registering my dissent to its validity. There is no such thing nor
can there be such a thing as "the ideal book." No single book, no
particular style of book can be said to represent in itself an ideal
below which all other books and other styles which differ from it fall.
A certain book may be ideal for its purpose, but books can no more
conform to a fixed ideal than can churches, cocktail-shakers, or hats.
The best that one can do is to attempt to enumerate and codify those
elements of good book-making that enter into what may be called the
"fine" book.
It is difficult to declare oneself an advocate or exponent of fine
printing or fine book-design without being misunderstood. Such a
declaration, however, is not to arrogate superiority. It merely means
that one believes in certain principles of craftsmanship and in
upholding certain standards based upon a scrupulous and uncompromising
observance of refinements and minutiæ. It is a mistake to assume that
the word "fine," as applied to printing and to books, is a comparative
term meaning a grade or measure of merit. Consider for a moment its
true meaning: delicate, studied, subtly calculated. It represents not
a grade of excellence, but a _quality_, a quality distinguishing those
books and pieces of printing which the term properly describes from
other books or pieces of printing. It may be allowed, however, that
fineness is itself a comparable term; that there are, in other words,
degrees of fineness. Thus a book may be fine without being of the first
order of fineness. But if we are to seek for a standard of excellence
equivalent to what is implied by the word "ideal," it should be obvious
that only fineness of the first order can be considered. A fine book
of the first order is the end-result of a sedulous effort on the part
of designer, printer, and binder to bring to their artifact every care
for physical and technical details, every revision in the interest of
betterment, of which they are capable, to the end that the finished
product shall represent the capacity of each for the fulfilment of his
artistic wish, his desire for perfection. To slacken this effort, to
compromise wittingly (or wilfully), to surrender to expediency, is to
repudiate fineness of the first order.
It is this concern for perfection that Mr. Stanley Morison means when
he says "The fine printer begins where the careful printer has left
off." It is this concern with perfection that Conrad celebrated when he
wrote:
"Now the moral side of an industry, productive or unproductive, the
redeeming and ideal aspect of this bread-winning, is the attainment
of the highest possible skill on the part of the craftsman. Such
skill, the skill of technique, is more than honesty; it is something
wider, embracing honesty and grace and rule in an elevated and clear
sentiment, not altogether utilitarian, which may be called the honor of
labor. It is made up of accumulated tradition, kept alive by individual
pride, rendered exact by professional opinion, and, like the higher
arts, it is spurred on and sustained by discriminating praise. This
is why the attainment of proficiency, the pushing of your skill with
attention to the most delicate shades of excellence, is a matter of
vital concern. Efficiency of a practically flawless kind may be reached
naturally in the struggle for bread. But there is something beyond--a
higher point, a subtle and unmistakable touch of love and pride beyond
mere skill; almost an inspiration which gives to all work that finish
which is almost art, which _is_ art."
In dealing with the constituents of the fine book I intend no
disparagement of seemly, modest, and honestly-made books to which the
term "fine" is not strictly applicable. Even the humblest volume,
_ad pauperum commoditatum_, may be, by virtue of its suitability to
purpose and its seemliness, wholly admirable. As for the better class
of trade books, the productions of university and great commercial
presses, they often display qualities of design and workmanship of a
high order. Though not of the first order of fineness, they represent,
with gratifying frequency, what Conrad called "efficiency of a
practically flawless kind." That the best of them belong, however, to
a lower stratum than the truly fine book may be, I think, quite easily
demonstrated. One does not have to consider the work of the Doves Press
or the Bremer Presse or the finer examples of French printing of the
sixteenth or eighteenth century the _ne plus ultra_ of book-making
in order to recognize in them a quality (mark the word) which the
trade edition, however charming, never does and never can attain. By
reason of this quality--the quality of fineness--they are _different_
from trade books, whether or not they are _superior_ must remain for
each of us a question of personal values. Since that is true, let us
now--having cleared the ground and removed perhaps the possibility of
a misapprehension with regard to the title of this paper--consider the
values and the physical constituents of the fine book.
These constituents fall into three divisions: first, _Dimensional_
(size and proportions); second, _Tectonic_ (plan and construction); and
third, _Visual_ (appearance).
It would be absurd to contend that, ideally, a book should be of a
certain size. Very large books are, of course, awkward to handle and
are unsuitable, let us say, for reading in bed or in a railway train.
