Manuscripts in London may still arrive at the publisher’s office ‘over the threshold’ or ‘over the transom’ in New York and enter such a liminal space, a slush pile. Over this threshold the private becomes public, evaluated first by one reader, then several, then many. Ordered processes towards publication keep measured time, counting down to final revelations, borders crossed: points of no return.
Reaching and passing the limen, work assumes another state: solid text, open to criticism or praise, it lazes on the dusty library shelf or bounds unbound from hand to hand. Clear here which is chicken and which egg, books living in time, with new physicalities, a transhumance rather than the maelstrom of digital mash-up.