Modern Books Are Not Edible: A Farewell To Bookworms

by Stephen J. Gertz

The Bodleian Library.

"Great is bookishness and the love of books."

So declares Augustine Birrell (1850-1933), whose In the Name of the Bodleian and Other Essays was published in London by Elliot Stock and in New York by Charles Scribner's Sons in 1905.

The sentence opens his essay on Bookworms in the Bodleian Library and wherever books are shelved, chewed, and digested. He refers not to those of us who live inside of books but Anobium pertinax, that other lover of books. We read 'em, they eat 'em.

They're one of the many enemies of books cited by Birrell in his overview of printer and Caxonist William Blade's The Enemies of Books, published in London by Elliot Stock in 1902.

After upbraiding  the Charity Commissioners of the Bodleian  for selling off books that were water-logged and rotten, and declaring these public servants to be of a lower order of primate and  sworn enemies of books, he begins As the Worm Squirms, a squiggly science travelogue including  the care  and feeding of a bookworm on the edge of darkness, hitchhiking in Hebrew, an ill-fated bookworm's meeting of the Central Pacific and Union Pacific Railroads, and a doomsday eulogy for the cruel fate of the bookworm in the modern world:

From: The Enemies of Books by William Blades.

"By the side of these anthropoid apes, the genuine bookworm, the paper-eating insect, ravenous as he once was, has done comparatively little mischief.  Very little seems known of the creature, though the purchaser of Mr. Blades’s book becomes the owner of a life-size portrait of the miscreant in one, at all events, of his many shapes.  Mr. Birdsall, of Northampton [Birdsall's of Northampton, bookbinders*], sent Mr. Blades, in 1879, by post, a fat little worm he had found in an old volume.  Mr. Blades did all, and more than all, that could be expected of a humane man to keep the creature alive, actually feeding him with fragments of Caxtons and seventeenth-century literature; but it availed not, for in three weeks the thing died, and as the result of a post-mortem was declared to be Aecophera pseudopretella. 

"Some years later Dr. [Richard] Garnett, who has spent a long life obliging men of letters, sent Mr. Blades two Athenian worms, which had travelled to this country in a Hebrew Commentary; but, lovely and pleasant in their lives, in their deaths they were not far divided.  Mr. Blades, at least, mourned their loss.  The energy of bookworms, like that of men, greatly varies.  Some go much farther than others.  However fair they may start on the same folio, they end very differently.

 "Once upon a time 212 worms began to eat their way through a stout folio printed in the year 1477, by Peter Schoeffer of Mentz [Novellae constitutiones, etc.?]. It was an ungodly race they ran, but let me trace their progress.  By the time the sixty-first page was reached all but four had given in, either slinking back the way they came, or perishing en route.  By the time the eighty-sixth page had been reached but one was left, and he evidently on his last legs, for he failed to pierce his way through page 87.  At the other end of the same book another lot of worms began to bore, hoping, I presume, to meet in the middle, like the makers of submarine tunnels, but the last survivor of this gang only reached the sixty ninth page from the end.  Mr. Blades was of opinion that all these worms belonged to the Anobium pertinax. 

"Worms have fallen upon evil days, for, whether modern books are readable or not, they have long since ceased to be edible.  The worm’s instinct forbids him to ’eat the china clay, the bleaches, the plaster of Paris, the sulphate of barytes, the scores of adulterants now used to mix with the fibre.’  Alas, poor worm!  Alas, poor author!  Neglected by the Anobium pertinax, what chance is there of anyone, man or beast, a hundred years hence reaching his eighty-seventh page!"

Cue Samuel Barber's Adagio for Strings, his mournful, heartrending elegy now, unfortunately,  so stale from over-exposure in movies, particularly Platoon, that it could fairly be re-titled, Sad Schmaltz for Bad Violins.

Anobium pertinax aka Bookworm, RIP in open casket.

