Black List Books
It is easy to dismiss the chronic problem of homeless street people as a handicap, nobody's fault, an innate defect—of common sense. The beggar on the street can be given a token of shared humanity, but that doesn't even address the problem, let alone solve it. Eventually it will be considered judgmental to think about homelessness as a problem at all—unless it my problem. I am interested in the cause of the problem, in what leads someone to these extreme straights.
In street people this information does not lend itself to discovery. Many cannot provide proof of identity. Verbal testimony is not lacking. It is unreliable. Some don't know—or make up what is forgotten. All are defensive. For personal histories of individuals who suffer at the hand of fate, a written record of the cause of decline is wanted—for peer review. That, for purposes of insight, makes it a social problem—not a private matter.
What drives men of every strata to the extreme of abandon? We have as testament Books Fatal to their Authors (1894), by P. H. Ditchfield, a compendium of the misfortunes suffered by writers because of what they wrote. It is not a unique theme, the author citing as sources classics on the subject, with the addition of original contributions based on favored access to private holdings of rare books. It is the author's urbanity, both in his expressed thoughts on the cases reviewed in the book and, presumably, why he was favored by access to private holdings.
The author's outrage comes through despite his impeccable self control. The toll of authors burned at the stake for written opinions should serve as a warning. No sensible person would engage in as blatantly offensive expression of opinion on theology, politics, personal reputation, and all such clearly ad hominem attacks, without expecting revenge by the powerful aggrieved—justified or not. And yet they persisted in their folly. It belies a force for evil behind wit, a motive behind the eloquence, not to be confused with speaking truth tho' the sky fall.
Not every satirist burns at the stake. All satirists, possibly, can complain. Wit is, after all, the complement of humor. It is essentially offensive, not defensive, the position of aggrieved victims of satire. If Ditchfield hopes writers of satire will read his warning, exercise restraint, and avert personal misfortune—he is naive. There is a force for evil in the world. Both satirists and their victims are unwittingly complicit.
To put Books Fatal to their Authors in context, when it was published liberalism was not yet discredited as the political pseudo-science it is today. The book is more in the nature of the well-meaning Positivism of the the 19th Century, hope for a better future through compassion. Ditchfield has a good heart—which none will dispute. He proves it in his concluding remarks calling for a charitable solution to the abuses suffered by writers for writing's sake:
"In imagination we seem to see a noble building like an Oxford College, or the Charterhouse, wherein the veterans of Literature can live and work and end their days, free from the perplexities and difficulties to which poverty and distress have so long accustomed them."
While the foregoing is a well-meaning solution to a sad, and long, list of hapless writers, it omits important considerations. If sales of a publication are no measure of literature's value, both best-selling and non-selling, financial incentive should be eliminated as a criterion. It is simply irrelevant.
The problem of the unfortunate lives of authors, whether burned at the stake, or because of poor finances, vicious critics, indifferent public, or enmity from those offended by perceived libel, intentional or not, is formally irrelevant to the work of writing. This is not meant to be insensitive. They are two separate matters.
I happen to think the matter of personal well-being is more important than free expression. Martyrdom proves nothing. Blessed are the peacemakers. Inevitably truth will emerge, whether concerning the science of Gravity, or the number of moons of Jupiter, without torture in good time. The more pressing concern is another force at work, the lust for honor, to be first among equals. That is a cause I cannot defend.
Realistically, anyway, a work house for contrarian writers won't work. The very idea is as outdated as Positivism itself, as irrelevant sociologically as blood letting is to the latest medical practices. What is effective in his compilation is Ditchfield's workman-like research and collation of cases. It is an optimistic gauge of how far we have come from the injustices of The Inquisition. As tribute, it stirs the passion for freedom of thought.
That alone is enough to recommend it. What Ditchfield writes of the discouragement felt by writers applies, I take it, to himself. He fears the flames have not been totally put out, but may return, tended in some obscure place of undying revenge. Let us never forget. As with all such testaments, if it is necessary to the cause of truth it will endure, but it will endure the trial of fire by truth, not by outrage.
The graphic art of Brian Higgins can be viewed at: https://fineartamerica.com/profiles/8-brian-higgins