I've been laid up or laid low (whichever best explains an instructive silence) with a bad case of the dogless blahs.
But with National Poetry Month in its final hours, I think it's time for me to go from bed to verse and confide that in April I added to my daily two- to three-mile walks a more exhausting workout: imagine iambic pentameter and all its mates as a barbelled treadmill and the ever-expanding universe of rhyme schemes as Wall Street's weightiest derivatives. I'm still breathing, but otherwise unmoved.
Every morning I would read a poem about dogs. And then I would go for my walk and watch dogs walking, not with me, because they were not my dogs, but with me just because we were all in motion. Those walks scanned better than anything I came upon on paper.
Perhaps I expect too much of poetry, or simply can't benefit from what I am willing, if too breathless, to appreciate.
It's time for an afternoon walk. It's perfect dog-walking weather, and there will be dogs, or as the wordbound might express it, purest poetry.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Monday, March 22, 2010
Dog-Ears and Dog Ears
On the first full day of spring -- mild and bright, perfect dog-walking weather -- I walked some books from my constant-use reference shelf out to my terrace, gave them a refreshing rubdown with a clean cloth, and a few hours' airing well away from direct sunlight. A good start to the season people who don't sneeze through it are so fond of, and I was, despite the satisfaction I get from a bit of book care, more concerned with how someone I don't now and never will know should be punished. Happiness, and a cheery balance of the day, came when I decided on the obvious: there's a biblioperp out there somewhere who must search for books desired and never find them -- in pristine condition.
What prompted my invigorating burst of spite was nothing less than a crime against books. Three evenings of reading a novel acquired secondhand, with all the sense of extra-fortuitous pleasure the surprise find gave me, were every so often interrupted by a small queasy anger that was in no way related to the story or the creative writing. Had I bought the book for resale, I would have rated it "near fine" -- until I discovered that within its 266 large octavo pages there are 17 prominent dog-ears. Those corners don't just turn down; they droop. I wonder if the perpetrator had visions of a hound.
I read past each offense with visions of the living dog ear -- so expressive, so pettable. And I wished, not for the first time, that dogs, whose lives real and imaginary so enrich literature, were not homonymously related to a bad act against books.
Is there ever an excuse, much less a reason, to dog-ear a book page? If you don't have a designated bookmark, get several, or make do with something else. Order bookmarks with your dog's picture; include one with every gift book you give. There are Internet sites that teach bookmark-making. Write yourself a note, jotting down the number of the page where your reading paused, and if you can't find the note, don't worry: remembering the page number is good brain exercise.
The perils of folding a book page’s corner are well known and real. If you needed to rig a collar-and-leash substitute, you wouldn't loop piano wire around your dog's neck: the slightest stress, and you'd induce pain if not injury. You'd find something strong but unabrasive that would give you and the dog security and comfort. And just as no dog needs expensive designer leashes or collars, no book needs more than a clean, dry, preferably acid-free bit of something thin and flat.
The dog-ear is a lazy convenience that can damage, leaving at best a visible scar, at worst an ugly stump when due to paper quality and/or age the result is amputation. Some remedies for dog-ears appear in The Care and Feeding of Books Old and New: A Simple Repair Manual for Book Lovers. From book arts professionals to book care hobbyists, the dog-ear is, as Wikipedia’s essay calls the practice, "generally frowned upon." Imagine your dog looking miserable, and transpose that sorrow to the page between your fingers; you’ll never dog-ear again.
As to the fault in my biblioperp's punishment -- that no one who would dog-ear a page cares about a book's condition -- I have an addendum. To have read the dog-eared book to its end, as the spacing of the wounds suggests, indicates a person who enjoys a good read. May that person read and read and learn and learn, and one day discover the error of dog-earing and turn over a new leaf, perhaps in a book about book care, and take better care of books ever after.
