Perhaps the best thing since sliced bread: Read at work! by the New Zealand Book Council.
Perhaps the best thing since sliced bread: Read at work! by the New Zealand Book Council.
Le malade n’est pas à plaindre qui a la guarison en sa manche. — Montaigne, Les Essais, “De Trois Commerces”
“The sick man is not to be pitied who has his cure in his sleeve.” Or his books on his bookshelves, for that matter. Thus muses Michel de Montaigne in his essay on the commerce of reading. I must admit that up to now, I have not been too impressed by Montaigne the writer; the occasional aphorism notwithstanding, his writing and thinking sometimes seems higgledy-piggledy to me, and sometimes outright banal. What he has to say about the company of books, however, was well worthwhile:
In the experience and practice of this sentence [i.e. the above quotation], which is a very true one, all the benefit I reap from books consists; and yet I make as little use of it almost as those who know it not; I enjoy it as a miser does his money, in knowing that I may enjoy it when I please; my mind is satisfied with this right of possession. I never travel without books, either in peace or war; and yet I sometimes pass over several days, and sometimes months, without looking at them; I will read by and by, say I to myself, and rest content in this consideration, that I have them by me, to divert myself with them when I am so disposed, and call to mind what an ease and assistance they are to my life. ‘Tis the best viaticum I have yet found out for this human journey, and I very much pity those men of understanding who are unprovided with it. I rather accept of any sort of diversion, how light soever, in the feeling that this can never fail me.
We might dismiss this attitude as that of the book-fool, but I tend to agree with Montaigne that the sheer possession of books is comforting, soothing almost. Books are a reassuring presence; they invite you to converse with them, but they do not force you to; they promise an ailment to boredom, a promise to provide entertainment, knowledge, all that good stuff, and even a pearl of wisdom every now and then.
Reading “comforts me in my age and solitude,” writes Montaigne, “it eases of a troublesome weight of idleness, and it delivers me at all hours from company that I dislike.” Montaigne is not an obsessive-compulsive reader, but a common reader, ardent no doubt, and engaging and clever, but also leisurely, a reader who is well aware of reading’s place in his life, as well as its limitations and dangers:
Books have many charming qualities to such as know how to choose them; but every good has its ill; ’tis a pleasure that is not pure and unmixed an more than others; it has its inconveniences, and great ones too; the mind, indeed, is exercised by it, but the body, the care of which I have not forgotten, remains in the meantime without action, grows heavy and melancholy. I know no excess more prejudicial to me, nor more to be avoided in my declining age.
Lines such as these lead me to think that the comfort of books lies not only in their presence, but also in the knowledge that their authors can speak to us through the ages, and that — regardless of the fact that one of us read from a printed page sitting on a wooden chair, the other from a computer screen sitting on a couch — we have something in common.
Reading in Bed is an anthology of essays by Steven Gilbar. I picked up a copy today at Housing Works on my first day as a volunteer; Gilbar’s collection features writers such as Montaigne, Hazlitt, Emerson, Hesse, Nabokov, among many others, musing on the subject of reading. The cover illustration is a beautiful painting by Bascove titled “Reading in Bed”, courtesy of the Uptown Gallery:
This composition is nigh-perfect in capturing my ultimate delights: reading, beauty, books on bookshelves, a luscious peach, an elegant green library lamp, a comfy bed, and a cat. Have you ever wondered why readers and cats go so well together? Perhaps because both are rather solitary creatures. More on Reading in Bed as I make my way through the essays one by one (preferably in the manner pictured above).
According to the Myers-Briggs personality test, I am suited to be a bookstore owner. Incidentally, I have recently found myself thinking a lot about working in the book trade, or any profession revolving around books for that matter, and decided to volunteer at the Housing Works bookstore café.
Obviously, whoever wants to run a bookstore these days has to come to terms with the fact that buying a book is no longer as much about browsing shelves as browsing the internet. Online sales pose a great challenge to traditional bookstores, and one can hardly overestimate the extent to which the world wide web has changed the nature of book dealing. I must confess I purchased a book online only once and know next to nothing about online book trading. However, I assume that the basic principles of supply and demand and the dynamics of collecting still apply, and that the classical virtues of the book dealer — a keen eye for value, entrepreneurship, networking, a practical business sense coupled with a passion for books, etc. — continue to be essential, and so I listened with interest to an interview by Nigel Beale with Robert Rulan-Miller, an antiquarian book dealer who has been in the book dealing business for quite some time and has to offer some first-hand experience as well as some hints for the young collector.
Attending the inauguration was a fantastic experience, and me and my companion were among the fortunate few (or many, rather) who had no ticket and consequently didn’t have to put up with security, lines or purple tunnels of doom. The performance of John Williams “Air and a Simple Gifts” was beautiful, and witnessing the reaction of the crowd as various people walked onto the stage, and seeing and listening to them cheer and jubilate when Obama took the oath of office was wonderful, but the most moving moment for me was a passage from Obama’s inaugural address:
For we know that our patchwork heritage is a strength, not a weakness. We are a nation of Christians and Muslims, Jews and Hindus, and nonbelievers. We are shaped by every language and culture, drawn from every end of this Earth. And because we have tasted the bitter swill of civil war and segregation and emerged from that dark chapter stronger and more united, we cannot help but believe that the old hatreds shall someday pass; that the lines of tribe shall soon dissolve; that as the world grows smaller, our common humanity shall reveal itself; and that America must play its role in ushering in a new era of peace.
