There is an implicit code that customers rely on. If a book cover has raised lettering, metallic lettering, or raised metallic lettering, then it is telling the reader: Hello. I am an easy-to-read work on espionage, romance, a celebrity and/or murder. To readers who do not care for such things, this lettering tells them: Hello. I am Crap. Such books can use only glossy paper for the jacket; Serious Books can use glossy finish as well, but it is only Serious Books that are allowed to use matte finish.

Diminutively sized paperbacks, like serial romances or westerns or dieting and astrology guides, are aimed at the uneducated. But diminutively sized hardcover books are aimed at the educated—excepting those that are very diminutive, which are religious books aimed at the uneducated—and unless they are in a highly rectangular format, in which case they are point-of-purchase books aimed at the somewhat-but-not entirely educated. However, vertically rectangular diminutive softcover books, which tend to be pocket travel guides, are aimed at the educated. But horizontally rectangular diminutive softcover books—a genre pioneered by Garfield Gains Weight—are not.

Then there are the colours. Bright colours, and shiny colours, are necessary for the aforementioned books with raised lettering. Black will work too, but only if used to set off the bright and shiny colours. Because, remember, with the customer base in mind, the book will need to be a bright and shiny object. Conversely, a work of Serious Literature will have muted, tea-stained colours. Black is okay here too, but only if used to accentuate cool blues and greys and greens.

Woe and alas to any who transgress these laws. A number of reviewers railed against The Bridges of Madison County, because it used the diminutive hardcover size and muted colour scheme of, say, an Annie Dillard book—thus cruelly tricking readers of Serious Literature into buying crap. Not to be outdone, the Harvard University Press issued Walter Benjamin’s opus The Arcades Project with gigantic raised metallic lettering. One can only imagine the disgust of blowhard fiftysomethings in bomber jackets as they slowly realised that the Project they were reading about was a cultural analysis of 19th century Parisian bourgeoisie—and not, say, a tale involving renegade Russian scientists and a mad general aboard a nuclear submarine.

Finally, on Serious Books and Crap alike there will be a head-shot photo of The Author sitting while looking pensive or smiling faintly into the indeterminate distance—the one pose that has no existence in the author’s actual daily life. The size of this photo will be in inverse proportion to the quality of the book. If the photo is rendered in colour, it is not a Serious Book. If there is no author photo at all, then it is a Serious Book indeed—perhaps even a textbook.

If a colour photo of the author occupies the entire front cover, the book is unequivocal Crap.

(swiped without permission from Paul Collins’ excellent Sixpence House )

SELF-TEST FOR LITERATURE ABUSERS

How many of these apply to you?
1. I have read fiction when I was depressed, or to cheer myself up.
2. I have gone on reading binges of an entire book or more in a day.
3. I read rapidly, often ‘gulping’ chapters.
4. I have sometimes read early in the morning or before work.
5. I have hidden books in different places to sneak a chapter without being seen.
6. Sometimes I avoid friends or family obligations in order to read novels.
7. Sometimes I re-write film or television dialog as the characters speak.
8. I am unable to enjoy myself with others unless there is a book nearby.
9. At a party, I will often slip off unnoticed to read.
10. Reading has made me seek haunts and companions, which I would otherwise avoid.
11. I have neglected personal hygiene or household chores until I have finished a novel.
12. I have spent money meant for necessities on books instead.
13. I have attempted to check out more library books than permitted.
14. Most of my friends are heavy fiction readers.
15. I have sometimes passed out from a night of heavy reading.
16. I have suffered ‘blackouts’ or memory loss from a bout of reading.
17. I have wept, become angry or irrational because of something I read.
18. I have sometimes wished I did not read so much.
19. Sometimes I think my reading is out of control.

If you answered ‘yes’ to three or more of these questions, you may be a literature abuser. An affirmative response to five or more indicates a serious problem.

