In Brian Moore's novel Catholics, a helicopter arrives for the first time on Muck Island, site of a still-functioning monastery built in the 13th century. The flying machine has brought a young priest to the isolated Irish landscape, sent by the Vatican to confront the Abbot about his monks' persistence in celebrating the Mass in Latin despite prohibitions from Rome.
"His vorpal blade went snicker-snack," the Abbot says mischievously, citing Lewis Carroll to mock progress. "It would be a good description of that helicopter out there."
This week has become an odd mixture of vorpal blades, ancient rites and thoughts of lost authors for me. The genesis came on St. Patrick's Day (ancient rites), when I found myself swept up in the Twitterwave (vorpal blades) by posts about everything from green-clad drunken morning revelers to instantaneous reports from SXSW to the momentum building around John Wray's Lowboy as word spread about his bullhorn reading on the L train and people began handselling the novel to one another in 140-character pops (coincidentally, about the number of words on a staff recommend card in a bookshop).
With all that buzz and more heating up my MacBook Pro, what's a book person to do? Well, I turned away from the computer for a moment and glanced at my bookshelves; just another reader transcending worlds.
And there, within reach, were some of Brian Moore's novels: Catholics, The Luck of Ginger Coffey, No Other Life, The Magician's Wife, Lies of Silence, The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne, The Colour of Blood, Black Robe, The Doctor's Wife, The Statement.
I stacked the books on my desk. I thought about everything we're discussing, speculating, proselytizing and worrying about in our business; and about this one author--born in Ireland, lived in Canada, died in Malibu, Calif.--whose books are largely out of print, but who matters so much to at least one reader: me.
On Twitter, I typed: "I must do this before midnight: I officially declare St. Patrick's Day 2009 to be 'Bring All the Novels by Brian Moore Back into Print Day.'" Random House sales rep Ann Kingman immediately retweeted, adding an enthusiastic second "(Yes, yes!)."
I spun the Twitter vorpal blades again, posting a quotation from The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne: "As he spoke, she heard America, eager America, where men talk business as others talk love."
Brian Moore was now in the Twitterstream, though I was aware, as the digital ancients say, that you can never step into the same Twitterstream twice.
A few years ago, I wrote an essay about Moore for the Dos Passos Review's Rediscovering Writers series. I mentioned that in the bookshop where I worked, I would often suggest one of the few novels still in print then (The Statement, The Magician's Wife) to customers looking for something "new." Without exception, as if part of a well-rehearsed chorus, my customers responded: Who?
Graham Greene once called Moore "my favorite living novelist." When Moore died in 1999, Tom Christie wrote an elegy in LA Weekly that began, "The most accomplished and least fashionable writer in Los Angeles died last week." In the Times Literary Supplement, Hermione Lee wrote that Moore's best quality also "prevented him from being as famous as he deserved, that he was always disappearing into his books, that he never wrote the same book twice."
I won't presume to call myself Brian Moore's ideal reader, but I do what I can to find him the audience he deserves. It isn't easy. Of his 20-plus novels, only a handful are still in print in the U.S. and that is a shame. Moore's narrative voice is crisp and disciplined. He finds a story's center and holds fiercely to it. What he doesn't reveal often reveals everything.
I love the speed of conversation on Twitter, the ability to share ideas and observations, pick up a thread and run with it or, in John Wray's case, give a deserving writer an instantaneous, word-of-mouth spike.
What are you reading . . . now!?
But I also need to savor the other ceremony: the turning away from my MacBook and iPod Touch screens to scan those bookshelves behind my desk; to remember, and suggest to you, that Brian Moore's novels should all be in print. On Twitter, I also left another quotation, a bookseller's lament: "They're all such great readers, Miss Hearne thought, it's a pity they don't like the same books as I do."--Robert Gray (column archives available at Fresh Eyes Now)