Thanks to many Substack readers like you
and my enduring literary community family in Paris, I’m proud to announce that the first 300 limited edition copies of The Requisitions have SOLD OUT.
As a novelist who bought back the rights to my debut novel from my former publisher,1 I strongly believe in artists taking themselves seriously back control from exploitative gatekeepers, which is why my wife, the photographer
Thank you, thank you, thank you—truly—to each & every one of you who bought a copy of the first edition & especially those who’ve already reviewed it.
Below are some select photos of the publishing process, from our meeting with Alain Escourbiac (the artisanal printer) to receiving the 300 books at our tiny Parisian apartment to stocking the book at The Red Wheelbarrow and Shakespeare & Company, and copy #000 of 300, which has since been covered in red-pen edits to prepare the global edition.
The Requisitions is now available worldwide ,
but since I believe in the reality of bookstores, there remains no better way to support
like me—or literature in the 21st century—than toThe Requisitions (excerpt), p.182, “Hope”
What has he learned? What has he forgotten? Three years ago, he watched artillery fire light up the night sky and flash violence across the landscape. Tonight, Viktor remembers the sound of those first tanks rolling into the city, the trembling teaspoons on saucers, and all of the faces on the terrace. Calel, clumsy Calel, so ill at ease, young and innocent; and what about Henryk and Martin’s never-ending debates about faith—but also their friendship; and now Viktor can see her again clearly, too—Elsa—he can smell her orange blossom perfume and see her head down in her ledger and, oh! the light red wine shade of her dress. She is still watching him, somehow—maybe she always will be—and how strangely optimistic he felt on that first day when he met her, when Viktor still believed in possibility.
He sighs watching the searchlights scan the horizon. He’s lucky to have once felt alive, to have been in love, to have understood the meaning of true friendship. Every act becomes sacred as he prepares for sleep. Viktor slides a blanket out from under Martin’s toes and drapes it oh-so-carefully atop his friend, then hops from one leg to the other to remove his socks. He unbuttons his shirt and goes to the bathroom to brush his teeth and relieve himself. Tonight, he relishes in the groans and creaks of the wooden floorboards as he steps over Martin and crawls into bed.
Sitting on the edge of his mattress, Viktor honors the many rituals that remind him of what it means to feel alive. He stretches his neck and arms and straightens his back, careful not to disturb Martin’s sleep when he cracks his knuckles and pulls at each toe with a satisfying pop. Viktor drapes a sheet over his own frail body and relishes the cooler side of the pillow; he smiles because even here in the Łódź Ghetto, on the eve of a great destruction, there is still pleasure to be found. Martin’s gentle breathing soothes him, and now Viktor remembers what it used to feel like to sleep in the forest as a child, the simple adventure of it, long before he thought he had to make something of himself, long before people started calling him The Professor. He thinks of a time before the answers consumed the questions, a time when life was love and wonder, when he had the instinctual wisdom of a child.
Viktor looks back at the empty bookshelf and cherishes the silence those books promised, long before he thought it necessary to study and take notes, a time before he associated knowledge with something that had to be proven or put on display. Viktor recalls literature’s promise of elsewhere, of somewhere far beyond the ghetto wall … of a peaceful cabin in the Swiss Alps, perhaps, or why not the East coast of the United States, where two lovers might be sitting on a sun- drenched blanket right now, reading a book to each other over a bottle of wine. Yes, there must be someone beyond this place who’s also enjoying this exact moment with Viktor— why not?—perhaps on a beach in southern Italy or northern Spain. Viktor remembers what it felt like to swim in the English Channel, to hear the waves and have warm sand slink between his toes. Oh, the ocean! How miraculous that Viktor can visit the coast of Normandy from the confines of his apartment and hear the sound of seagulls cawing. And what about that weekend in Switzerland when Helen was healthy? When Viktor’s biggest worry was finding dry kindling in the snow. Viktor remembers the first time he saw the world from the top of a mountain and realized he could conquer his fear of heights with a simple pair of wooden skis. Helen was there. Oh, beautiful Helen. Tonight, he chooses to remember her fondly.
Viktor breathes deeply. His smile widens, and his eyes well up. Forgive yourself, Viktor. Forgive yourself for everything. For being selfish, for being impatient, for not listening, for being wrong, for placing work before love, for cultivating intelligence over feeling, for putting your mind before your heart, for favoring certainty over belief. He used to read and write without needing to qualify or explain. He used to climb up on bookshelves. Tonight, this is what he chooses to remember.
Viktor rearranges his pillow to support his neck. A reassuring thought visits him: much like total happiness is unattainable, so too is its antithesis, for even here in the ghetto, some thing still inspires him to believe in the future of a possibility. And how trivial it all seems now, to be afraid of life and death—to worry—when even tonight, Viktor can close his eyes and experience the ocean and the sound of beach waves and a summer sun reflecting off the shore. Even the thought of counting sheep becomes miraculous, for he can hear sheep bleating in a pasture, can feel the breeze of a coastal wind on the back of his neck.
The reality of these memories is a fortification for what’s coming. Will he have another chance at a summer morning with her someday, whoever she might be? The touch of warm skin. Of staying beneath the covers just a little longer to make love long after the sun has risen. Breakfast in the afternoon—it’s still possible, isn’t it? And who is Viktor to say it isn’t? Oh, to see London one more time at Christmas. To meet an old friend in Vienna. To fall in love in Paris.
Viktor’s body decompresses as his heart lets go of something heavy. He is ready for sleep now. He wonders when he might see her again. Will it be in a dream? At a train station? In a blade of grass or a puddle’s reflection? Viktor curls up beneath the sheets, whispers, “Goodnight, my love,” and gently kisses the back of his hand as an afterthought.
In 2022, I bought back the rights to my debut novel, Slim and The Beast (Inkshares, 2015), which sold 1,300 copies before I bought back the rights to the final 200 copies. Ironically Not surprisingly, by offering a 1st edition of Slim and The Beast to my annual subscribers, I have been able to earn more money (by orders of magnitude) than if I allowed Jeff Bezos to keep selling Slim and The Beast whilst offering me pennies. ALL HAIL INDIE PUBLISHING:
Congrats on officially being a sell-out
Great excerpt! And wow, you have some killer blurbs! I hadn't seen some of those. Congrats!