What prompted my invigorating burst of spite was nothing less than a crime against books. Three evenings of reading a novel acquired secondhand, with all the sense of extra-fortuitous pleasure the surprise find gave me, were every so often interrupted by a small queasy anger that was in no way related to the story or the creative writing. Had I bought the book for resale, I would have rated it "near fine" -- until I discovered that within its 266 large octavo pages there are 17 prominent dog-ears. Those corners don't just turn down; they droop. I wonder if the perpetrator had visions of a hound.
I read past each offense with visions of the living dog ear -- so expressive, so pettable. And I wished, not for the first time, that dogs, whose lives real and imaginary so enrich literature, were not homonymously related to a bad act against books.
Is there ever an excuse, much less a reason, to dog-ear a book page? If you don't have a designated bookmark, get several, or make do with something else. Order bookmarks with your dog's picture; include one with every gift book you give. There are Internet sites that teach bookmark-making. Write yourself a note, jotting down the number of the page where your reading paused, and if you can't find the note, don't worry: remembering the page number is good brain exercise.
The perils of folding a book page’s corner are well known and real. If you needed to rig a collar-and-leash substitute, you wouldn't loop piano wire around your dog's neck: the slightest stress, and you'd induce pain if not injury. You'd find something strong but unabrasive that would give you and the dog security and comfort. And just as no dog needs expensive designer leashes or collars, no book needs more than a clean, dry, preferably acid-free bit of something thin and flat.
The dog-ear is a lazy convenience that can damage, leaving at best a visible scar, at worst an ugly stump when due to paper quality and/or age the result is amputation. Some remedies for dog-ears appear in The Care and Feeding of Books Old and New: A Simple Repair Manual for Book Lovers. From book arts professionals to book care hobbyists, the dog-ear is, as Wikipedia’s essay calls the practice, "generally frowned upon." Imagine your dog looking miserable, and transpose that sorrow to the page between your fingers; you’ll never dog-ear again.
As to the fault in my biblioperp's punishment -- that no one who would dog-ear a page cares about a book's condition -- I have an addendum. To have read the dog-eared book to its end, as the spacing of the wounds suggests, indicates a person who enjoys a good read. May that person read and read and learn and learn, and one day discover the error of dog-earing and turn over a new leaf, perhaps in a book about book care, and take better care of books ever after.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Collecting Dog Books: Childhood Favorites
"Can you help me find a dog story I remember from childhood?"
That's a question I've heard often as a bookseller, and it's the request I treasure most, a constant reminder that the emotional attachment we have to books and dogs is often bound together. I, too, am always looking for the dog stories I couldn't get enough of as a kid. Just thinking of those books summons the dogs I curled up with long ago, but too few of those books have grown older with me; it's as if they've joined those dogs: physically absent, but best friends forever. I've reassembled much of my childhood collection, and rereading books that were classics when I was young or were newly published way back then, I'm reminded that one is never too old to be a kid again.
Do you have any, if not all, of the books of your youth? If not, and you miss them, you've got a good reason to start a collection that recaptures more than books. You can read your way down memory lane. You can take your kids or grandchildren with you. You can collect only the books you possessed, all titles by authors or artists you enjoyed and who published during your younger years, picture books or early readers, adventure stories or any other genre that appeals to you. Even if you have no children or grandkids, or not yet, you can assemble a collection representative of your childhood reading for the delight of future generations of dog-and-book lovers. It's value-added reading; your sentiments, handed down, mean as much as all the Newbery prizes put together.
That's a question I've heard often as a bookseller, and it's the request I treasure most, a constant reminder that the emotional attachment we have to books and dogs is often bound together. I, too, am always looking for the dog stories I couldn't get enough of as a kid. Just thinking of those books summons the dogs I curled up with long ago, but too few of those books have grown older with me; it's as if they've joined those dogs: physically absent, but best friends forever. I've reassembled much of my childhood collection, and rereading books that were classics when I was young or were newly published way back then, I'm reminded that one is never too old to be a kid again.
