Archives for the month of: May, 2017

Amazon’s new bricks and mortar store in Manhattan is on the third floor of the Time Warner Center. A few years ago we had a large Borders bookshop in this building, but of course that went the way of all flesh. Here’s a C-net story with a brief video which gives a good impression of the store.

I looked in on Thursday, the day it opened, but couldn’t stay, ‘cos I had to be elsewhere. I went back the next day, and had to stand on line to get in the front door! In this picture you can see the security guard at the door, allowing us in in proportion to shoppers who’d leave. It didn’t last too long: maybe 5 minutes, less if anything. I suspect this must be the first time I’ve ever had to get on line to get into a bookshop — heck, any shop — though I suppose I may have had to queue up at Titus Wilson’s in Sedbergh to buy my schoolbooks at the start of term. I doubt if this Amazon queue at 4.30 on a Friday afternoon indicates an accelerated love of books among my fellow citizens. Most people were there, like me, out of curiosity.

And it is curious. All the books are displayed face out: which results in there not being that many of them. I didn’t attempt a count, but I wonder if it’s the 3,000 CNN Tech says it is, though several do get duplicate locations under different category headings. They’ve used sales data to govern the inventory selection, so I suppose I shouldn’t really have expected to find anything I wanted (my bag being the off-beat rather than the popular). However I was surprised to discover they did stock the book I was reading while on line, Keith Houston’s The Book — luckily I had shown it to the security guard, so didn’t have to panic about being forced to buy it again! Not, I have to confess, that I saw anyone actually doing anything as vulgar as buying a book. One of the many employees in evidence told me I could make a purchase through an Amazon app, though unfortunately that’s not an Amazon-Go-type of sale: i.e. buy it on the iPhone and just walk out of the store. The CNN Tech link above shows a sale being made. (I declined to download the app till I had found a book I’d want to buy.) If you are an Amazon Prime member you get the discounted price shown at Amazon.com, if not it’s full price for you. Around the store there are scan stations which will read the barcode and tell you what you’ll pay. Non-Primers can of course just read that information off the back of the book as in any shop: it’s not like they are obscuring the prices so that you’d have to go on-line.

Slightly less than a quarter of the store, half of the front area, is devoted to electronics: various Kindles, Alexas etc. I guess it’s the sort of bookstore you might go to if you wanted to get a last-minute gift, or are looking for a discount on a current bestseller. It just doesn’t feel like a real bookstore — but maybe that was because of the crowd and the large staff.

Business Insider has a photo gallery.

“What happens when the amount of books available to read exceeds the market’s ability to read them?” Martyn Daniels asked at Brave New World a couple of years ago. He seems to see the arrival of the ebook as a threat to our ability to cope.

I’m not sure why that would be a worry. In so far as it means anything, wasn’t that point reached long ago anyway? More books are available than any one person could ever dream of reading. However if we lined up all the readers in the world and set them, in a organized way, to read every book available, dividing the books up between the readers, I guess we could get the job done quite quickly. Is Mr Daniels worrying about a situation where there’d be too many books for us to be able to do even that? We are told there are a billion illiterate people in the world, which leaves about 6⅓ billion who are literate to some extent. Let’s assume half of those are children, and about a billion are only functionally literate: that might leave about 2 billion readers standing ready at our starting gate able to cope with a book. Apparently Google has calculated that 130 million books have been published in modern history. Let’s double that to cover the time before “the modern era” and we can see our available readers outnumber the supply of books by almost ten to one. This hardly seems a problem worth losing any sleep over.

Is he worried that publishers will go out of business when we have published more books than can be purchased? We are already in that situation and always have been: publish books which nobody wants and you will end up bankrupt. But the fact is books are not like washing machines. If you have one, you are quite likely to want another. If you publish good books, lots of people will want more of them. How many books would we need to bring out for our world of readers, and the libraries serving them, to find there were just too many for them to want another? “I’ve got fifty thousand books I’ve got to read in the next few years. I can’t possibly be expected to buy another — just go away.” Come on Brave New World, it doesn’t work like that: just because you can’t find time to read it yourself doesn’t mean that you don’t want a book to exist. Or can’t con yourself into thinking you’ll find time for it.