But it does not follow that, because our habits of life differ so
radically from those of the more leisurely and contemplative past, the
tall volume is no longer justified. The large book is not an impediment
to meditative reading and, although the "handy volume" will, in most
circumstances, serve every purpose, there are those who, undeluded
by pragmatism and undebased by false ideas of efficiency, may still,
in the seclusion of study or library, find pleasure in the leisurely
perusal of, let us say, _The Golden Legend_, in folio, nobly enthroned
upon its lectern. Again, there is nothing incongruous or unpractical
about the scholar (perhaps I should say, "research-worker") making use
of a huge volume, spread before him on a library table. Large volumes
are, moreover, frequently justified by the fact that illustrative
plates of a large size are often desirable or essential. Who will deny
that reproductions of Egyptian papyri, of eighteenth century engraved
portraits, of Oriental carpets, in fact, of almost all works of art
other than such small objects as miniatures or jewelry, would be better
in folio than in octavo or duodecimo? It can be said, I think, that
the very large book should be unconditionally condemned only when its
size defeats the purpose to which, by reason of its content, it would
normally be put. Stateliness of form imparts dignity. It may be argued,
therefore, that a great work on engraved gems, imposing in size, with
plates, each showing many specimens, comports better with the character
of its subject matter quite aside from any advantage it offers for
comparative study, than would the same work printed as a book one
might slip in one's pocket. Stateliness of form implies stateliness of
content, and vice versa. Let a book be, for a generation, of such good
report that it may be said to have become a classic, and a large-paper
edition is justified. Let those who must cavil do so. If they cannot
rise above the utilitarian ideal, they can easily obtain the work in a
small format and be happy.
It may not be out of order to say at this point that, while a
considerable range in the size of books is not only permissible
but desirable, there are limits at both ends of the scale where
practicability ceases to exist and we pass into the realm of
curiosities and _tours de force_. Thus the miniature book, for all
its charm, lies outside the confines of normal book-design. As to the
maximum size that may be legitimately allowed for a book, it should
never, I think, exceed the normal folio height (defined approximately
by the larger moulds employed for manufacturing hand-made paper) while
its bulk and weight should not preclude the possibility of holding it
by the spine with one hand while turning the leaves with the other,
when such a method of referring to its contents may be necessary. And
now a final word as to dimensions. Large or small, the most perfect
book will always be one of which the thickness bears a just and
agreeable relation to its height and width. Small and slender books are
delightful objects which no one could wish to abolish (one cannot say
as much for the lamelliform folio, a veritable atrocity), but their
inferiority to books of a meet thickness becomes apparent when, with
(or, worse yet, without) their vertical, neck-twisting titles they are
placed on a shelf.
We must next turn our attention to those aspects of a book which
have to do with its plan and construction and which we have called
_tectonic_.
In its physical character a book addresses itself to two of our
senses, the sense of sight and the sense of touch. Because the tactile
qualities of a book are relatively of less importance than its visual
aspects, let us first deal with those elements which are, in part at
least, evaluated through the sense of touch.
Our first impression of a book is received from its exterior, its
binding. Now the qualities to be looked for in the binding of a book
are: (1) the character and quality of the material, (2) suitability,
(3) soundness and charm of design, (4) agreeable color (a relative
term), (5) workmanship, (6) pleasantness to the touch. Granting
adequacy in all of these (and no book can pretend to fineness without
such adequacy), there is still another _desideratum_ less easy to
specify. It might be called (7) "the evidence of durability." A book
when taken in the hand should have a feeling of compactness, almost of
solidity. I do not mean by this that it should feel like a block of
wood, but it should, when picked up, when opened, or when its hinges
are tested, give the impression that leaves and cover are so firmly
(and honestly) knit together that they constitute a unit, having in its
"feel" the evidence (or the assurance) of durability.
The next characteristic of a book to be noted through the sense of
touch is the _texture_ of the paper. By "texture" several things are
meant: a surface agreeable to the hand, the degree of crispness, an
impression of toughness (again the evidence of durability), and the
degree of flexibility. Ideally, the paper in a book should satisfy all
these requirements and should possess as well certain qualities of
character, style, and color, pleasing to the informed eye. These will
be dealt with in their proper place. The paper should be flexible,
without the flimsiness characteristic of papers weak in substance. It
should bend readily when the leaves are turned and should flow smoothly
through the hand when all the leaves are bent at once. Stiffness in
the leaves of a book (an all too common defect) is not, it should be
observed, always the fault of the paper. It is often due to the choice
of a paper too heavy for the size of the leaf. The same paper in a
larger leaf might have the desired flexibility.