Do you have any, if not all, of the books of your youth? If not, and you miss them, you've got a good reason to start a collection that recaptures more than books. You can read your way down memory lane. You can take your kids or grandchildren with you. You can collect only the books you possessed, all titles by authors or artists you enjoyed and who published during your younger years, picture books or early readers, adventure stories or any other genre that appeals to you. Even if you have no children or grandkids, or not yet, you can assemble a collection representative of your childhood reading for the delight of future generations of dog-and-book lovers. It's value-added reading; your sentiments, handed down, mean as much as all the Newbery prizes put together.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Collecting Dog Books: Art and Artists
Ever wander through a museum or gallery, and no matter what the subject displayed for your edification and delight -- from the gods on Olympus to Napoleon at Waterloo to a contemporary domestic scene -- what you react to first, what you search for, perhaps unconsciously but quite correctly, is the dog? Samuel Johnson may have said it best: "I would rather see the portrait of a dog...than all the allegorical paintings they can show me in the world."
Books on the dog in art bring home those museum visits, ample evidence of Johnson's wisdom, and no end of beauty and interest and surprise. There are books on the history of dogs in art and on notable collections, illustrated auction catalogs devoted to dog-related art, compendia of drawings, paintings, objets d'art, and photography, too. Postcards, collected individually or as published in book form, and greeting cards old and new, are other possibilities.
Your goal may be to gather the most evocative (or whimsical or realistic), or just the most, images of the breed closest to your heart, or as many books in which an artist you admire is represented. Which artist has best captured your favorite breed? If you haven't yet decided who that is, you have one of many reasons to focus on dog art and artists.
You might look for books devoted to the work of, or with illustrations by, such notables as Cecil Aldin, Lucy Dawson, Morgan Dennis, Maud Earl, Marguerite Kirmse, G. L. Stampa, Vernon Stokes, or Diana Thorne. Of more recent vintage are the dog works of David Hockney, Keith Haring, Stephen Huneck, Maira Kalman, Rien Poortvliet, and George Rodrigue, to name but a few.
You can, of course, collect by quirk. If a book's front cover features a dachshund, or any shape suggestive of a dachshund, I want it, whether it's a dime novel with one fleeting allusion to my breed or the latest screed on string theory.
Every dog is a work of art in waiting. If you don't paint or draw or sculpt, you've got reason to learn; needlepoint is another of many creative options. Collecting craft books can point you to the hobby that's right for you or perfect your current skills. Commissioning a portrait of a beloved dog makes a wonderful gift and a future heirloom.
For information and sheer pleasure, browse The William Secord Gallery and Dog Art Today.
Books on the dog in art bring home those museum visits, ample evidence of Johnson's wisdom, and no end of beauty and interest and surprise. There are books on the history of dogs in art and on notable collections, illustrated auction catalogs devoted to dog-related art, compendia of drawings, paintings, objets d'art, and photography, too. Postcards, collected individually or as published in book form, and greeting cards old and new, are other possibilities.
Your goal may be to gather the most evocative (or whimsical or realistic), or just the most, images of the breed closest to your heart, or as many books in which an artist you admire is represented. Which artist has best captured your favorite breed? If you haven't yet decided who that is, you have one of many reasons to focus on dog art and artists.
You might look for books devoted to the work of, or with illustrations by, such notables as Cecil Aldin, Lucy Dawson, Morgan Dennis, Maud Earl, Marguerite Kirmse, G. L. Stampa, Vernon Stokes, or Diana Thorne. Of more recent vintage are the dog works of David Hockney, Keith Haring, Stephen Huneck, Maira Kalman, Rien Poortvliet, and George Rodrigue, to name but a few.
You can, of course, collect by quirk. If a book's front cover features a dachshund, or any shape suggestive of a dachshund, I want it, whether it's a dime novel with one fleeting allusion to my breed or the latest screed on string theory.
