how little is actually known aboutnthe relationships between authorsnand books and books andnreaders. Why does an authornwrite a particular book? Is it becausenhe has something to say; ifnso, does he think that anybody isninclined to listen? Or does thenauthor look at book-writing as annoccupation; if so, then would henbe inclined to write anything butna grocery-store romance or a dietnbook, both types of best-sellers?nWhy does a reader select a particularnbook from (a) all of thenavailable categories and (b) fromnthe specific category in which henis interested? (A note aboutnreaders is in order: there are preciousnfew of them. Mann indicatesnthat in England “only about halfnthe population uses bookstoresnat all” and that libraries in thatncountry aren’t deluged by anxiousnreaders—and this is in a societyn”where ‘book learning’ stillncarries high prestige and affordsnhigh social status.”) Mann raisesnthese and several other questionsnand provides many tentative answers.nThe feet that there can benso many answers undermines thencertainty of many of the statementsnmade by the Frankfurtngang.nOne conclusion that Mannnpresents should be of signal concernnto all who support culturalnstandards that aren’t defined bynTV sitcoms. Mann states that “interestnin, and readership of, thenmodern literary novel is restrictednto a very small minoritynof the peculation tor whom novelnreading is a specialized interest.”nNot only are there fewer readers,nbut those who still read aren’tnreading what is conventionallynconsidered “literature.” Althoughnart is elitist, it is also true thatnnovels are, in a sense, commodities.nAuthors who may be bestnable to interpret and define aspectsnof this world,on which, wenare often told, nothing can ben”known,” may find themselvesnunable to communicate theirnmessage: there would be nonroom on the presses for whatnmay be of enduring value. This isnnot to suggest that entertainingnbooks be curtailed; a worldnwherein only Kalka could benread would be truly Kaflcaesque.nIt is to recommend that the worksnby those whom we have elsewherendesignated dwarfs benshown to be the vapid, meaninglessnproductions that they are,nYeah,Yeah,YeahnPeter Brown and StevennGaines: The Love You Make:nAn Insider’s Story of The Beattes;nMcGraw-HUl; New York.nby Brian MurraynAt first, nobody thought ThenBeatles would last True, throughoutnthe winter and spring of 1964,nevery department store in thenWestern worid was amply stockednwith the icons of Beatiemania—nBeatie wigs and Beatle doUs andnBeade T-shirts and Beatle beachnballs. But since the late 1950’s,nmany a rock’n’roll act had beennas widely adored as the hula hoopnand lasted about as long. ElvisnPresley was still making millionsneven as the folk singers, the surfmusicnspecialists, and the Brylcreemedncrooners from SouthnPhiladelphia came and, within anyear, went; but then Presley was,nwell, Presley. How could thesen”mop-topped” Englishmen evernbe as big as Presley?nOf course, for the next sixnyears, The Beatles did remainnthe most popular blokes in thenwhole global vill^e. And pack-nDr. Murray is with the EnglishnDepartment at YoungstownnState University.nIN FOCUSnwhich would, perhaps, keep themnfrom being the “blockbusters”nthat they do not deserve to be.nThose modem texts that expressnthe idea that there still exist validnstandards and concepts that cannbe known and which should benaffirmed and promulgated wouldnthen be more readily able to makenit through the welter on thenshelves. Dnaging helped—especially in thenbeginning. When Brian Epsteinndiscovered the group back inn1961, they were still playing innseedy beat clubs, still wearingnblack leather jackets and rolledupnblue jeans. Sensing that a successfulnpop group must possessnwhat he called “classless” appeal,nEpstein shrewdly put The Beatlesnin Pierre Cardin suits and taughtnthem how to bow. He let themnkeep—even play up—their slangynLiverpool accents, but he also letnit be known that John Lennonnread James Joyce, and that PaulnMcCartney knew a Picasso whennhe saw one.nBut paclo^ng minus talentnequals Fabian. And The Beaties,nmirabile dictu, did have talent. Innthe beginning, they appeared livennnon the Ed Sullivan Show andnproved to 70 million transfixednsouls that they could performntheir own upbeat compositionsnwith both skill and hammy enthusiasm.nIn the years that followed,nthey wrote and recordednsuch fetchingly melodic songs asn’Testerday” and “Michelle” andn”Eleanor Rigby”—songs that werenquickly covered by string orchestrasnand chamber ensembles;nby all-male choirs and all-girl accordiannbands. In 1967 they releasednthe meticulously multitrackednand overdubbed5erge«nfnPepper’s Lonely Hearts ClubnBand—-i pioneering “concept”nalbum which sold millions ofncopies, even as some highbrowncritics likened its lyrics to thosenof T. S. Eliot, and found in its musicalnlyricism the spirit of Schumann.nIn essence, then, The Beatlesnwound up doing for rocknwhat Benny Goodman and DukenEllington, three decades earlier,nhad done for jazz: they made itnrespectable in certain circles.nAs the turbulent 60’s progressed,nThe Beatles’ supramusicalnstatus increased. Wherever theynwent, the youth of Europe andnAmerica eventually followed.nWhen “The Fab Four” suddenlynadopted gaudy hippie-tyi)e garb,nthey created a mass market fornbell-bottom trousers, ‘love beads,”nand wide, flower-patterned ties.nWhen they announced their allegiancento the giggling swami,nthe Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, theynsparked a p)op-mysticism crazenthat continued well into the 70’s.nAnd when they spoke flippantlynof the alleged therapeutic andncreative benefits of LSD, theyngreatly abetted the rise of psychedelamanianand thus, alas, thenformation of the drug culturenthat surrounds us stiU.nAnd yet, through it all. ThenBeades themselves remainednamong the most private of publicnmen. They lived behind gatesnon huge estates in suburbannLondon’s “stockbroker’s belt”nand granted fisw interviews. Fromnowmberl983n