Rosemary McLeod: Bonfire of vanities

"A good book is the precious life blood of a master spirit," wrote John Milton, who became a censor. In the 17th century they knew a bad book when they saw one.
We have less certainty, but on two points of moral judgment we seem united: that Macsyna King is the wickedest woman in New Zealand, and that a book "telling her story" should not be stocked by reputable booksellers.
I am impressed that 48,000 people have joined a site dedicated to damning Ian Wishart's book even before it's published. But they have helped him achieve terrific free publicity, and backed many of my colleagues into the awkward position of defending him and his distasteful offering on the grounds that censorship is in itself a bad thing.
How chuffed Wishart must be. He'll surely be aware that infinitely more profitable sales would always come from his own trading online, rather than bookstores. That being the case, he wouldn't have to pay any commission on sales. He has also assured us that he certainly won't be sharing royalties with King, who, he tells us, gave him a few hours of her time in return for a few slices of pizza.
The guy is all heart.
It is a problematic aspect of journalistic work - to some of us - that uneducated people living in deprived circumstances are the most ready to talk to us. The powerful fob you off when they're in trouble, foreseeing what the consequences may be, but the poor and the powerless are grateful for a listening ear, and reverence the printed word as, perhaps, dignifying their condition.
Journalists owe a degree of gratitude to anyone who talks to us. Why should they, after all? But in the case of the vulnerable - which even this widely detested woman is - we owe the even greater courtesy of restraint if we're to claim we're motivated by charity and the search for truth. Wishart will know what I mean by charity. He's a self-described Christian.
It's in this area that I find the book distasteful. Wishart's claimed few hours spent with King do not constitute extensive research, or special care. Her life has plainly been a mess; that much was already evident; and however negligent she was as a parent, the shame of what happened will never leave her. Now public loathing is stirred up against her once more - to her detriment, and to the writer's gain. The risk is all hers. Surely this is exploitation.
We already know what misery looks like. Each case of child-killing tells a similar tale of booze, drugs, ignorance, and idleness leading to mischief. The Kahui twins died while living with numerous adults on welfare who took to the booze, shouting and fighting, neighbours reported, on what are laughingly alluded to as "pay days". If only they had been real pay days: their lives would have been structured, they'd have been rewarded for effort, and their booze intake might have been modified by having to get up in the morning.
I pity King. I can't despise her. She's taking the rap for the whole so-called "tight 12" adults who still rate loyalty to the killer higher than their duty to the babies in their care. Her former partner, the babies' father, already has a new partner, and a new child. Some woman will always rescue a hopeless-looking man and offer him a future, but Macsyna - the wicked mother - will find the equivalent near impossible.
I predict that the book will say nothing new, and will do nobody any good. Better, surely, to donate its price to charities working with at-risk children in the hope of change. They need the money more than Wishart does.