The Business of Books: How International Conglomerates Took
Over Publishing and Changed the Way We Read
By André Schiffrin
Verso
192 pages, $23
Perhaps more than any other product today, books show the contradictions
of commodity under capitalism. Books offer something invaluable,
especially when they challenge our ideas, and by extension contribute
to changing people, institutions and even societies. But books are
an object bought and sold for profit in a highly competitive market
and increasingly, as AndrŽ Schiffrin argues in The Business of
Books, part of an industry driven by the bottom line.
Schiffrin, an editor and publisher who has made a unique contribution
to independent
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STEVE ANDERSON
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and progressive publishing through his work at Pantheon Press since
1962 and, more recently, at The New Press, documents how the particular
historical idiosyncrasies of the publishing industry have become harder
to maintain against the market's relentless encroachment on the production
of ideas.
Books used to be a "gentleman's business," which created its own
forms of censorship and exclusivity. But publishers accepted overall
rates of profit of less than a few percent, or just breaking even,
and recognized that most of their books would actually lose money,
with losses to be covered by the exceptional best-selling title.
That best-seller provided the income for printing books editors
considered important and worthy.
Schiffrin's report of how Pantheon's parent, Random House, was
bought by the giant German conglomerate Bertelsmann in 1998 shows
how outdated this model has become: "As soon as Bertelsmann had
taken over Random House, they issued a press release saying they
expected Random House to make a 15 percent profit in the next few
years." For Bertelsmann, Pantheon could have been producing any
widget for the market, as long as the money on their investment
came back with an appreciable return. "Perhaps the most telling
statistic about Bertelsmann," Schiffrin writes, "is that 4,000 accountants
were reported to be working at its headquarters--many times the
number of editors in all its holdings worldwide."
Bertelsmann's acquisition of Random House also meant that "the
new combined corporation would be responsible for one out of every
three trade books published in the United States." Today, Schiffrin
notes, the top 20 firms publish 93 percent of books in the United
States. The more than 100 university presses account for only 2
percent of book sales. The remaining 5 percent, Schiffrin notes,
is "fought over" by other presses, including all of the independent
and progressive publishers (like the one where I work, South End
Press).
Schiffrin may have taken a while to see the writing on the wall
when RCA sold Random House to media mogul S.I. Newhouse in 1980.
But his fascinating and distinguished career at Pantheon--which
included helping to introduce Maus, Marx for Beginners, Noam
Chomsky and the Simpsons to the U.S. book market--was clearly seen
more as a threat than an asset to his new bosses. The New Press
was born in 1993 after Schiffrin and his colleagues collectively
quit in protest over the direction the higher-ups at Random House
were taking Pantheon.
Schiffrin recounts how Alberto Vitale, an Italian banker ("an illiterate
businessman") who had been brought in by Newhouse to replace the
respected Bob Bernstein as the chief editor at Random House, told
the remaining Pantheon staff members that "Pantheon would no longer
publish political works." A look at the recent lists from Pantheon,
featuring such titles as How to Win at Golf ... Without Actually
Playing Well, bears out this shift in Pantheon's output, continuing
earlier trends.
In the most interesting chapter in The Business of Books,
"Market Censorship," Schiffrin describes how the most pervasive
exclusion of ideas from public debate is not the decree of the state
censor but the "hidden hand" of the market, which determines what
ideas will be distributed based on the very simple standard of profit.
(Though he documents a number of instances when publishers pursuing
their actual ideological agenda were quite willing to lose millions
of dollars on worthless books by Nancy Reagan and other corporate
friends; Newt Gingrich received a $4.5 million advance on his book
for HarperCollins, which earned back only one-third this amount--but
at the time Newt was in a position to influence legislation that
impacted Rupert Murdoch's corporate empire.)
Most authors, and certainly radical ones, wouldn't stand a chance
if they had to meet the standard now being set that each title must
turn a profit and each editor's acquisitions must be "revenue centers"
for the publisher. Schiffrin quotes the German publisher Klaus Wagenbach:
"If books with small print runs disappear, the future will die.
Kafka's first book was published with a printing of 800 copies.
Brecht's first work merited 600. What would have happened if someone
had decided they were not worth it?"
To Schiffrin's credit, he sees this trend in publishing as part
of a much broader shift toward corporate domination of art, public
space and workers' lives. "What we experienced [at Pantheon after
Newhouse took over Random House] is standard procedure in many publishing
houses. Millions of workers involved in plant closings have experienced
something infinitely harder. ... Not only our belongings but our
jobs and, indeed, our selves have become commodities to be bought
and sold to the highest bidder."
No one will be overly surprised that Schiffrin offers The New Press
as a positive example of resistance to these trends in publishing.
The New Press' achievements are indeed notable, proving that there
is still a large--and growing--audience for critical and radical
ideas. And it would also be unfair to slight Schiffrin for his remarkable
achievements as an editor--helping to develop an extensive list
of authors, including Frances Fox Piven, Studs Terkel, James Macpherson
and Moshe Lewin--or to begrudge him the fact that few of us in independent
publishing could ever hope to command the kind of foundation support
he has received for his new venture. (Schiffrin doesn't discuss
the role that foundations, especially corporate ones, have played
in introducing their own forms of market censorship, though some
of the backers of The New Press would certainly be vulnerable to
such criticism.)
Yet as enjoyable as his insider's narrative is, one has a nagging
suspicion that the history is a bit more messy than Schiffrin presents
it. It would have been valuable to learn more about the fights that
went on behind the scenes to acquire certain books, the books that
were rejected and defaulted to other publishers, the books passed
over for political reasons (though Schiffrin does cite a few examples
of this), and the compromises entered into to keep the business
afloat. I found myself also wondering whether the junior staff at
Pantheon would tell the story the same way as Schiffrin does.
More substantively, though, Schiffrin's argument would benefit
from more analysis and documentation. The Business of Books
is an engaging and pleasurable read, and is appropriately not weighted
down with footnotes and statistics. But Schiffrin could have kept
his style while backing up his case with evidence for the reader
less familiar with the publishing business. A chart showing the
current pattern of corporate ownership--and concentration--in the
industry would have been an important addition (as would have a
functional index, unlike the misnumbered and incomplete one in the
current edition).
But Schiffrin has started a conversation that is taking on increasing
urgency, especially as the number of independent bookstores continues
to decline, the concentration of media grows even more dense, and
the defunding of libraries and other public institutions make books
less accessible. The slogan of French anticorporate protesters this
past spring would make an appropriate conclusion to The Business
of Books: "The world is not a commodity." Nor should be the
word. But that's a struggle we still need to win.
Anthony Arnove is an editor at South End Press and International
Socialist Review.
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