Never mind the way I
was brought up. Never mind my experience. Never mind any of that. But this Go Set A Watchman situation is total
madness.
There is something
inherently sacred about a book. Some virginity you should not disturb. A higher
voice, if you will. Witnessing this horrendous onslaught of Harper Lee’s novel release
made me wish it was a new album by Lady Gaga, a World Cup final, a new round of
Greek talks or another tablet from Apple. We are like an African tribe who has
never read a typed text in our lives, and we are supposed to go for it. Tweet,
queue, salivate.
To Kill A Mockingbird is okay. A novel whose greatness was destroyed by
goodness. But if in another world, in another dimension, they discovered an
unpublished novel by Saul Bellow or James Joyce, how would I feel? Excited,
yes, but not if it were pushed into my face. I would go to a bookshop and buy
it. Order through Amazon, download to Kindle, maybe, but I would not want to see
my excitement diluted by a million messages, articles, comments. I would not
want to see a liveblog spawned by modern-day obsession.
At the end of day, what is left of the author? At the end of day, we
may be an African tribe – but a book
is still not an iPhone. Even if this
one – well, it probably is. For me it is.