The speech may have been short on substantial solutions, but that was not what was called for: what we needed was a vision, a vision of a world based on an enlightened, humanist world view, and a sense of urgency that we must unite, pull ourselves together and get to work, as well as a promise that if we find the determination, we will also find the strength and the means to pave the way for a better future. It was the quintessential American speech, hammered down with unmatched rhetorical splendor to a crowd who was not only thirsting for a president capable of inspiring people with his words, but willing to begin a new chapter. Let’s hope the spirit of that speech will carry on to inspire the American people, their president and the global community.
Of course, the inauguration also provided a nice excuse to visit Washington’s monuments and museums and embark on a book-buying spree in the capital’s bookstore scene. Truth be told, after spending quite some time at bookstores, we managed to visit only one museum — the National Gallery of Art — which featured an astonishing range of paintings and sculptures of readers and books, as for instance Georges de la Tour’s repentant Magdalene:
For Washington book-browsing, we paid a visit to Second Story Books and Capitol Hill Books (highly recommended! On a Saturday, you get 10% off and free wine & cheese!) . At Capitol Hill, I got a manual of reading comprehension in exchange for replacing a light-bulb, and at Second Story I purchased a host of “books on books” , including a copy of This Book Collecting Game by A. Edward Norton and the ABC for Book-Collectors by John Carter.
I am still in two minds about book collecting. I have recently read Used and Rare: Travels in the Book World, which is an easy-to-read narrative introduction to book-collecting, quite informative on occasion, though at times frustratingly meandering, irrelevant and callow (not to say downright moronic), and I have read several of Nicholas Basbanes’s books on bibliophilia; I even own a couple of rare books myself, and yet I have never pursued book-collecting in earnest. What I would need is a topic for a collection that is specific enough to make the hunt worthwhile and exciting, and at the same time interesting enough to make the collection in some sense “practical”. I abstain from buying books merely for aesthetic or sentimental purposes, even though I am very fond of a book’s physical attributes and immensely enjoy reading about the history of book-making. In order for me to buy a book, there has to be some kind of thematic thread, an intellecual stimulus, an incentive above and beyond mere beauty or scarcity, and until I find a collection topic that satisfies these criteria, I shall contend myself with the hunt of cheap and decent reading copies.
Tomorrow I am going to see the Morgan Library’s exhibit Protecting the Word, which presents the collection’s most noteworthy bookbindings. To familiarize myself with the essential terminology of the bookbinding craft, I read up on the anatomy of the book and took a look at the British Library’s bookbinding brochure. Evidently, a binding’s main purpose is to protect the book’s text block, but since I do not intend to become a book binder any time soon, I skip the bit about sewing and glueing and dive straight into book decoration.
The Morgan exhibit has some magnificent medieval tomes on display, but frankly, medieval decorative binding deserves its own chapter. Suffice it to say that the medieval book was a treasure, and bound accordingly, as in this fine specimen from the Morgan, the Lindau Gospels from St. Gall in Switzerland from the late ninth century:
But bookbinding as a craft and art in its own right begins much later, namely in the 15th century, after the invention of the printing press. One of the “fathers” of modern decorative bookbinding was a Frenchman by the name of Jean Grolier. Grolier was not a bookbinder himself, but a book collector famous for commissioning the bindings that now carry his name. Grolier’s love for books as well as for sharing them with others have inspired book artists, collectors and readers for centuries. A prominent feature of Grolier bindings is the Latin inscription Io. Grolierii et Amicorvm — (property) of Jean Grolier and his friends. Grolier’s willingness to share his book with his friends is the stuff of legend, and the famous New York Grolier Club donned his name in honour of his friendships (he befriended, among others, book luminaries such as Erasmus and Aldus Manutius). Below is an example of a Grolier binding from the British library. You can see the inscription and the geometrical and arabesque patterns that are typical of a Grolier design.
Whoever wants to become well-versed in the art of the binding must be able to recognise names such as Padeloup, Cobden-Sanderson, or Zaehnsdorf — the names of master bookbinders, exquisite craftsmen and brilliant innovators who left an indelible stamp on their craft. Books fortunate enough to be clad in one of their bindings are keenly sought treasures these days.
The art of bookbinding knows a multitude of decorative styles and methods — mosaic, pointillé, romantic, neo classical, art nouveau, art deco — and a host of technical terms. The technique of gauffed edges, for instance, refers to imprinting indented patterns on the fore- and sige-edges of a book. An onlay produces a mosaic effect in leather by replacing strips of the original leather binding with leather of a different colour. And dentelle decorations consist “of a combination of elliptical scrolls of slightly shaded leafy character joined to clusters and horders of great richness”. Magnificent!
