The publisher is stranded like a fakir on a bed of nails, calmly aware, resigned, getting peace out of pondering possibilities of physical and spiritual development. Not pricked or coal-scorched, the holy persons show their stuff in danger zones, keeping cool and unblemished.
All can aspire to this detachment, but beware too much distance and remember how vital it is to undertake the physicality of the work.
Connections within publishing are tangential and tendentious. Everything with words and pictures isn’t a book or magazine, or anything like it.