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.
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