The final tactile test of a fine book (applicable, alas, to very few
books indeed) resides in the character of the impression of the type
on the paper. In the best printing, the surface of the page, if rubbed
with the palm of the hand, shows a slight and pleasant roughness due to
the sinking of the type into the paper. Such printing is rare in modern
books because it is difficult of attainment with machines designed for
quantity production. To attain the effect described the paper should be
dampened before printing, and an ink employed that is adaptable only
to the hand press. Dry paper, particularly when heavily sized, resists
a deep impression. It can be _heavily_ impressed, but there is not the
same difference between the impressed and unimpressed portions, due
to the impaction of the substance caused by the pressure of the type,
which results when dampened paper is used. In the latter instance, the
depth of impression is _within_ the sheet, not an embossment on the
reverse side. This incisiveness, without a corresponding relief on the
back of the sheet, is shown when an impression without ink is made on a
hand press with dampened paper and a hard packing.
In printing on dry paper it is necessary, if adequate color is to be
obtained, to use such a quantity of ink, of a consistency suitable
to machine-press printing, that a really deep (not merely heavy)
impression cannot be imparted to paper without "spreading," which
slightly modifies the sharpness of the type. The machine printer must
choose therefore between a surfacy quality with sharpness and a heavy
(not necessarily deep) impression with a loss of sharpness, neither
of which is ideal. There are some that will question the truth of
this statement, calling attention to specimens of machine printing
on dry paper in which the ink has been driven into the sheet and
perfect sharpness maintained. It may be said, however, in support of
our contention, that, under the test of hand and eye, this perfectly
printed dry sheet will be found, in the last analysis, to lack, in
comparison with a sheet perfectly printed by hand on dampened paper, a
certain almost-indefinable something that can perhaps be best described
as a _living_ quality. This ultimate grace arises, I think, from the
fact that in competent hand-press printing the third dimension is
not merely suggested but actual; we have, in other words, not merely
sharpness but crispness; the effect attained is sculptural. No printing
that is lifeless, or to which such terms as "slick" and "dry" may be
appropriately applied can be called fine printing.
Turning now from the tactile to the visual elements of the fine book,
we shall consider, first of all, that fundamental factor of all books,
the text-page, upon the form or "layout" of which all other typographic
elements must, to a large extent, depend. The text-page is of primary
importance because by its rightness or wrongness a book must stand or
fall.
The elements of the text-page that call for consideration may be
grouped under three heads: first, _Form_ (the proportions--width to
height--of the type-page and the balance of the rectangle of type with
the rectangle of paper); second, _Space_ (the ratio between the areas
of the type-page and the paper-page); third, _Tone_ (the tonal value
of the type mass and the relation between its tone and the white area
of the margins). In the perfect text-page all these elements may be
observed in nice adjustment, severally and mutually.
There are those who contend that a proper relation of margins to
type-page may be arrived at by employing ratios identical with those
to be found in the well-proportioned pages of the early printers.
Others declare that correct margins can be created by the application
of an arithmetical or a geometrical formula. It can be admitted that
such procedures are, at least, _safe_; that is to say, the danger of
malproportioned margins will be avoided. But neither the method nor the
result can be ideal for the simple reason that, while providing for the
factors of form and space, they fail to provide for the factor of tone.
It should be obvious that a rectangle of black type, with no space
(leading) between lines, and a rectangle of the same shape and size
printed from light-face type and generously leaded call for different
margining.
All of this may seem to be supervacaneous, but the stubborn fact
remains that no one of the factors set forth above can be ignored. It
is perfectly true that the accomplished book designer will compass the
desired end through a sagacious application of his knowledge and taste,
but we are concerned here with presenting the elements of the ideal
book and it is therefore essential that _all_ the elements, no matter
how much the initiated may take some of them for granted, should be,
for the benefit of the layman, categorically enumerated.