And that concludes my primer to bookbinding. More when I return from the Morgan. For readers interested to learn more on the subject, here a paraphernalia of online sources:
– Herb Weitz’s brief history of decorative bookbinding
– Roberts and Etherington’s dictionary of bookbinding terms (excellent)
– Comprehensive link list to book arts provided by the Canadian Bookbinders and Book Artists Guild
Continuing my series of gloomy and dystopian posts, today’s entry features Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451. Fahrenheit was an arresting read for me, not only because of the book theme, or Bradbury’s engaging prose, or the touching characterization of the protagonist, the “fireman” (i.e. book burner) Guy Montag, but also because I was expecting something quite different from a novel that up to now I had categorised as the third installment of the classic dystopian trilogy beginning with Huxley’s Brave New World and Orwell’s 1984.
Having recently watched a BBC adaptation of Huxley’s Brave New World, crammed with soma-induced pyjama wearing alphas to gammas, assembly lines for breeding, brainwashing jingles, hypno-cinemas, and all the other various gadgets, I was expecting Bradbury to do exactly the same, namely to spend a good deal of time elaborating on his dystopian society and create a world full of symbol-laden contraptions and quirky social routines burdened with moral dilemmas. Fahrenheit does that, too, but merely in passing, and uses it not as an end in itself, but as a backdrop for portraying the growing conflict facing the book’s main character, Guy Montag.
The central premise of Fahrenheit, as most of you will know, is that a future society has institutionalized the burning of books (451 degrees Fahrenheit is the temperature at which paper burns). Books have become forbidden objects, and although some renegade readers still hide them in their attics, living in constant fear of the fire department showing up at their doorstep, most citizens regard printed matter with fear, suspicion or unsavory ridicule. A handful of readers have gone into hiding in the forests at the outskirts of the city, and have taken it upon themselves to save the legacy of the great books by memorizing them before they are being obliterated — a “living memory” in every sense of the word:
We’re nothing more than dust-jackets for books, of no significance otherwise. Some of us live in small towns. Chapter One of Thoreau’s Walden in Green River, Chapter Two in Willow Farm, Maine. Why, there’s one town in Maryland, only twenty-seven people, no bomb’ll ever touch that town, is the complete essays of a man named Bertrand Russell. […] And when the war’s over, some day, some year, the books can be written again, and the people will be called in, one by one, to recall what they know and we’ll set it up in type until another Dark Age, when we might have to do the whole damned thing over again.
Bradbury’s decision to centre his dystopia around books must have come naturally to him. Born into a publisher family, he was also a bibliophile. I remember watching an Bradbury interview where he describes his first encounter with books, instantly becoming obsessed with their smell, and when you read Fahrenheit you will soon realise that his writing is very olfactory indeed. Of course it is not books as things that matter to the story, but their capacity to contain thoughts and ideas: books are the memory of humankind, and Bradbury captures the sense of memory loss of a bookless society poignantly in a childhood episode of the novel’s protagonist. While Montag is sitting in the subway, a stolen Bible clasped to his body, trying desperately to remember a line from the sermon of the mount, failing as the train speakers shout their ads at the passengers, he remembers the following scene:
Once as a child he had sat upon a yellow dune by the sea in the middle of the blue and hot summer day, trying to fill a sieve with sand, because some cruel cousin had said, “Fill this sieve and you’ll get a dime!” And the faster he poured, the faster it sifted through with a hot whispering. His hands were tired, the sand was boiling, the sieve was empty. Seated there in the midst of July, without a sound, he felt the tears move down his cheeks.
Bradbury’s dystopian world is filled with noise — soap operas, the roaring fighter jet, colour walls, dentistry commercials; and the noise makes it impossible for Montag to hang on even to a single line from what he is reading. In Bradbury’s future, the inability to hold on to what you have read, and the thoughts and ideas you encounter and perchance the new ideas you create, has eradicated people’s sense of being individuals, and at the same time made it impossible for them to engage meaningfully with the history of human thought, or even with their present surroundings and other human beings.
Fahrenheit was written in 1953. Ten years after publication, Bradbury described a scene he had just witnessed on the street, of a woman walking next to her husband:
The woman held in one hand a small cigarette-package sized radio, its antenna quivering. From this sprang tiny copper wires which ended in a dainty cone plugged into her right ear. There she was, oblivious to man and dog, listening to far winds and whispers and soap-opera-cries, sleep-walking, helped up and down kerbs by a husband who might just as well have not been there. This was not fiction.
I can only surmise what Bradbury has been thinking and feeling for the last couple of decades, but I imagine it must be a rather daunting and unsettling experience as a dystopian writer to witness your vision of the future manifesting itself in the present and realising you might have been all too right in your predictions. We might still keep a lot books around (more than ever, in fact) and most of us, hopefully, consider the burning of books a sacrilege; but as far as the memory of books is concerned, I for one am haunted by the fear of losing the ability to hold on to what I have read, and on a larger social scale this might be as dangerous as losing the books themselves.