A finely made book is a pleasure to fondle … er, read. Think of the strong binding, solid hardcover, elegant font and layout, and, possibly, some lovely embossing. The pages smell new and freshly printed, or musty and mysterious with age. Ahhhh … bibliophilia!
Right away, let us preempt the purists, who protest that it’s what is written on the pages that counts, and that fancy publishing is an unnecessary frill. Well, yes, but a book can also be a bel objet. Samizdat will suffice, but a luxurious volume is gangbusters.
It’s true that, for some books, superior printing does little more than lengthen the shelf life of a work that, sooner or later, will expire. For these damned attempts, graceful typography is nothing but a vanity. But otherwise, fine printing and binding can ornament what is already a work of art, like a gilt frame on an oil painting.
These thoughts came to mind recently when I purchased a novel on the sole basis of its unique appearance. The cover, seen above, was bound with cloth, and conveys Adam and Eve on their way out of paradise. The inside cover was individually stamped: Copy N. 326 in the series “Masterpieces from Yesterday and Today.” And there was a built-in bookmark, a thin strip of white ribbon. I wouldn’t even think about turning down the pages in this book. Incidentally, the title was Mort, où est ta victoire? by Daniel Rops, a rather obscure French author and Catholic historian.
After an intriguing beginning, the pages dragged on. The writing, sometimes evocative, was more often inexpert, and my suspicions of Catholic dogma did little to encourage me. I did appreciate some passages:
« Notre vie est faite d’oublis. De longues années passent, ne laissant en
nous nulle trace, obscurcies de brume et d’ennui, et parfois quelques
instants, parmi tant d’autres, brillent en nous d’une éclatante lumière,
jalonnant mystérieusement le cours de nos destins. »
{Our life consists of forgetting. Long years go by, leaving no trace
whatsoever, obscured as if by mist or ennui, and sometimes a few
moments, among so many others, flash with a dazzling light,
mysteriously marking the course of our destiny.}
But these lovely words were an exception and, after 150 pages, I was getting impatient. When the built-in bookmark fell out, the spell was over. Rops’ volume will continue to adorn my bookshelf, however -- an intriguing visual addition if nothing else.
In contrast, the previous book I had read was so shoddily bound that it was no match for my (admittedly feverish) attentions. A thick Dostoevsky, it looks like it survived a dog attack. This was truly shoestring publishing, to an extent that almost offended me. The cover, flimsy as magazine subscription card, has been torn, creased, and warped in both directions and pages splay wildly every which way. The poor Idiot is battered on all sides. And yet I’ll remember Prince Myshkin long after … what’s-her-name from the Rops book.
Yes, yes, it’s what on the pages that counts, let us give the anti-aesthetes their due. But, really -- a built-in bookmark? That is a thing to be cherished.
Who could have ever predicted that it would go so badly? The past eight years of malfeasance, incompetence, and very bad faith have been... staggering. We have looked into the soul of politics and … shuddered! George W. Bush is our exemplar, our archetype of failure. Rue that Election Day in November 2000 when we did not elect him!
Is it even possible to choose one moment that is somehow representative of the past eight years? I’m still processing the newfound collective agreement that the Bush years were nothing short of disastrous. A few months ago, a friend e-mailed me a graph of Bush's approval rating with the subject line “I take it back, America.” Oh, we’ve reckoned with George W. Bush -- just a tad too late. And with some exceptions, as Hendrik Hertzberg notes in this week’s New Yorker:
A gangly Illinois politician [Abraham Lincoln] … once pointed out that you can fool some of the people all of the time. We now know how many “some” is: twenty-seven per cent. That’s the proportion of Americans who, according to CNN, cling to the belief that George W. Bush has done a good job.
Indeed, it is becoming clear that the second Bush presidency will be regarded as a stain on our history -- not just a low point, but a stain, a period when we renounced our principles and revealed our baser selves as a nation. The greedy grasping for the executive, the boldfaced lies, an unnecessary and cruel war -- bad intentions inexpertly carried out. There is enough shame for us in this administration in the two words, Abu Ghraib.
In a week, George W. Bush will be out of the White House, gone but not forgotten. He will live on in ignominy, a perverse idol in our American mythology. Not a great man, he has become great in our imaginations -- a looming symbol, out of proportion with reality. For this reason, the Bush years are a hurt that won’t go away.
... In other words, I agree with the baby.
-- Sarah Dalglish
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