Having thrown a rose on the coffin of Anobium pertinax, Birrell ends his anti-encomium to the pest of all pulp with a parting shot at other book vermin:

"Time fails me to refer to bookbinders, frontispiece collectors, servants and children, and other enemies of books; but the volume I refer to is to be had of the booksellers, and is a pleasant volume, worthy of all commendation.  Its last words set me thinking; they are:

"’Even a millionaire will ease his toils, lengthen his life, and add 100 percent to his daily pleasures, if he becomes a bibliophile; while to the man of business with a taste for books, who through the day has struggled in the battle of life, with all its irritating rebuffs and anxieties, what a blessed season of pleasurable repose opens upon him as he enters his sanctum, where every article wafts him a welcome and every book is a personal friend!’"

Particularly on rye, with mustard. After ingestion, the personal friend is chased by a snifter of brandy, then, after digestion, an exegesis is excreted and read for prophecies. I anthropomorphically refer to Lord Wriggle of Wessex and his taste for books, his favorites tales, naturally, being The Conquering Worm by Edgar Allan Poe;  The Lair of the White Worm by Bram Stoker; The Worm and the Ring by Anthony Burgess; The Early Worm by Robert Benchley; Eye Worm Flower by Allen Ginsberg; and Dr. J.H. Snoddy's horrific tale of The Worminator - Snoddy's Treatise on Hog Cholera and Swine Plague: Symptoms and Cure Fully Explained: A Complete Worm Exterminator.

True,  swine worms don't eat books but all bookworms are swine. Unless they're human, of course, and thus divine. But if suffering from pica they're definitely pigs, and a tasty book hasn't a prayer.

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BIRRELL, Augustine. In the Name of the Bodleian and Other Essays. New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1905. First American Edition. Octavo. 312 pp.

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*The roots of Birdsall of Northampton "stretch back to the early eighteenth century but it was in 1792 that John Lacy's Northampton bindery was acquired by William Birdsall, continuing in his family until 1961...In Birdsall's heyday, Gerring (Notes on Bookbinding, 1899) reported a staff of 250 engaged in making ladies handbags, fancy boxes, and stationary; as well as all types of bookbinding. The firm seemed always ready to experiment and careful records and samples were kept by Richard Birdsall, great-great-nephew of the founder, until he died in 1909...The firm's collection of over 3,000 finishing tools passed to the University of Toronto" (Maggs, Bookbinding in the British Isles II, #262, and #321).

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Enduring Power Of Frankenstein Inspires Two Monstrous Exhibitions

By Nancy Mattoon

An 1857 Portrait of Mary Shelley
By Reginald Easton,
Allegedly Based On Her Death Mask.
(Image Courtesy of National Library of Medicine.)

It seems impossible that a single exhibit could appeal to fans of science fiction, Gothic novels, Romantic poetry, radical philosophies, horror movies, monsters and early feminism. But the announcement of the opening on December 3, 2010 of a new show at the Bodleian Library of the University of Oxford, Shelley’s Ghost: Reshaping the Image of a Literary Family, will have them all lining up for a chance to learn more about one of Britain's most renowned clan of writers.

A Page From Mary Shelley's
Original Manuscript Of Frankenstein.
(Image Courtesy of Wikipedia Commons.)

The writings of Romantic poet Percy Bysshe Shelley; his wife, pioneering science fiction and Gothic novelist Mary Shelley; and Mary’s parents, radical philosopher William Godwin; and early feminist Mary Wollstonecraft will all be on display. But the most talked about piece in the show is the original manuscript of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus (1818).

An 1819 Portrait of Percy Shelley
By Alfred Clint.
(Image Courtesy of National Library of Medicine.)

The handwritten notebook containing Mary Shelley's classic tale of scientist Victor Frankenstein and his monstrous creation is one of the great treasures of the Bodleian's collections, and has never before been on display in Great Britain. It contains not only Mary's first draft of the novel, but also many handwritten corrections, suggestions, and other marginalia from her first reader, her poet husband, Percy. After the display at Oxford closes on March 27, 2011, it will travel to New York City. The New York Public Library is a co-sponsor of the show, which includes many artifacts from its The Carl H. Pforzheimer Collection of Shelley and His Circle.

Frontispiece And Title Page
From The Third Edition of Frankenstein;
Or The Modern Prometheus, 1831.
(Image Courtesy of The National Library of Medicine.)

