The mathematics of literary survival becomes very evident very quickly when you walk into any respectable used bookstore, the kind with narrow aisles, cardboard signs written in marker, and the distinct smell of pages softening with age. Those shelves hold thousands of books. When they were released, many of them received positive reviews. A few were awarded prizes. A few were referred to as masterpieces. And yet here they are, waiting for someone to notice them, three for a dollar in a bin close to the door. Most will go unnoticed. To put it simply, that is what happens to the majority of books.
Forgotten novels’ intriguing afterlife is not a romantic tale of overlooked geniuses just waiting to be found. More often than not, it’s a tale of poor timing, untraceable heirs, and the silent math of whether enough people will purchase a reprinted paperback to warrant printing it. On May 6, 1940, Herbert Clyde Lewis released a book titled Spring Offensive, an anti-war fable set in the territory between France and Germany. Germany invaded France three days later. The Phony War came to an end. Overnight, American interest in anti-war fables vanished. Lewis was not a poor author. He was simply unlucky in a particular, catastrophic way that only writers and gamblers can fully comprehend.
A different kind of lesson can be learned from Henry Roth’s Call It Sleep. When The American Scholar asked eminent critics to list the most overlooked books of the preceding 25 years in the middle of the 1950s, the book had vanished from print and almost all critical discourse. It was named by Alfred Kazin. It was named by Leslie Fiedler. The voice of Irving Howe was added. Avon Books was persuaded to reissue it by the accumulation of critical enthusiasm and, astonishingly, with a real advertising budget. Readers were drawn to the book. It continued to be published. This is how resurrection appears when it occurs, which is to say, infrequently and only when a number of improbable events occur at precisely the right time.
The economics of forgotten novels are peculiar because they are not really influenced by critical opinion. When a publisher decides whether to reprint a book that has been out of print for forty years, they are not primarily considering the book’s quality. They are posing the following three questions, roughly in order: Is the reputation of our imprint worth it? Can we publish it legally without facing legal action? Will enough people purchase it to make a profit? Where critics have some standing is the first question. The second and third are part of a universe that is seldom considered by critics. Finding a copyright inheritor for a writer who passed away in 1963, left an unfinished will, and neglected to mention their literary estate is the kind of work that requires probate attorneys, genealogists, and a good deal of good fortune. If only they could find someone who could sign a contract, any publisher involved in reissues could name a dozen authors they would love to bring back.
One intriguing response to the third question is the brand-loyalty model. Both NYRB Classics and Persephone Books have amassed loyal readers who will pick up a new book primarily because of the trust they have built up from earlier titles. People are aware that a particular logo on the spine indicates that the writing will be unique, creative, and thoughtful. Establishing that level of institutional credibility takes years and requires a lot of quiet work. It’s possible that this is the most viable strategy for preserving lost literature—not a single, spectacular rediscovery, but the gradual growth of a readership prepared to follow a carefully chosen guide into uncharted territory.
Recently, the term “unjustly neglected” has been criticized for being overused and for having an ambiguous victimization connotation that suggests a plot to silence worthy authors. That criticism has merit. However, it overlooks the bigger picture, which is just a volume issue. The canon, which is the limited, well-traveled path of authors who are published, extensively taught, and well-known in society, is truly limited. There isn’t much poor writing on either side of it. Most of it consists of writing that was published the week a war broke out, lost a copyright heir, or failed to catch the right moment. Before Lewis Mumford brought it back into the light, even Moby-Dick lived in that shadow for decades. It’s difficult to ignore that fact. For a very long time, the book that many consider to be the best American novel was simply forgotten.
All of this culminates in a literary humility that is unsettling but most likely true. The majority of authors will be forgotten. The majority of talented writers will be forgotten. It’s not that their work didn’t matter or that it didn’t shed light on something genuine about the human condition; rather, it’s because cultural memory’s machinery is flawed, selective, and has never had enough space for everyone. Bloggers, compulsive readers, and small-press editors who spend their weekends in archive rooms and estate sales are all examples of searchers who are actually doing something worthwhile. However, the work is slow. It yields no assurances. Furthermore, the thicket is far bigger than anyone can map, as anyone who has taken the time to look knows.
The books are present. The majority of them are in the dark, waiting. And things that have very little to do with their quality will determine whether or not they return.