Once a relatively rare disorder, Literature Abuse, or LA, has risen to new levels due to the accessibility of higher education and increased college enrollment since the end of the Second World War. The number of literature abusers is currently at record levels.

Social Costs of Literary Abuse
*Abusers become withdrawn, uninterested in society or normal relationships.
*They fantasize, creating alternative worlds to occupy, to the neglect of friends and family.
*In severe cases they develop bad posture from reading in awkward positions, or carrying heavy book bags.
*In the worst instances, they become cranky reference librarians in small towns.
*Excessive reading during pregnancy is perhaps the number one cause of moral deformity among the children of English professors, teachers of English and creative writing. Known as Fetal Fiction Syndrome, this disease also leaves its victims prone to a lifetime of nearsightedness, daydreaming and emotional instability.

Heredity
Recent Harvard studies have established that heredity plays a considerable role in determining whether a person will become an abuser of literature.
Most abusers have at least one parent who abused literature, often beginning at an early age and progressing into adulthood.
Many spouses of an abuser become abusers themselves.
Other Predisposing Factors
Fathers or mothers who are English teachers, professors, or heavy fiction readers.
Parents who do not encourage children to play games, participate in healthy sports, or watch television in the evening.

Prevention
Pre-marital screening and counseling, referral to adoption agencies in order to break the chain of abuse. English teachers in particular should seek partners active in other fields.
Children should be encouraged to seek physical activity and to avoid isolation and morbid introspection.

DECLINE AND FALL: THE ENGLISH MAJOR

Within the sordid world of literature abuse, the lowest circle belongs to those sufferers who have thrown their lives and hopes away to study literature in our colleges.
Parents should look for signs that their children are taking the wrong path-don’t expect your teenager to approach you and say, “I can’t stop reading Spenser.”
By the time you visit her dorm room and find the secret stash of the Paris Review, it may already be too late.

What to do if you suspect your child is becoming an English major:
1. Talk to your child in a loving way. Show your concern. Let her know you won’t abandon her—but that you aren’t spending a hundred grand to put her through Stanford so she can clerk at Waldenbooks, either. But remember that she may not be able to make a decision without help; perhaps she has just finished Madame Bovary and is dying of arsenic poisoning.
2. Face the issue: Tell her what you know, and how: “I found this book in your purse. How long has this been going on?” Ask the hard question-Who is this Count Vronsky?
3. Show her another way. Move the television set into her room. Introduce her to frat boys.
4. Do what you have to do. Tear up her library card. Make her stop signing her letters as ‘Emma.’ Force her to take a math class, or minor in Spanish.
5. Transfer her to a Florida college.

You may be dealing with a life-threatening problem if one or more of the following applies:
* *She can tell you how and when Thomas Chatterton died.
* *She names one or more of her cats after a Romantic poet.
* *Next to her bed is a picture of: Lord Byron, Virginia Woolf, Faulkner or any scene from the Lake District.

Most importantly, remember, you are not alone. To seek help for yourself or someone you love, contact the nearest chapter of the American Literature Abuse Society, or look under ALAS in your telephone directory.

You Know You’re A Bookaholic When. . .

