21 January 2020

Cheap Things Make Cheap Men

Charles Robert Ashbee, Craftsmanship in Competitive Industry; Being a Record of the Workshops of the Guild of Handicraft, and Some Deductions From Their Twenty-One Years' Experience (London: Essex House Press, 1908), pp. 92-93:
When Ruskin nearly half a century ago said that “cheap things made cheap men,” everybody thought the proposition absurd, but when Mr. Joseph Chamberlain suddenly repeated it as his own, in his own great city of Birmingham, at a time when things were getting unpleasantly cheaper and cheaper, it was found to be true. There is nothing like having the shoe pinch for bringing home the truth! The strange thing is that at all other great periods in the world’s history, the great civilizations have accepted this truth as an integral part of their social economy. We, however, have been blinded by the apparent success and the superficial results of our Industrialism from seeing it. But suddenly we are faced with a phenomenon, a monster with two heads, that we had never observed before. A vast output of rotten, useless, sweated, cheap industries, and a vast growth of nerveless, characterless, underfed, cheap men and women. The monster stands face to face with our civilization, it threatens to extinguish our culture, to destroy our life as a people.
A William Morris chair, sturdy and enduring
Free PDF plans available from Popular Woodworking

16 January 2020

Some Write Their Names for Those Behind

Eugene Lee-Hamilton, "The Ladder," Poems and Transcripts (Edinburgh: William Blackwood and Sons, 1878), pp. 10-11:
Life is a ladder which we all must climb;
Some climb alone and some in company;
Some clad in purple, some in tattered rags;
Some climb it followed by their fellow-men
In livery, and some by hungry duns;
Some followed by policemen half the way;
Some climb the ladder boldly, sword in hand,
And others slowly, yawning at each step;
And each man bears a load upon his back:
With one it is a heavy bag of gold;
Another upwards with a load of aches.
Or, worse, a load of evil conscience goes.
All with a weight of care. And all along
The ladder's length are overhanging boughs.
With fruits and flowers for the strong to pluck;
But many, snatching, overreach and fall.
And there are boughs, beneath whose grateful shade
We fain would stop, but we are hurried on,
As in a treadmill, to the journey's end;
And woe to him who looks too far ahead,
Nor feels each step that comes beneath his foot.
Much angry hustling on the way occurs;
The steps are narrow, and the crowd is great:
Some men, in mounting, cling to others' skirts.
But some to others lend a helping hand,
And care but little how they fare themselves.
Some on the ladder write their names for those
Behind to read, but most can leave no trace.
Most climbers drop before they get half-way;
Some, jostled off by treacherous neighbours, fall;
And some jump off, of their own sad accord.
But few are those who reach the topmost bars,
With hair fast whitening as they upward go.
And gathering honours as they take each step;
And when once there, they heave a gentle sigh.
And, scarcely conscious, softly smile — and die.

Maurice Denis, L'Échelle dans le feuillage (1892)

Other poems by Lee-Hamilton:

13 January 2020

We Like the Picture, We Like the Glow

Olive Schreiner, “The Artist's Secret,” Dreams (Boston: Roberts Brothers, 1892), pp. 119-122:
There was an artist once, and he painted a picture. Other artists had colours richer and rarer, and painted more notable pictures. He painted his with one colour, there was a wonderful red glow on it; and the people went up and down, saying, “We like the picture, we like the glow.”

The other artists came and said, “Where does he get his colour from?” They asked him; and he smiled and said, “I cannot tell you”; and worked on with his head bent low.

And one went to the far East and bought costly pigments, and made a rare colour and painted, but after a time the picture faded. Another read in the old books, and made a colour rich and rare, but when he had put it on the picture it was dead.

But the artist painted on. Always the work got redder and redder, and the artist grew whiter and whiter. At last one day they found him dead before his picture, and they took him up to bury him. The other men looked about in all the pots and crucibles, but they found nothing they had not.

And when they undressed him to put his grave-clothes on him, they found above his left breast the mark of a wound — it was an old, old wound, that must have been there all his life, for the edges were old and hardened; but Death, who seals all things, had drawn the edges together, and closed it up.

