathered himself. His mind returned to places it’d long wandered from.
The publisher watched his compulsive gestures. Leg bopping furiously. Cracked knuckles and volatile eyes. He’d worked with him before, knew the drill. Heard the latest rumours of disappearance and self-mutilation. He’d half expected a madman to walk through the door. Rafter looked surprisingly neat, hair short, aviator glasses, even a vague contentment behind the cluttered thoughts and caffeine blood. But still the same conviction. Every time the same disappointment.
Rafter resented having to sit there and defend himself in English. A language dry heaving after a century of sordid nights. A language of confinement and circular arguments. He began muttering in Italian.
“Excuse me?”
“Che cosa!”
“Let me explain how this game works. We publish what you create, people buy it, get something out of it, critics use words to describe what you’ve done, react to it, write blurbs or whatever. You talk about whatever you want on some panels – maybe that little carousel metaphor, that was witty – you get paid, and you go home.”
“That’s how it works,” Rafter mimicked.
“Then why do you walk out on interviews and forums? Why do you ignore questions and start yelling God knows what? We work hard to set things up, Sousa. And you act like a prima donna or lost boy. This isn’t the music industry, you can’t get away with this shit. Ever heard of not biting the hand that feeds you?”
“It’s a cliche.”
“So are you, Sousa. You’re naïve, pretentious and stubborn. Do you know how many people would kill to get something published? And here you are making demands. Look, I’m not insensitive to artistic ideals and all that bullshit. I appreciate your passion. But we’ve got a contract to uphold. The book is good. I don’t understand it, but it’s interesting. I think with a developed story it’ll sell. We’re not talking about cheesy one-liners and cartoon clichés. We’re talking about poetry. Your pictures beg for a story, they beg for language in spite of your ideals.”
The publisher began to flip through the manuscript.
“Here for example, page 88, I really like this. But it’s a bit plain without dialogue, you know? Words would help slow it down a little, let some of the story sink in. Have the girl say “Ever feel like you’re being watched?”, or have him call her something affectionate, like “Sweetheart,” or “Baby.”
“I want speechlessness.”
“It’s simple, Sousa. Two options. You keep it perfect and it stays perfect, but only in your own head. Or you let it grow and offer it to the world.”
Rafter shrugged.
“Write it in Italian, no translations.”
At first the publisher thought it was some juvenile joke. But weeks later he heard Rafter was in breach of his contract with D&B Publishing. He had cashed his advance but left no copy of the manuscript. He and Isabella were parading around southern Italy. Train tickets throughout Europe charged to company accounts.
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