1. You’ve figured out a way to read books in the shower without getting your book wet.
2. Looking at your 1000+ books in your TBR pile and thinking, “I have nothing to read!”
3. You haunt the bookstores waiting for that new release, and the clerks ask you if you’d like to set up a tent.
4. You pack all your books for a trip but forget your underwear.
5. You’re packing for a romantic weekend away with significant other and you give more thought to which books to take than to which nightgown is your sexiest.
6. The library borrows books from you.
7. Before you buy a purse you make sure a paperback will fit inside.
8. You have a purse that fits one hardback, two paperbacks, and a reserve book (just in case something happens to the other three).
9. You become murderous when you discover a friend lost a book you loaned her.
10. You put Hershey’s Chocolate syrup on your sandwich instead of mustard because you’re engrossed in a book.
11. You had your books organized via Dewey Decimal System when you were in grade school.
12. You put vanilla in the spaghetti sauce because you’re reading at the stove.
13. Your twin sons’ names are Rhett and Ashley.
14. Your significant other mutters about life in prison not being much of a deterrent to you since you’d be quite content sitting in your cell reading all day.
15. You look forward to jury duty because you’ll have all that waiting time to read.
16. You call in sick so you can finish reading a book.
17. You can’t pass a bookstore without stopping.
18. You volunteer to go grocery shopping because there’s a bookstore next door.
19. When visiting a strange town the first thing you do is check the yellow pages for the location of the bookstores.
20. When you move you have more boxes labelled “books” than anything else.
21. The first thing anyone says when they enter your house is “have you actually read all those books?”
22. You plan a day of shopping around all the bookstores you want to visit.
23. You travel 100 miles to get good books.
24. You have to constantly invest in new bookshelves.
25. You have a path because all the books are everywhere.
26. Your kids holler from the other room with something they consider a dire emergency, and you say, “Wait until I finish this page.”
27. You have no idea what’s on television anymore (except for Highlander) because the boob tube has become just another piece of furniture.
28. You tend to buy frozen, microwavable foods that practically cook themselves so that you don’t lose any precious reading time for such an unimportant thing as feeding your family.
29. You valiantly try to teach your kids “independence,” which means you want them to do more household chores (so you can have more reading time).
30. Your car is broke down, and it doesn’t really matter because your favourite bookstore is right across the street.
31. You’re sitting in the bathroom at 1:30 a.m., crying over the ending of your current read, when you know you have to be up at six to drive 150 miles and spend the day on your feet before driving back.
32. You read at red lights and get honked at because you were so engrossed that you didn’t notice the light had turned green.
33. It’s 2am and you think “just another chapter” and do the same thing at 3am when you know you have to get up in 4 hours and work.
34. You deliberately get to the bus/train station early, or even worse, just miss the bus/train so that you have more reading time.
35. You start to take several baths during the day because you read in the tub and your kids know this is “private time”.
36. Your significant other runs into the room to make sure you’re all right because she heard you wailing so hard over a sad read he thought you were dying.
37. You try reading and walking at the same time.
38. You don’t really mind if you get stranded anywhere as long as you have enough books while you’re there.
39. You start haunting your post box when you’re waiting for a new book to arrive and can’t do anything useful until the mail has arrived.
40. You start fabricating excuses as to why you can’t go out with your friends when you’re in the middle of a great book.
41. You dash out and sit in the park and read during your lunch hour (or sneak in a few chapters at your desk).
42. You start thinking of the characters as real people.
43. You can always find some money to buy another book even if you can’t afford to buy anything else. When you get desperate you raid the local library.
44. You leave the country in order to find more books to buy.
45. Your eyesight goes from 20-20 to legally blind because of reading in poor light.
46. You miss your stop on the train because you have to finish your current read.
47. You have to be paged at the local bookstore because your significant other has lost track of you.
48. You get a friend or relative hooked on romance so you’ll have another place to get books, but unfortunately it doesn’t work quite right and they start borrowing from you.
49. You start up conversations with people in the bookstore who just look like they’re dying to read a good romance but are having a hard time finding one.
50. You keep a spare book or two in your desk at work, just in case you forget yours at home.
51. You panic when you only see ten new books out on the shelves at your local bookstore when you know it should be at least twenty.
52. Scouring the papers for any library book sales or garage sales with ‘books’ in the text.
53. As I’m sitting here, laughing, reading and realizing that you all are talking about me behind my back. . . tee hee heee heeee. . . .
54. And thinking. . . looking forward to payday so I can put buying books into my budget and pushing a bill back just a couple of days.
55. You try to sneak in a paragraph every time your web browser loads a new page.
56. You name your children from characters you’ve read in books.