I suspect that oversupply is simply impossible when it comes to books. Even if there is a book which nobody (apart perhaps from the author) is ever going to read from start to finish, what’s wrong with that? If someone just looks inside it and looks up one thing, it may have performed a valuable function. And even if that never happens: what’s the harm?

This is a rather bogus word which, perhaps because of its rarity, has managed to survive. It originated as a description, in Latin, for books originating from the new-born art of printing, incunabula (neuter plural the Oxford English Dictionary points out — the putative singular form “incunabulum” is not found in Latin) meaning swaddling clothes; cunae apparently being cradle. Converted into the back-formed noun “incunabulum”, plural “incunabula”, its definition has narrowed down to indicate only books printed before 1501. The OED‘s earliest quote from J. M. Neale in 1861 attributes the usage to the Germans. English-ing it to incunable [in-queue-nable] is pretty well established now, though the OED credits that word to the French. The vagueness surrounding the word may encourage many to resort to “incunabula” as a singular, which at least protects you against the aural ugliness of incunable. In a world of total confusion, nobody can tell you you’re wrong whichever form you chose to use when talking about books printed before 1501. Maybe just saying “books printed before 1501” would be a safe and euphonious choice.

Teasingly the OED tells us incunabula also means “the breeding-places of a species of bird”. They support this with no quotes, and leave unclear whether they mean any species or one special species of bird.

from Just My Type by Simon Garfield

What is it about the news that makes the use the use of black letter/ Old English/ Gothic type such a favorite for news-paper titles? No doubt once upon a time there was an element of reaching for an authoritative image when the earliest newspapers first proliferated, but nowadays it’s probably no more than a nod to tradition. Typo Face gives a number of international examples.

ABC for book collectors tells us that there were three forms of the “Gothic” typeface which was initially developed in imitation of northern European manuscript bookhands. The first, textura, pointed type, was used in the earliest printings of Gutenberg’s Bible, early liturgical printing, and the first printing of the King James Bible. It was called black letter in England. The second variety, rotunda, was more common in Italy and Spain. The third version, bastarda, an imitation of earlier versions, was used for example by Caxton, and survived longest, becoming the basis for German Fraktur which survived into the post-WWII period in Germany, and can still occasionally be encountered despite contamination by its enthusiastic use by the Nazis. When I first learned German, we were taught to read Fraktur: I guess that a decade after the end of the war a large proportion of German texts were still thus printed.

Fraktur and other “Gothic” fonts have no italic form. In order to indicate emphasis where in regular typesetting you would use italic, German typesetters evolved  the practice of indicating emphasis by letterspacing. I have seen this letterspacing emphasis carried over into German texts set in roman (non-Fraktur) types. They may have taken over this trick from setting in Greek, where emphasis is similarly signaled.

This illustration showing the three types, plus a fourth, Schwabacher, comes from Retinart and shows the evolution described above.

Gothic can still refer to these Germanic typefaces, but in the 19th and 20th centuries it became the term for sans-serif types. The reasons for this are not altogether obvious but it seems to have had something to do with the fact that early sans-serif designs were seen as a glance back to handwritten forms from the manuscript tradition. Nowadays the term is still to be found in the names of some typefaces where the name Grotesque/Grotesk also lives as a quasi-synonym. Wikipedia‘s article on Sans-serif gives a (possibly post hoc ergo propter hoc) explanation for the use of the terms. It all proved too much even for an enthusiast like me!

 

 

 

 

 

 

See also Serif.