Every dog is a work of art in waiting. If you don't paint or draw or sculpt, you've got reason to learn; needlepoint is another of many creative options. Collecting craft books can point you to the hobby that's right for you or perfect your current skills. Commissioning a portrait of a beloved dog makes a wonderful gift and a future heirloom.
For information and sheer pleasure, browse The William Secord Gallery and Dog Art Today.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Collecting Dog Books: Wolves and Other Wild Canines
Learning about our ancestors -- where they came from, how they lived, what changed their lives, and how their experiences have influenced our lives -- makes us human, and may even help make us humane. Whether we learn at a grandparent's knee or through reading, research, travel, or chance, there's always more to know, and with that comes the endless opportunity to try to understand ourselves and why we do the good, the less good and worse, the crazy, and the incomprehensible.
Our domestic dogs also have ancestors. They've got extended family throughout the canine world, and every member of that family has a story to tell. Study the body language and pack behaviors of the wolf; do you recognize your dog's mannerisms and actions?
The range of literature is as wide and varied as the global territory of nondomestic canines, from the wolf to the coyote, jackal, dingo, fox, fennec, and wild dog.
One can focus on the natural history of each subspecies or thrill to first-person accounts of encounters in the wild. Folklore and fable have much to tell us, from Native America to the Indian subcontinent and most every other culture, too. For adults and youngsters, novelists around the world have imagined dogs’ wild cousins in renowned tales and lesser-known works that are well worth reading and collecting. Children’s literature, especially picture books, is an enchanting collectible choice. The Big Bad Wolf, who appears in so many retellings that one can make his story a mini-collection of its own, is just one classic character worthy of attention.
The more we learn about our dogs' origins and how their distant cousins have lived, and thrive or struggle to survive today, the less likely we are to forget that no matter how close to us dogs are, they are first and foremost their own distinct selves. They need dog life as well as life as members of our families. The more we know about the dog life they need, the better able we are to provide at least a humble portion of it. Think of it as the treat that isn’t eaten; serving it is our reward.
Our domestic dogs also have ancestors. They've got extended family throughout the canine world, and every member of that family has a story to tell. Study the body language and pack behaviors of the wolf; do you recognize your dog's mannerisms and actions?
The range of literature is as wide and varied as the global territory of nondomestic canines, from the wolf to the coyote, jackal, dingo, fox, fennec, and wild dog.
One can focus on the natural history of each subspecies or thrill to first-person accounts of encounters in the wild. Folklore and fable have much to tell us, from Native America to the Indian subcontinent and most every other culture, too. For adults and youngsters, novelists around the world have imagined dogs’ wild cousins in renowned tales and lesser-known works that are well worth reading and collecting. Children’s literature, especially picture books, is an enchanting collectible choice. The Big Bad Wolf, who appears in so many retellings that one can make his story a mini-collection of its own, is just one classic character worthy of attention.
The more we learn about our dogs' origins and how their distant cousins have lived, and thrive or struggle to survive today, the less likely we are to forget that no matter how close to us dogs are, they are first and foremost their own distinct selves. They need dog life as well as life as members of our families. The more we know about the dog life they need, the better able we are to provide at least a humble portion of it. Think of it as the treat that isn’t eaten; serving it is our reward.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Collecting Dog Books: Of Dog Words and Dogless Dog Books
Now for something potentially irrelevant: it's snowing, I've enjoyed more coffee even more than usual, and I've just set aside my morning newspaper's crossword. Why abandon one of my daily pleasures? Because the clue was "follow relentlessly" and the answer is "dog" -- not Canis familiaris, but a dog of another breed altogether.
So as I sneak up on the coffee pot yet again, I grab my biggest, fattest, heaviest single-volume dictionary, open it to "dog" and admire all those words. Not for the first time do I savor the etymologies and first known appearances. There are times, I guess, when I want to play with any dog, including the word itself.
