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.
“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.
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?
Statistically, politically, the world is a hell-hole.
True. But that does not meant that one must descend into “doominess.”