The search on-line revealed the title wanted; copy, after copy, after copy. The book must have been out of print, because the listings were mainly the same, itemised as one of the 'new' publications printed 'on demand.' These publications have been avoided in the past: the reprints have been seen in libraries as duplicates of the unavailable, rarer books; now the ‘replicas’ seem more common. These reproductions have a surreal sense about them, with their old texts published as a new facsimile, on slick paper, such that the publication holds a touch of something 'fake’ - which, of course, it is. It is this sense of pretence without any total commitment beyond making a copy, that lingers as the strongest feeling. The publication is indeed a copy made by clever, instant technology that is used for just about anything these days. One report told that there were over 100 chips in the average car these days. It is this chilly, functional necessity that shines out. There is no sense of intimacy in these texts, nothing personal; just the cold, crisp distance that the excellence of computer printouts have, holding a universal isolation that makes everything appear posh, 'in print,' when it could be just trash or treasure: there is no subtle, qualitative discrimination that might relate to the text. This is the same bland technology that degrades handwriting, turning it into careless, unintelligible, scribble with its expectation of easy, instant, press-button perfection. Now, in these reprints, the digital ambitions belittle the imperfections in the character of the old text that the glossy excellence highlights, regardless of the message.
In spite of this, it was decided to purchase an 'on demand' copy; it was the cheaper option. I knew that the main piece of text in the book was available on-line, so the book was almost a luxury. Two other related books were ordered at the same time; both of these were first editions. The 'new' book was seen as something of an apology for this indulgence. The ‘on demand’ publication was ordered: one would at least have the text one wanted, bound compactly for easy reference rather than remaining the loose set of A4 sheets straight from the home printer; and there were other writings with this text too.
The book arrived; it had been popped directly into a bubble-wrap bag, sealed and posted. One noticed the difference with the mailing of the other books. Both the older publications had been nicely wrapped, and then carefully packaged and addressed by a thoughtful hand. This standard postal envelope came with a computer-printed address label pasted on. The observation was a mere aside, as all books arrived in good condition: however there was a qualitative difference that was recognised – a different caring. One thought of the Japanese concept that saw the wrapping as important as the contents. There was something of this ethic made obvious here.
The 'new' book was cut from the snug fit of the protective plastic bag. It slid out neatly, crisp and glossy. It felt good: the book was opened. There was a strange nothingness in the bland emptiness of the front pages; there was no sense of welcome for the reader, none of the usual introductory blurb or formal information identifying a date, a publisher, a place, and the library details, etc. - just blank pages that opened up to the strange duality of old text and format positioned on new, glossy paper in fresh ink. Is it the way that the ink is applied to the paper that highlights the difference? Ink jets leave the paper untouched, without even the slightest depression to spoil the shiny perfection of the sheen. Traditional printing leaves slight depressions, imprints in the pages that can be seen to have been touched.
The sense of fake returned: why do these facsimiles never seem to ring true? They lack depth. There seemed to be no obvious reason why a new copy of an old book could not hold a sense of substance, meaning. The book was flicked through to the end: things did not improve. The publication concluded with a surplus of blank pages that seemed to suggest something had been overlooked, or that this empty addition was an effort to bulk up the appearance. There were no details printed here either; nothing of the publisher, dates, place, etc. Sometimes, if not in the front, such information is located at the rear of a publication; but there was only the emptiness of the excessive void at the back of this book.
One got the sense that this production had not been loved, that the original book had been scanned, placed as a file on a computer, printed on demand with the press of a button, bound along with all the other publications being pushed out, and sent off. The block of text on the page seemed to be a bit lost with the wide, white borders. Did these 'new' old books get printed on standard sized pages irrespective of the proportions of the original; is one size made to fit all? The book had a hollow feel about it - an abandoned, barren whiteness.
As one flicked through the pages again, the repetitive pattern of the blocks of print was suddenly broken. What was this? Turning the pages more slowly revealed the problem. There was a block of smudged and missed print on page 79. It seemed that no one had even bothered to check the publication, that a button had been pressed, and the book had been run off automatically, unseen by eyes, and mailed off. Might one live with this miss?