In my ceaseless search for books about dogs, or books in which dogs appear in any context and to any degree, I often discover dogless books whose titles include some form of the word dog. So wide is that word's application that one could fashion an intriguing library of books with no real (or mythical or theoretical or metaphorical or in any other way caninely defined) dogs within but dog words on every cover. Is the word dog a well-tested marketing tool, perhaps? Does it tell us so many things, intellectually and emotionally, that there's just no end to our attraction to it?
How much dog does it take to make a dog book? How pervasive are dog words, in literature, in our daily conversation? Does our affection for dogs inspire us to use more dog words, and do we ever think twice about some of the less than flattering usages? Not every lapdog or watchdog is a quadruped. In the doghouse doesn't mean sweet Fido is having a nap but where we don't want to find ourselves, asleep or awake. Aching dogs are not paws but human feet. If you're dogged by worry, you might not be worrying about your dog. When you're the object of dogged pursuit, chances are it's not a dog who's on your trail. And it follows relentlessly, as today's paper reminds me, that no book's pages should be turned down, folded and creased to form the lamentable dog-ear. Turned down also means rejected, and a dog-eared page might feel demeaned as well as damaged. Imagine it whimpering, and you'll always use a respectable, acid-free bookmark.
Now back again to my coffee, the tumbling snow, and today's puzzle in The New York Times. Will I find another doggone dog clue?
So as I sneak up on the coffee pot yet again, I grab my biggest, fattest, heaviest single-volume dictionary, open it to "dog" and admire all those words. Not for the first time do I savor the etymologies and first known appearances. There are times, I guess, when I want to play with any dog, including the word itself.
In my ceaseless search for books about dogs, or books in which dogs appear in any context and to any degree, I often discover dogless books whose titles include some form of the word dog. So wide is that word's application that one could fashion an intriguing library of books with no real (or mythical or theoretical or metaphorical or in any other way caninely defined) dogs within but dog words on every cover. Is the word dog a well-tested marketing tool, perhaps? Does it tell us so many things, intellectually and emotionally, that there's just no end to our attraction to it?
How much dog does it take to make a dog book? How pervasive are dog words, in literature, in our daily conversation? Does our affection for dogs inspire us to use more dog words, and do we ever think twice about some of the less than flattering usages? Not every lapdog or watchdog is a quadruped. In the doghouse doesn't mean sweet Fido is having a nap but where we don't want to find ourselves, asleep or awake. Aching dogs are not paws but human feet. If you're dogged by worry, you might not be worrying about your dog. When you're the object of dogged pursuit, chances are it's not a dog who's on your trail. And it follows relentlessly, as today's paper reminds me, that no book's pages should be turned down, folded and creased to form the lamentable dog-ear. Turned down also means rejected, and a dog-eared page might feel demeaned as well as damaged. Imagine it whimpering, and you'll always use a respectable, acid-free bookmark.
Now back again to my coffee, the tumbling snow, and today's puzzle in The New York Times. Will I find another doggone dog clue?
Friday, February 19, 2010
Collecting Dog Books: Authors and Titles
Basing a collection on a favorite author is a long-established approach. It's an option as obvious as it is satisfying, so what more can be said about it?
Perhaps an experience of mine will point to what can be done when an author or a book leads the way. In book love, we're not always in control, nor should we be. We may teach our dogs to heel, but aren't we grateful when they take over and lead us to some happy discovery?
It was 1969, just after Labor Day. On my midday break from work, I went for a walk up Fifth Avenue. My goal was Central Park (I probably planned to practice my squirrel vocalizations), but due to my inability to pass certain establishments when they're open (it's that wise dog tugging on the leash that binds us) and the pure chance of my walking north on the east side of the street, I found myself in the Doubleday Book Shop, the branch that closed in 1990, and, yes, I'm still conscious of its absence, and the bitter lack of its former book neighbors in Midtown.
What's still there, as vivid to me as a plaque on that much-remodeled address would be, is the memory. A certain shelf summoned me. A book slid into my hand. A title I had never heard of by an author unknown to me had selected me as if I were what was on offer.
