Books: Not What They Used To Be

I don’t know what I’d do without Mr. Firuski. Yes, I do—I’d buy paperbacks from the rack at the Grand Union, hohum. How much more pleasant to stroll into his shop, meaning only to pay a little something on my permanent bill, and have Mr. Firuski emerge from the back bearing some costly item: “This just came in [holds it up] . . . very fine [opens it] . . . beautiful job [savors the texture of the paper between thumb and forefinger] … I can hold it for you if you like.” But of course I must possess it right now, so when I depart the bill is about what it was when I came in.

Unhappily, there are fewer and fewer fine new books for Mr. Firuski and me to appreciate. They don’t make them— compose them, print and bind them— like they used to. Yes, I know, it’s what’s in the book that is important, but a good book is all the better when well and carefully made. (Mr. F would never dream of dangling elegant froth before my eyes.) And that’s expensive to do: I wish I were a union printer these days, or maybe owned a paper mill. Yet as the processes grow more expensive, and the prices of the books soar, the quality declines. Take for instance this year’s crop of Christmas Gift Books. There are a few glorious exceptions, but the norm is shoddy.

I don’t know what I’d do without Mr. Firuski. Yes, I do—I’d buy paperbacks from the rack at the Grand Union, hohum. How much more pleasant to stroll into his shop, meaning only to pay a little something on my permanent bill, and have Mr. Firuski emerge from the back bearing some costly item: “This just came in [holds it up] . . . very fine [opens it] . . . beautiful job [savors the texture of the paper between thumb and forefinger] … I can hold it for you if you like.” But of course I must possess it right now, so when I depart the bill is about what it was when I came in.

Unhappily, there are fewer and fewer fine new books for Mr. Firuski and me to appreciate. They don’t make them— compose them, print and bind them— like they used to. Yes, I know, it’s what’s in the book that is important, but a good book is all the better when well and carefully made. (Mr. F would never dream of dangling elegant froth before my eyes.) And that’s expensive to do: I wish I were a union printer these days, or maybe owned a paper mill. Yet as the processes grow more expensive, and the prices of the books soar, the quality declines. Take for instance this year’s crop of Christmas Gift Books. There are a few glorious exceptions, but the norm is shoddy.