We habitually refer to anything appearing at the top of the page, other than the folio, as a running head. Properly speaking, though, a running head is one that changes as we go through the book, giving a description of the material appearing on that page, or spread. Usually a running head will appear only on the recto, with the verso carrying the Part title, the Chapter title, or at a pinch the book’s title. This unchanging head should properly be termed a page head or headline.

We rarely use real running heads nowadays: they cost extra, since you can’t decide what they should say until the book has been paged, so they lead to an extra step in the proofing process. As a compromise we occasionally use the section titles as a sort of running head. Dictionaries usually have proper running heads, telling you the range of words covered on that page. Bibles also tend to have truly descriptive running heads, providing a sort of commentary on what appears on the page. A careful publisher will give you a running head in the endnotes section, providing the text page range for which notes can be found on each page of notes. This makes the endnotes much easier to use, and I wish it was always done.

As Judith Butcher points out in Copy-editing: The Cambridge Handbook for editors, authors and publishers “Running heads are unnecessary unless they help the reader to find a particular part of the book”. Thus most novels will not have anything at the top of the page unless the publisher has wanted to waste space to make a short book seem more substantial. A page head giving you the book’s title only doesn’t provide you with any information — we can assume, I think, that the readers are aware what book it is they are reading! If that’s all you can think of to put up there, keep quiet. Innocent publishing novices may assume that a book needs to have running heads in order to look like a book: wrong — it will only need running heads if it needs running heads to provide navigational help to the reader. But try telling that to some enthusiasts.

See also my raised nose on the subject of running feet.

Amazon is taking over — and why not? They seem to be taking over everything. They obviously know more about what books sell than anyone else, though they have always been reluctant to provide details. Maybe you got this email (pictured above) from them the other day. Their site gives a bit more information.

Publishing Perspectives has a piece about Amazon Charts as they are calling it. I see no reason why Amazon’s lists shouldn’t turn out to be more “authoritative” than the Times‘s. Heck, they even know the names and addresses of the people who bought the books, and in the case of ebooks, know how many pages each of their customers have read. (This forms the basis for their Most Read category, I assume.)

The New York Times lists have been showing their age. The fact that they are not really measures of sales but more of sales velocity makes them a bit fickle, but the belief persists that they sell books.

“Many people determine what book to buy based upon seeing the phrase, ‘New York Times Bestseller’.” says Rob Eagar in his piece How to Kill a New York Times Bestseller at BookBusiness. While I might doubt the validity of his bald statement, (I just don’t agree that 5% of responses in one small survey represents a lot) I have to agree that a publisher who fails to mention Bestseller status in their promotion is missing an obvious marketing opportunity.

But some of Mr Eagar’s criticism is just over-eagerness. Amazon and Barnes and Noble are responsible for their websites. Publisher uploads may form the basis of their copy, but these uploads happen well before the book is lucky enough to become a bestseller. Amazon certainly have a tab which takes you to “The New York Times® Best Sellers” and they naturally have no reason to hide any book’s light under any bushel. I suspect that much of the problem Mr Eagar identifies results from timing. You just have to get the change in the on-line copy made. It doesn’t happen by magic. And of course if the book hits the bestseller list only briefly, the on-line claim may end up being outdated as soon as it has been got up there; though of course that’s not a reason to suppress the historically interesting fact.

Mr Eager, rather innocently, states “Simply adding ‘New York Times Bestseller’ to the book cover art isn’t enough in most cases.” It isn’t even possible in most cases! The books on hand are the books on hand. If the publishers expected the book to be a bestseller they will have printed thousands of copies, and till these copies are sold there’s no opportunity to update the jacket. I bet that publishers do get a “Bestseller” note up on their own website pretty quickly, and create a cover image including the words, but it takes a reprint of the book to get the notice onto the jacket. Yes, they could of course print up a sticker — but who’s going to stick them on the books? Don’t think B&N is going to divert staff to do the job.

