Philip Roth and the Novel today

Philip Roth's imminent retirement has thrown up a lot of questions. He says he has dedicated his life to the novel, taught it in classrooms, created it in a lonely room with no company but a clacking typewriter, spoken about it in conference halls and literary events, consecrated many relationships at its altar. The novel has been, for him, a life. The covers of his books encase not just his words, but his very life. But look at the publishing industry today. Does it really have room for a man who puts his life into his books? Writing a novel has become an acceptable hobby- as acceptable, say, as golf or dance classes or interior design. The mystique of the writer exists, just barely, but how many of them are willing to shut themselves away from the world and into the pages of a paperback? The thing is, you don't need to do that anymore to be published. You don't need to sacrifice your investment banker career, your weekly kitty parties, your pseudo intellectual involvement with the neighbourhood library camp. You don't have to let your hair grow out and your nails get dirty while you scribble furiously at a burning manuscript. You don't have to subsist on a diet of coffee and cigarettes, and the writers who claim they do are usually just hamming a role they've chalked out in their heads. You don't have to lose relationships, shut yourself off from the world- in fact, one would argue that your very success- material, that is- as a writer depends on how well you keep up those connections. Working in the publishing industry (never mind that my experience has been limited to five months, or four and a half if you want to get picky), I get a ringside view of the commercialization of the writer figure. These people, many of them, are clients, like anyone else. They have a product, and they want to sell it. Each publishing house attempts to outbid or outwoo the other, hoping that the client will sign them on for the marketing of the product. One eventually succeeds, and then its all hands on deck to churn it out in a form that will please the maximum number of buyers. A writer is a person, just like anyone else. Up until even three years ago, I was in awe of almost every person who had ever written a book. I would gaze at them adoringly from across a lawn, trembling and giggly when it came time to ask for an autograph or just walk by their hastily bagged chair. The autographs I wrested were pasted carefully in a copy of one of their books, and sighed over for months to come. These people were WRITERS, you know, people I had read and worshipped and ached to BE. Seeing them was a surreal experience, talking to them even more so. Now, well, I'm not saying that all of them have lost their mystique, but maybe the act itself is no longer as mysterious and powerful seeming as it once was. The woman beside me on the Metro might just be composing her next plot as she types furiously on her mobile phone; the professor I just asked for a recommendation is probably knee deep in his latest character composition; the friend I met for coffee this morning is probably shopping around for her next publishing contract. It's everyman's game, the novel. Maybe it always was, and we're only just seeing it.