London Conversations.

1. A publishers office, London, 1915.

“Please come in. I’m afraid I can’t give you long. I have an editorial meeting; you know how it is. Never enough hours in the day and this infernal war’s left us so very short staffed.”

Tom entered the spacious room to a wall of comforting warmth. The large fireplace was alive with crackling heat, flames licking over the wood blocks and having caught a seam of tar was sending cascades of red sparks chasing and scurrying up the chimney into darkness and oblivion.

Attempting an encouraging smile which he knew would come out wrong and was probably more likely to convey the awkwardness and embarrassment he was feeling than convey the friendliness and confidence he intended, Tom took a few faltering steps and raising his hand, shook feebly the firm hand of the publisher — a large perspiring man of around 60.

Tom was ushered towards the green padded chair fronting the imposing Mahogany desk. The enfeebled rays of the winter sun filtered through the London grime of the Regency windows, laying out a tracery of stark bony-fingered silhouettes, stretching across the mottled red carpet and climbing up over the beige leather surface of the desk and spilling out over the panelling of the adjacent wall.

Tom sat down rather tentatively on the edge of his seat leaning slightly forward as if in expectation of something unpleasant, or at least, not quite congenial.

“I have to be frank with you...” the publisher began, suddenly stopping short and rummaging through a pile of papers as if looking for the place he had scribbled down the name.

“Please, just call me Tom.”

“Err! Yes, Tom... well as I was saying...  I’m not seeing any callers at the moment and only agreed to see you as a personal favour to Mr. Pound, who seems to think you have something to offer.”

Tom smiled feebly and gazed down at his slender well-manicured fingers, examining his fingernails as though they contained some great unfathomable insight.

The publisher, feeling uncomfortable at the unexpected silence and awkwardness, continued in his habitual verbose manner. “The thing is Tom, with all due respect to Mr. Pound; I just don’t see it.”

Tom looked up and for the first time scrutinized the balding flaccid personage of the publisher peering at him through thick tortoiseshell spectacles across the separating ocean of the leather topped desk. Tom felt perplexed and lost for words. He had never felt able to justify or explain his work. For him it was more a case of defecation, extricating something after which he felt renewed and invigorated, the cleansing process complete. A process that might take weeks, months or even years. How could he explain this to a successful, self-satisfied publisher? Instead he just replied. “What exactly is it you don’t see.”

Looking a little uncomfortable the publisher cleared his throat and began, ”The thing is Tom, you’re an American and perhaps you don’t have a full appreciation of our English manner; particularly when it comes to poetry. We have after all a great tradition, the great visionary poets, Blake, Coleridge and then the great romantics, Wordsworth, Shelley, Tennyson. You see, the thing is, what you write, it’s all well and good and I can see it has a certain modernist imagery, but it’s not really poetry is it?” 

“Isn’t it?” Tom replied vaguely.

“No, not in the sense of being what people want; what people want to read. In short, what sells.”

“I hadn’t really thought...”

“And then there’s the subject matter,” the publisher cut in, ignoring Tom’s attempted interjection. “I mean, a middle aged man wandering about and growing old. People don’t want to read about that. You have to remember that a lot of readers of poetry are young. Many of them are young women. They want to read about love, romance, that sort of thing. And what do you give them; a pair of ragged claws scuttling across a beach, or some such nonsense; or measuring out life with coffee spoons. No, my dear Tom, it just won’t do. Where’s the beauty in ragged claws; where’s the inspiring imagery; in short, where’s the poetry.”

Tom sat opposite him apparently searching for renewed inspiration from the tips of his fingers but with little success. Falteringly in the precise clipped enunciation of an American trying to sound British, he replied, ”It’s just something I felt inside; what it must be like to be growing old and having regrets.”

Somewhere outside the chirping of a lone bird could momentarily be heard above the clatter of the passing traffic.

“We all have regrets,” the publisher laughed, “but we don’t want to ram them down peoples throats.  I’m right in saying am I not, that people read poetry to be inspired. The thing is Tom, you’re a bright young man and have a promising career as an academic; lecturing at Harvard or so Mr. Pound informs me in his letter of introduction. Take the advice of someone much older and wiser. Stick to your proper job. Write poetry by all means; after all you have some talent. Or try writing something a little more cheery, but do it as a hobby. As for publishing this sort of thing in this country, I really don’t think so. I’ll write to Mr. Pound to let him know my opinion. I’m really sorry I can’t be more... well... more optimistic, but it really is difficult getting anything published these days. It’s so competitive and everyone wants to be a writer, most of it’s drivel, not saying yours is entirely without merit of course. I wouldn’t want you to think that.”  

When Tom had left the room, the publisher felt relieved. Something about this man had unnerved him, intimidated him, and made him feel uncomfortable. He made a mental note not to allow people like that to waste his time in the future.

As he tidied his papers he noticed the name at the top of a typescript, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, by T S Eliot.

Total drivel the publisher thought to himself as he screwed it up and tossed it into the bin.   

PS: Eliot’s ’Prufrock’ and later ‘The Waste Land,’ became the cornerstones of 20th century literature inspiring poetry, prose, painting and drama.