And they buried him. And still the people went about saying, “Where did he find his colour from?”

And it came to pass that after a while the artist was forgotten — but the work lived.

Carlos Schwabe's illustration for this story, taken from the French edition,
tr. Henriette Mirabaud-Thorends (Paris: Ernest Flammarion, 1912), p. 89.
Image credit: Gallica

8 January 2020

On Translation

In translation theory, there are those who believe translators should “intentionally disrupt the linguistic and genre expectations of the target language in order to mark the otherness of the translated texts.” 1

That a translator should squeeze out a deliberately clunky, turgid turd of a book so that the reader never loses sight of the fact that the author’s language is not his own — it is such a preposterous idea that only an academic could take it seriously.

Partly to counteract this kind of eggheaded foolishness, partly to try my hand at typesetting a smaller book, 2 I decided to reissue Hilaire Belloc’s Taylorian lecture On Translation. It is full of sound advice but has been out of print since 1931. If I ever win the lottery I plan to drop thousands of copies on university campuses from a low-flying Sopwith Camel.

The printer made a mess of the first batch and misaligned the covers, so I now have a few to give away. If any of you, my dear readers, would like one of these factory seconds, just send your address to andrewjrickard@gmail.com

International requests are welcome — it is a slender volume and won't cost me much to mail.

1 Kjetil Myskja, “Foreignisation and Resistance: Lawrence Venuti and His Critics,” Nordic Journal of English Studies Vol 12, No 2 (2013)

2 Edwin Grabhorn was right: A small book is harder to design.

I've always liked the 4x6 format, the size of Reclam's Universal-Bibliothek.
I vaguely remember reading that Shigeo Iwanami was inspired by Reclam. 

3 January 2020

A Fine Barn

Ralph Waldo Emerson, undated entry from 1828, The Heart of Emerson's Journals, ed. Bliss Perry (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Co., 1926), p. 41:
I like to have a man’s knowledge comprehend more than one class of topics, one row of shelves. I like a man who likes to see a fine barn as well as a good tragedy.
Alex Colville, Windmill and Farm (1947)

12 December 2019

Revolutionary Talent

Louis de Bonald, Pensées sur Divers Sujets, Vol. I (Paris: Adrien Le Clere, 1817), p. 62 (my translation):
Everyone is able to destroy things, but few can rebuild. If we were to give the Tuileries Palace to a troop of monkeys to demolish, the smallest ones would break the windows while the others smashed in the doors and set fire to the wooden beams. The building, no matter how solid, would soon be in ruins. But if we wanted them to erect a cottage, they would not know where to begin. This is because you need to have a plan, an orderly method of thinking and working, if you want to build something; none of that is required to wreak destruction. This is the story of revolutions and the reason why there was so much revolutionary talent to be found, even in the lowest ranks of society. It is a talent that foolish people admire.

Gabriel von Max, Monkeys as Art Critics (1889)

11 December 2019

Books and Friends Must Be Chosen

Thomas Sturge Moore, "A Note on the Relation of the Printed Book as a Work of Art to Life," A Brief Account of the Origin of the Eragny Press (Hammersmith: The Eragny Press, 1903), p. 9:
It is vain to suppose that we can live with all and any; each palate has a different range, every appetite is limited; as with food, so with knowledge, so with affection. Books & friends must be chosen. Here is the answer to those who complain of expense: the wise sell all they have to buy what they really value. The result achieved by self-discipline and a sound nature is precisely parallel to the result achieved by the artist's painstaking and native gift; it is beauty. Nor are the two beauties independent, nor can they be without loss disassociated; for to starve the eye is to impoverish the spirit & «quand notre mérite baisse, notre goût baisse aussi».1 This then is why it is folly or misfortune to read ugly books, just as it is to read trash. This is the relation of the beautiful book to life. The alternative lies between effort to keep going and effort to create: every man fails who is not at least an artist in regard to himself; to aim at mere maintenance is to think to solve the problem of perpetual motion, a result which all who think must perceive to be insignificant even if it be not a dream.
A maxim from La Rochefoucauld (#379), translated by George H. Powell as "When our Merit lowers, our Taste lowers with it."

