In a world, ours, in which large and small atrocities are ourndaily fare and to which atrocities we often seem to havenbecome so ruthlessly accustomed as to have surrendered ournability to raise our eyebrows or to perform any moral gesturenwhatsoever above and beyond the habitual shrug (grinningnor weeping, no matter) of late 20th-century mankind, it maynseem mostly unimportant, if not wholly irrelevant, to wastentime and space and energy on the subject of (yet again) thenfaulty ways and means of American publishing. After all, atnits best and finest, publishing is only a marginally profitablenenterprise; as a business it cannot be taken very seriously.nAnd at its worst, it is a home not (anymore) for colorfulnpirates or dangerous villains, but, alas, for all-too-commonnand familiar knaves and fools of the kind who can be foundneverywhere in abundance in every sort of vocation as thisnbloody, weary century dances in spastic jerks towards its surenand certain demise.nYet we believe, as we have to, that books are important.nAll the more so in a nation that professes to be free andnhopes to remain so, all of our leaders and institutions beingnunited in consensual approbation of the free and easy flownof and access to ideas, and images as well; professing anconsensual belief in this ideal in spite of, indeed in the facenGeorge Garrett is the author of the best-selling Death ofnthe Fox and The Succession.n12/CHRONICLESnVIEWSnPublishing Is . . .nby George Garrettn”Publishing is something I sort of drifted into.”n^Gary Fisketjonnnnof actions of all kinds from all sides to prevent all but thensimplest or most frivolous of ideas (all but the mostnstereotypical of images) from being tested in the fire ofnserious, sustained debate and discussion. With some notablenexceptions (the pure documentary films of Frederick Wiseman,nfor a rare example), television has turned into not anwasteland so much as a theme park devoted to simplenproblems and simplistic solutions, with an attendant graveyardnfor any unfamiliar or unpopular notion that mightnrequire more than a minute for elucidation. Can’t wen(finally!) agree on that much and be done with the subject?nTelevision offers a certain amount of crude entertainment,nmind-cleansing if seldom mind-blowing, but is, by definitionnand design, unable to deal with even the rudiments ofnthought, let alone the dance of ideas. In the world ofntelevision Bill Moyers is a sage. Enough said. Except thatnthis central and incurable vacuity, one that automaticallynincludes illiteracy in a rich variety of forms, has made ournbooks, such as they are, and, of course, the people who makenand publish these books, more important than anyone couldnhave earlier imagined. Maybe too important. People, includingnjudges, legislators, and senior executives, act on the basisnof things they have read. In spite of the clamor andnconsequent laughter and forgetting, some may still remembernthat in the “debate” between Quayle and Bentsen bothncandidates were asked by reporters, and asked as if it were an