The thing is: should more books be burned? Are there simply too many? I’ve got far more than I’ll ever read and just keep on buying them. It’s the curse of being a proofreader or copy-editor. You just can’t leave them alone. You know they’re a health hazard and make you poor but the habit can’t be kicked.
So Hedda, you’ll remember, burns the manuscript (the only copy) of a brilliant book which has been lovingly edited. Then she kills herself after a lot of tomato juice has been dribbled over her by a judge and a chap she was quite fond of has shot off his essentials in a dodgy club. Poor Hedda, I say.
The point is, why did she kill herself? The violation with the canned juice? The lack of nobility attaching to the death of a dear friend? No, gentle readers. She could not live with the memory of a burnt, hand-written manuscript on her conscience. That’s the truth of it.
Like Hitler in his bunker, she took her life while the balance of her mind was disturbed by an orgy of book-burning. Let that be a lesson to us all. Was Hedda a Nazi? A question for another blog.