Literary Copyright | Page 5

life, as that of the bad
and mediocre is moral and intellectual decadence. But in practice the
interests of the three do not harmonize. The author, even supposing his
efforts are stimulated by the highest aspirations for excellence and not
by any commercial instinct, is compelled by his circumstances to get

the best price for his production; the publisher wishes to get the utmost
return for his capital and his energy; and the public wants the best
going for the least money.
Consider first the author, and I mean the author, and not the mere
craftsman who manufactures books for a recognized market. His sole
capital is his talent. His brain may be likened to a mine, gold, silver,
copper, iron, or tin, which looks like silver when new. Whatever it is,
the vein of valuable ore is limited, in most cases it is slight. When it is
worked out, the man is at the end of his resources. Has he expended or
produced capital? I say he has produced it, and contributed to the
wealth of the world, and that he is as truly entitled to the usufruct of it
as the miner who takes gold or silver out of the earth. For how long? I
will speak of that later on. The copyright of a book is not analogous to
the patent right of an invention, which may become of universal
necessity to the world. Nor should the greater share of this usufruct be
absorbed by the manufacturer and publisher of the book. The publisher
has a clear right to guard himself against risks, as he has the right of
refusal to assume them. But there is an injustice somewhere, when for
many a book, valued and even profitable to somebody, the author does
not receive the price of a laborer's day wages for the time spent on it--to
say nothing of the long years of its gestation.
The relation between author and publisher ought to be neither
complicated nor peculiar. The author may sell his product outright, or
he may sell himself by an agreement similar to that which an employee
in a manufacturing establishment makes with his master to give to the
establishment all his inventions. Either of these methods is fair and
businesslike, though it may not be wise. A method that prevailed in the
early years of this century was both fair and wise. The author agreed
that the publisher should have the exclusive right to publish his book
for a certain term, or to make and sell a certain number of copies. When
those conditions were fulfilled, the control of the property reverted to
the author. The continuance of these relations between the two
depended, as it should depend, upon mutual advantage and mutual
good-will. By the present common method the author makes over the
use of his property to the will of the publisher. It is true that he parts
with the use only of the property and not with the property itself, and
the publisher in law acquires no other title, nor does he acquire any sort

of interest in the future products of the author's brain. But the author
loses all control of his property, and its profit to him may depend upon
his continuing to make over his books to the same publisher. In this
continuance he is liable to the temptation to work for a market, instead
of following the free impulses of his own genius. As to any special
book, the publisher is the sole judge whether to push it or to let it sink
into the stagnation of unadvertised goods.
The situation is full of complications. Theoretically it is the interest of
both parties to sell as many books as possible. But the author has an
interest in one book, the publisher in a hundred. And it is natural and
reasonable that the man who risks his money should be the judge of the
policy best for his whole establishment. I cannot but think that this
situation would be on a juster footing all round if the author returned to
the old practice of limiting the use of his property by the publisher. I
say this in full recognition of the fact that the publishers might be
unwilling to make temporary investments, or to take risks. What then?
Fewer books might be published. Less vanity might be gratified. Less
money might be risked in experiments upon the public, and more might
be made by distributing good literature. Would the public be injured? It
is an idea already discredited that the world owes a living to everybody
who thinks he can write, and it is a superstition already fading that
capital which exploits literature as a trade acquires any special
privileges.
The present international copyright, which primarily concerns itself