The year just completed was a record one for New Zealand authors, more books being published at home and abroad than ever before. At the present moment I know of at least half a dozen novels in preparation or just completed by New Zealand writers, and in addition quite a number of books of general interest are in course of construction. Of course, how many will be eventually published is another matter. One thing I would strongly advise writers against, and that is where a publisher is not prepared to take the risk of publication, for the author to have his work published at his own expense. After all, where a book is rejected by, say, three or four publishers, the author is courting disaster if he decides to go ahead and take the risk himself. Reputable publishing houses simply will not accept publication at author's risk. Frequently therefore the author goes to some obscure publisher and more often than not the book is a failure.

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Now, what does it cost to print an average novel? Writing to me from Australia some time ago a friend of mine in the publishing game told me that in England a novel, say, of approximately 300 pages, printed in eleven point, with twenty-nine lines to the page and with an edition of 1,500 copies, would involve approximately £300 to pay all publishing costs, pay 10 per cent, to the author and leave a profit of 16 2/3 per cent, to the publisher on all costs. That would mean an average wholesale price of 4/- per copy and a retail price of 6/-.

I understand Australian and probably New Zealand costs run fairly close to the above figures. Australian publishing houses reckon they must clear 1,500 copies to show even a small nett profit.

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The first impression on opening a booklet of verse “Dunedin and Other Poems,” by Samuel Hulme Bridgford, is that the printers (Thomas Avery & Sons, New Plymouth) have made of it a job of appealing artistry. I note that as a prelude to his poems the author quotes Mary Webb: “The poet enjoys because he suffers.” This, in a way, is the motif of the twenty or so poems that follow. Here is a Mary Webb disciple sounding, in a much smaller way, of course, the glories of Nature, wedded with a deep religious feeling—unusual in poets these days. I like the verse because it is sincere, although the poet strikes age old chords of music. (Just as we go to press, the sad news of the death of Mr. Bridgford, following a long period of illness, is announced.—Ed.).

By way of sharp contrast I might mention another book of verse, or to be more exact, jingle, published by J. H. Claridge, one time printer and newspaper proprietor. The title is “The Iron Horse,” and the printer is candid enough to advise readers that “you are well advised to retain this booklet as an Enzed literary curiosity.” I note, too, that in a dozen opinions about the book an M.A. (unnamed) is quoted as describing it as “decidedly quaint.” Heartily do I endorse the judgment.

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