I remember having a discussion at a writers workshop about 30 years ago, when I suggested that if all you did was respond with aphorisms you were less a person than the sewn together bits of other people. I was insufferable back then. Anyway, I thought of that because in this poem there’s a bibliophile who, in mythic terms, is gradually being replaced by the accidents of his books. He’s effectively changing himself from a human into, in Ars Magica terms, a Magic Thing. I’ve suggest its more like a magic thing than a magic human because he has not had a single traumatic initiation, like a drowned man or a loamwalker.
It’s full of puns based on the book trade. I’ll quickly go through them.
Ragged is another term for what’s now usually called deckled edges. In older times deckled edges, a sort of pleasant unevenness when you look at the stacked pages while the book is closed, were a sign that a book was handmade, or at least hand cut. Now books can be cut deckled and its just an aesthetic choice.
I assume “Foley” is a play on “folio” which was the a popular, large, pre-metric paper size for prestige books. Its also a way of printing and folding the pages. In the modern day, foolscap folios, at 13.5 inches) are a slightly smaller than crown folios (15 inches) which are still larger than A4 folio. Even these these are bigger than most people want and two of the paperback formats have taken it over as the common format, but not the prestige format. By way of comparison standard paperback is up to 8.5 inches tall and mass market paperback is up to 7. So, folio books were chunky.
Fences sell stolen books. Hedge publishers are those selling outside the licensed system of guilds. Many are itinerant.
Books used to be made by printing sheets then folding them to make pages. These were gathered and bound. The pages needed to be cut so that ever second page was readable. I once found an uncut book in my university library that had been on shelf for decades, and therefore had never been read. I didn’t cut it myself: it might still be there.
Rusty, I presume, is a colloquial for what we now call foxing. Foxing is age spotting that appears in books. Here in Australia it’s accelerated by our harsh light. Vellum books can also be rusty because they literally have iron oxide in them. If you make your ink gall ink incorrectly it can turn a rusty, red-brown colour.
The colophon, a name which means “finishing touch”, refers to the publishing information on the verso of the book. It usually contains the publisher’s name, city, mark, and some details about the font. In the modern day it may just mean the imprint’s trademark, like Penguin Book’s little mascot. His name’s Alan, by the way.
Crushed leather is a premium binding, so it’s not well used here. It is goatskin that’s been literally crushed so that its grain snooths out.
n.d. stands for “no date”, so the age of the book is unclear.
Friday is considered an ill-omened day, in some Christian areas because it’s the day Jesus died. Sailors avoid beginning a voyage on Friday, for example.
Marbling is a decorative technique used on the edges of books and their endpapers. It looks like veins in marble. A book with a marbled cover is one that’s been bound in decorated card rather than leather, so marbling on pages is a sign of extra cost, but on covers can be a cheaper form. Some of my modern books use marbled cloth but I’m not sure how common that was when the author was writing.
***
I’ve spent all my money in chasing
For books that are costly and rare;
I’ve made myself bankrupt in tracing
Each prize to its ultimate lair.
And now I’m a ruined collector,
Impoverished, ragged, and thin,
Reduced to a vanishing spectre,
Because of my prodigal sin.
How often I’ve called upon Foley,
The man who’s a friend of the cranks;
Knows books that are witty or holy,
And whether they’re prizes or blanks.
For volumes on paper or vellum
He has a most accurate eye,
And always is willing to sell ’em
To dreamers like me who will buy.
My purse requires fences and hedges,
Alas! it will never stay shut;
My coat-sleeves now have deckle edges,
My hair is unkempt and “uncut.”
My coat is a true first edition,
And rusty from shoulder to waist;
My trousers are out of condition,
Their “colophon” worn and defaced.
My shoes have been long out of fashion,
“Crushed leather” they both seem to be;
My hat is a thing for compassion,
The kind that is labelled “n. d.”
My vest from its binding is broken,
It’s what the French call a relique;
What I think of it cannot be spoken,
Its catalogue mark is “unique.”
I’m a book that is thumbed and untidy,
The only one left of the set;
I’m sure I was issued on Friday,
For fate is unkind to me yet.
My text has been cruelly garbled
By a destiny harder than flint;
But I wait for my grave to be “marbled,”
And then I shall be out of print.
Games From Folktales 