As previously mentioned here, I’ve been reading The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbary. It’s from the fantastic Europa Editions , which consistently publishes little known (in the States) authors as well as uses the French flap binding that I’m in love with. Quality books in quality bindings-be still my heart.

But on to the review.

This book was written for thinkers, readers, writers, and anyone else who loves words and ideas and perhaps feels out-of-place in the world. As an avid reader, writer, and thinker, at times it seemed as though the book were written expressly for me. I can’t count the number of times I thought, “Yes, that’s exactly what it’s like!” in reference to a number of astute observations by our two protagonists-a young girl and a middle aged woman who have more in common than they know at the start.

A writer once observed, “The difference between real life and fiction is that fiction has to make sense.” Well, Muriel Barbery takes something that happens in real life but that typically comes off as contrived in fiction-the instant knowing a stranger is one with you-and gives it the certainty, without woowooness, of reality.

The ending is problematic for many people, and I can see why, but, as a writer, I can also see why Barbery chose to go the way she went. We can’t know if she chose to go that way because of practical reasons or for thematic reasons, but I chose to believe that her message was that once one reaches happiness-that is all one needs. That is the most perfect moment in one’s life.

Being that the entire book is about finding perfect moments, I can think of no better message to convey.

This week’s short story is a bibliophile’s dream. It’s about a man who lives in terror of being caught out without a book on one of his travels. I know the feeling-it’s the main reason I’ve been making a digital library. I already have over 6,000 books in my netbook. What’s a bigger thrill for the serious reader than having an entire library in something the size of a hardback?

Let us admit that reading with us is just a drug that we cannot do without-who of this band does not know the restlessness that attacks him when he has been severeed fcrom reading too long, the apprehension and irritability, and the sigh of relief which the sight of a printed page extracts from him?-and so let us be no more vainglorious than the poor slaves of the hypodermic needle or the pint-pot.

And like the dope-fiend who cannot move from place to place without taking with him a plentiful suply of his dealy balm I never venture far without a sifficiency of reading matter. Books are so necessary to me that when in a railway train I hae become aware that fellow-travellers have come away without a single one I have been seized with a veritable dismay. But when I am starting on a long journey the problem is formidable. I have learnt my lesson. Once, imprisoned bu illness for three months in a hill-town in Java, I came to the end of all the books I had brought with me. …
Since then I have made a point of travelling with the largest sack made for carrying soiled linen and filling it to the brim with books to suit every possible occasion and every mood. It weighs a ton and strong porters reel under its weight. Customhouse officials look at it askance, but recoil from it with consternation when I give them my word that it contains nothing but books. Its inconvenience is that the particular work I suddenly hanker to read is always at the bottom and it is impossible for me to get it without emptying the book-bag’s entire contents upon the floor.

I pointed to the book-bag. It stood upright, bulging oddly, so that it looked like a humpbacked gnome somewhat the worse for liquor.

I knew from long experience how to unpack it. I threw it over on its side, seized its leather bottom and, walking backwards, dragged the sack away from its contents. A river of books poured on to the floor.

There were books of all kinds. Volumes of verse, novels, philosophical works, critical studies (they say books about books are profitless, but they certainly make very pleasant reading), biographies, history; there were books to read when you were ill ad books to read when your brain, all aleart, craved for something to grapply with, there were books that you had alwas wanted to read, but in the hurry of life at home had never found time to, there were books to read at sea when you were meandering through narrow waters ib a tramp steamer, and there were books for bad weather when your whole cabin creaked and you had to wedge yourself in your bunk in order not to fall out; there were books chosen solely for their length, which you took with you when on some expedition you had to travel light, and there were books you could read when you could read nothing else.

And one for the solitary types out there:

She seldom left the estate. She had plenty to do. She read a lot. She was never bored. She seemed quite happy in her own company, and when she had visitors it was only from a sense of duty. She didn’t want them to think her ungracious. But it was an effort and she told me she heaved a sigh of relief when she saw the last of them and could again enjoy without disturbance the peaceful loneliness of the bungalow. She was a very curious girl.