But whether there really are people who buy books solely based upon their being in a bestseller list — one has a fond, if outdated, image of Auntie Muriel wondering “What exciting book shall I get for young Billy’s birthday” — these listings clearly are a help in sustaining sales. Circularly of course a book only gets to be a bestseller by being a bestseller. For some, hitting the list coincides with the peaking of sales. In an earlier post I mentioned the Times‘s adding 12 new lists. Now they have reduced their lists by 10. Reaction as shown in Tolulope Edionwe’s piece at The Outline suggests the end of the world is at hand.

I expect that we will rather quickly transfer our loyalties from “New York Times bestseller” to “An Amazon bestseller”. Amazon’s ability to tell you more about the sales, (e.g.”More readers listened to Astrophysics for People in a Hurry on Audible than read the book on Kindle this week.”) adds significantly to the bare listings we’ve become used to. Could this reduce tensions between self-publishing aficionados and the traditional industry? One assumes that Amazon isn’t excluding self-published and indie-published books from consideration.

Atlas Obscura reports on a book tower designed by Matej Kren.

The Czechs seem to go in for this sort of thing: here’s their pavilion at Expo 2000 in Hanover, also designed by Kren.

“Gravity mixer”

Meanwhile donations of books are being solicited for the reconstruction of the Parthenon of Books in Kassel to commemorate the burning of some 2,000 books by the Nazis on May 19, 1933. See Universe in Universe for details.

El Partenón de libros was first created in Buenos Aires in 1983, using books which had been banned by the recently collapsed Argentinian military dictatorship.

Open Culture has a story with this Economist video of the artist talking about the structure.

Well, I accept that we may have (almost) too many books to fit into this apartment. You don’t work in the business without having some sort of bookish interests, and when there are two of you at work on the habit, the result is a lot of sagging shelves. But get rid of them?! (We need Keith Houston’s interrobang at this point. See Shady Characters here and here.)

I have occasionally speculated on the idea of a sort of external hard drive or back-up for your brain accessed via some brain waves or other. That back-up of course already exists in prototype; we call it the “Internet”. As time goes by the interface between brain and external hard drive will no doubt become smoother and smoother, obviating the need to wake up your iPhone. But of course, those of us with those sagging shelves have long had such capability. I was told at university that the purpose of a university education was not to teach you lots of things, but to teach you how to find out the things you need to know later on. Being stayed by masses of books gives you the means to fulfill that aim. Those who suspect that tertiary education becomes less and less important as access to facts becomes easier and easier should reflect on the fact that learning to navigate information sources, the true purpose of such an education, must only become more and more vital as the amount of information to discriminate amongst explodes.

The books you own display a record of the things you’ve thought important at different stages of your life. When I came to America among my luggage was a good number of books. One I know I’ve never read is One Dimensional Man by Herbert Marcuse. The fact that over 40 years later I’ve never read a single word Marcuse wrote doesn’t mean that I never will, and certainly isn’t a reason to discard the book, a reminder of the more activist innocent that I was back then. The Abacus paperback edition set me back 45p! Abacus was an imprint of Sphere Books, which was part of Thomson. It was sold to Pearson in 1985 and was shut down by Penguin in 1990. Fascinatingly this copy, from the eighth printing under Sphere’s aegis (it was originally published by Routledge and Kegan Paul) includes an Erratum slip tipped in to the front of the book indicating that two lines on page 20 should in fact have appeared on page 18. (It would probably cost more than 45p to get this done now!) It always mystifies me how long it takes for glaring errors like this to become known.* I suppose most readers just keep quiet. Nowadays we don’t go out of our way to discover such errors in our books. We just cared more in those days. If a mistake is forced on our attention we’d probably wait for a reprint and hope nobody else noticed. See — if I’d thrown the book out long ago where would all this analysis and reminiscence come from?

