There have been several controversies in the publishing world recently relating to publishing and/or editing works by authors who are dead. And a lawsuit over a work that presumes what a famous literary character would have done after the book ended. It has made me wonder, how much do authors own their words? Sure, there are copyrights and whatnot, but really. How much does the published work belong to them and how much does it belong to the public once it's been published?
There was a lawsuit recently filed by J.D. Salinger to block publication of a book, written by someone else, that supposed what would have happened to Holden Caulfield after Catcher In The Rye. J.D. Salinger won the suit and blocked publication of the book. I'm not sure how I feel about that. Scarlet was a runaway hit when it was published and Margaret Mitchell didn't attempt to block it's publication.
Vladimir Nabokov's son moved to publish Nabokov's last manuscript, one that Nabokov asked, on his death bed, to have burned. Despite his death-bed wish, the work was published. I can't imagine what his son was thinking to directly go against his dad's wishes with respect to this book, except he was seeing dollar signs more than anything else.
Ernest Hemingway's grandson has partnered with Scribner (Hemingway's original publisher) to publish a new, doctored version of Hemingway's posthumous memoir, A Moveable Feast. The negative references to his second wife, the grandson's grandmother, have been removed and a more glowing portrait of her, written by Ernest Hemingway, has been inserted. The book may have been published posthumously, but as this editorial points out, Hemingway was very involved in the writing and publication of the memoir. While he died before the book was published, he still wrote the manuscript.
All of this got me thinking - once you publish, the words don't really belong to you anymore. Sure, there are copyright laws that ensure no one plagiarizes you and that you get royalties on the publication, but that doesn't really protect you. Once I publish this blog, these words no longer belong to just me. They are on the internet for anyone to read, copy, steal, etc. And I suppose that any writer realizes this and accepts it as one of the costs of doing business.
On the other side of the coin, On The Road was re-released for the 50th anniversary. The original scroll was published as Jack Kerouac wrote it. I think that Kerouac would have been pleased to see that his original work could finally be published. I think it honors his memory to publish what he wrote.
Raymond Carver's widow has moved to re-publish some of his most famous stories without the drastic changes his editor made. Sometimes, these edits changed the entire meaning of the story. Which raises questions about his legacy. Does that change his place in literary history? Does that change how people look at him? Because the stories are so drastically different as he wrote them then as they were published. Even the titles to the stories changed. So was Carver the literary icon that everyone says or was it his editor who was really the icon? At what point does it become someone else's voice?
But what about when a writer dies? John Updike passed this year. What if there is another Rabbit Angstrom book - unfinished - that we was working on? What if he left explicit instructions that the book was to be destroyed if it was not finished before he passed? Do we honor his request and destroy a Pulitzer Prize-winning legend's book? Or do we publish it as one last hurrah of a literary icon? Is the world deprived of his genius by honoring his last request. Would people have thought Andy Warhol crazy if he asked his last painting in progress be destroyed on his death? What about Picasso? Does the medium make a difference? Should Michael Jackson's last unfinished album (if there is one) be released? At what point should dead people control their art?
I know that none of these questions are easily answered. And I hate to see art of any kind destroyed. But I also understand that artists are temperamental and perfectionists. I think that Hemingway is tossing in his grave at A Moveable Feast being doctored and re-released. I think, however, that Jack Kerouac had a big glass of whiskey when On The Road was published as the original scroll was written - without all the editing. I think Raymond Carver would be nervous about what his widow is doing. I think Vladimir Nabokov would beat the holy hell out of his son. Does it matter what these now-dead people would think? I think so. I would like to think that all our lives mean something. That when we leave a last wish, it be honored by those who claim to have loved us. I want to be cremated. I would be upset to find that my family decided to embalm me and bury me to decay over God-knows-how-long. Isn't this really the same thing?
All in all, it comes off as a greedy ploy for money or revenge - exposing the flaws of these artists. And making a profit off it to boot. It also begs the question of where does it stop. Do we publish everything - snakry letters, sex tapes? Who makes that determination?
I know that I have spent this entire blog asking a lot of questions and not answering any. Mostly because I don't think there are answers. Unless someone leaves explicit instructions in a will or trust, not a lot can be done. And even then, people can act against the instructions or challenge the will or trust. It's a complicated issue. I tend to fall on the side of the author. If they ask for something to be destroyed, it's because they think it's not their best effort and would rather not be remembered for that work. Or don't want that work being their last. It's a small thing that we can do. Yes, it means that we may miss a piece of literary genius that's not as bad as the author thought. But I think that's a risk worth taking to honor someone's last request.
