On the way back to our Tuolumne camp, I enjoyed the scenery if possible more than when it first came to view. Every feature already seems familiar as if I had lived here always. I never weary gazing at the wonderful Cathedral. It has more individual character than any other rock or mountain I ever saw, excepting perhaps the Yosemite South Dome. The forests, too, seem kindly familiar, and the lakes and meadows and glad singing streams. I should like to dwell with them forever. Here with bread and water I should be content. Even if not allowed to roam and climb, tethered to a stake or tree in some meadow or grove, even then I should be content forever. Bathed in such beauty, watching, the expressions ever varying on the faces of the mountains, watching the stars, which here have a glory that the lowlander never dreams of, watching the circling seasons, listening to the songs of the waters and winds and birds, would be endless pleasure. And what glorious cloudlands I should see, storms and calms, — a new heaven and a new earth every day, aye and new inhabitants. And how many visitors I should have. I feel sure I should not have one dull moment. And why should this appear extravagant? It is only common sense, a sign of health, genuine, natural, all-awake health. One would be at an endless Godful play, and what speeches and music and acting and scenery and lights! — sun, moon, stars, auroras. Creation just beginning, the morning stars “still singing together and all the sons of God shouting for joy.”
I’m working on an essay about what it means to equip young people for life, and that reminded me of an old post of mine. I should write more about this!
Today in class I was talking about how Auden, in “At the Grave of Henry James,” makes use of the Prayer of Humble Access, and one of my students told me that she had recently, in her choir, been singing a setting of that — which turns out to be quite beautiful. It was composed by Samuel Sebastian Wesley (1810-1876).
If you see me posting more photos than usual, that will be because I am getting to know my new iPhone 18 Pro — my previous model was a 15 — and figuring out what the new version of Halide offers. Halide really is an extraordinary app: I especially admire the various ways it allows the user to bypass Apple’s computational-photography algorithms.
Number of people living within a 60-mile radius (or one-hour drive) of Waco: approximately 600,000.
Number of people living within a 120-mile radius (or two-hour drive) of Waco: approximately 12,000,000.
As Cosmos Malick: More on the way Malick seeks life in his films.
I have a theory
Here are the relevant facts:
- Oxford University Press USA is a “crossover” publisher, which means that they’re an academic press but they publish many books meant to have some trade success also, e.g. showing up in the local Barnes & Noble.
- But OUP UK, with whom I am publishing this Sayers biography, is pretty much strictly academic in its orientation, which means that it charges high prices for books and expects to sell them largely to libraries. (I only signed with them because they promised to sell my book at a reasonable price: other books in the series are two or three times as expensive.)
- Most of the academics who publish with OUP UK are doing so for reasons of professional advancement and job security — tenure, promotion, moves to more prestigious institutions, etc. They don’t expect their books to be purchased by the general public, and even whether they get read (and reviewed) by peers is a secondary consideration. What matters is the new bullet point on the CV.
- I am not seeking professional advancement; and even when I write academic books, I write them to be read by actual human beings.
Therefore, we are seeing a mismatch between my interests and those of my publisher. The book didn’t come out on its pub day, the Kindle edition is unreadable to some, I have no idea when people will actually be able to buy the book, I am very unhappy — and as far as I can tell nobody at OUP UK understands why I am bothered. I have the new bullet point on my CV, don’t I?