It is necessary at this point to allude to the dictum--voiced in high
places as well as in low--that a book is primarily something to be
read; that every factor which does not contribute to that end is an
impertinence. The worthy champions of this faith would be on firmer
ground if they heaped their condemnation upon such adjuncts of a book
as actually _lessen_ its readability. M. Paul Valéry has disposed of
the matter so effectively from the aesthetic point of view in his
essay, _Les deux vertus d'un livre_, that nothing remains to be said
on that side of the question. But there are other objections to be
raised to this _ipse dixit_ of the mechanists. Their contention that
what we all grant is at once the basic and paramount function of a
book, its readability, is its only function would, if carried to its
logical conclusion, lead to a doctrine in book design equivalent to
what is known in present-day architecture as "functionalism." Since
functionalism or, as it is sometimes called, the "machine and function"
principle, demands that the design of a building must grow out of and
be restricted by its predetermined use or purpose, it should follow
that, if the sole purpose of a book is that it be something to read,
there is no reason, based upon utility, for not using the whole area of
the paper-page, with margins of no more, let us say, than a quarter of
an inch or so. The uncomely, marginless illustrations of certain recent
books represent an application of this principle. If the protagonists
of the utilitarian ideal admit that margins are other than a waste
of usable space, they make a concession to the aesthetic conception
of a book, for the determination of margins, the _mise en page_,
is primarily an element of design. It will be argued no doubt, in
contravention of this statement, that margins make for ease of reading
(utility), but that this is an untenable defensive assumption should be
proved by the perfect readability of newspaper columns separated only
by a light rule, or by the two-column book or magazine page with only a
pica of white between the columns. Since it cannot be denied that the
margins of a book, if well proportioned, promote pleasure, an aesthetic
function, the true functionalist should, to be consistent, insist upon
doing away with them.
We may turn now from that major fundamental of the fine book--a
text-page of perfect seemliness--to a consideration of other elements.
But before doing so, it may be proper to explain what some of my
readers may deem an omission. I have said nothing about the choice
of type. It is axiomatic that good letter is a prime essential of
the good book. There are only two kinds of type, good and bad. Good
types, whether based upon classical models or the quasi-original forms
of contemporary type-designers, are sufficiently numerous to make
a suitable selection, provided the printer knows anything whatever
about the subject, quite simple. It should be pointed out, however,
that, other things being equal, type cast from matrices struck from
hand-cut punches is superior to machine-cut type. This superiority is
a matter of real importance, chiefly in printing by means of the hand
press. Only in such printing is the difference between the hand-cut and
machine-cut letter fully apparent.
No type is good if some of the characters are marked by eccentricity.
Unorthodox peculiarities in the forms of certain letters sometimes lend
charm to a type-face, but there is a difference between a peculiarity
of shape thoughtfully and discreetly arrived at and freakish variations
which do not justify themselves and bespeak only a stupid desire for
novelty at any cost.
Given the seemly text-page as the prime requisite of the fine book, our
next consideration should be what may be called _integration of the
parts_. Here we must again think in terms of architecture, with which
art book-design has so much in common. Let the parts of a book be few
or many, simple or complex, it is of the first importance that they be,
one to the other and each to all, harmoniously correlated.
In the simple undecorated and unillustrated book it is not only
desirable that sunken pages, if any (the first pages of chapters or
sections, for example), should show an equal sinkage. But all isolated
typographic elements, such as half-titles, elements of the title page,
copyright notice, dedication, headings of preliminary and supplementary
matter, etc., should fall on levels which, though not necessarily
identical, bear a mensural, not an arbitrary, relation one to the other
and to the structure of the book as a whole. This requires, perhaps,
some elucidation. Suppose we give the first pages of our chapters a
uniform sinkage. These pages, let us say, establish three levels for
us--(1) the chapter heading, (2) chapter title, and (3) the first line
of text. If we adopt the same sinkage for Contents, Illustrations,
Appendices, and Index, putting the headings of this group on the same
level as the chapter headings (LEVEL 1), the first text lines of this
group should be on the same level as the chapter titles (LEVEL 2), or
on the level of the first text lines of the chapters (LEVEL 3). If, on
the other hand, we adopt a different sinkage (smaller) for the second
group, we may still relate it mensurally to the first group by placing
the first text lines of Group 2 on the same level as the chapter
headings of Group 1. Suppose further that we place our half-titles
on one of the three or four levels that have been established. We
still have to deal with a copyright notice, perhaps a limit notice, a
bibliographical note, and a dedication. It is not essential that all of
these should fall on the same level, but it _is_ essential that each
be _related to some one of the established levels_. Finally, it is
desirable that such major elements of the title page as a subtitle or
the author's name should be placed on one of the established levels.
An observance of this principle makes for homogeneity of design. In
reading a book so put together we are spared (without knowing that we
are spared) the disturbance of our sense of balance which results,
almost without our knowing it, when our eyes fall upon a page some
part of which is not "tied in" architecturally with the rest of the
book. The effect is similar to that of a many-paneled room with an
impost cornice at a certain height in all the panels except two or
three where it is either higher or lower. We have, in one case, faulty
architecture; in the other, faulty book-making. In judging a book or a
building, it should be borne in mind that, however charming its parts,
it must be regarded as a whole. If our contemplation of it is to be
attended with pleasure and comfort, its parts must be so disposed, so
correlated, that they will not produce a "jumpy" effect.