I can still remember, looking back to the Seventies in London when I worked in the book department of a large up-market store, that there was always a certain level of excitement in the atmosphere on the two weekly publication days. If a major name in literature had a new book due out, we would often see a small gathering of people around the table where their book had been laid out for viewing, nervously checking that there were enough copies for themselves and then, relieved, flicking through the pages quickly as if inspecting the goods for quality or imperfections. Literature was not just about the contents of a work,…