In his work, Detached Thoughts
on Books and Reading, Charles Lamb
discusses his personal preference for certain books over others, offering
several criteria upon which books can be judged as good, bad, or even unworthy
of being considered a book at all. While he claims, “I can read almost any
thing,” it seems that the value judgment he is placing on some books over
others is based as much on the physical characteristics of a book as on the
content, the actual words. Lamb conjectures that “to be strong-backed and
neat-bound is the desideratum of a volume,” which is to say, a book not only
should, but must be judged by its cover. What appears to be for the very same
reason, he admits, “it moves my spleen to see these things in books' clothing
perched upon shelves, like false saints, usurpers of true shrines, intruders
into the sanctuary, thrusting out the legitimate occupants.” There is, indeed,
some validity to the notion that some crap is simply not literature, despite
how hard it attempts to feign literary worth, or how widely accepted it is by
public audiences. This qualification of written works as literature or
something else is, and has been an ever-present struggle. As far as I can tell
though, such distinctions were almost exclusively drawn according to the
supposed “literary worth” embodied within the pages of a work. Lamb, on the
other hand, seems to be concerned more that “no casket is rich enough, no
casing sufficiently durable, to honour and keep safe such a jewel.” Exactly how
is it that Lamb comes to consider a piece of writing to be a “jewel” worthy of
such ornamental “casing?”
We will not likely have a clear and
certain answer to the question of why written works are sorted into categories
of high art and low art, or no art at all. What is perhaps more interesting
though, as well as being more readily discernable, is what draws people to read
the book they choose. For Lamb, we might conclude that his proclivity for
fancifully adorned books has a direct correlation with those he chose to read.
It should be noted, however, that he also mentions in his disjointed musings on
the matter that “the thousand thumbs, that have turned over their pages with
delight” are perhaps another intriguing element that might very well draw a
reader towards a particular book. There is something to be said for the sheer
history of a book (of a certain age) that gives the reader some sense of
historical context, beyond that offered by the words that lay within. Such
considerations cause Lamb to proffer the inquiries, “Who would have them a whit
less soiled? What better condition could we desire to see them in?” And though
it is something he simply could not have foreseen, there are many today that
might argue that the crispness and ease of use that come with an electronic
edition of a book (on a kindle, nook, or iPad) are, indeed, the “better
condition” of any corresponding version in tangible form. While I happen to appreciate
a book not only for its content, but also for “the sullied leaves, and worn out
appearance, nay, the very odour,” I, too, find the case for such practical
electronic devices to be a compelling one. The lingering question, which only
time can answer for us, is what the “book” will look like in our children’s
lifetimes, and those of our children’s children’s.
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