John Sutherland on a charming farewell from O J Simpson's publisher
The departure of Judith Regan from the publishing imprint that bore her name has been a remarkably untearful event. "Comeuppance" is the book world's verdict. She shouldn't have touched O J Simpson's pseudo confession, If I Did It, with a bargepole. Rupert Murdoch was right to give her the boot. Whether he would have done so without furious intramural protest from his paladins on Fox News is another question. There is some shit, as e e cummings would say, that even the "Fair and Balanced" people won't eat.
Despite the general complacency about the rightness of Regan’s dismissal, OJ's "je m'accuse" raises interesting questions. The iffy guy is currently at law about whether he can spend the lavish advance Regan gave him ($1m, apparently). On what grounds can he be said to have broken any contract? The book was bound and ready to go when Murdoch nixed it. Is not the suppression of OJ's book censorship, 21st century-style? ("The hell with morals, protect the brand".) Might publication not be a tactful way of funnelling some money to the Goldman family, still waiting for the $33.5m the civil court awarded them?
ReganBooks no longer exists – it's been dissolved into the HarperCollins mega-parent. But, speaking for myself, I'm grateful for two books that this wicked witch of the book world produced. One is called PostSecret, the other My Secret, both published in the US last year.
The pair originated on the internet, with Frank Warren's PostSecret website, founded in January 2005. Officially described as a "community art project", PS (the abbreviation is neat) serves as a gigantic confession box. The theme is "Extraordinary Confessions from Ordinary Lives".
Kids (mainly) send in postcards anonymously, with cryptic revelations. The books themselves are coffee-tableish collages of the cards with terse – typically poignant, occasionally heartwarming – messages attached. Here are some of my favourites:
"I saw your secret and I love you anyway." "Inside this envelope are the scraps of my old life. But I realised . . . I don't need this any more. I’m alive again. Everything is OK. My soul has been reborn and I couldn't be more happy. And let me tell you . . . there is nothing more invigorating or life-affirming than shredding old suicide notes." "If I died no one would notice." "I am afraid to live a Christian life because I might miss out on all the fun." "I was molested. There, I said it." "I’m not sure how I'm going to do this for the rest of my life." "I accidentally stumbled across my dad’s porn stash . . . and it turns out that he has a fetish." "I chew Wrigley’s spearmint gum to remember my grandfather."
Reading these secrets, one is reminded of Nathanael West's story Miss Lonelyhearts. We catch a vivid glimpse of the suffering, the longing, the pathetic hopes that lie the other side of silence.
So good riddance, Judith Regan. And thanks.
Frank Warren's PostSecret books are published by HarperCollins
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