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The self, then, has always been at the heart of the literary essay. But the new essay is exclusively about the self, with the world serving only as a foil and an accessory, as a mere staging ground for the projection of the self.
And the self, it turns out, is pretty funny.
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“The whole idea is that of the barter. All I’ve got to offer is my work, and the reading of it. Will that be enough for people to say I can stay at their home, or that they’ll give me some sandwiches? I’m looking for anyone who can tolerate me . . .”
Give him more than a sandwich, and treat him as a honored guest.
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You aren’t and never will be a company that treats people as people, publishers as partners, and customers as kings and queens. Or a company that devotes itself to the cultural heritage of the “book,” with social and ethical principles.
Anybody want to guess which company they’re talking to here?
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Statistically, politically, the world is a hell-hole.
True. But that does not meant that one must descend into “doominess.”
