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I have never met the man we honor tonight. But, like so many of you, I
feel I know him. And I know him in the best way possible: Through the
intimate encounter with the authors he discovered, nurtured, and brilliantly
published over the past fifty years: Samuel Beckett, Jorge Luis Borges,
Jean Genet, Eugene Ionesco, D.H. Lawrence, Henry Miller, Alain Robbe-Grillet,
Marguerite Duras, William Burroughs, Harold Pinter, Che Guevara, Tom Stoppard,
Malcolm X, Frantz Fanon, Donald Keene on Japanese literature, Eric Bentley's
translations of Bertolt Brecht.
There is little doubt
that when the history of twentieth-century publishing is written, his
contribution looms large. Indeed, his literary and political proclivities
both reflected and helped to define an historical era.
Nor should it be forgotten
that his mischievous disposition was of a kind to confound and deny puritans
and philistines of every stripe. Against all odds, and with daring and
courage and tenacity, steadfastly opposed censorship and yahoos of every
stripe. His libertarian--and indeed libertine--attitude toward sex was
as refreshing as it was rare, even as it was discomforting, for some.
It was subversive in an immediate postwar period given to the Cold War
mores of a country and a citizenry still constrained by silence and hypocrisy.
He fought and won legal and literary battles that enlarged the arena of
free expression and publication.
And, to speak personally
for a moment, I can say that I shall forever be grateful to him for enriching
what might well have been an otherwise impoverished adolescence. I vividly
remember discovering at age fourteen in a San Francisco bookstore that
stupendous avalanche of Victorian erotica, "My Secret Life," in which
I was delightfully exposed to a series of sexual escapades, which in their
number and sheer physical complexity, staggered the imagination.
What counted most
for this buccaneering publisher was less the number of dollars in the
bank, than the numberof stars on his forehead. Possessed of unruly curiosities,
profound respect for underdogs, a moral preference favoring have-nots
over haves, he performed over five decades a kind of miracle: publishing
new voices, scandalous voices, repressed voices. A taboo-breaker, fervent
and even fevered in his passions and literary instincts, and utterly loyal
to his writers, he acted as midwife to the birth of books that would,
taken together, stand as a rebuke to the stodginess of received opinion,
and a permanent challenge to the orthodoxies of the cultural and political
establishment. He provided an engaged and engaging home to misfits of
genius, and emboldened a generation of readers to turn themselves inside
out and see the world with new eyes.
He was blessed with
no gift for publishing strategy but, what was more important, a sensibility:
naughty, rebellious, blasphemous, heretical. Moreover, like all good publishers
he had an instinct for gifted editors and co-conspirators: Don Allen,
Richard Seaver, Fred Jordan, Harry Braverman, Gilbert Sorrentino, Nat
Sobel, Kent Carroll, Morrie Goldfisher, Jules Geller, Marilyn Meeker,
and Roy Kuhlman, his incomparable designer.
Mere facts don't do
justice to the man and his accomplishments. Especially in a corporate
age which prizes docility over defiance, he stood for what has always
been exemplary in publishing.
For the founding of
Grove Press in 1951, the creation of Evergreen Review, among other inspired
entrepreneurial efforts, that have immeasurably enriched the republic
of letters, the National Book Critics Circle counts it a high honor and
privilege to bestow, with gratitude and heartfelt thanks, the Ivan Sandroff
Award for Lifetime Achievement to Barney Rosset.
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An airplane
was about to crash, and there were 5 passengers left, but only 4
parachutes. The first passenger, George W. Bush said, I am the President
of the United States, and I have a great responsibility, being the
leader of nearly 300 million people, and a superpower, etc., and
I am also the smartest president ever. So he takes the first parachute,
and jumps out of the plane.
The second passenger
said, I'm Rasheed Wallace, one of the best basketball players in
the NBA, and the Portland Trailblazers need me, so I can't afford
to die. So he takes the second parachute, and leaves the plane.
The third passenger,
Hillary Clinton, said; I am the wife of the former President of
the United States, I am New York's Senator, and I am the smartest
woman in the world. So she takes the third parachute and exits the
plane.
The fourth passenger,
an old man, says to the fifth passenger, a 10 year old boy scout,
I am old and frail and I don't have many years left, so as a Christian
gesture and a good deed, I will sacrifice my life and let you have
the last parachute.
The boy scout
said, It's okay, there's a parachute left for you. The world's smartest
president took my backpack.
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