AN UNFAIR ADVANTAGE
Of course, it’s the oldest spoof in the world; and also it isn’t quite fair; but we felt that (for private reasons) we owed it to ourself to chaff a certain publisher friend. So we diligently typed out the first dozen or so of Shakespeare’s sonnets, and, making use of a borrowed name and address kindly lent us by a colleague, submitted them to the publisher.
We accompanied them by a pseudonymous letter which we truly think was something of a work of art, it was so amiably true to the sort of thing that publishers are accustomed to receive. We explained that these were the first of a series of 154 sonnets, and added that though many of our friends thought them good, we feared their affectionate partiality. We were submitting only a few, we said, in the hope of frank criticism from a great publishing house. If we were lucky enough to have them accepted the rest would be forthcoming; and the volume (we hoped) would be bound in red leather with very wide margins and a blank page at the front for autographing. And a good deal more innocent and hopeful meditation.
We had to wait some time for the reply—and had even begun to fear that the publisher had spotted our jape. But no—here is the answer that came:
We are sorry that after a careful consideration of your “Sonnets” we cannot make a proposal for publication. We fear that we are lacking in a real enough enthusiasm to push the book as it must be pushed to bring about any success.
We regret, too, that we cannot comply with your request to criticise the work, but it is against our policy to offer criticism on material which we cannot accept for publication. We handle so many manuscripts that we could not do the work justice, and then, too, we are diffident about offering suggestions when you may find a publisher who will like your work just as it stands. In general, however, we may say that, so far as we can judge, we thought that the work was not up to standard.
Thank you for giving us the opportunity of considering your manuscript. It is being returned to you by mail.
We now lay this before a candid world and ask our friend how much blackmail we can get out of him to refrain from publishing his identity?
Yet we admit it wasn’t quite fair. A knowledge of Shakespeare’s Sonnets is no necessary equipment for successful publishing. And some of them, if you are taken unawares, do sound a bit preposterous.
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