The sales source was contacted: no, the book could not be replaced - a discount was offered; if this was not acceptable, the book could be returned. Well, what kind of place was this? Surely a print on demand book could be run off again and replaced instantly? One might have even accepted the old addenda solution of an inserted note if page 79 could be printed off again; but no, nothing like this was possible: so the book was returned for a refund.
It was when re-addressing the envelope, it was noticed that the original label that was addressed to me had been pasted over another label addressed to the sales outlet. Might this retailer not be a bookshop; maybe a bookhacker? The return address was a 'Unit' in an industrial estate. Was this why the book was almost carelessly packed? Was the book seen just as a quick way to make a buck, by the printer and the retailer who seems never to have opened the publication or the envelope containing it?
But the book was wanted, so it was searched again. All 'new' copies were ignored. One first edition was found and ordered. Days later it arrived, in a neat plastic wrapper. On opening the parcel, one found the book securely packaged in abundant cardboard. It had come from a rare book bookshop in an old university town. The difference between this and the 'on demand' book was immediate.
This original 1947 copy was small, with a greyed, cloth-finished hard cover. The large voids around the 'new' text were explained by the size of this original publication; it was nothing like an A5 size. At first it looked as though some pages of this older book were loose, falling out, as dog-eared paper could be seen projecting out at various places on the open edge of the small publication. Oh well, it was better than missing text. A closer look revealed these pieces of torn paper were actually the parts of the original dust jacket that had been strategically placed to mark the pages of interest as bookmarks. The torn dust jacket that once concealed a pale blue cloth with a red bar on the spine defining the gold-lettered title, had not been discarded when it was worn, but had been kept and reused, been repurposed as markers, keeping the memory of the beginning, the first sight of the book, alive: the colour - beige with burgundy print; the blurb - 'The ideas expressed in this book by Coomaraswamy are expressed with the authority of a life-time of scholarship. . . . His pen is an instrument of precision and his closely and tightly woven texture of thought is the very model of explicit denotation'; the price 8/6d net - a surprising figure for the time; and the list of other books on similar subjects printed by the publisher - The Focus Series 1 - 8 edited by B. Rajan; and Life And Death of the Christian West by Albert Gleizes. The book had been an old friend.
The turning of the worn, greyed, hard cloth cover revealed the front illustration by Eric Gill: Progress, a rudderless boat engraved in an equilateral triangle pointing down, as if to indicate sinking. On further page turning, it was soon noticed that various parts of the text had been carefully underlined in soft pencil, sometimes with double lines for emphasis, with additional significance being indicated by the letters 'N.B' in the margin. This book had been well read, appreciated, and much loved. The contrast with the 'in your face', arrogantly anonymous gloss of the slick, 'on demand' facsimile, was remarkable. The age, the markings, and the retention of the dust jacket pieces as bookmarks, all hummed with a vibrantly rich, loved quality; a book that had been enjoyed and lived: the print, the paper, the production, the smell, wear and tear told the story; the use, care, interest, and respect could all be admired, sensed, shared, and enjoyed. The book had a resonate intrigue rooted in its feel and texture – in its substance.
It was decided: never again would an 'on-demand' book be ordered - never. There was so much more in the original first edition: there was ownership, dates, place, printer, publisher, density, details that underlined authenticity and gave the book value beyond dollars. Here was quality and relevance, a seriousness and commitment that matched the subject - The Bugbear of Literacy, by A. Coomaraswamy. It is a beautiful little book - enriching both as item and text. It is a book that one needs to carry around in one's pocket, like Tagore's Gitanjali, as noted by Yeats in his introduction - a book he would not read in public because it could move him to tears.
One wondered how our expectation of easy, instant perfection in everything is changing us. It seems to be a lazy, careless ideal, achievable as an effortless matter of course. One only has to see the errors in expression, grammar, and punctuation in these idealised texts to sense that there is a problem that today’s brazen arrogance will never remedy. The disregard is clear, and is obvious in our architecture too, with its concentration on bespoke, individual appearance that seems as random as car design that feels as remote and indifferent as an on-demand text.