The opening pages to a selection of Pierre de Ronsard's
sonnets, published by The Eragny Press in 1902

Moore's Brief Account was a limited edition of 175 copies. At the moment there is only one for sale on Abebooks, at a price of $850.

Not unrelated: Brook Type

3 December 2019

Corrupted and Copied

Hilaire Belloc, "On Footnotes," Selected Essays (London: Methuen & Co., 1948), pp. 173-174:
He [one of Belloc's friends] was reading up an economic question, and he found himself perpetually referred to a pamphlet of the late seventeenth century wherein was a certain economic statement upon the point of his research. Book after book referred him to this supposed statement, but he being, as I have said, a learned, civilized, and ironical man (though too sparing in wine) concluded from his general knowledge — and very few learned men have general knowledge — that, in the words of the Old Kent Road murderer, "There must be some mistake." He couldn’t believe any seventeenth-century pamphlet had said what this oft-quoted pamphlet was made responsible for.

He proceeded to look up the pamphlet, the references to which followed him about like a dog through all his research. He found there were two copies — and only two. One was in a certain public library, the other in a rich man’s house. The public library was far off, and the rich man was nearer by — an hour’s journey in the train. So he wrote to the rich man and asked him whether he might look at this pamphlet in the library which his ancestors had accumulated, but to which the rich man had added nothing, being indeed indifferent to reading and writing. The rich man very politely answered that his library had unfortunately been burnt down, and that the pamphlet had been burnt with it. Whereupon the learned man was at the pains of taking a long journey to consult the copy kept in the public library. He discovered two things: (a) that the copy had never been used at all — it was uncut; (b) that the references always given had hardly any relation to the actual text. Then did he, as is the habit of all really learned people, go and waste a universe of energy in working out the textual criticism of the corruption, and he proved that the last time anyone had, with his own eyes, really seen that particular passage, instead of merely pretending that he had seen it, was in the year 1738 — far too long ago! Ever since then the reference had been first corrupted and then copied and recopied in its corrupted form by the University charlatans

William Hogarth, Scholars at a Lecture (1736)

2 December 2019

Friends of Reason

J. B. Bury, A History of Freedom of Thought (London: Thornton Butterworth, 1913), p. 50:
If we review the history of classical antiquity as a whole, we may almost say that freedom of thought was like the air men breathed. It was taken for granted and nobody thought about it. If seven or eight thinkers at Athens were penalized for heterodoxy, in some and perhaps in most of these cases heterodoxy was only a pretext. They do not invalidate the general facts that the advance of knowledge was not impeded by prejudice, or science retarded by the weight of unscientific authority. The educated Greeks were tolerant because they were friends of reason and did not set up any authority to overrule reason. Opinions were not imposed except by argument; you were not expected to receive some “kingdom of heaven” like a little child, or to prostrate your intellect before an authority claiming to be infallible.

Nicolas Poussin, Truth Stolen Away by Time,
Beyond the Reach of Envy and Discord

25 November 2019

The Ethos of the Nonesuch Press

Sarah Knights, Bloomsbury's Outsider: A Life of David Garnett (London: Bloomsbury, 2015), pp. 182-183:
The Nonesuch ethos was simple: they wanted to produce beautiful books, in limited editions, for people who wanted to read them, rather than simply to own them. They were also interested in bringing back into print books which had literary or intrinsic artistic merit. They were thus largely responsible for the resurgence of interest in Restoration literature and drama, and with Geoffrey Keynes — surgeon, scholar and bibliophile — as one of their main editors, they reignited interest in the poet William Blake.

The three partners [Francis Meynell, Vera Mendel, and David Garnett] did not want to produce books which were unduly expensive. On the contrary, by out-sourcing their printing, rather than becoming laboriously involved in typesetting, they could produce exquisite limited editions at relatively affordable prices. As Francis explained: ‘Our stock-in-trade has been the theory that mechanical means could be made to serve fine ends; that the machine in printing was a controllable tool. Therefore we set out to be mobilisers of other people’s resources; to be designers, specifiers; rather than manufacturers; architects of books rather than builders.’
The title page to the Nonesuch edition of Hazlitt's essays
Image taken from John Krygier's admirable web site.