A virtual version of the Shelley’s Ghost exhibition will also be made available on December 3. It promises to include digitized leaves from the Frankenstein manuscript, along with pages from the three-volume, first edition of the novel, and an image of the frontispiece of the novel's third edition, which marked the first time that Dr. Frankenstein and his creature were ever depicted visually.

Poster For The Classic 1931
Film Version of Frankenstein,
Directed By James Whale.
(Image Courtesy of The National Library of Medicine.)

Oxford's virtual exhibition was not online as this piece was written, so the images here are from an earlier, but no less interesting, Frankenstein-inspired exhibit from the American National Library of Medicine (NLM). Frankenstein: Penetrating The Secrets of Nature "looks at the world from which Mary Shelley came, at how popular culture has embraced the Frankenstein story, and at how Shelley's creation continues to illuminate the blurred, uncertain boundaries of what we consider 'acceptable' science." It includes a detailed exploration of the ways in which well-intentioned men of science have unwittingly developed technology which, in the wrong hands, leads to "monstrous" creations. The exhibit connects Frankenstein, both in Shelley's novel and in popular culture offshoots, with genetic engineering, human-animal organ transplantation, eugenics, cloning, and other bioethical issues.

A 1935 Article From Popular Science Magazine,
Clearly Influenced By Images
From The Film Version Of Frankenstein.
(Image Courtesy of The National Library of Medicine.)

The combination of the new Oxford exhibit and the previous NLM exhibit reinforce the brilliance and continued relevance of Mary Shelley's tale of "the modern Prometheus." In Greek mythology Prometheus, one of the Titans vanquished by the Olympian Gods, stole fire from Zeus with the best of intentions, and returned it to mere mortals. But ultimately the well-meaning deeds of Prometheus led to the opening of Pandora's box, and the unleashing of all of the troubles of the world. Dr. Frankenstein also maintains that his attempts at reanimating the dead are motivated by "benevolent intentions" and an unquenchable thirst "for the moment when I should put them in practice." But the ultimate result of the scientist's attempt to "mock the stupendous Creator of the world," is an endless spiral of misunderstandings, cruelty,violence, savagery, and death.

Actor Boris Karloff Transformed By Make-Up Artists
Into The 1931 Film Version Of Dr. Frankenstein's Creature.
(Image Courtesy of The National Library of Medicine.)

The unceasing echoes of the timeless themes of Frankenstein through nearly two centuries are all the more remarkable when one considers the age of its author. Mary Shelley began writing the story as a teenager, age 18, and published it just as she reached her twenties.

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A Bookshelf 153 Miles Long

by Stephen J. Gertz

The Bodleian Library's new BSF, where books will be stored
in a state-of-the-art facility.
Photo credit: John Lawrence/The Independent.

Oxford's  Bodleian Library has a new home for its collection of six million books and more than 1.2 million maps, with room to spare for another two million.

The new Book Storage Facility (BSF) looks like a warehouse on the outside. On the inside it has the equivalent of 153 miles of storage shelf space.

Residing in a salt mine for the last few years, over the next twelve months the Bodleian's books, excluding its most popular and historic volumes, will be transferred to the BSF.

"The BSF will prove a long-awaited solution to the space problem that has long challenged the Bodleian," said its head librarian Dr Sarah Thomas. "We have been running out of space since the 1970s and the situation has become increasingly desperate in the last few years."

It was important to preserve all the books, Dr Thomas continued, "so that future generations will have access to the recorded information of the past."

"Now we can look to the future with confidence that we are preserving one of the world's most complete records of the written word in state-of-the-art secure archival conditions," she added.

The 153 miles of storage space includes 37 foot-high racks on 31 narrow aisles, each of which are 233 feet long. There are a total of 3,224 bays with 95,000 shelf levels in the warehouse, as well as 600 map cabinets.

If you request a book - and the Bodleian anticipates 200,000 requests a year - at 10 AM, it will be in your hands in Oxford by 3PM the next day.

If late, free pizza from Domino's?
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Full story at The Independent.