In the New York Times Book Review‘s 7 May profile of Penelope Lively, she is quoted as saying “Your books tell you where you’ve been — they’re the story of your own mind. Getting rid of them would be like getting rid of that.” Unsurprisingly she can’t bear to throw away any books even though, at 84, she can’t see the small print in some of them. Now there’s a sensible attitude. If you run out of room for your books, move to a bigger apartment.

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* I once had to do a rip and tip on a political science text which contained duplicates of two pages (page 101, say, appeared in its correct location but when you got to page 108 you discovered it was followed by 101 again). To  cure this condition you print up copies of the two pages 109 and 110, cut out the bad ones, leaving a stub in the gutter to which you glue the new leaf. Nothing too surprising in all that — except that I had had charge of the first printing of the book when I was still in the UK, and this meant that it had taken six years for anyone to notice, or anyone who noticed to squeal loud enough for the publisher to pay attention. Lazy student that I was, I always imagined the students happily thinking, “Well, one less page to read”.

Too many kids fall behind in reading early in their school career; indeed probably before they even get to school. Exposure to books, and adults who read books, is important in forming the habit of reading. I guess using the barber-shop, a bit of a social center, as a vehicle could work. Certainly the charitable organization Barbershop Books believes it will. Barbershop Books was founded in Harlem, but has already expanded way beyond New York City having active locations in 10 other states.

The theory behind the initiative is that “African-American boys who don’t often see black men reading a book” should be exposed to books in their regular environment. “Barbershops are some of the only places kids go to on a regular basis . . . There’s already that rapport there, already that relationship with the barber. Why not ask the barber to encourage them to read?”

(If you don’t see a video at this point, because you get this via email, please click on the post’s title in order to see it in your browser.)

There are similar initiatives in Ypsilanti, where Fuller Cut offers a discount to any boy who will read aloud while having his hair done, and in Mobile, Columbus, Jackson, Dubuque, Baton Rouge, Muskogee, — all over.

The trouble with music setting is that there is so much going on simultaneously. You have to have your staff lines, then on top of that you have bar lines, notes, time signatures, clefs, slurs accents and so on, with text below if it’s a song. If it has a base line and a treble line, or it’s an orchestral piece, with multiple parts, everything has to be in vertical alignment. In hot metal type, putting a note on top of five horizontal rules was an impossibility: the two elements had to be at the same level so that they’d both print. You can imagine having little bits of type showing a crotchet on or between the five lines of the staff I guess, but this would lead to some pretty intricate work. That it was done can be seen from this photograph of a relatively straight-forward job from Prepressure.com.

From the Museum of Turnhout

Prohibitively intricate; which is why the manual process of engraving, shown in the video below, lasted until computer setting was sophisticated enough to take over. Apparently early printers would operate with paper carrying preprinted rulings, but this obviously demanded a precise control of registration, always difficult but especially so when the paper has to be dampened before printing. They might alternatively rule in the staves after printing, which again would demand some pretty tight control. Engraving into metal plates, initially copper, was first used for music in 1581.

The Munich music publisher G. Henle Verlag’s website shows a couple of videos of the music engraving process. I think this one is the clearer of them, but if you visit their site you can enjoy a demonstration by their charming operative, Hans Kühner. The manual process, beating notation into soft lead plates using punches and a hammer, continued in operation till the 1990s, by which time an adequate computerized replacement had been developed.

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You can see that printing would be via the intaglio process: ink collects in the grooves punched into the plate, and is then transferred to the paper. This of course dictates that the engraver work in reverse images.

Printing music was always a demanding branch of the business. The size of sheet music (conventionally 9″ x 12″) is slightly larger than most presses are built to accommodate economically and the scores need to be bound so that they remain open without attention. Thus the work tended to be done by specialist printers, of whom there remain fewer and fewer. What about an e-reader now that we have crossed the computer barrier in creating scores? Well, of course they are all too small too. Here’s a solution: The Digital Reader sends a note about the Gvido Dual-Screen Music Reader. The Gvido website provides the following lyrical video, showing the device in operation.