I bought My Dog Tulip by J. R. Ackerley. I continued on to the park, sat, opened the book, and may have been a little late getting back to the office. It was a reading coup de foudre.
The three of us -- Ackerley, Tulip, and me -- created an extended family of books, a clan to which I belonged by sheer affinity, because something new developed in my book life. Having that one copy of My Dog Tulip was not enough. I loved the book beyond its characters, place, and story. Good as it was, and pleasing as the attractively designed Poseidon edition still is (it remains in what my bookseller's soul would call very good condition), it was not enough, but inadequate in an inspiring way.
First, I wanted a copy of My Dog Tulip in every edition in which it had appeared, and would be issued in future. Many Tulips make a fine bouquet, and these never wilt.
I discovered We Think the World of You, Ackerley's fictionalized version of the story. I had to know more about the author, too, and over the years collected everything he wrote, and everything written about him. I'm still looking for more.
If you collect based on what an author has to say about dogs, why not learn more about the author's life? Biographies, memoirs, correspondence, book reviews, and published interviews are just a few of your potential sources.
And don't assume that a book you love is all there is to the story. Has it been illustrated by a variety of artists over its publishing life? Are there sequels, prequels, annotated editions, parodies, comics, or other versions you might enjoy?
Eric Knight's Lassie Come-Home, Ouida's A Dog of Flanders, and Beautiful Joe by Marshall Saunders are among the classics that can be found in numerous editions and formats.
What book means to you what Tulip means to me?
Perhaps an experience of mine will point to what can be done when an author or a book leads the way. In book love, we're not always in control, nor should we be. We may teach our dogs to heel, but aren't we grateful when they take over and lead us to some happy discovery?
It was 1969, just after Labor Day. On my midday break from work, I went for a walk up Fifth Avenue. My goal was Central Park (I probably planned to practice my squirrel vocalizations), but due to my inability to pass certain establishments when they're open (it's that wise dog tugging on the leash that binds us) and the pure chance of my walking north on the east side of the street, I found myself in the Doubleday Book Shop, the branch that closed in 1990, and, yes, I'm still conscious of its absence, and the bitter lack of its former book neighbors in Midtown.
What's still there, as vivid to me as a plaque on that much-remodeled address would be, is the memory. A certain shelf summoned me. A book slid into my hand. A title I had never heard of by an author unknown to me had selected me as if I were what was on offer.
I bought My Dog Tulip by J. R. Ackerley. I continued on to the park, sat, opened the book, and may have been a little late getting back to the office. It was a reading coup de foudre.
The three of us -- Ackerley, Tulip, and me -- created an extended family of books, a clan to which I belonged by sheer affinity, because something new developed in my book life. Having that one copy of My Dog Tulip was not enough. I loved the book beyond its characters, place, and story. Good as it was, and pleasing as the attractively designed Poseidon edition still is (it remains in what my bookseller's soul would call very good condition), it was not enough, but inadequate in an inspiring way.
First, I wanted a copy of My Dog Tulip in every edition in which it had appeared, and would be issued in future. Many Tulips make a fine bouquet, and these never wilt.
I discovered We Think the World of You, Ackerley's fictionalized version of the story. I had to know more about the author, too, and over the years collected everything he wrote, and everything written about him. I'm still looking for more.
If you collect based on what an author has to say about dogs, why not learn more about the author's life? Biographies, memoirs, correspondence, book reviews, and published interviews are just a few of your potential sources.
And don't assume that a book you love is all there is to the story. Has it been illustrated by a variety of artists over its publishing life? Are there sequels, prequels, annotated editions, parodies, comics, or other versions you might enjoy?
Eric Knight's Lassie Come-Home, Ouida's A Dog of Flanders, and Beautiful Joe by Marshall Saunders are among the classics that can be found in numerous editions and formats.
What book means to you what Tulip means to me?
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