With thanks to LISNews for the lead.
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The Rare Book Guy wrote about storing books in salt mines, the perfect way to store them.
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The Elizabethan Devil's Dictionary

Caravaggio, The Cardsharps, c. 1594.

The word "slang" first appeared in print in 1756. Its origins are murky, but most linguists think it was part of what is known as "Thieves' Cant." This language of the criminal underworld was as complex and colorful as iambic pentameter. It was the secret lingo that allowed the lower class to spin a wicked web of beggars, thieves, con men, rogues, vagabonds, gamblers, cut-purses, pickpockets, prostitutes, witches, astrologers, alchemists, rakehells, card sharps, and fortune tellers. These loosely organized lowlifes used trickery and deception to fleece the gullible foreigners and greedy "respectable" citizens who were unlucky enough to wander into the taverns, brothels, gaming houses, and other dens of inequity that flourished on the shady side of the streets of London. This criminal's code was a tough one to crack, but a long lost library book holds the key.

The staff of the Bodleian Library at the University of Oxford uncovered the volume, which was originally published in 1699 under the title: A New Dictionary of Terms, Ancient and Modern, of the Canting Crew. Written by a scholar known only as 'B.E. Gent [gentleman],' its goal was to inform polite society of the words used by unscrupulous evil-doers to describe their wanton deeds. It was hoped this knowledge might protect the unwitting innocents targeted as "marks" by the criminal class. It was the first book of slang in dictionary form, with over 4,000 entries, including not only criminal cant, but terms used by sailors, labourers, servants, and even words and phrases used by ne'er-do-wells and reprobates of the upper classes.

Some of the words in the retitled The First English Dictionary of Slang 1699 are still commonplace, such as "chitchat" and "eyesore." But many have sadly passed into disuse, and, given their earthy humor and scruffy charm, deserve to be revived. Below is a list of a few examples, as defined by our gentlemanly guide, B.E:

Anglers, c. Cheats, petty Thieves, who have a Stick with a hook at the end, with which they pluck things out of Windows, Grates, &c. also those that draw in People to be cheated.

Arsworm, a little diminutive Fellow.

Buffenapper, c. a Dog-stealer, that Trades in Setters, Hounds, Spaniels, Lap, and all sorts of Dogs, Selling them at a round Rate, and himself or Partner Stealing them away the first opportunity.

Bumfodder, what serves to wipe the Tail.

Bundletail, a short Fat or squat Lass.

Cackling-farts, c. Eggs.

Dandyprat, a little puny Fellow.

Farting-crackers, c. Breeches.

Fizzle, a little or low-sounding Fart.

Humptey-dumptey, Ale boild with Brandy.

Grumbletonians, Malecontents, out of Humour with the Government, for want of a Place, or having lost one.

Keeping Cully, one that Maintains a Mistress, and parts with his Money very generously to her.

Knock down, very strong Ale or Beer.

Lantern-jaw’d, a very lean, thin faced Fellow.

Mawdlin, weepingly Drunk.

Mopsie, a Dowdy, or Homely Woman

Muddled, half Drunk.

Mutton-in-long-coats, Women. A Leg of Mutton in a Silk-Stocking, a Woman’s Leg.

One of my Cosens, a Wench

Pharoah, very strong Mault-Drink.

Princock, a pert, forward Fellow

Provender, c. he from whom any Money is taken on the Highway.

Strum, c. a Periwig. Rum-Strum, c. a long Wig; also a handsom Wench, or Strumpet.

Urchin, a little sorry Fellow; also a Hedgehog.

Willing-Tit, a little Horse that Travels chearfully.

B.E.'s original work is reprinted in the new publication, along with an introduction by John Simpson, chief editor of the Oxford English Dictionary and co-editor of the Oxford Dictionary of Slang, describing the history and culture of canting, and the evolution of English slang. The First English Dictionary of Slang 1699, edited by the Bodleian Library, will be published by Oxford University Press in September 2010.

