Books are not absolutely dead things, but do contain a potency of life in them to be as active as that soul was whose progeny they are; nay, they do preserve as in a vial the purest efficacy and extraction of that intellect that bred them.
– John Milton, Areopagitica
Milton's not completely correct, particularly that bit about books' ability to preserve their author's intellect with the 'purest efficacy'. A carefully made book can indeed preserve something close to its author's soul or his life's potency, but, even in ideal cases, errors creep in. Perhaps the index is incorrect, the paper is insultingly cheap and increasingly brittle with age, the dust jacket is ugly (or missing entirely, if you buy it used), and the printing is poor, misaligned, in a font difficult to read. Alternatively, an extraordinarily well-made book could dress up appalling or banal content. Surely the text, if largely correct, retains the fruit of the author's intellect, and the author's ideas can overcome the mediation (and mediators) of the material book (although often assistance from textual editors is required–more mediation!) However, books usually frame how we approach that intellect, and that framing may or may not mesh with the author's goals. When I read a book, I want to read the vial as well as the author's soul.
My first book – essentially the impetus for me finally setting up a website (hello, world) – is largely concerned with a particular vial, the folio format, and attempts to outline some of the ways authors and publishers used and understood this vial. It's imperfect, but there is some potency of life in it. I'll use this space to muse a bit about books, media, the relationship between the material and the intellectual, between, to evoke Philip Sidney (and shamefully promote one of my articles), the idea and the written word.
– John Milton, Areopagitica
Milton's not completely correct, particularly that bit about books' ability to preserve their author's intellect with the 'purest efficacy'. A carefully made book can indeed preserve something close to its author's soul or his life's potency, but, even in ideal cases, errors creep in. Perhaps the index is incorrect, the paper is insultingly cheap and increasingly brittle with age, the dust jacket is ugly (or missing entirely, if you buy it used), and the printing is poor, misaligned, in a font difficult to read. Alternatively, an extraordinarily well-made book could dress up appalling or banal content. Surely the text, if largely correct, retains the fruit of the author's intellect, and the author's ideas can overcome the mediation (and mediators) of the material book (although often assistance from textual editors is required–more mediation!) However, books usually frame how we approach that intellect, and that framing may or may not mesh with the author's goals. When I read a book, I want to read the vial as well as the author's soul.
My first book – essentially the impetus for me finally setting up a website (hello, world) – is largely concerned with a particular vial, the folio format, and attempts to outline some of the ways authors and publishers used and understood this vial. It's imperfect, but there is some potency of life in it. I'll use this space to muse a bit about books, media, the relationship between the material and the intellectual, between, to evoke Philip Sidney (and shamefully promote one of my articles), the idea and the written word.
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