Today I wrote nothing

photo from http://jonathanshipley.blogspot.com/

There was a very interesting article on the Guardian's book blog recently. It was talking about lost books that are then found again only to be declared 'genius' and 'ground-breaking'.
It used some examples of Soviet literature that were not published until fairly recently (This and That). Also, John Kennedy Toole's 'A Confederacy of Dunces'.
One commenter said that he thought that perhaps sometimes these books are over-hyped simply because they were lost. There is something thrillingly romantic about forgotten authors being rediscovered. But also...

Why are we always so enthralled by the idea of posthumous (nothing to do with Greek/Turkish dips) success?

I am enthralled, like everyone else. But, when you really think about it, it is desperately sad. All those wide-eyed anecdotes of how these works were discovered are rolled out like glammed-up bodies, to prove what? Oh yes, so John Kennedy Toole killed himself and his mother got his work published after much perseverance. So, Daniil Kharms starved to death in the siege of Leningrad. So, Van Gogh never sold a painting. And so on and so on.

Perhaps we all want to imagine that even if people have had (at least in hindsight) a miserably 'unsuccessful', unmemorable life, they can still be remembered after the discovery of a lost/unpublished masterpiece. Perhaps it makes us feel better about wasted lives, makes us believe they never are wasted after all.

However, if it was up to me, I would rather have a less arresting anecdote but a much better time of it in return.