My current for fun reading is Muriel Barbery’s The Elegance of the Hedgehog , which would appear has been written especially for me. I haven’t connected so deeply with a book since William Nicholson’s The Society of Others , a wondrous allegory for life’s journey to find meaning.

Then I came across this:

I have read so many books.
And yet, like most autodidacts, I am never quite sure of what I have gained from them.There are days when I feel I have been able to grasp all there is to know in one single gaze, as if invisible branches suddenly spring out of nowhere, weaving together all the disparate strands of my reading-and then suddenly the meaning escapes, the essence evaporates, and no matter how often I reread the same lines, they seem to flee ever further with each subsequent reading, and I see myself as some mad old fool who thinks her stomach is full because she’s been attentively reading the menu. Apparently this combination of ability and blindness is a symptom exclusive to the autodidact. Deprived of the steady guiding hand that any good education provides, the autodidact possesses nonethless the gift of freedom and conciseness of thought, where official discourse would put up barriers and prohibit adventure.

Yup. Written just for me.

Robert Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy is one of the best books I’ve read. Every page has quote-worthy material. And it’s not all about melancholy-it’s about everything, all at once. I know it’s too literary for some, but I would like everyone to give it a shot.

Anyway, here is a sampling of lines that most spoke to me and I think would speak to other autodidacts and bibliophiles.

I am not poor, I am not rich; _nihil est, nihil deest_, I have little, I want nothing: all my treasure is in Minerva’s tower. [Minerva was the Roman goddess of wisdom so her tower would be of the ivory sort.]

it is a kind of policy in these days, to prefix a fantastical title to a book which is to be sold; for, as larks come down to a day-net, many vain readers will tarry and stand gazing like silly passengers at an antic picture in a painter’s shop, that will not look at a judicious piece.

I have lived a silent, sedentary, solitary, private life, _mihi et musis_ [for myself and my studies]

I had a great desire (not able to attain to a superficial skill in any) to have some smattering in all, to be _aliquis in omnibus, nullus in singulis_, [a somebody in general knowledge, a nobody in any one subject] which Plato commends, out of him Lipsius approves and furthers, “as fit to be imprinted in all curious wits, not to be a slave of one science, or dwell altogether in one subject, as most do, but to rove abroad, _centum puer artium_, [one who can turn his hand to anything] to have an oar in every man’s boat, to taste of every dish, and sip of every cup,” which, saith Montaigne, was well performed by Aristotle, and his learned countryman Adrian Turnebus. This roving humour (though not with like success) I have ever had, and like a ranging spaniel, that barks at every bird he sees, leaving his game, I have followed all, saving that which I should, and may justly complain, and truly, _qui ubique est, nusquam est_, [he who is everywhere is nowhere] which Gesner did in modesty, that I have read many books, but to little purpose, for want of good method; I have confusedly tumbled over divers authors in our libraries, with small profit, for want of art, order, memory, judgment. I never travelled but in map or card, in which mine unconfined thoughts have freely expatiated, as having ever been especially delighted with the study of Cosmography.

[from the Introduction by William Gass]

Of all the habits that were hard to break, being bookish was perhaps the most difficult. Now, in addition to the scriptures, there would be all the classical authors you had the opportunity to cite-the honour of the first quote in Burton’s address to the reader goes to Seneca-thereby showing generosity in the ‘loan’ of the resources of your library and by your readiness to ‘spread the word,’ just as you also took good care to gather books and manuscripts, diligently copying passages from the cvolumes which her to pass through, rather than remain in, your hands. Guided by a genius, the pages of a commonplace book could be transformed into an original and continuously argued text as Ben Jonson did with Discoveries -a form which Burton’s Anatomy sometimes resembles though it never mimics.