Autographs

I remember reading an article in the Toronto Star a few weeks ago about a website that Margaret Atwood is using to sell “autographed” copies of her books. This site was a solution designed to replace “exhausting, time consuming book tours”, while allowing admiring readers to purchase online signed copies with “authentic” computer generated autographs inscribed in the books.

I wish I had kept that article because right now I can’t recall many of the minute details, but it did convey the wonderful news that this site is failing.

My faith’s been restored, but what a disgraceful commentary on the state of humanity this could have been. “Despite our maneuverings to the contrary, we will always be more animal than robot” wrote John Updike, one of the great American men of letters.

The official press release explaining the lower than anticipated public response to this website, described the surprising “discovery” that personalized handwritten autographs from the author have more sentimental value to readers and fans than electronically manufactured imprints. . . No kidding.

I have a few books that I bought at author signings. In the late ‘80’s, the late Douglas Adams signed my copy of “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy” when he visited the World’s Biggest Bookstore. In 1998 I waited in line for an hour for John Irving to sign “A Widow for One Year” at the downtown Chapters store on Bloor Street west of Bay. The person in front of me, a young scraggly bohemian type, who I’m sure in another circumstance is quite intelligent and articulate, asked Mr. Irving to sign his worn out paperback copy of “A Prayer for Owen Meany”. Gaping and fawning over his hero, to the entertainment of my bemused self, he finally blurted out that he had read that book six times. Unfazed, Irving replied, “Really? Maybe you should read another book.”

Perhaps, this has happened to him before.

I own many other precious signed articles. I have two caps from the 1997 Prost Formula One team, one each signed by the two drivers, Oliver Panis and Jarno Trulli. I have a photograph from a few years ago of F1 drivers Michael Schumacher and Eddie Irvine standing beside their Ferrari. It is signed by both Schumacher and Irvine. I have comic books including the “Elektra” series signed by the illustrator Bill Sienkiewicz and “Cerebus the Aardvark” volumes signed by Dave Sim. The day I leave this earth, these items are likely destined for incineration, welcome riddance to space occupying junk, but until then, they are priceless to at least one person.

About a year or so before the publication of “A Widow for One Year”, I made my way into one of my favourite little bookstores at that time located at the corner of Avenue Road and Bloor. The store is closed now, having been driven out of business by the opening of that same big box Chapters store just down the street. It turned out that day there was a scheduled appearance by the same Margaret Atwood who was signing her new book “The Robber Bride.” Arguably, Margaret Atwood is just as relevant, intelligent, talented and accomplished as John Irving, but I am not a fan and I have but just a couple of books of hers. They’re not worth anything to me.

Whether we like to admit it or not, we’re all caught up in the cult of celebrity. Everyone. Not just kids clamoring for autographs from their favourite musicians or athletes, but even adults who fool themselves into thinking they’re too old, too sophisticated, too refined, too superior to allow themselves to succumb to some immature form of unrestrained star gazing. But, what’s the difference between a signature at a book signing to an autograph on a baseball or hockey card?

How many times have we all sat around, talked about, made lists of which famous people in history we would like to share a dinner conversation with? Because, we admire them so, because they’re so brilliant, so talented, so . . .INTERESTING. . . Oh how inspired we would be, if allowed to mine the intellects, the talents, the passions of those so great. . . How often have we deluded ourselves into believing these are the real reasons? Only to falter ridiculously with the arrival of the moment of truth, “Golly gee Mr. Irving, I’ve read your book six times!!”