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This week's piece is mostly questions. W H Auden (right) was born on February 21, 1907. He is England's greatest poet of the 20th century (Eliot was American and Yeats was Irish).
And what is the great British publishing industry doing to celebrate the centenary? Precisely nothing. There is not a single new Auden book. Not one.
What the hell is going on at Faber itself, Auden's publisher? Oh well, apparently they are bringing out a revised Collected Poems in a few weeks' time.
Is that it? Not the slightest attempt to reinvent Auden for a new generation, to repackage him for a wider public? His poems are no more obscure than your average indie pop lyric, but their mastery is, of course, infinitely richer and deeper.
The possibilities for a new volume are endless: One Hundred Auden
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Poems, Auden for Lovers, Gay Auden, The Pocket Auden, Recipes for Living: an Auden Selection (who was it who described his poems thus?).
Are they all braindead at Faber? Is hyping Mavis Cheek the best they can do there these days? Do I hear a whimper of response? "There was no call for it..." You make the call, Mr Faber, you make the call!
Auden was not only a poet of genius but also a trailblazer for modern life. His personal story is of the highest interest. Yet no new biographical study. Nothing.
Publishers fling fortunes at trash but can't spare a dime for one little new Auden book. There is no more appalling indictment of the way we publish now.
Why are the English so keen on destroying their own superbness? An end to this tyranny of the thick! 
FIRST POSTED FEBRUARY 2, 2007
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