Logophiles will love learning this lingua sinistra, and showing it off before those who can't cant. But a word to the wise: according to a 2009 article in Britain's Daily Mail, prisoners at Buckley Hall Prison in Rochdale, near Manchester, have adopted 16th century thieves cant to help them smuggle drugs and other contraband into the prison. This everything-old-is-new-again vernacular has been updated and modified for the digital age:

An astonished insider at the prison declared: "This is the most ingenious use of a secret code we have ever come across. Elizabethan cant was only used by a tiny number of people and it is quite amazing that it has been resurrected in order to buy drugs. Some inmates will try anything to get contraband into jail." Marketers of the First English Dictionary of Slang 1699 better cross prison libraries off their mailing lists...

Lovers Live On In Victorian Valentines

Display Card For Valentine Maker Jonathan King, London c. 1870's.

(All Images Courtesy of Bodleian Library.)

A permanent collection of temporary items. That's one way to sum up what libraries and archives call "ephemera." Preserving items that were meant to be briefly used and thrown away seems like an exercise in futility at first glance. But paper ephemera -- such as leaflets, tickets, programs and playbills, posters, bookmarks, trade and calling cards, advertising inserts, and product packaging -- often reflect the day to day history of the average person in a way that more formal historical records can't.

The Manufacture Of Valentines As Depicted In The Illustrated London News, February 14, 1874.

As a seasonally appropriate example, think about Valentine's Day cards. They range from the intricate and flowery to the crude and humorous. They can be costly confections carefully constructed, or cheaply churned-out chaff. They are a microcosm of the evolution of printing and manufacturing, showing the shift from completely handmade items to labor intensive hand-finished factory pieces, to mass produced bulk greeting cards. As the holiday for lovers nears, the University of Oxford's Bodleian Library is highlighting its fine collection of Valentine's Day ephemera with a temporary exhibition. The display reveals the written rituals of courtship in the days before the almost complete impermanence of texting, tweeting, and e-mailing replaced paper tokens of love.

Embossed Lace-paper Valentine With Hand-painted Satin, Scraps, Feathers and Tinselling, Watermarked and Postmarked 1845.

The curators of the university's rare book library and archive have put together a carefully chosen display of thirty-seven St. Valentine's Day items from The John Johnson Collection of Printed Ephemera. The exhibition, entitled The Season For Love, presents an excellent cross-section of nineteenth-century valentines, which illustrate the complex design and manufacturing of love tokens in the Victorian era. The selection ranges from home-made creations fashioned from silk, tinsel, lace, feathers, and artificial flowers, to intricate "dainty wares" that, while manufactured, required hand finishing by several trained artisans, to clumsily colored woodcuts printed on poor-quality pulp paper. Some contain complex puzzles and games, mock maps, and phony bank notes. Others feature ugly caricatures and other images meant to insult rather than inflame the recipient.

Stencil-Colored Woodcut Of An Ugly Spinster c. 1835-40. Verse Reads In Part: "If the devil step'd, old lady, from his regions just below, He couldn't find a picture like the one before me now."

The text of the cards is as varied as the imagery, ranging from elaborate verses featuring classical and mythological references, to cheap jokes and crassly insulting humor. The exhibit catalog refers to an article in the London Review of 1865 which lambasted valentine verses both high and low. Lofty language is said to be skillful but utterly predictable, "all 'thine' and 'shine' and 'divine'--and of course 'valentine'--'bliss' and 'kiss' and 'beauty' and 'duty.'" But the writer's most scathing words are saved for those who pen the poisonous poetry of the cruelly comic cards: "scandalous productions... wretchedly engraved... an outlet for every kind of spiteful innuendo, for every malicious sneer, for every envious scoff."

Hand-colored Valentine c. 1840's. The Pictogram Puzzle Must Be Deciphered To Understand The Expression Of Adoration.

The wildly contrasting artistic designs and poetic verses of the cards chosen by the Bodleian Library curators represent a cross-section of Victorian society, from the poshest toffs to the coarsest commoners. These ephemeral items reflect the lovers of their time with an immediacy that conventional written volumes could never hope to achieve. Will the impermanence of our online communication prevent us from leaving a legacy of contemporary courtship equal to the valentines of the Victorians? If so, the history of our time will prove the poorer for having turned the transitory into the transparent.

Posted by Nancy Mattoon