This morning I received The Fiction Editor, the Novel, and the Novelist book that I ordered on a recommendation of a precious dervish of Blogostan the LanguageLog. On the cover there is a quote from the book's opening pages:

The hook intro: The greatest secret factor in American fiction in the past half-century has been the fiction editor, and, by a huge margin, his history has been one of opportunity either lost or actively destroyed.

The straight intro: This book is about the fiction editor's job -- what he can and cannot be expected to do, and what abilities and training he needs to do it.

The upbeat intro: The fiction editor who has the needed talent and skills can be a combination doctor, teacher, coach, and conscience who could benefit any writer who ever lived.

I read about twenty pages so far, and I am frantic. Its effect, like an effect of any really good book, can be compared to a mind-altering drug -- the world starts look different and unfamiliar.

On the twenty first page I realized that while reading I think on background to whom of my friends I can recommend it. Next I realized that I *always* go that when I read a book I like. And if I really, really like a book, I think to whom of my friends I can send a copy, which is the next best thing I can do to persuade to read it after tying them to a three and holding a book in front of them. "Finished? Next page?"

Why I am doing this? The more I think about it, the more natural it seems. A book without a reader is incomplete, deficient, waiting, like a spy without a mission. And if to think properly, it doesn't even exist.